"Why did you have to? Why would you possibly have to do something like that?"
"I don't want you to see any more!" shot Larry. "That's why you have to go! I don't want you to see what I've got to do here!"
"I already know what you want to do!"
"But you don't understand!"
"So explain it to me!"
"I can't!" screamed Larry. "Will you please just get out of here?"
"No!" belted Dave. Defiantly, he began to move forward; still gripping the gun tightly, he slowly stepped toward the killer. "Tell me who you are! Tell me the truth!"
"You've got to go!" insisted Larry.
"Tell me!" commanded Dave. Features set in a determined scowl, he continued to move through the rain. His eyes were fixed on Larry Smith, his mind locked on a single track; the world dissolved around him, leaving only the killer, the man with the answers.
There was another roll of thunder, closer than the last. "Please!" shouted Larry. "Please go! You have to let me finish!"
Dave took another step forward. "Finish what?" he flung. "Finish cutting up that baby?"
"There's more to it! There's a reason!"
"What reason?"
"It has to die! I have to stop it!"
"Stop it from what?" lashed Dave. "It's just a baby!"
"I'm running out of time!" screamed Larry.
"Why are you doing this? Tell me why!"
Larry seemed about to reply...and then he froze. For a moment, he didn't move or say a word, just stared at Dave.
The child continued to howl.
Dave advanced another step, then stopped, uncertain of what Larry would do next.
There was more thunder, a louder, closer rumble.
"Enough," said Larry Smith. "That's enough."
Coolly, he drew back the knife, held it above the child.
"I'm sorry," he said evenly. "I'm really sorry."
The child shrieked madly, thrashed about as if it knew that its death was near.
"No!" screamed Dave, tightening his grip on the revolver. "Don't do it! I'll shoot!"
"Whatever floats your boat," smiled Larry.
"Don't!" screamed Dave, heart galloping, gut twisting.
"A man's gotta' do what a man's gotta' do," shrugged Larry.
"Drop the knife!" ordered Dave, hunching behind the gun. "Drop it!"
Thunder boomed overhead.
The child screeched.
Dave squinted over the barrel, aligning the gunsight with Larry's skull.
"Goodbye," said Larry Smith, and he turned away, turned toward the lake...
...and Dave prepared to fire...
...and the child howled...
...and the rain rushed down...
...and Dave's finger began to move...
...and Billy Bristol sprinted out of nowhere.
*****
Chapter 61
Like a runner expending all reserves in a kick for the finish line, Billy darted full-tilt toward the killer.
Dave was stunned. In the heat of his confrontation with Larry, he'd forgotten the very reason for the showdown, the original reason; he'd been so immersed in trying to wrest answers from Larry that he'd forgotten Billy's plan, forgotten Billy.
It all slammed back to him now, crashed upon him like a monstrous wave. The showdown was to have been a diversion; Billy would sneak up behind the killer and snatch away the child.
Billy was going after the child.
Dave's breath caught in his throat.
Billy didn't have far to go. When he'd popped into Dave's field of vision, he'd been only about twenty feet from Larry...and he was swiftly closing that gap. He would be upon the killer in an instant, a heartbeat, a breath.
Dave watched; it was all that he could do. If he'd wanted to warn off Billy, his chance was long past; he'd been so completely focused on Larry and the child, he hadn't seen Billy until it was too late, until he was already in motion.
Whatever was about to happen, Dave would have no part in it.
Arms and legs pumping, Billy raced toward the killer. From Dave's right, from the killer's right, Billy's wiry body flickered toward the shore, toward the test.
And Dave...
All that Dave could do was watch.
*****
Chapter 62
Larry Smith didn't seem to notice Billy's approach.
Larry stood on the beach, facing the water, his back to Dave. His dark, misshapen arms shifted as he handled the child and the knife; his head was bowed, tipped toward his captive.
Though Billy's feet pattered over the sodden turf, Larry didn't look up. Perhaps, he couldn't hear the warning sounds over the infant's screeching; perhaps, he was too engrossed in his work to pay attention to anything else.
Maybe, the killer heard but didn't care. When Dave had threatened to shoot him, Larry had expressed no concern; maybe, he no more feared Billy than a bullet in his skull.
Whether or not he was aware of Billy's presence, Larry didn't visibly react. He remained hunched over the child, seemingly oblivious, apparently no more worried than if he'd been the only person in Cross Creek State Park.
The child shrieked wildly. Dave wondered if Larry had begun to cut.
*****
Chapter 63
As Billy Bristol flashed toward the killer, Dave held his breath. He wanted to close his eyes; he didn't want to watch...but he knew that he had to, that it was all that he could do.
Billy's fleet strides whisked him between Dave and the killer, swept him behind Larry's back. The last margin of safety quickly disappeared; Billy bolted to within three feet of Larry Smith, close enough for Larry to easily reach him.
Dave's heart seemed to freeze in mid-beat. Everything within and around him seemed to freeze...the wind, the rain, the world...everything but the two figures before him on the shore.
