Nolan had left his unregistered long-barreled .38 back with the dead bodies (Jon’s UZI too) — the revolver was, after all, the gun Comfort was killed with; Nolan had even placed it in the hand of a dead Leech. In return he’d taken the unfired Colt Woodsman that had belonged to Comfort; that was the gun Lyle would be killed with, Jon assumed. Nolan would do it. Dumping Lyle’s body on a roadside in his cherry-red Camaro. He was planning to do it. With luck Jon wouldn’t have to watch.
But he’d be a part of it, just the same, and he wished he’d never met Nolan, and wished this dream over, this nightmare which at the moment was a strangely lyrical one, sun-dappled Mississippi, starkly beautiful snowy woods, please God let it end.
They passed a sleazy little motel, the Riverview, with signs boasting water beds and XXX movies in rooms; so much for lyricism.
Up ahead the red Camaro’s brake lights indicated a slowing down, and soon Nolan pulled off to the right, into one of many little picnic areas along the river. Jon pulled in behind him. The road seemed deserted; it was 6:37 A.M. Friday.
Jon got out, wearing his long navy coat, and gloves, but unarmed. Nolan got out of the Camaro, wearing no jacket or even sport coat, the Colt Woodsman stuck in his waistband, looking black against the light blue shirt, a shirt Nolan seemed to have been wearing constantly (the shirt Sherry bought him, Jon suddenly realized, the afternoon she was kidnaped!) and went around on the other side and opened the door and took out a knife and leaned in the back seat. Christ! Jon thought, but then realized Nolan was only cutting the ropes.
Jon walked over to the Camaro, wishing he were anywhere else, except perhaps that bloody loading dock which awaited some hapless I. Magnin employee.
Nolan hauled Lyle out of the back seat; the boy looked pale and confused but, oddly, not frightened. His expensive brown jacket and gray slacks looked a little the worse for wear. He wasn’t bound in any way.
Nolan held him by the crook of one arm and smiled tightly. “You’re sure this is the place, Lyle?”
Lyle nodded. “Not far from here.”
A car went past.
Without looking at him, Nolan said to Jon, “Get the rope and the flashlight.”
Jon got them out of the back.
“Let’s go,” Nolan said. Keeping his gun in his waistband, he guided Lyle by the arm like a child, across the highway. Jon trailed after, carrying the thick ring of clothesline in one hand, the flashlight in the other.
They walked up a snowy slope; leaves under the gentle layer of snow crackled beneath their feet. The sky was a slate blue and nearly cloudless. Wind whispered, but it was a chilly whisper, a ghostly kiss.
At the edge of the woods, Nolan said, “Do you know where she is, Lyle?”
He nodded.
“You wouldn’t play games with me, would you?
He shook his head no.
“Good,” Nolan said. “Now lead the way.”
He let go of Lyle’s arm and withdrew the Colt from his waistband and walked just a few steps behind Lyle, who led them into the woods; he wasn’t moving quickly. He seemed defeated. Near catatonic. And, as Jon knew, and as Nolan most certainly knew, he was thick as a post. He wasn’t planning anything. Or if he was, it wouldn’t amount to much.
They hadn’t walked far when Lyle stopped. He pointed up ahead, through the gray trees, where it seemed slightly more open.
“Over there,” he said.
Nolan poked him in the back with the .38. “Show me.”
Soon they could see it, where the sharp angles of broken planks jutted up like strange weeds. Nolan shifted the gun to his left hand and grabbed Lyle’s arm and pulled him along and ran. Jon ran, too. He stumbled once, over a root, but didn’t fall.
You couldn’t tell what it was, at first. Weeds and leaves and snow still covered most of it, but in the center a jagged hole yawned, where the rotted planks had given away. Nolan put the gun in his waistband and cautiously crawled out to where she’d fallen through. He was on his side, his feet on the snowy ground, his trunk on the rotted wood.
“Can’t see anything,” he said, looking in. “Give me the flashlight.”
Jon handed it to him. Lyle was just standing there, glum, obedient.
Nolan shot the light down there and said, “I think I see her.”
He moved back off the planks. On his hands and knees at the place where the snowy earth met the planks, he started tearing the rotten boards away.
“Help me clear these goddamn things out,” Nolan said, and Jon slipped the ring of rope around his shoulder and helped. The wood was so old, so weathered, so decaying, it almost crumbled in their hands.
“You help, too,” Nolan demanded of Lyle, and Lyle did. He got on hands and knees and tore at the wood. Just one of the guys.
Then the opening of the old well was exposed. It was about four foot in diameter. It was quite deep; with the sun as low in the sky as it was, there was no hope of seeing down there without a flashlight. Nolan shined his down.
“I see her,” he said, leaning in one side.
“I do too,” Jon said, leaning in opposite him.
She was down there all right; on her back, her head to one side. She was in a lavender outfit. That was all they could make out.
“How the hell deep is this thing?” Jon asked.
“Probably thirty feet,” Nolan said. His voice was quavering.
Jon looked at Nolan; a single tear streaked the man’s left cheek. Nolan looked at Jon and wiped away the tear, leaving some dirt from a hand that had been tearing away rotten planks. It was a moment neither would ever forget. Or mention.
Now Nolan stood and looked to Lyle. Nolan started to smile; it was an awful smile. He walked over to the boy and gripped him with one hand by the expensive leather coat and said, “You killed her, you little cocksucker.”
He shook his head side to side. “No, she fell.”
“Running from you. Why don’t you run from me, now?” And he got out the Colt.
“That’s Pa’s gun,” Lyle said, stupidly, recognizing it.
“Nolan,” Jon said. He was on his knees, leaning over the well, using the flashlight. “I think I saw her move.”
Nolan stuck the gun back in his waistband and bent down and took the flashlight and shined it down there.
“Sherry!” he called.
His voice echoed down the well, the beam of the flashlight touching her body. Her motionless body.
“Sherry!”
Nolan’s voice reverberated off the brick walls of the old well.
Nothing.
“Sherry!”
And thirty feet down, something — someone — stirred.
“Goddamn,” he said, a disbeliever in the presence of a saint, “she did move.”
He stood up. “Give me that rope.”
Jon did.
Nolan looped one end of it around the nearest sturdy tree, knotted it firmly; then, he looped the other end of it around his waist.
“You’re going down there?” Jon asked.
Nolan didn’t bother answering.
“I don’t know if you’ve got enough rope,” Jon said.
“I always allow myself just enough rope,” Nolan said. He walked to the edge of the well.
“This is a hand-dug well,” he said. “They laid these bricks as they went. Look — you see? There’s plenty of lip on most of those bricks, to cling to. That should allow me to pretty much climb down the side.”
Jon was shaking his head doubtfully. “It’s an old fucker. Some of those bricks’ll give.”
“That’s why you’re going to have to brace me.”
“No problem,” Jon said. He wasn’t worried: he’d been into bodybuilding since he was eight years old and clipped a Charles Atlas coupon off the back cover of a Superman comic book.