turnoff, would come north on the state route-maybe using one of the
drainage ditches for cover or even staying in the forest parallel to the
road-with the intention of hot-wiring new wheels for himself.
Peake had slipped the sedan behind the last vehicle in the line of six,
a dirty and battered Dodge station wagon, pulling over just a bit
farther than the cars in front, so Shadway would not be able to see the
Chevy clearly when he walked in from the south.
Now Peake and Sharp slumped low in the front seat, sitting just high
enough to see through the windshield and through the windows of the
station wagon in front of them. They were ready to move fast at the
first sign of anyone messing with one of the cars. Or at least Sharp
was ready. Peake was still in a quandary.
The trees rustled in the gusty breeze.
A wicked-looking dragonfly swooped past the windshield on softly
thrumming, iridescent wings.
The dashboard clock ticked faintly, and Peake had the weird but perhaps
explicable feeling that they were sitting on a time bomb.
“He’ll show up in the next five minutes,” Sharp said.
I hope not, Peake thought.
“We’ll waste the bastard, all right,” Sharp said.
Not me, Peake thought.
“He’ll be expecting us to keep cruising the road, back and forth,
looking for him. He won’t expect us to anticipate him and be lying in
wait here. He’ll walk right into us.”
God, I hope not, Peake thought. I hope he heads south instead of north.
Or maybe goes over the top of the mountain and down the other side and
never comes near this road. Or God, please, how about just letting him
cross this road and go down to the lake and walk across the water and
off onto the other shore?
Peake said, “Looks to me as if he’s got more firepower than we do. I
mean, I saw a shotgun. That’s something to think about.”
“He won’t use it on us,” Sharp said.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a prissy-assed moralist, that’s why. A sensitive type.
Worries about his goddamn soul too much.
His type can justify killing only in the middle of a warand only a war
he believes inH)r in some other situation where he has absolutely no
other choice but to kill in order to save himself.”
“Yeah, well, but if we start shooting at him, he won’t have any choice
except to shoot back. Right?”
“You just don’t understand him. In a situation like this-which isn’t a
damn war-if there’s any place to run, if he’s not backed into a tight
corner, then he’ll always choose to run instead of fighting. It’s the
morally superior choice, you see, and he likes to think of himself as a
morally superior guy. Out here in these woods, he’s got plenty of
places to run. So if we shoot and hit him, it’s over. But if we miss,
he won’t shoot back-not that pussy-faced hypocrite-he’ll run, and we’ll
have another chance to track him down and take another whack at him, and
he’ll keep giving us chances until, sooner or later, he either shakes
loose of us for good or we blow him away. Just for God’s sake don’t
ever back him into a corner, always leave him an out. When he’s
running, we have a chance of shooting him in the back, which is the
wisest thing we could do, because the guy was in Marine Recon, and he
was good, better than most, the best-I have to give him that much-the
best. And he seems to’ve stayed in condition. So if he had to do it,
he could take your head off with his bare hands.”
Peake was unable to decide which of these new revelations was most
appalling, that, to settle a grudge of Sharp’s, they were going to kill
not only an innocent man but a man with an unusually complex and
faithfully observed moral code, or that they were going to shoot him in
the back if they had the chance, or that their target would put his own
life at extreme risk rather than casually waste them, though they were