From a Buick 8 (40 page)

I trotted to catch up with George. 'Hey, man, I might have gotten a little carried away in there. If I did

- '

'Shit,' he said in a flat, disgusted voice, stopping so quick I almost ran into his back. He was standing at the edge of the parking lot with his hands curled into fists that were planted on his hips. 'Look at that.'

Then he called, 'Shirley! You all right?'

'Fine,' she called back. 'But Mister D . . . aw sugar, there goes the radio. I have to get that.'

'Doesn't this
bite,'
George said in a low voice.

I stepped up beside him and saw why he was upset. 6's right rear window had been broken clean out to the doorframe, undoubtedly by a pair of cowboy boots with stacked heels. Two or three kicks wouldn't have done that, maybe not even a dozen, but we'd given my old school chum Brian plenty of
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time to go to town. Rowdy-dow and a hot-cha-cha, as my old mother used to say. The sun was reflecting fire
off
a thousand crumbles of glass lying heaped on the hottop. Of Monsieur Brian Lippy himself, there was no sign.
'FUCK!
I shouted, and actually shook my fists at Unit 6. We had a burning chemical tanker over in Pogus County, we had a dead monster rotting in our back shed, and now we also had one escaped neo-Nazi asshole. Plus a broken cruiser window. You might think that's not much com-pared to the rest, kid, but that's because you've never had to fill out the forms, beginning with 24-A-24, Damaged Property, PSP and ending with Complete Incident Report, Fill Out All Appropriate Fields. One thing I'd like to know is why you never have a series of good days in which one thing goes wrong. Because it's not that way, at least not in my experience. In my experience the bad shit gets saved up until you have a day when everything comes due at once. That was one of those days. The granddaddy of them all, maybe.

George started walking toward 6. I walked beside him. He hunkered down, took the \valkie out of its holster on his hip, and stirred through the strew of broken Saf-T-Glas with the rubber antenna. Then he picked something up. It was our pal's cruicifix earring. He must have lost it when he climbed through the broken window.

'Fuck,' I said again, but in a lower voice. 'Where do you think he went?'

'Well, he's not in with Shirley, she sounds too chirpy. Which is good. Otherwise? Down the road, up the road, across the road, across the back field and into the woods. One of those. Take your pick.' He got up and looked into the empty back seat. 'This could be bad, Eddie. This could be a real fuckarow. You know that, don't you?'

Losing a prisoner was never good, but Brian Lippy wasn't exactly John Dillinger, and I said so. George shook his head as if I didn't get it. 'We don't know what he
saw.
Do we?'

'Huh?'

'Maybe nothing,' he went on, and dragged a shoe through the broken glass. The little pieces clicked and scritched. There were droplets of blood on some of them. 'Maybe he hightailed it
away
from the shed. But of course going that way'd take him to the road, and even if he was as high as an elephant's eye he might not've wanted to go that way, in case some cop 20-base should see him - a guy covered with blood, busted glass in his hair - and arrest him all over again.'

I was slow that day and I admit it. Or maybe I was still in shock. 'I don't see what you're - '

George was standing with his head down and his arms folded across his chest. He was still dragging his foot back and forth, stirring that broken glass like stew. 'Me, I'd head for the back field. I'd want to cut around to the highway through the woods, maybe wash up in one of the streams back there, then try to hitch a ride. Only what if I get distracted while I'm making my escape? What if I hear a lot of screaming and thrashing coming from inside that shed?'

'Oh,' I said. 'Oh my God. You don't think he'd really stop what
he
was doing to check on what
we.
were doing, do you?'

'Probably not. But is it possible? Hell, yes. Curiosity's a powerful thing.'

That made me think of what Curt liked to say about the curious cat. 'Yeah, but who on God's earth
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would ever believe him.?'

'If it ever got into the
American,
'George said heavily, 'Ennis's sister might. And that would be a start. Wouldn't it?'

'Shit,' I said. I thought it over. 'We better have Shirley put out an all-points on Brian Lippy.'

