Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

The big man looked down and saw that his black wingtips, and the feet in them, were resting next to him, instead of under him. He was suddenly three inches shorter and standing on twin shattered bone tips, and his mind didn’t seem able to cope with this because he made no sound. He toppled sideways but fired his gun, maybe as a knee-jerk reaction.

He killed a eucalyptus tree next to Archer.

45 commenced dying as he lay on the ground probably not knowing who or what had killed him. Archer watched as the man turned to him, his hemorrhaging eye an inch above the forest floor. The man blinked once, then shock took over. He convulsed once, then again, and the eye closed and the man died quick and silent.

Archer knew that pulling the trigger and killing a man was easy. What was hard was everything leading up to that point. And everything coming after it.

Archer turned to Sawed-off. He, too, had left this life in a dark, burgundy spread of blood that the dirt did not seem to want, because it lay on top of the ground like water in a pool.

“Don’t,” the voice barked out.

Archer turned to see Callahan now pointing her Smith & Wesson at the little man, who, dazed by the sudden elimination of his comrades, had pulled a .22 Derringer from his waistcoat and was pointing it around, though Archer could tell the fellow had no firm idea of an actual target.

“Don’t do it,” Callahan said. Her voice was assured, in command, with an ice-in-the-veins sort of rhythm. It was like a dagger needling your ribs before it went in for the kill.

Archer looked at her. Unlike .45, there wasn’t a twitch in her gun hand. The Smith & Wesson was held as sure and steady as a foot-round oak branch in still air. Callahan’s features looked like the mountain peaks they had passed, chiseled, foreboding, impenetrable. The last one got to Archer the most, confounding him.

The little man dropped the Derringer and backed away from it, his hands palm up in front of him, as though that would matter against the .38.

“Okay, okay,” he said, a line of sweat glistening around the whiskers above his lip. “Don’t do nothing crazy, lady.”

“You mean, kill you? Like you were going to kill us? So, who’s crazy?”

“Please, lady,” he moaned.

“Don’t please me,” she retorted. “It’s a little late for that.”

Archer said, “It’s over, Liberty. Just let him go.”

She spoke without looking at him. “And let him do what? Keep following us? Tell somebody else what happened? I killed a man, Archer.”

“In self-defense.”

“I shot him in the back.”

“I’m your witness to what happened.”

The little man said, “He’s talking sense. And all the fight’s gone right out of me. Wish I’d never come up here. I’ll take my money and go. You got my word, honest to God.”

“Too late to be talking about God,” snapped Callahan.

“Just wait a minute,” said Archer.

“You can’t trust guys like this, Archer. They say one thing and do another.” She took closer aim with her revolver. “And he confessed to killing Bobby H.”

Archer stepped forward, blocking her sight line. “Killing a man in self-defense is one thing. Shooting him in cold blood is something else. And I’m no saint, but I can’t be a party to that, so you might as well shoot me first.”

“I like you, Archer, but I’m not sure I like you that much.”

“Well, keep this in mind. We have more mountains to go over. You want to drive it alone? Go ahead.”

This did what apparently her conscience could not. She lowered her gun. “Pick up his piece and the shotgun and the revolver.”

Archer did as she asked, holding the trio of weapons so their barrels pointed to the dirt.

“Where’s your car?” Callahan asked the little man.

“Around the bend back there.”

“Show us.”

He led them around a curve in the road. It was a wonder they hadn’t heard the engine, but the wind up here was loud, funneled between the peaks.

It was a Chrysler sedan painted an ugly green with the biggest chrome bumper Archer had ever seen. It was large enough for him to take a nap on.

“You got a spare tire?” asked Callahan.

“Of course,” replied the man.

She shot out the Chrysler’s right front tire and the air hissed out as the rubber fell flat.

She lowered her gun, studied what she’d done, and said, “I still want to shoot him.”

“I know,” said Archer, drawing a sharp look from her. “But I say we get back in the car and keep going.”

“I’ll go along with that plan, for now.” She eyed the man, who looked like a fellow who thought he was still on death row. “You follow us, Archer won’t save you next time. You go back to where you came from and stay there. And you keep your mouth shut.” She lifted her .38 and took aim at a spot between his ball-bearing eyes.

The man backed away. “Yes ma’am.”

“One more thing,” said Archer. He walked over to the man and drilled him so hard in the face with his fist that the fellow was lifted off his feet and slammed against the side of the car before crumpling to the dirt.

“That was for Bobby H. And if I ever see you again, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

The man sat on the ground holding his broken nose and sobbing in pain.

Callahan turned and walked back to the Delahaye. “Let’s go, Archer.”

Archer stood there for a bit until she was almost out of sight. Then he did just as she said.

The Delahaye prowled through the valley like a muscular river drilling through rock. Archer had placed the weapons they’d taken in the trunk. Both he and Callahan were visibly shaken by what had happened. Archer’s mind was going a million miles an hour, and Callahan looked pale and distraught.

“I guess you think I’m a bad person,” Callahan said quietly, finally breaking the silence after about twenty-five minutes of nothing but the French car’s purr.

“I don’t think anything one way or another.”

“Girls have to know how to take care of themselves, Archer, at least this girl does. You think that just applies to guys?”

“No. But maybe I assume, just like all other guys.”

“Assume what?”

“That gunplay is for the men. Clearly, I’m wrong about that.”

“Fact is, my daddy taught me to shoot starting when I was eight years old. I could barely hold the deer rifle.”

“He taught you well. That was not an easy shot tonight with the bad light and distance.”

“He was as big as a barn. If I’d missed that lug I’d need glasses. And the other guy died from an accident. So that had nothing to do with me.”

Archer downshifted as the road began to curve sharply. They’d put up the car’s top because the temperature had dropped and the wind was pushing the cold into them like a railroad spike between the ribs.

“How about the little man then? You were going to shoot him in cold blood.”

“Maybe I was bluffing.”

“Don’t think so.”

She lit up a Camel and blew a puff of angry smoke at him. “How the hell do you know? How the hell do you know anything about me?”

“I’ve seen you gamble. You don’t have a poker face.”

She gave him a sideways glance that Archer — who was doing the same to her — felt to his toes. He wasn’t sure how to properly read this situation, mainly because he’d never met a woman like Callahan before.

So is that my fault or hers?

With an exhale of Camel smoke followed by a brush at her hair with a shaky index finger, she said, “Do we have to tell anybody about it?”

“I think there might be trouble if we don’t.”

She cranked her window down and flicked her Camel away. It caught a shaft of wind and glanced off an oak before sinking into the asphalt. She cranked the glass back up.