Gideon (47 page)

He thought about moving again and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the pain, taking a couple of deep breaths. He’d hurt himself before on the basketball court, and he’d always been able to play through pain. He could play through this. He could—

Something hard jammed into the back of his neck, right under the skull.

“All right, jerk-off,” the voice said. It was directly behind him. The man it belonged to was holding a gun to Carl’s head. “Stand up slow. Don’t turn around, don’t do nothin’. Try anything clever and I blow your brains out right here. Just stand up and walk where I point you.”

Carl tried standing, but his ankle buckled. He started to fall back to the ground, caught himself with his hands. he lingered on the ground just a moment, then slowly, excruciatingly, pushed himself back up. The gun nudged at his head and Carl limped forward. After a few steps, the gun shifted to the right side of his head and pushed against him again, so Carl stepped to his left. It took about five minutes, and then Carl realized they were back where he had started. They were back at Gideon’s grave. Back standing by Luther Heller’s body.

“Okay, turn around now.”

Carl pivoted on his good leg. What he saw was no surprise. He’d recognized the voice. Payton. The cop who’d come to his apartment, who’d tried to kill him then. Who was definitely going to kill him now.

Payton flicked his gun towards Luther’s fallen body.

“Sorry about your friend,” Payton said. He smiled almost kindly at Carl. Then, without any wasted motion, without any warning, he fired two more shots into Luther. The first blew his back open. The second one took off most of his head.

“Well,” Payton said, with no change in the friendly tone of voice, “I guess I’m not
that
sorry.” Now he waved again with his rifle, vaguely pointing toward Carl’s left. “Okay, pal, hop in.”

Carl looked at the splotchy, pockmarked face in confusion. Then he realized what Payton meant. He realized why he’d bothered to walk him over to this spot. He wanted him to step into the hole he’d dug. It was meant to be his final resting place.”

“Can I just—”

“No. Whatever it is, you can’t. Just get into the hole so I can get the fuck outta here. Hop in, lie facedown, and make it easy on both of us.”

Carl hesitated, then stepped forward and sideways. He teetered on the edge of the hole. The edge of Gideon’s grave. This was not the way he’d pictured it all ending. Not here, in this overgrown field in the Mississippi delta. Not like this, bruised and defeated. On someone else’s terms. Killed by a fat, smelly slob who probably didn’t even know or care what the hell was going on. He would never live to clear his name now, Carl realized. He would never write the great American novel or see the Mets win another World Series or get to watch the next Michael Jordan. He’d never repair his broken relationship with his father. Or mourn his mother. Or spend that year in the south of France. Or mourn his mother. Or spend that year in the south of France, sipping good wine. Smiling sadly to himself, he thought:
Well, at least I did one thing right. The last night with Amanda. It was perfect
. He sighed at the memory. His last and final memory.

“Can I just ask you one question?” He could still buy Amanda more time. That was all that mattered now. He was going to die, but if he could keep her alive, well … he could almost die happily.

“Sure, pal. Ask whatever you want. But make it quick. ’Cause your little girlfriend’s next. The only way she’s gonna get anywhere is on that road behind these woods, which she should be hittin’ just about now. And you see that little hill over there? You know what’s on the other side of that hill?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, dangled them from his meaty hand. “My nice fast car. Unless she can run faster than anybody in the history of the world, I think I’m gonna catch up to here pretty quick. So sure, you got one question. Make it a good one.”

Carl decided it was pretty good: “How’d you get so fuckin’ fat?”

Payton’s eyes practically bugged out of his head in surprise and fury. His first instinct was to hurt the kid. Then he thought,
Screw it, just get it over with
, but before he could do anything, before he could pull the trigger to kill this snotty asshole of a kid who’d been such a pain in the butt, the kid’s hands flew up and two fistfuls of dirt went flying into Payton’s face.

