The Bard gave a roar when he saw the troopers clamber out of their car (Masterson checking quickly that the door was unlocked, as was his habit now). Rand was wary but Masterson saw that the big man didn’t have his lyre.
“Indiana State Troopers! Freeze!” Masterson yelled and Rand gave a little giggle, completely against the book. It’s just that they were in Georgia. It was funny if you thought about it. Masterson had his gun drawn, no humor in his face, really no recognizable emotion. Rand also drew his gun and trained it on the Bard’s head. He had never fired his gun in the line of duty. He had a brief flash of what it would be like if he pulled the trigger. The spout of blood. The suspect falling down. “No funny moves!” Masterson ordered. The Bard raised his hands in the air, glaring at the man who obviously had his seeker marble clenched in a hand. The light from it leaked out of the spaces between the knuckles.
“Give that back!” the Bard yelled. “That’s mine! You don’t even know what it is!”
“Oh, I think I do,” said Masterson, while Rand ratcheted this experience up on the weird shit meter. “It took me all the way here, to you. It finds things. It’ll find whatever I want. With this little guy, the next time I’m on TV, I’ll be a hero!” He saw it now on a TV in his head, some generic murder suspect slumped unconscious in his hand as he gives an exclusive breaking interview to Channel 4 News. “However did you track down the killer?” the blond beautiful reporter would ask. “Good police work, ma’am,” he’d reply.
Masterson kept his gun hand steady. The Bard started to lower his arms and the trooper jerked. “Keep them up!” he bellowed. “I will shoot you!”
Rand could not keep still. He planted and replanted his feet, looking down at them as he did so and giving the impression that he was standing on a hotplate. His gun was light in his hands, and yet it felt as if he couldn’t keep his hands wrapped around it. He readjusted his grip over and over. Masterson was in control. Rand told himself that he was just along for the ride.
The Bard was about ten feet away from Masterson, who was mentally reviewing the right way of subduing the man. Would their handcuffs even fit around the tree trunk wrists? The Bard appeared to collapse slightly and Masterson unconsciously moved away from him and then the big man was leaping, faster than a large man should be able to move and Masterson squeezed off a shot that went wide to the right of his target. The Bard’s shoulder slammed into the trooper and he hit the ground. The gun fell to the pavement.
Rand’s brain processed all of this in freeze cuts of images and between the one of the suspect crumpling and the one of him jumping it told his fingers to shoot. His first shot missed but the second bullet drove itself into the Bard’s upper arm while he was in mid leap. The Bard snatched the gun up from the pavement and grabbed Masterson’s shirt in his left hand. He froze, blood seeping down his arm and staining his shirt. Rand stood there, all steady now, trying to add this new image to the series in his head. He had never shot anyone before. He was in shock. He had joined some terrible club (those who’ve shot) and was about to jump into its inner circle of members (those who’ve shot and killed) if the big man made a threatening movement.
“Are you OK, Bill?” Rand called to his partner. Masterson’s gaze was fixed on the gun in his face. The Bard stared at his wound and his hostage. The three all stood frozen except for heavy breathing and wary eyes. Inside the Waffle House, the manager had called the police and was trying to keep the patrons from poking their heads out of the booths and becoming innocent bystander victims. Franchises just don’t recover from publicity like that.
Blood was pooling on the ground, as Rand’s shot had hit an artery. The Bard figured he had a lot of blood left and some chance at shooting both troopers. He could plan that out in his head, but he had no idea what the next step would be.
Mr. Gong took off his shoes at home, not bothering to pair them neatly in the rack. Instead he kicked them off into the corner of the foyer and walked into the kitchen. He sat in a chair by the kitchen table but he was too restless to sit. He walked to the family room and turned on the TV, which happened to be still set to the Golf Channel. He snapped it off. He went upstairs to the study and turned on his computer. The video golf game that Brad had gotten him for his birthday still sat in the CD drive, popping up and offering its entertainment services to him when the computer finished starting up.
He shut the computer down.
