They didn’t know what to do. They were city boys. Maybe from Miami. They wore Florida clothes. They were used to neon alleys and construction sites. They were used to action under raised highways, in the trash-filled lots the tourists never saw. They didn’t know what to do about a small copse standing alone in a million acres of peanuts.
I shot them both in the back as they stood there. Two quick shots. Aimed high up between their shoulder blades. The big automatic made a sound like hand grenades going off. Birds wheeled into the air from all around. The twin crashes rolled over the countryside like thunder. The recoils pounded my hand. The two guys were hurled forward off their feet. Landed on their faces sprawled against the trees on the far side of the earth track. I raised my head and peered over. They had that slack, empty look that is left behind when life has departed.
I held onto the gun and stepped over to them. They were dead. I had seen a lot of dead people,
and these two were as dead as any of them. The big Magnum shells had caught them high up on their backs. Where the big arteries and veins are, going on up into the head. The bullets had made quite a mess. I looked down at the two guys in the silence and thought about Joe.
Then I had things to do. I stepped back to the Bentley. Clicked the safety on and tossed the Desert Eagle back on the seat. Stepped over to their Buick and yanked the keys out. Popped the trunk. I guess I was hoping to find something in there. I didn’t feel bad about the two boys. But I was going to feel better still if I found something in there. Like a silenced .22 automatic. Or like four pairs of rubber overshoes and four nylon bodysuits. A few five-inch blades. Things like that. But I didn’t find things like that. I found Spivey.
He’d been dead a few hours. He’d been shot through the forehead with a .38. From close range. The revolver barrel must have been about six inches from his head. I rubbed my thumb across the skin around the bullet hole. Looked at it. There was no soot, but there were tiny gunpowder particles blasted into the skin. They wouldn’t rub off. That kind of tattooing means a fairly close range. Six inches will do it, maybe eight. Somebody had suddenly raised a gun and the slow heavy assistant warden hadn’t been quick enough to duck.
There was a scab on his chin where I’d cut him with Morrison’s blade. His small snake eyes were open. He was still in his greasy uniform. His white hairy belly showed through where I’d slashed at his shirt. He had been a big guy. To fit him in the trunk, they’d broken his legs. Probably with a shovel. They’d broken them and folded them side
ways at the knee to get his body in. I gazed at him and felt angry. He’d known, and he hadn’t told me. But they’d killed him anyway. The fact that he hadn’t told me hadn’t counted for anything. They were panicking. They were silencing everybody, while the clock ticked slowly around to Sunday. I gazed into Spivey’s dead eyes, like there was information still in there.
Then I ran back to the bodies on the edge of the copse and searched them. Two wallets and a car rental agreement. A mobile phone. That was all. The rental agreement was for the Buick. Rented at the Atlanta airport, Monday morning at eight. An early flight in from somewhere. I went through the wallets. No airline tickets. Florida driver’s licences, both with Jacksonville addresses. Bland photographs, meaningless names. Credit cards to match. Lots of cash in the wallets. I stole it all. They weren’t going to spend it.
I took the battery out of the mobile phone and put the phone in one guy’s pocket and the battery in the other’s. Then I dragged the bodies over to the Buick and heaved them into the trunk with Spivey. Not easy. They weren’t tall guys, but they were floppy and awkward. Made me sweat, despite the chill. I had to shove them around to get them both in the space Spivey was leaving. I scouted around and found their revolvers. Both .38 calibre. One had a full load. The other had fired once. Smelled recent. I pitched the guns into the trunk. Found the passenger’s shoes. The Desert Eagle had blown him right out of them. I threw them in the trunk and slammed the lid. Walked back into the field and found my hiding place in the bushes. Where I’d shot them from. Scrabbled around and picked up the two shell cases. Put them in my pocket.