'First let's let folks get the mess in Poteenville picked up a little. Then, when he gets here, we'll tell the Sarge everything - including what Lippy might have seen - and show him what's left in Shed B. If Huddie gets some half-decent pictures . . .' He glanced back over his shoulder. 'Say, where
is
Huddie? He should've been out of there by now. Christ, I hope - '

He got that far and then Shirley started screaming.
'Help! Please! Help me! Please, please help me!'

Before either of us could take a step toward the barracks, Mister Dillon came out through the hole he'd already put in the screen door. He was staggering from side to side like a drunk, and his head was down. Smoke was rising from his fur. More seemed to be coming out of his head, although at first I couldn't see where it was coming from;
everywhere
was my first impression. He got his forepaws on the first of the three steps going down from the back stoop to the parking lot, then lost his balance and fell on his side. When he did, he twisted his head in a series of jerks. It was the way people move in those oldtime silent movies. I saw smoke coming out of his nostrils in twin streams. It made me think of the woman sitting there in Lippy's bigfoot truck, the smoke from her cigarette rising in a ribbon that seemed to disappear before it got to the roof. More smoke was coming from his eyes, which had gone a strange, knitted white. He vomited out a spew of smoky blood, half-dissolved tissue, and triangular white things. After a moment or two I realized they were his teeth.

THEN:

Shirley

There was a great confused clatter of radio traffic, but none of it was directed to base. Why would it be, when all the action was either out at Poteenville Grammar School or headed that way? George Stankowski had gotten the kids away from the smoke, at least, I got that. Poteenville Volunteer One,
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aided by pumpers from Statler County, were controlling the grassfires around the school. Those fires had indeed been touched off by burning diesel and not some flammable chemical. It was chlorine liquid in the tanker, that was now confirmed. Not good, but nowhere near as bad as it might have been. George called to me from outside, wanting to know if I was all right. Thinking that was rather sweet, I called back and told him I was. A second or two later, Eddie called out the f-word, angry. During all this I felt strange, not myself, like someone going through ordinary chores and routines in the wake of some vast change: the death of a friend, bad news from the doctor, a declaration of war. Mister D was standing in the door to dispatch with his head down, whining at me. I thought the burned patches in his fur were probably paining him. There were more burned places, dottings of them, on both sides of his muzzle. I reminded myself that someone - Orv Garrett was the logical choice - should take him to the vet when things finally settled back down. That would mean making up some sort of story about how he got burned, probably a real whopper.

'Want some water, big boy?' I asked. 'Bet you do, don't you?'

He whined again, as if to say water was a very good idea. I went into the kitchenette, got his bowl, filled it at the sink. I could hear him clicking along on the lino behind me but I never turned around until I had the bowl full.

'Here you a - '

I got that far, then took a good look at him and dropped the bowl on the floor, splashing my ankles. He was shivering all over - not like he was cold but like someone was passing an electric current through him. And foam was dripping out from both sides of his muzzle.

He's rabid,I thought.
Whatever that thing had, it's turned D rabid.
He didn't look rabid, though, only confused and in misery. His eyes seemed to be asking me to fix whatever was wrong. I was the human, I was in charge, I should be able to fix it.

'D?' I said. I dropped down on one knee and held my hand out to him. I know that sounds stupid dangerous - but at the time it seemed like the right thing. 'D, what is it? What's wrong? Poor old thing, what's wrong?'

He came to me, but very slowly, whining and shivering with every step. When he got close I saw a terrible thing: little tendrils of smoke were coming from the birdshot-spatter of holes on his muzzle. More was coming from the burned patches on his fur, and from the corners of his eyes, as well. I could see his eyes starting to lighten, as if a mist was covering them from the inside. I reached out and touched the top of his head. When I felt how hot it was, I gave a little yell and yanked my hand back, the way you do when you touch a stove burner you thought was off but isn't. Mister D made as if to snap at me, but I don't think he meant anything by it; he just couldn't think what else to do. Then he turned and blundered his way out of the kitchen. I got up, and for a moment the whole world swam in front of my eyes. If I hadn't grabbed the counter, I think I would have fallen. Then I went after him (staggering a little myself) and saying, 'D? Come back, honeybunch.'