He picked up the phone and dialed Brad’s cell phone. Mr. Gong tapped his foot while he waited.
“Hey Dad,” his son said. There was music in the background that got quieter. “What’s up?”
“Just calling to see how you’re doing,” Mr. Gong said.
“Fine, fine. Uh, so, how was your tournament?”
“Aw, not so good,” Mr. Gong laughed. “I didn’t play my best.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Next year.”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Gong sat there, not quite sure what to say. He wanted to ask Brad if he remembered the day he walked home, or the mini golf games at Storms. He wanted to know if he’d done the right thing then, if there was ever a time when he’d done the wrong thing and Brad had thought it was the right thing and if so, if Brad was running around with a mistaken impression of what the right thing to do was. “Have I been a good dad?” he’d ask. He knew Brad would say yes. He was a good father. But some confirmation would be nice, on this day. He just didn’t know how to ask for it.
“How’s the driving? When will you be at the Donovans?”
“It’s fine. I’m oh, about an hour away.”
“Well, be on your best behavior. This is a rough time. There’s nothing like losing a child.” The very idea of losing Brad, how could he have made his son walk home at age 13? Sure, it was a different time then, but if anything had happened. Mr. Gong winced his eyes closed as if that would keep out the thought.
“I will, Dad.”
“And drive carefully.”
“I am, Dad. Hey, give me a second.”
Mr. Gong heard some mumbling.
Brad came back, “Hey, Dad? I just wanted to say, thanks for being a great dad. You’re my yardstick. This funeral business just made me think I should tell you that, just in case...”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. You know how superstitious I am,” Mr. Gong laughed. “Love you, son.”
“You too, Dad.”
Mr. Gong hung up. He padded back down to the kitchen for a snack. He sat in the kitchen and read an article on different putters in a back issue of Golf Magazine while munching on a cookie and felt at peace with his house and his sport. He hadn’t played against Bancroft today. He’d played against himself. Next time, he’d win.
Brad folded the phone and put it back into the center console area.
“Your dad is quite a nice man,” Callie said.
“Yeah, he is. Why did you tell me to say that thing at the end?”
“I just sensed that he needed it.”
“Well, he sounded a lot better. Thanks for the words.”
“They were your feelings. I just brought them to the surface.”
“Ah, thank you.” He paused. “Listen, can you not do that when we’re in Ocala?”
“You mean between you and Kate?”
“I just like to keep things the way they are between us. It’s sort of worked out.”
“Has it really?”
“Well, as best as it could, considering the distance between us. Physical, I mean.”
Callie wondered how a boy who considered a few states distance to be an insurmountable barrier could be considering pursuing someone who was not even from the same plane of existence. She mulled over whether or not to bring it up but decided not to chance another blowup. Instead, she said, “It would be better if you not tell her too many specifics about my nature. Some people take it the wrong way.”
“You don’t have to worry about Kate. She hates organized religion. And her feminist side would love meeting a female semi deity.”
“Perhaps. Still, I would appreciate it.”
“Alright, you don’t mention my stuff and I won’t mention yours.”
“Lovely.”
Brad opened the phone again in direct violation of parental order to use the handsfree set whenever he talked and drove at the same time. That earphone and mic lay tangled up in the glove compartment, a Gordian knot of good intentions. He dialed Kate’s number.
“Hello?”
“Kate, it’s Brad.”
“You’re here!” Same Kate. Still a million words bubbling out at the same time through one mouth. When she spoke, people waited for her to keep talking since it felt like there was a torrent waiting to be unleashed. After a pause, they would start just as she put the words in the right order and there’d be a word collision. Conversations could get very long.
“Almost. I’m 60 miles away. We’re really hungry. Can we grab food when we get in?”
“Sure, right away. Wait, did Louie come with you after all? You said ‘we’.”
“No, I, uh, hm. I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“K, can’t wait to see you!”
“Same here.”
He closed the phone again with the satisfied thunk of the two halves coming together.
