The tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, smiling. He held a
pistol quite like the one which Doyle had bought in Carson City-and had
thoughtlessly left in the car when he needed it most.
He thought: it just proves that you can’t turn a pacifist into a violent
man overnight. You can pump him up with courage, but you can’t make him
think in terms of guns . . .
It was a ridiculous thing to be running through his mind just then.
Therefore, he stopped thinking about it and gave himself up to the
ruby-colored darkness.
When George Leland came back from a daydream about the farm and his
father, he was sitting on the edge of Courtney’s bed. He was caressing
her face with one hand.
Her body was as stiff as a plaster statue as she strained against her
bonds. She was trying to say something behind the adhesive tape, and
she had begun to weep.
“It’s okay,” Leland said. “I took care of him. ” She tossed back and
forth, trying to shake off his hand.
Leland looked at the pistol in his other hand, and he realized that he
had only shot Doyle once. Maybe the sonofabitch was not dead.
He ought to go back and make sure.
But he did not want to leave Courtney. He wanted to touch her some
more, maybe even make love to her. Feel her soft, warm skin gliding
over the calloused pads of his fingers. Enjoy her. Enjoy being with
her. The two of them together again . . . He spread his hands on her
chest and pressed down with enough force to make her be still. He
petted her face and sifted her golden hair through his fingers.
For the moment he had all but forgotten Alex Doyle.
He did not think of Colin at all.
The boy heard the shot. It was muffled by the walls of the house, but
it was instantly identifiable.
He opened the door and jumped out of the car. He ran halfway down the
drive, then stopped when he suddenly realized that he had nowhere to go.
Downhill, the houses remained dark, as did those uphill. Apparently
no one had been awakened by the shot.
Okay. But he could still go wake them up and tell them what happened,
couldn’t he?
Even as he considered that, he knew it was useless. He thought of the
way Captain Ackridge had treated Alex. And while he knew that the
neighbors would be friendly, he also knew that they would not believe
him-at least not in time to help Alex and Courtney. An eleven-year-old
boy? He would be humored, perhaps scolded. But never believed.
He turned and ran back to the car, stopped at the open door and looked
at the house. No one had come outside.
Get on with it, he thought. Alex wouldn’t hesitate. He went right in
after Courtney, didn’t he? You want to be an adult or a frightened
child?
He sat on the edge of the car seat and opened the glove compartment,
took out the small pasteboard box. He lifted out the pistol and put it
on the seat, fumbled for ammunition. In his eleven years he had never
handled a gun before, but he thought the loading procedure looked pretty
elementary. The safety was marked by tiny letters which he could just
make out in the dim overhead light: SAFETY ON-OFF. He pushed it to OFF.
Twenty-five Alex stared at the broken crates, shredded newspapers, and
other garbage for a minute or two before he realized where he was and
remembered what had happened. The madman, with a gun this time . . .
“Courtney?” he asked softly.
When he moved, he triggered the pain. It came in waves and made him
feel old and weak. He had been hit high in the left shoulder blade, and
he felt as if someone had liberally salted the wound.
Missed the heart, at least, he thought. Must have missed everything
vital. But that was only slightly comforting.
He got one hand under himself and pushed up to his knees, dripping blood
on the carpet under him. The pain increased; the waves crashed