He flung himself on my gun arm and grabbed my wrist with both hands. As a precaution I fired the remaining three rounds into the dirt. This infuriated him and he brought his knee into my groin. I screamed, and vomited onto his shirt front. He reached up reflexively to fend it off, thereby easing some of the pressure on my chest. I squirmed partially free and twisted myself in the direction of the shotgun. Just as I got my hands on the butt, Harris renewed his attack. I feebly swiped at him with the gun butt, grazing him in the chin. He grabbed for the trigger, hoping to force a shot in my direction, but my right hand was securely clamped around the trigger guard. We rolled into a tree trunk, and I tried to squash Harris into it, banging him at chest level with the gun barrel that was between us like a wedge. It was no use; he was too strong. I wrapped my middle finger around the trigger and squeezed. The shotgun exploded and the barrel buckled, hitting Harris in the face. He panicked for just an instant, withdrawing his hand slightly and looking startled.
We both drew ourselves to our feet. Harris had retightened his grip on the gun, then realized it was useless and let go, causing me to fall to the ground. He smiled down at me through clenched teeth and pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket. He pressed a button on the handle and a gleaming, razor-sharp blade popped out. He advanced toward me. I was trying to get to my feet when I saw Larry Brubaker inching up in back of him, wielding a tire iron. Harris was within three feet of me when Brubaker brought it down with a roundhouse swing onto his shoulders. Harris collapsed to the ground at my feet and was silent.
Brubaker helped me up. I checked Harris’s pulse, which was normal, then rounded up the two handguns from their resting place. Harris had a .32 Colt revolver. I put it in my back pocket, and reloaded my own .38 and placed it in my waistband. Brubaker was kneeling over Harris, gently stroking his thick gray hair and staring at him with a look that was equal parts longing and amazement.
I walked up to him. “Get the syringe from the glove compartment, Larry. There’s a paper bag on the front seat with a bottle of water, a spoon, some matches and a little vial. Bring it to me.”
Brubaker nodded and went to the car.
I dragged Doc Harris over to a large tree and propped his back up against it. I could barely manage the pulling: my arms were numb from tension and exertion, and my head slammed from the shot that had grazed me. Brubaker returned with the paper bag.
“You know where the stuff is buried,” I said.
Brubaker said, “Yes, baby,” very softly.
“Go get a handful of it. A big handful. Then come back here. I want you to cook Doc up a little cocktail.”
Harris came awake a moment after Brubaker departed. When his eyelids started to flutter, I reached for my .38 and trained it on him. “Hello, Doc,” I said.
Harris smiled. “Hello, Underhill. Where’s Larry?”
“He went to fetch you a little surprise.”
“Poor Larry. What will he do now? Who will he follow? He’s never had anyone else.”
“He’ll survive. So will Michael.”
“Michael likes you, Underhill.”
“I like Michael.”
“Like attracts like. You and I are Renaissance men. Michael is attracted to Renaissance men.”
“What have you done to him?”
“I’ve told him stories. I taught him to read at three. He’s got an amazing I.Q. and an astounding sense of narrative, so I’ve been giving him parables since he was old enough to listen. I was going to write my memoirs for him, when he was a few years older and capable of understanding them. Of course, now that will never be. But he has had enough of me to form his character, I think.”
“You lost, Harris. Your life, your moral heir, your ‘philosophy,’ all of it. How does that feel?”