He took another step forward. John jerked up the gun, and a flash of yellow burst from the barrel. A wave of sound and pressure clapped my eardrums tight. Clean white smoke hung between John and Oscar Writzmann. I expected Writzmann to fall down, but he just stood still, looking at the gun. Then he slowly swivelled around to look behind him. There was a hole the size of a golf ball in the wall above the recliner.
"Stay where you are," John said. He had straightened his right arm and was gripping the wrist with his left hand. The ringing in my ears made his voice sound small and tinny. "Don't tell anybody that we came here." John backed up, holding the pistol on Writzmann's head. "You hear me? You never saw us." Writzmann put his hands in the air.
John backed toward the door, and I went outside before him. Heat fell on me like an anvil. I heard John say, "Tell the man in the blue Lexus he's finished." He was improvising. I felt like grabbing him by the belt and throwing him into the street. So far, nobody had come outside to investigate the noise. Two cars rolled down the broad drive. My whole head was ringing.
John walked backward through the door, still holding his arms in the shooter's position. As soon as he was outside, he lowered his arms, turned toward the sidewalk, and began to run. We rushed across the sidewalk and John opened the back door and jumped in. Swearing, I dug the keys out of my pocket and started the Pontiac. Writzmann appeared in the frame when I pulled away from the curb. John was yelling, "Floor it, floor it!" I smashed my foot on the accelerator, and we moved sluggishly down the street.
"Floor it!"
"I am flooring it," I yelled, and the car, though still moving with dreamlike slowness, picked up some speed. Writzmann began walking gingerly across his dry lawn. The Pontiac swayed like a boat, then finally began to charge. When I turned right at the next corner, the car heeled over and the tires squealed.
"Whoo!" Ransom shouted. He leaned over the back of the front seat, still holding the pistol. "Did you see that? Did that stop the bastard cold, or what?" He started laughing. "He came toward me—I just lifted this sucker—and WHAM! Just like that!"
"I could murder you," I said.
"Don't be mad, it was too good," John gasped. "Did you see that fire? Did you see that smoke?"
"Did you mean to fire?" I took a couple more rights and lefts, waiting to hear the sirens.
"Sure. Sure I did. That old thug was going to take it away from me. I had to stop him, didn't I? How else could I show him I meant business?"
"I ought to brain you with that thing," I said.
"You know what that guy was? He used to take guys apart with his bare hands." He sounded hurt.
"He worked in a paper mill for twenty-five years," I said. "When he retired, they gave him a rocking chair."
I could hear John turning the revolver in his hands, admiring it.
I took another turn and saw Teutonia two blocks ahead of me. "Why do you suppose he told us to go back to Livermore Avenue, where we belonged?"
"No offense, but it's not the classiest part of town." I did not say another word until I turned into Ely Place, and then what made me speak was not forgiveness but shock. A police car was pulled up in front of John's house. "He got your license number," I said.
"Shit," John said. He bent over, and I heard him sliding the pistol under the passenger seat. "Keep going."
It was too late to keep going. The driver's door of the police car swung open, and a long blue leg appeared. A giant blue trunk appeared, and then a second giant leg emerged from the car. It was like watching a circus trick—the enormous man could not have fit into the little car, but here he came anyhow. Sonny Berenger straightened up and waited for us to park in front of him. "Deny everything," John said. "It's our only chance."
I got nervously out of the car. I did not think denial would do much good against Sonny. He towered over his patrol car, watching us coldly.
"Hello, Sonny," I said, and his face hardened. I remembered that Sonny had good reason to dislike me.
He looked from me to John and back. "Where is it?" he asked.
John couldn't help taking a quick look back at the Pontiac.
"You have it in the car?"
"There's a reason for everything," John said. "Don't fly off the handle until you hear our side of the story."
"Get it for me, please. Sergeant Hogan wants it back today."
John started walking back to the Pontiac, and as Sonny's last sentence sank in, his steps became slower. I thought he nearly staggered. "Oh, did I say it was in the car?" He stopped and turned around.
"What does Sergeant Hogan want you to give him?" I asked.
Sonny looked from me to John and back to me. He stood up even straighter. His chest looked about two axe handles wide. "An old case file. Will you get it for me, sir, wherever it happens to be?"
"Ah," John said. "Yes. You saw it last, didn't you, Tim?"
Sonny focused on me.
"Wait right here," I said, and started up the path with John right behind me. I waited by the door while John fumbled for his key. Sonny crossed his arms and managed to lean against the patrol car without folding it in half.
As soon as we got inside, John let out a whoop of laughter. He was happier than I had seen him during all the rest of my stay in Millhaven.
"After that speech about denying everything, you were all set to hand him the gun."
"Trust me," he said. "I would have figured something out." We started up the stairs. "Too bad Hogan didn't wait another couple of hours before sending Baby Huey over. I wanted to look at the file."
"You still can," I said. "I made a copy."
John followed me up to the third floor and stood in the door of his study while I reached under the couch and pulled out the satchel. I wiped off some of the dust with my hands and opened the satchel to take out the thick bundle of the copy. I handed this to John.
He winked at me. "While I start reading this, why don't you stop off and see how Alan is doing?"
Sonny was still leaning against the car with his arms crossed when I closed the door. His immovability powerfully communicated the message that I was worth no extra effort. When I held the satchel out toward him, he uncoiled and took it from me in one motion.
"Thank Paul Fontaine for me, will you?"
Sonny's reply consisted of getting into the patrol car and placing the satchel on the seat beside him. He pushed the key into the ignition.
"In the long run," I said, "you did everybody a favor by talking to me that day."
He regarded me from what seemed a distance of several miles. He didn't even bother getting me into focus.
"I owe you one," I said. "I'll pay you back when I can."
The expression in his eyes changed for something like a nanosecond. Then he turned the key and whipped the patrol car around into a U-turn and sped away toward Berlin Avenue.
9
Talking softly, Eliza Morgan led me to the living room. "I just got him settled down with lunch in front of the TV. Channel Four is having a discussion with the press, and then they're showing live coverage of the march down Illinois Avenue."
"So that's where all the reporters went," I said.
"Would you like some lunch? Mushroom soup and chicken salad sandwich? Oh, there he goes."
Alan's voice came booming down the hall. "What the dickens is going on?"
"I'm starved," I told Eliza. "Lunch sounds wonderful."
I followed her as far as the living room. Alan was seated on the chesterfield, threatening to upset the wooden tray on his lap as he twisted to look at me. A small color television on a wheeled stand stood in the middle of the room. "Ah, Tim," Alan said. "Good. You don't want to miss this."