Only the Rain(50)

Pops’ mouth kept working, with him looking up at Phil all the while. Probably trying to convince him he had come alone. Probably something like, “If I’m not back in my bed by midnight, one of my poker buddies is gonna pass the news on to every last remaining member of Company 271, along with names and photos of you two and Shelley and even that shit-ugly dog of yours.”

Pops could spin some real stories when he wanted to. Mostly he did it as a joke, but I figured he was doing it in there so as to alert me he wasn’t alone. Whatever his reasons, those McClaine boys didn’t seem to care much. They stood there watching and waiting. They knew I had to come in sooner or later.

I kept peeking into the building, never for more than a second or two at a time, trying to figure out my next move, my knees and one hand sinking into the mud. Finally I told myself to get up and do something. Should I walk in with the revolver popping, first shot toward Bubby, then swinging a bit to fire over Pops’ head at Phil? A .22 doesn’t have a lot of stopping power, not unless it’s used up close enough to leave a powder burn on the skull. So should I tuck the revolver in behind my back and walk inside with my hands in the air? Should I leave the revolver in the mud? I had no fucking idea at all.

I eased myself up and backed away from the opening and then worked my way back around the building, across the wide front, then to the narrow end close to the squat little cinderblock office building. I still had no idea what to do, just that I had to get closer if I was going to do any good. If I tried to rush them, even from behind, they would have a clear shot at me, not to mention at Pops. And I doubted very much that Pops had convinced them of anything. It was me they wanted, and sooner or later they were going to have me. Even if I walked away tonight, that wouldn’t be the end of it. Would they have Shelley charge me with rape? Would they keep harassing us through the girls, so that there’d be no end to this hell? And what about the missing money? How would I ever pay that back?

I’d never see the end of it. That’s the only thing I managed to figure out for sure while sneaking around the building in the mud and the rain. It’s like the war, Spence, you know? It never lets you be. Even after you come home, buy a nice little house, try to fit in and live a decent life, it’s always there with you, isn’t it?

I started telling myself I could end it all right then and there. As if the McClaines were some kind of weird extension of Iraq. As if it was all the same fucking war.

On the narrow end of the building, I eased open the metal door a foot or so, then slammed it shut as hard as I could. While the boom was still echoing inside, I raced around to the identical door at the front, grabbed it, pulled it open, and banged it shut.

This time a bullet came ripping through the door. But I was already running back to the narrow end. I figured I had them off balance now. Counting the bay, there were three entrances: Where would I appear next? They couldn’t keep their eyes on all three entrances at the same time, and I was hoping either Phil or Bubby would be watching the open bay, and the other one would be watching the door he’d just now put a bullet through.

I yanked the other door open, dropped down low and fired into the nearest body, which was Bubby’s. I caught him in the ribs, which left him staggering to his right. Phil was facing the front door but immediately spun toward me. Luckily Bubby was between him and me now, so Phil’s first shot went wide. I put another bullet into Bubby, who crumpled to his knees, and then went down onto his hands as well, with blood spurting out of his chest and onto the concrete floor.

With Bubby down, Phil and I had open shots at each other, except that now Phil slid over for some cover behind Pops and the I-beam. But instead of shooting at me, Phil hunkered down low and put his gun to Pops’ head and said something to him. But what Phil didn’t know about Pops was that this old man could still walk so fast that his grandson couldn’t keep up with him. This old man could shovel snow for three hours without a pause, long after his grandson petered out and had to take a break. This old man had been put together with baling wire and fence posts, and he loved me more than anything else in the world.

That old man balled up a fist and drove it hard against the inside of Phil’s knee, and then, like a tenth of a second later, leaned sideways and pushed his head and shoulders between Phil’s legs, driving him into the open. I aimed for his head but missed, and put the next one in his shoulder. His gun arm went limp and he went down onto one knee while trying to switch the gun into his left hand. But Pops made a grab for it, twisted hard, and wrenched the gun free. He stood up, breathing fast and standing a little bit crooked, and aimed that chrome pistol at McClaine’s head. But McClaine wasn’t going anywhere.

“Go get your truck and pull it inside here,” Pops called to me. “It’s parked on the other side of the office.” He handed me the 9 mm. “Take this,” he said. “It’s got more shots left. I’ll take the revolver.”

I said, “What do I need more shots for?”

“You don’t know who else is out there,” he said. “They might not’ve come alone.”

So I switched weapons with him and went running out into the rain. As soon as the rain hit me I started to shake and felt like I couldn’t get any air into my lungs. I was cold as hell all of a sudden, shivering like a drenched cat. McClaine’s Avalon was parked behind the office too, but I had all I could think about trying not to freak out while I climbed into the truck and drove back to the bay entrance.