The Bard and the troopers were still in standoff outside the Waffle House. Rand was waiting for the giant to faint. The Bard was still trying to think of a way out (could these Indiana patrolmen have any pull down here in Georgia?). Masterson clutched at the marble, putting a deep indentation into his hand.
Blood still came out of the big man’s arm, the exit wound too large for mere platelets to hold together. It ran down and dripped off his elbow. He was starting to black out and experience other shock symptoms. The gun pointing at Masterson’s face shook a little.
“Now listen here!” The Bard yelled. “I have demands.”
Rand stood solid now. None of them noticed that on the ground, a circle was forming out of the blood, completely contrary to the theory of hydrodynamics. A shape broke the surface. The head of an old man. The dealer.
The dealer rose up out of the puddle without effort. In his hand was a Buck Roger’s 50’s style ray gun, which would have looked like a bad studio prop except for the scorch mark near the muzzle. He pointed the device at Rand. “Drop that gun,” the dealer said in a thunderous voice unbefitting his kindly old gent appearance.
“Drop yours,” said Rand, surprising himself at his acceptance of the sudden appearance of this man into his situational view. A detached part of him was still relating the story to a hypothetical bartender (“So then this guy comes up from this patch of blood,” he’d say).
The Bard cackled. “You really put the deus into deus ex machina!” he said to the dealer, relaxing his aching gun arm. The dealer gave an appreciative laugh.
The dealer’s dark glasses became flecked with spackles of red fire. He looked from Masterson to Rand, weighing. Then he shot Masterson with the ray gun. A bolt of green light leapt from the muzzle, lancing into the man’s body. The Bard dropped him hurriedly. The trooper’s back arched back in agony and then he was still. Rand screamed and starting firing at the dealer, who paid the shots no attention. One of the bullets hit the dealer in the upper torso and the bullet came whizzing out the back, but the wound was dry.
“My dear boy, that will not quite have the desired effect,” the dealer said. The next shot hit the ray gun, which let out a dying weeop sound and started to tremor in the old man’s hand. “Good shot!” the dealer said admiringly. Rand had been aiming for the head. “Alright, this needs to come to an end.”
Just then, the Bard lost consciousness. Several hundred pounds of dead weight hit the ground with a smash. “Oh bother,” said the dealer. He threw the shaking ray gun through the Tercel’s window with a careless toss and lifted the Bard’s body easily in a fireman’s carry. He looked like an upside down snowman. He went back to the blood pool and stepped in. Then he and the Bard descended, leaving Rand alone in the parking lot as several Macon police cars swarmed into the parking lot.
Then the Bard’s car exploded, confusing everyone further.
Back in the antique shop. The Bard filled the vintage hospital gurney in the corner. The dealer caked an evil smelling powder onto the man’s arm wound. The odor brought the Bard back into the swing of things.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said to the dealer.
“I can, if there is blood.”
“I thought it’d be something grisly like that.”
“Such things are easy for me, but I don’t like having to give up my toys. That was a rather expensive rescue.”
“I will work… pay you off…”
“Oh, you’ll work alright,” sunglasses flashing red again, “Indeed, you will. Lucky for you, the job you’re on is worth quite a bit.” The old man walked to the counter and unlocked a lower cabinet. He drew a small metal flask from there and uncapped it. A sweet aroma cut through the musty smell of the shop. The dealer’s face glowed golden in a glow from the mouth of the flask. He swigged the ambrosia greedily.
Rand sat in the back of the ambulance getting questions from all sides. The EMTs wanted to know silly things like the number of fingers they had up and his name spelt backwards while the cops wanted to know sillier things like how he’d gotten there and his name spelt forwards.
He kept staring at the crew trying to revive Masterson. He had tried to do it himself before they pulled him off to check his condition. Before Rand acquiesced, he pried Masterson’s fingers off the marble and put it into his pocket. No sense letting everything think that his partner was insane. Even if it would get Rand partly off the hook, he just couldn’t do that to Masterson’s memory. The man was already the Stupid Locked Out Trooper. After all the rules they’d broken together on their trek south, seemed like a very small crime, a venial sin to hide evidence that would make Masterson the Stupid Locked Out Crazy in the End Trooper.