Everything seemed to stop except that which he most wanted to stop.
All that he could do was watch as Billy hurtled behind the killer, shot toward Larry's left side...and the captive child.
*****
Chapter 64
Finally, suddenly, Larry Smith took notice. His head flicked up and swung to the right...but Billy was already gone from that direction. The footsteps, or whatever sound or sensation had alerted the killer, had already passed behind him.
Larry's head swung around to the left; his whole upper body twisted in that direction.
With the screeching child still tucked in the crook of his left arm, Larry spun toward Billy Bristol's angle of attack.
*****
Chapter 65
Billy swooped to within inches of the killer, dove around his left flank.
Billy's arms whipped up; his hands shot toward the child. Larry was spinning toward him, exposing the infant, practically making a gift of it.
Dave felt a surge of hope. He thought that he saw Billy's hands close around the child; he thought that Billy would lift the captive free and dash triumphantly away. He tried to ready himself to shoot down the killer as soon as Billy was clear.
Then, Billy Bristol stumbled.
*****
Chapter 66
Larry was turning. He hadn't yet had time to react to Billy's raid, other than to turn and catch sight of him.
Billy stumbled. The beach sand was uneven, full of pits and humps; his feet must have struck such an obstacle, caught on a drift or dip in mid-stride.
Larry was turning.
Billy's hands snapped away from the child. He twisted and flailed, struggling to regain his footing.
Larry was turning.
Billy couldn't stop himself from dropping. He toppled forward, to his left; he fell toward the killer.
Larry was turning.
Billy fell toward the killer's right; he fell toward the killer's right arm.
Larry was turning.
The child was cradled in Larry's left arm. In his right hand...
Billy was falling.
...in his right hand, he held
the blade.
*****
Chapter 67
Dave knew. Before it happened, Dave knew.
Billy was falling; he was falling toward the killer's right hand.
In his right hand, Larry held the long knife.
Dave knew.
Larry wasn't gripping the knife as if he planned to strike at his attacker. He held the blade level with his chest; he'd been about to puncture the child.
Dave knew.
Larry didn't thrust the knife at Billy; he simply turned, and the blade turned with him.
Before it happened, Dave knew.
Before it happened, Dave screamed his friend's name.
Larry was turning.
Billy fell; the blade passed through his throat, hardly slowing his plunge.
Billy kept falling. A spray of blood traced his descent.
Dave screamed.
*****
Chapter 68
Billy Bristol flopped heavily onto the beach sand. He made no effort to catch himself, blunt the impact of his fall.
Dave Heinrich had seen it; he'd seen it all. He'd watched the nightmarish choreography unfold before him, ten yards in front of him...ten yards away, just ten yards away, but it might as well have been ten thousand miles for all that Dave had been able to do.
He stood now as he'd stood through the entire event-gun gripped rigidly ahead of him, feet spread apart. His posture hadn't changed since the time when there had still been hope, since the instant when Billy's hands had touched the child; his posture hadn't changed since the instant when Billy had stumbled, the instant when the whole world had irrevocably altered.
Again, Dave screamed the name of his friend, the name of his best friend.
He screamed the name: Billy...and again, Billy.
*****
Chapter 69
Larry Smith gaped at that which he'd wrought.
Billy Bristol writhed in the sand at his feet. Billy lay on his left side, upon which he'd fallen; he clutched his torn throat with both hands, as if that might hold shut his wound.
Billy's hands were covered with bright blood, the same blood which streamed and pooled upon the sand...the same blood which had spattered Larry's gnarled right arm, the same blood which streaked his blade.
Larry Smith gaped.
Billy's eyes were wide as he struggled in vain to staunch the crimson flow. He gurgled and choked, gasped spastically; he coughed, and blood sprayed from his mouth.
With each beat of his heart, more blood pulsed between his fingers.
Larry Smith gaped.
With an anguished cry, he dropped to his knees. The knife fell from his hand; the shrieking child tumbled to the sand.
*****
Chapter 70
Reeling with shock and disbelief, Dave began to stagger forward. He didn't know what to do, couldn't even think; he felt utterly lost and helpless, robbed of even the most minimal faculties.
He'd seen it. He'd seen it all.
His legs seemed to move of their own accord. As he hobbled toward the beach, he was only dimly aware of the halting steps that he took; he felt removed, distanced from everything, as if he were watching from afar.
He'd seen it.
Everything seemed strange to him now, incomprehensible; it was all wrong, so wrong that it seemed unreal, unfathomable. He saw Billy curled in the sand, Larry kneeling beside him...but they both looked unfamiliar, like strangers. Dave had seen all that had happened, every terrible detail, had known how it would end before it had ended...and yet, as he stared at the awful tableau, he felt as if he didn't understand it, couldn't grasp its meaning or how it had come to be. He felt as if he'd walked in on a late scene in a play, and he didn't know the characters or what had led them to this particular moment.
He'd seen it.
