From a Buick 8(38)

The sun, going down in a cauldron of blood, glared in his eyes. His stomach had continued to drop, making him feel on the verge of vomiting. The barracks all at once looked two, maybe even three miles away. He set off in that direction, reminding himself to breathe and concentrating on taking big, even steps. Part of him wanted to break into a run, and part of him understood that if he tried doing that, he really might faint.

'Guys'd never let you hear the end of dat, and you know it.'

But it wasn't really teasing he was concerned about. Mostly he didn't want to go in looking all wild-eyed and pushing the panic-button like any John Q. in off the road with a tale to tell.

And by the time he got inside, Arky actually did feel a little better. Still scared, but no longer like he was going to puke or just go bolting away from Shed B any old whichway. By then he'd also had an idea which had eased his mind a bit. Maybe it was just a trick. A prank. Troopers were always pulling stuff on him, and hadn't he told Orville Garrett he might come back that evening for a little looky-see at that old Buick? He had. And maybe Orv had decided to give him the business. Bunch of comedians he worked with, someone was always giving him the business.

The thought served to calm him, but in his heart of hearts, Arky didn't believe it. Orv Garrett was a practical joker, all right, liked to have his fun just like the next guy, but he wouldn't make that thing in the shed part of a gag. None of them would. Not with Sergeant Schoondist so hopped up about it.

Ah, but the Sarge wasn't there. His door was shut and the frosted glass panel was dark. The light was on in the kitchenette, though, and music was coming out through the door: Joan Baez, singing about the night they drove old Dixie down. Arky went in and there was Huddie Royer, just dropping a monster chunk of oleo into a pot of noodles. Your heart ain't gonna thank you for dat shit, Arky thought. Huddie's radio ? a little one on a strap that he took everyplace ? was sitting on the counter next to the toaster.

'Hey, Arky!' he said. 'What're you doing here? As if I didn't know?'

'Is Orv here?' Arky asked.

'Nope. He's got three days off, starting tomorrow. Lucky sucker went fishing. You want a bowl of this?' Huddie held the pot out, took a really good look at him, and realized he was looking at a man who was scared just about to death. 'Arky? What the hell's wrong with you? Are you sick?'

Arky sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, hands dangling between his thighs. He looked up at Huddie and opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out.

'What is it?' Huddie slung the pot of macaroni on to the counter without a second look. 'The Buick?'

'You da d-o tonight, Hud?'

'Yeah. Until eleven.'

'Who else here?'

'Couple of guys upstairs. Maybe. If you're thinking about the brass, you can stop. I'm the closest you're going to get tonight. So spill it.'

'You come out back,' Arky told him. 'Take a look for yourself. And bring some binoculars.'

Huddie snagged a pair of binocs from the supply room, but they turned out to be no help. The thing in the corner of Shed B was actually too close ? in the glasses it was just a blur. After two or three minutes of fiddling with the focus-knob, Huddie gave up. 'I'm going in there.'

Arky gripped his wrist. 'Cheesus, no! Call the Sarge! Let him decide!'

Huddie, who could be stubborn, shook his head. 'Sarge is sleeping. His wife called and said so. You know what it means when she does that ? no one hadn't ought to wake him up unless it's World War III.'

'What if dat t'ing in dere is World War III?'

'I'm not worried,' Huddie said. Which was, judging from his face, the lie of the decade, if not the century. He looked in again, hands cupped to the sides of his face, the useless binoculars standing on the pavement beside his left foot. 'It's dead.'

'Maybe,' Arky said. 'And maybe it's just playin possum.'

Huddie looked around at him. 'You don't mean that.' A pause. 'Do you?'

'I dunno what I mean and what I don't mean. I dunno if dat t'ing's over for good or just restin up. Neither do you. What if it wants someone t'go in dere? You t'ought about dat? What if it's waitin for you?'

Huddie thought it over, then said: 'I guess in that case, it'll get what it wants.'

He stepped back from the door, looking every bit as scared as Arky had looked when he came into the kitchen, but also looking set. Meaning it. Just a stubborn old Dutchman.

'Arky, listen to me.'

'Yeah.'

'Carl Brundage is upstairs in the common room. Also Mark Rushing ? I think, anyway. Don't bother Loving in dispatch, I don't trust him. Too wet behind the ears. But you go on and tell the other two what's up. And get that look off your face. This is probably nothing, but a little backup wouldn't hurt.'

'Just in case it ain't nothin.'

'Right.'

'Cause it might be sumptin.'

Huddie nodded.

'You sure?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Okay.'

Huddie walked along the front of the roll-up door, turned the corner, and stood in front of the smaller door on the side. He took a deep breath, held it in for a five-count, let it out. Then he unsnapped the strap over the butt of his pistol ? a .357 Ruger, back in those days.