Rand knew that they were sending him back to Indiana. He knew that he was going to have a lot of explaining to do without a lot of evidence for any of it (as the prime source of proof was scattered about the parking lot in random shrapnel). He knew that he would need a new job. And yet this was the first time in years that he felt like he’d made a decision he could live with, without regret.
Esmerelda Jackson checked the top clock. She had three hours left in her shift. The regulars had come and gone. Dave Cramden. Bull Terry. The Kim brothers. They always tipped well. They all seemed pretty friendly to each other, as much as they were friends with her. But it wasn’t like they would have each other over for dinner at each other’s homes. Heck, half the time they were in the restaurant because they had nowhere else to go.
When was the last time she had had friends over for dinner? It wasn’t for a holiday. It must’ve been two or three years ago. When Susan still lived in town. Before she moved to New York. That’s right, it had been Susan’s going away party. She’d thrown the shindig for her friend, really her last good friend. Nowadays that whole group (friends since high school) didn’t talk. Susan was the center of that circle of friends, the one they all turned to. She’d gotten married, left town and without that center, it drifted apart.
Everyone seemed resentful about Susan’s decision. Not mad at her, but at each other, for letting her go. Accusing glances said, “If you’d just been better, she would be here.” Esmerelda used to wish that a new circle would form, around her. For a while, it did. But she was uncomfortable. One month after Susan moved, she tried to have another get together. It was all planned out and then one by one people called to see if other people would be there. They all slowly canceled.
No way was she using her new hundred on a dinner party for those bozos. Nothing was going to restore them to their high school days like most of them wanted. But maybe it would cover a visit to New York to see Suze. She decided to call that night, as soon as she got off work. Three hours stretched out like the last mile in a journey, rather than just more pieces of a cookie cutter day.
She was going on a trip.
Louie’s family had finally all returned to their respective hotels. Some of them stayed near to the funeral home, sparing no expense to for convenience. Others were farther away, as if to say that Grandma Stern would not have appreciated wasting of pennies for her sake. Louie’s mother and father had selected a close one, just because Mr. Stern hated driving in Boston.
He hadn’t run into cousin Steve yet. Everyone else in the generation was much older except for him and Steve, who were only a week apart. Steve and Louie therefore fit into the same niche. He imagined that in some alternate universe, they had grown up together and were best friends, inseparable. In this one, they were cordial to the point of pain with one another. Of course, this only came after years of both physical and emotional fighting during the wonderfully infrequent visits. Louie imagined that Steve was tired of hearing his parents say, “Be more like your cousin. Get good grades.” Louie’s parents always talked about how Steve just needed a good influence and that Louie could be one, which is no less annoying. They talked about having Steve come stay for a summer (“Away from his bickering parents,” Mr. Stern said under his breath). Louie always breathed a sigh of relief when a summer passed without the visit (“Well, it wouldn’t be fair for him to come while I’m at camp,” he’d say, half worrying that his parents would call him on that and invite Steve for the latter part of the vacation).
Louie sat back on the bed. His parents had gotten him his own room because he was too old to have a cot in theirs. They also wanted to discuss grownup matters regarding the funeral, and gossip about Mr. Stern’s sibling without impressionable ears present. So he had this whole room to himself and nothing to do with it. He couldn’t exactly stroll into the hotel bar and pick up a stranger (“Wanna come to a blueblood funeral?”). He was too old to just enjoy the independence, no, he needed to do something with it. And yet he was too young to really exercise that freedom.
How was Brad doing, on his trip? Come to think of it, Brad wouldn’t be able to do a lot either. But wait, he was going to be with Kate. Louie sighed. Again he wondered if he should be mourning Grandma more. All these side things, like his crazy relatives and the crazy air travelers had really taken his mind off that. And yet when he focused on her, and tried to imagine not seeing her again, it felt no different than when she’d moved into Glen Oaks. “That’s a pretty evil trick of the nursing home,” he thought.