Andrew Vachss - Blossom

The guns were quiet. I stood up, worked my way over the tracks to the far side of the woods. I backed against a tree, antenna out.

The distinctive rumble of the 'Cuda's exhaust, growling along in low gear, somewhere behind me.

Something moving. To my right. Clumsy-sloppy, blundering. Fear-booted. I took off, feeling his trail, following the blood spoor.

A sapling branch lashed my face, warning me. I dropped to one knee, listening.

I felt the panic, heard him crashing down the back side of the hill, heading for the slough where he'd been born. Where it started. I stumbled onto a dog path through the brush. A black plastic sniper rifle lay discarded on the path, the night scope a blind eye now.

Sirens to my left, homing in, surrounding.

The only fear I felt was his. Then: a stick figure in camouflage gear, running, arms pumping, hands empty. I leveled the pistol, sighted in.

Wesley's voice: Make Sure.

I lowered the .38, took off after him.

He flew around a corner just as I reached the street. Sprinted up a dirt alley a block from the water, coat flapping behind him. I closed the gap. Did he have a mail-order killing knife strapped to his boot?

Kill-lust driving me at him, not mine.

Wesley's chill in me, patient.

I heard the 'Cuda again, its stump-puller engine throttled down.

A dog yapped fearfully.

My eyes picked up an image of movement. It disappeared. I stood, scanning, the pistol down at my side. The closest shelter was an aluminum house trailer sitting like a bloated mushroom in an overgrown patch of jungle, no lights in the windows. A high-pitched moan rode the air as he charged across my path, right for the trailer, never breaking stride.

He dove inside before I could bring the gun up.

The sirens closed in. The door to the trailer stood open. I flattened my back against the metal, dropped into a crouch, slid inside, head down, eyes up, the stubby pistol held before me like a divining rod.

Freakish wet sounds.

He was crumpled on the floor, holding his crotch, mewling.

"It's over, Luther," I told him, my voice shaking. "All over, now."

The sniper's eyes found me. Dry ice, burning cold. His face was a ravaged skeleton, claw marks on his cheeks from his own hands, clear fluid all over his chin. Wesley called to me. I cocked the pistol.

"Don't do it." Sherwood's voice, behind me.

The thing on the floor spasmed, making noises I never wanted to hear again.

182

THE TRAILER WAS a tiny, humpbacked thing, kitchen against one wall. I passed the closet-sized bathroom, heading for the back. His room. A TV set, twisted coat hanger for rabbit ears. Fast-food cartons, TV dinners. Empty Coke bottles. Rancid smells. Stack of magazines in one corner, as high as my waist. Newspaper all over the floor, like you'd put down for a dog that wasn't housebroken. Sleeping bag with a camouflage-pattern lining. CB radio. Cheap pair of binoculars hanging from a strap on the wall. Neat row of X's drawn above them in red crayon.

Six marks. There wouldn't be eight.

183

WHEN I STEPPED back into the front room, there were three squad cars outside, bubble-gum lights rotating in the windows. Red and white.

A cop in a baseball hat and flak jacket pulled Luther to his feet, making a face at the smell. Snapped the handcuffs behind him. Walked him outside to the waiting cars, now bright with probing spotlights.

"You think…?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherwood cut me off.

We stepped into the night air, watching. Luther was ducking his head to climb into the back of the squad car, the SWAT Team cop right behind him.

I lit a cigarette. A shot rang out, slamming the sniper against the squad car door. Blood flowered on what was left of his face.

"Down!" Sherwood screamed at the cops, hitting the deck. My eyes twisted to the left. A flash of soft pink in the darkness.

I moved away into the night, hearing tires torture rubber as a car took off close by.

Nobody gave chase.

184

I SHOOK HANDS with Lloyd. "Thank you. For everything," he said. He looked older, harder. Softened as Blossom kissed him goodbye.

"You always have a home here, brother." Virgil.

Rebecca stood just to the side. "Look at you men. You don't know how to do anything, do you?" She wrapped her arms around me, hugged me fiercely. Her face was wet against mine.

Virginia watched from the side, her hand on Junior's shoulder.

185

THE LINCOLN took us through the steel city onto the highway. I parked at O'Hare. Carried Blossom's bags inside. We stopped at the gate. She faced me, her hands wrapped in the lapels of my jacket. Turquoise eyes glistened with secrets I'd never know.

"Listen to me, trouble-man. I don't know where I'm going, how long it will take me to get there. Maybe I'll be alone, maybe I'll live in a nice big house with a white picket fence, have a husband and four kids. I don't know. Wherever I'll be, I'll be a doctor. Follow the scent, you know what I smell like. You can always find me.

"Blossom…"

"Just listen to me— I know what's mine. Wherever I end up, I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to have a dog. A big, nasty killer dog who loves only me, protects me with his life. Every night, just before I go to bed, I'm going to let my dog out into the yard. Anybody comes after me, he's going to raise holy hell. You find my house, Burke. Wait until dark. When you come over the fence for me, that dog, he won't bar the way.

She turned and walked, her heels clicking, trailing mystery and promise behind her.

186

THE PLANE DROPPED into La Guardia. I took a cab back to my life.