Mindlessly, he continued to stagger toward the shore, toward the bloody, collapsed form which couldn't possibly be that of his friend. He heard the sounds, the gagging and hacking, the heaving and rattling...but they couldn't possibly be the sounds of his comrade, couldn't possibly be.
That couldn't possibly be Billy Bristol in the sand.
It couldn't possibly have happened.
It was all wrong.
He'd seen it.
He'd seen it.
He'd seen it.
He began to run. He raced toward the shore, hurtled toward the fallen figure which he knew which he knew which he knew couldn't be Billy Bristol.
*****
Chapter 71
As he barreled through the rain, Dave screamed. Words erupted from his mouth, but he hardly realized that they were his own; his voice seemed foreign, seemed to belong to someone else.
Larry Smith didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on Billy Bristol.
Larry's face was contorted in an agonized grimace; he clutched his skull with both hands.
He was sobbing.
"I said get away from him!" screamed Dave, scrambling onto the beach, still only barely aware of what he was saying or doing. "Get away!"
Larry didn't respond. He continued to stare at his victim and sob; he rocked from the waist, clawed at his scalp.
Kicking up clods of wet sand, Dave careened blindly toward the twitching body and the kneeling, weeping man. Again, he repeated his command.
Larry Smith released a shrill, tortured cry, shook his head from side to side. His mouth gaped wide; his eyes were almost pinched shut.
Dave lurched to a stop within five feet of the killer and his victim. He leveled the gun at Larry, slipped a finger to the trigger.
"Get away from him!" Dave screamed yet again. "Get away from him!"
Larry moaned, continued to rock and shake his head.
"I'll blow your fuckin' head off!" screamed Dave. "Get away!"
Larry wailed deliriously.
"Get away!" blasted Dave, his voice cracking.
Larry stared at Billy Bristol.
Dave's gaze, too, dropped to the body in the sand.
It wasn't squirming so much anymore; it was unbelievably bloody, lathered with red and more red from the waist up.
It wasn't Billy.
It wasn't Billy Bristol.
The eyes were popped wide; both hands were cinched about its throat.
It wasn't Billy.
It wasn't Billy Bristol.
Blood pumped from between the fingers, rolled from the corner of the mouth. The teeth had gone scarlet; what flesh hadn't been bloodied was pale as ivory.
It wasn't Billy.
The head flicked spasmodically; one wiry leg kicked, then stilled. The whole body shuddered, then stopped, then shuddered again.
A reddish foam bubbled from between the lips.
Dave was transfixed.
The face lolled toward him, but the eyes didn't seek him out; they were directed somewhere above him, though they didn't seem to be focused on anything in particular. They looked wide and empty as the eyes of a fish, bereft of human consciousness.
It wasn't Billy.
It wasn't Billy Bristol.
It couldn't possibly be Billy.
"Get away from him!" Dave screamed hysterically, surging forward a step. "I'll blow your fuckin' head off if you don't get away from him!"
The body stopped twitching. The arms slumped, but the hands remained about the throat.
It wasn't Billy Bristol.
"Get away!" screamed Dave, shaking the gun at the killer. "Get away!"
Sobbing, shivering, oblivious, Larry Smith gaped at the still form before him. One of his hands left his scalp, drifted fluttering toward the body.
A tremendous burst of thunder crashed overhead. The child, discarded in the sand behind the killer, thrashed and shrieked with abandon.
"No," Larry said feebly, his voice broken. His blackened, shriveled hand descended slowly, then stopped; it hovered a few inches above Billy's face, trembled wildly as if it had been stricken by a sudden, powerful palsy.
"Don't touch him!" screamed Dave. "Get the fuck away fr
om him! Get away!"
"My God," whimpered Larry. "Oh my God," he squeaked, one hand digging at his scalp, the other quaking over the bloody face of his victim.
The body in the sand lay perfectly still. Its chest didn't rise or fall with breath; blood no longer spurted from between its clenched fingers.
It wasn't Billy Bristol.
It wasn't it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't Billy Bristol.
"Get away!" howled Dave. "Get the fuck away!"
"No," sobbed Larry, but the word didn't seem to be a response to Dave's furious command. Larry seemed devastated, engulfed in his own misery, too lost in grief to even acknowledge the presence of another.
"Get away from him!" bellowed Dave, his finger taut against the trigger of the .38. "Now, damnit!"
"Not you," whimpered Larry, his hand still quaking above the lifeless face. "Not you. Oh God, not you."
"Get...away!" screamed Dave.
"Not you," wailed Larry, whipping his head violently from side to side. "It was never...supposed to be...you."
"Get away from him, you fucking bastard!" roared Dave. "I'll blow your head off, I swear to God!"
Still, Larry didn't look up from the one whom he'd killed. "I didn't...mean to!" he rasped. "I didn't know!"
"Get the fuck away!" blazed Dave. His finger tightened against the trigger; mindlessly, he bolted two steps closer to the killer.
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