Christ! Oh, Christ! But his pain, as excruciating as it was, couldn't compare to the intensity of his fright.
The two kids ambled out of the store, paused before him, and looked bored as the one with the shotgun raised it, aiming at Slaughter's face. No! Slaughter had mentally begged, unable to speak, fighting for breath. He'd narrowed his vision toward the shotgun's barrel and inwardly winced, panicked, dreading the blast that would blow his head apart.
Then, absurdly, the kid who'd been eating potato chips had asked the other if he thought Detroit would beat Toronto in the hockey game tomorrow night. Still aiming the shotgun, the second kid had answered matter-of-factly that Detroit would. But the first kid responded that he thought Toronto had a better chance, and that had started an argument about being loyal to the local team. Through gusting snow, Slaughter had blinked in terror at the shotgun aimed at him.
Abruptly the shotgun wasn't there anymore. The kids had become so involved in their argument that they walked away, contemptuous of him, indifferent to whether he lived or died. As they disappeared into the storm, the kid with the shotgun rested it against his shoulder, the barrel projecting upward. And for a moment, just before they vanished, Slaughter-in his delirium-saw the shotgun turn into a hockey stick.
A passing patrol car happened to find him. Slaughter spent a week in intensive care, then four more weeks in the hospital while he recovered from two excruciating operations. His physicians told him that he'd nearly died from shock and loss of blood. The only reason he'd survived, they believed, was that his overcoat had provided a buffer against the full force of the blast. Otherwise, they concluded, he'd have been disemboweled.
After Slaughter was released from the hospital, the police department had given him a month's leave and then a temporary desk job to ease him into his regular, hazardous duties. All the while, a department psychiatrist had counseled him. But the counseling didn't help. Although Slaughter tried to hide his nervousness, the truth was that he'd had a breakdown. A nightmare kept haunting him, making him afraid to go to sleep because of the horrifying, snow-obscured image of the two kids aiming the shotgun at him-except that the kids would suddenly be wearing skates and goalie masks and the shotgun would be a hockey stick. With equal suddenness, the hockey stick would blow his head apart. Several times every night, Slaughter woke up screaming. When the department finally decided to see how he would perform if they sent him out on patrol, Slaughter flinched each time he heard the voice from the two-way radio sending him and his partner to a crime scene. As Slaughter's breakdown worsened, he finally had to take another leave of absence, and his nerves weren't all that had broken down.
So had his marriage. He was to blame, unwillingly, unable to control his temperament. At last, his wife couldn't bear the strain of his outbursts and had asked him for a divorce. Bitter, but not at her, instead toward himself, Slaughter had agreed. Why not? he'd gloomily decided. I'm no good to her. I'm scaring the children. I can't be any good to my family if I'm not any good to myself. Soon afterward, confused and desperate, he'd made the decision to put his past behind him, to go to Wyoming and the arbitrarily chosen town of Potter's Field. His horses were a therapy for him, but he was terrible at raising them. The only thing he knew was being a policeman, and the day that old Doc Markle told him to apply for this position, Slaughter had been shocked by something in the old man's eyes. The old man understood that Slaughter was a coward. Slaughter would have bet on that. "Go on. Try again," the old man's eyes had told him, and the old man had convinced him. Slaughter, with no option, had applied and gotten the job, and he had worked so hard at it because he meant to prove himself.
The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn't want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he'd felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he'd panicked in the field and at his house. He'd lost complete control. He didn't understand now how he'd come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn't any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It's the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you're still worth a shit. He told himself he didn't have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.
The night was deep upon him. Through the tiny windows high along one wall, he heard the howling and the shouting and the screaming outside. Thank God that you're in here, that you're safe. But he was growing angry at himself, at Parsons, at this trouble. He was just about to argue with the guards again. Although useless, that would help suppress his tension. Then the door swung open at the far end, and he stared as Rettig stepped in.
Both guards stood now, careful.
"Take it easy," Rettig told them. "Watch out for those rifles, or you'll maybe shoot your mouths off."
They looked puzzled, shifting nervously. "You're not supposed to be here," one guard said.
"Oh, really? Well, I'll tell the woman here to take the food back." Rettig turned.
"Wait a minute. What food?"
"For the prisoners. They haven't eaten."
"No one fed us, either."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't think of that."
"Hey, you just bring the food in."
"I don't like this," the second guard said.
"It's only food, for Christ sake. What the hell, I'm hungry."
"Yeah, but they might pull a trick."
"We've got the rifles. Bring the food in."
"If you're certain." Rettig shrugged.
"Bring it in."
"Okay then." Rettig went toward the door and gestured.
Marge came in. She had two baskets. She looked at the five men in the cells and in particular at Slaughter. Slaughter tried to smile, but she seemed nervous, and the last few days had aged her. She had always borne her weight with pride, but now it sagged around her, and he couldn't stop his sorrow for her.
"Hi, Marge," Slaughter told her.
She just looked at him. "I thought you'd maybe like some food." She sounded weary.
"Something wrong, Marge?"
"It's the woman I hit."
"What about her?"
"She died half an hour ago."
Slaughter pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor, and nodded. Then he peered up at Marge. "I still think you did the right thing."