Christ, when he bent down in the woods, when his leg went out from under him. That’s when he did it. Goddamn it
. Payton thought the kid was just pushing himself back up, but that’s when he’d grabbed the dirt.
Had to be … goddamn …

Momentarily blinded, Payton scratched at his eyes, trying to get the dirt out. He saw the blur of a body come flying at him and he pulled the trigger, but he hit only air. The kid was strong, strong enough to knock Payton down, but now Payton could see. And it wasn’t a fair fight. He had maybe fifty pounds on the kid. And he was a street fighter from way back. They wrestled for a few moments, the kid trying to get the gun, but when Payton’s fist thudded into the side of the kid’s head, he could feel him sag. And when Payton’s knee came up and rammed into the kid’s chin, it was all over. For good measure, Payton stood up and kicked him, kicked him as hard as he could, and the kid rolled over in agony. Payton kicked him again and the kid rolled again, closer to the open grave. Now it was a game for Payton. A kick and the kid was closer to the hole. Another kick, closer still. One more kick would do it. One more kick, one shot, then go get the girl.

And that’s when he heard it. At first he thought he was going crazy. But he looked down at the kid and the kid, as beaten up as he was, had picked his head up, was straining to hear it, too …

Singing.

Tuneless, gravelly singing.

“O my God, rescue me out of the hand of the wicked
Out of the grasp of the unrighteous and ruthless man.”

Carl groaned in despair.
Oh, Jesus
, he thought.
Psalms
.

It was Momma. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she gotten the hell out of there? What the hell was she doing?

“The old lady?” Payton asked incredulously. He looked down at Carl, who was sprawled in the dirt on the edge of the freshly dug-up grave, too weak to look up at him. “It’s your lucky day, kid. You get to live long enough to watch me kill another one of your black friends.” He turned to face the woods.

In return for my love they are my adversaries
But I am all prayer
And they have laid upon me evil for good
And hatred for my love.”

And with that Momma One-Eye stepped out of the woods into the clearing. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she seemed calm, at peace. She took two frail steps closer to Payton.

“Look at her,” Payton said to Carl, his lips curled into a contemptuous sneer. “She’s too dumb even to hide.”

“You are not a good man,” she said to Payton.

“A good man?” He snorted and turned to the old lady. “What do you think’s goin’ on, Momma? You think we’re havin’ a party? You think we’re havin’ a party for all the good men around here?” He laughed in Carl’s direction. “She thinks we’re havin’ a party! Well, why don’t you just go on singin’, Momma? You just keep singin’ for our party.”

“I’m done singing,” Momma One-Eye said.

“Aww, the time for singin’s over?”

“Yes,” she said. “The time for singing’s over.”

“Well, what’s it time for, then? Maybe it’s time for dying, huh?”

“Yes,” Momma said. “It’s time for dying.”

Carl heard the shot. He didn’t want to look up. Didn’t want to see the strange old lady sprawled in the grass, didn’t want to see her blood. He waited for Payton’s words. And Payton’s laugh. He waited for a second shot, the shot that would end his life. He wouldn’t turn his head. Wouldn’t give him the pleasure. He’d just wait, and then it would be over.

Nothing.

No words. No laugh. No shot.

Carl forced himself up to his knees. Waited to be knocked down as he rose, but no blow came. His ribs felt like they were broken, but he struggled to stand erect. And when he was on his feet, he turned and forced himself to face his tormentor.

Payton was pitched forward, dead as could be, blood pouring from the back of his head.

Momma One-Eye stood several feet away from him. Both hands were in front of her, held straight out, still pointing where Payton had been standing. In those hands she held a pistol.

Carl stumbled over to her. He put his hands on her arms and guided them down to her side. He said nothing to her, just stared in astonishment.

“He was a bad man,” Momma One-Eye said.

“Yes,” Carl told her. “A very bad man.” And then he said, “How? How did you …?”

“Luther carried a gun. Ever since his daughter was killed. Carried it with him wherever he went, case he ever met up with the man who did it.”

“I know. I saw the gun in his office.” He looked down at the gun in Momma’s hand. “You took it off his body?”

“While you was in the woods. And the bad man went after you.”

Carl fell to his knees. For a moment he thought he might pass out. But after several deep breaths he struggled back up to his feet. He pulled Momma to him, hugged her tightly, then bent down and kissed her gently on the forehead.

“We can’t leave Luther in the presence of a man like this,” she said. “It just wouldn’t be … dignified.”