He was halfway across the duty room. He turned once to look back at me - toward the sound of my
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voice - and I saw . . . oh, I saw smoke coming out of his mouth and nose, out of his ears, too. The sides of his mouth drew back and for a second it seemed like he was trying to grin at me, the way dogs will do when they're happy. Then he vomited. Most of what came out wasn't food but his own insides. And they

-were smoking.

That was when I screamed.
'Help! Please! Help me! Please, please help me!'

Mister D turned away as if all that screaming was hurting his poor hot ears, and went on staggering across the floor. He must have seen the hole in the screen, he must have had enough eyesight left for that, because he set sail for it and slipped out through it.

I went after him, still screaming.

THEN:

Eddie

'What's wrong with him, George?'I shouted. Mister Dillon had managed to get on his feet again. He was turning slowly around, the smoke rising from his fur and coming out of his mouth in gray billows.
'What's
happening to him?'

Shirley came out, her cheeks wet with tears. 'Help him!' she shouted. 'He's burning up!'

Huddie joined us then, panting as if he'd run a race. 'What the hell is it?'

Then he saw. Mister Dillon had collapsed again. We walked cautiously toward him from one side. From the other, Shirley came down the steps from the stoop. She was closer and reached him first.

'Don't touch him!' George said.

Shirley ignored him and put a hand on D's neck, but she couldn't hold it there. She looked at us, her eyes swimming with tears. 'He's on fire inside,' she said.

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Whining, Mister Dillon tried to get on his feet again. He made it halfway, the front half, and began to move slowly toward the far side of the parking lot, where Curt's Bel Aire was parked next to Dicky-Duck Eliot's Toyota. By then he
had
to have been blind; his eyes were nothing but boiling jelly in their sockets. He kind of paddled along, pulling himself with his front paws, dragging his rump.

'Christ,' Huddie said. 'Look at that.'

'Help him!' Shirley cried. By then the tears were pouring down her face and her voice was so choked it was hard to make out what she was saying. 'Please, for the love of God, can't one of you help him?'

I had an image then, very bright and clear. I saw myself getting the hose, which Arky always kept coiled under the faucet-bib on the side of the building. I saw myself turning on the spigot, then running to Mister D and slamming the cold brass nozzle of the hose into his mouth, feeding water down the chimney that was his throat. I saw myself putting him out.

But George was already walking to him, toward the dying ruin that had been our barracks dog, taking his gun out of his holster as he went. D, meanwhile, was still paddling mindlessly along toward a spot of nothing much between Curt's Bel Aire and Dicky-Duck's Toyota, moving in a cloud of thickening smoke. How long, I wondered, before the fire inside broke through and he went up in flames like one of those suicidal Buddhist monks you used to see on television during the Vietnam war?

George stopped and held his gun up so Shirley could see it. 'It's the only thing, darlin. Don't you think?'

'Yes, hurry,' she said, speaking very rapidly.

NOW:

Shirley

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For me, it was the worst part - hearing Eddie tell how I agreed with George that only a bullet would serve. I turned to Ned, who was sitting there with his head down and his hair hanging on his brow. I put my hand on his chin and tilted it up so he'd have to look at me. 'There was nothing else we could do,' I said. 'You see that, don't you?'

For a moment he said nothing and I was afraid. Then he nodded. I looked at Sandy Dearborn, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Curtis's boy, and I've rarely seen him with such a troubled expression.

Then Eddie started talking again and I sat back to listen. It's funny how close the past is, sometimes. Sometimes it seems as if you could almost reach out and touch it. Only . . . Only who really wants to?

THEN:

Eddie

In the end there was no more melodrama, just a Trooper in a gray uniform and the shadow of his big hat shielding his eyes bending and reaching out like you might reach out your hand to a crying child to comfort him. He touched the muzzle of his Ruger to the dog's smoking ear and pulled the trigger. There was a loud
Pow!
and D fell dead on his side. The smoke was still coming out of his fur in little ribbons. It was as if he'd swallowed a hotspring.