Carl nodded. He moved to stand behind Payton and started to roll him over, toward the grave. At the last second he stopped. Fighting to keep himself from gagging, he forced himself to reach into Payton’s left front pants pocket and pull out the car key that was there. Then he shuddered, gave the big man one last push, and watched him disappear from sight.

“Now we can go,” she said. Then she held the gun out, offering it to Carl.

“You should keep it,” he said.

“I won’t need it no more,” she explained. “And I hope and pray Luther don’t need it where
he’s
going.” Now Momma put her bony hand on Carl’s cheek and caressed it. “But I’m pretty sure it’ll come in handy for you,” she said.

Carl took the gun, stuck it into his belt. Then he took Momma’s hand, squeezing it tightly, and they headed back toward town.

* * *

For the first time in Amanda May’s life, she felt paralyzed.

She was in Suzi’s apartment, above the Warren café. Suzi and her husband and their three children were all gathered around the television, watching in stunned silence. They had closed the diner when they’d heard the news. Amanda was already in the apartment; Suzi had stashed her there without a word when she’d shown up and said that Momma had told her to come. But she hadn’t turned on the TV or the radio, so she didn’t know what happened. Then someone had come into the café, spreading the word, so they all rushed up to watch, jabbering and screaming, and it took Amanda several seconds to understand what had occurred. They turned on ANN, their link to the unfurling tragedy. Amanda sat slumped in an easy chair in the corner while the others sat circled around the set. No one spoke. Even the commentator on TV was speaking only sporadically, letting the images stand on their own.

Amanda thought:
How could this be? How could this be happening? I’m losing my mind
.

The voice on the television was droning on now, talking about the tragedy, the global sadness, the words of sympathy that were pouring in from all over the world.

There was a knock on the door. One of Suzi’s little girls went to answer it. Through her fog, something in Amanda’s brain realized that that was a mistake. “No!” she yelled, jumping up. “Don’t open the door!” But it was too late. The girl had yanked it open. Amanda recoiled, certain they had just let in their own destruction.

She had never been more wrong.

Carl stood there, covered in dirt, bleeding, and holding his arms against his chest as if he were hurt, leaning against the door frame for support. Next to him was Momma One-Eye.

It’s a miracle! It’s Carl! And Momma! But how? How?

She ran to him, hugging him to her, but he recoiled in pain. “What happened?” she asked. “Tell me what happened.”

“Quiet,” Suzi’s husband thundered. “Come in and be welcome, but be quiet and be respectful.”

Carl looked at the television. She could see his eyes focusing, see him trying to comprehend what was happening. As it began to dawn on him, he turned to face her and nodded.

“President Adamson’s dead,” she said.

“Assassinated?” Carl asked.

“He killed hisself,” Suzi’s youngest girl said. “The president shot hisself in the head.”

“Hush,” the girl’s mother said. “And watch.”

Momma One-Eye stared at the television in fascination. Carl tried to imagine what she was thinking. She’d seen Tom Adamson practically from the very beginning. Had witnessed his act of ultimate evil. Had watched him go unpunished and rise to the top of the world. Now she was seeing the end. She was seeing it all catch up to him.

“It’s Elizabeth. She’s coming out to speak.”

Everyone’s head swiveled toward the set. Sure enough it was Elizabeth Adamson. The First Lady of the United States was dressed in black. She moved slowly but steadily as she stepped toward a podium.

The camera never wavered from covering her walk as the ANN anchor murmured in hushed and respectful tones. “I’ve just been told that President Bickford has, moments ago, taken the oath of office in a hastily assembled ceremony in the White House. It is exceedingly difficult to keep anything in perspective right now, and we in the media must avoid jumping to any conclusions, but one conclusion that is inescapable is that the future of the presidency is in complete and utter turmoil. Standing next to me is Meredith Brock Moss, presidential historian. Meredith, do you have any insight into what’s going to happen now? Will Jerry Bickford top the slate in November?”

“No one knows, Harry. The vice president—excuse me,
President
Bickford has been rather invisible as of late. His health problems were made public only recently, when he announced that he was going to step down as vice president for President Adamson’s second term.”