Heat Lightning

be careful about Wigge—a former cop, a security guy, there was a good chance he’d be armed and know how to use the weapon. Another step . . .
    “Hey!”
    The voice came from behind and to one side, sharp, demanding, and hit the shooter like a thrown rock. He twisted and saw a tall man there, and the man had a gun in his hand and the gun was pointed more or less at the shooter. Without time to think, the shooter snapped the pistol up and fired four times, aiming at the man’s eyes.
    The shooter was a professional, shooting by instinct, and the man went down like a sack of gravel. But the gun, silenced as it was, wasn’t silent, and the shooter heard “Jesus Christ!” and then Wigge was coming, and the shooter ran to meet him, needing to get the first shot, Wigge lifting a gun from his pants pocket, and behind him, Bunton had launched himself into the ravine.
    The shooter shot Wigge in the knee and Wigge went sideways and fumbled the gun, tried to recover it, and fumbled it again, and then the shooter was there, the sap in his left hand, and he whacked Wigge behind the ear and Wigge went flat, groaning, and the shooter dropped on his shoulders and pressed the muzzle of the gun against Wigge’s head and said, “Bunton. Who are the others? Two names. Who are the others?” As he asked, he could still hear Bunton, his footfalls diminishing, circling back toward the lights of the rest area. And he thought about the dead man, lying on the trail—anyone could look in here . . .
    “Fuck you,” Wigge said, and he tried to push himself up, a one-handed push-up, and the shooter’s running tactical assessment took over and he half stood, lifted the sap, and hammered Wigge again, and the big man went flat and stayed there, his body slack.
    The shooter ran back toward the rest area, hurdled the dead gunman, heard a motorcycle start, slowed to a stroll as he came out of the trail, saw Bunton firing out the exit lane. He hadn’t tried to rouse the other people, hadn’t tried to call the police. He’d simply fled. . . . The shooter watched him go, then put his head down and lifted the cell phone. “Where are you?”
    “Just got back on, south of you, heading your way.”
    “When you get in, get all the way down to the end of the parking area. Car parking area. I’m back in the trees. I’ve got Wigge, but the Indian is on the loose, and if he calls the police, we’ll have trouble.”
    “Three minutes . . . ”
    The shooter hurried back down the path, caught the dead man under the armpits, and dragged him into the heaviest clump of brush. He stepped back out on the trail and looked toward the body: almost, but not quite, invisible. Saw the dead man’s gun, kicked it off the trail. If Bunton didn’t call the police, he wouldn’t be found until morning.
    He continued back to Wigge, knelt next to him. Wigge was moaning, a quiet, steady sound, almost like a meditation vowel. The shooter stooped, grabbed him behind the shoulders, rolled him up and over, and then lifted him in an unsteady fireman’s carry. He was fifty yards from the end of the parking area, through the brush. He walked steadily toward it, Wigge’s weight crushing his shoulders and chest, but he kept going; and as he arrived, he saw the lights of a car rolling past the rest stop pavilion and continue to the end of the parking strip. He stood behind a thin screen of weeds until he saw the scout’s car, then called, “Open the back door on your side.”
    His partner hurried to do it, and the shooter turned his head up the parking strip. He couldn’t see anybody watching, not that there might not be somebody. Decision time, and a necessary risk. With Wigge still draped over his shoulders, he took five big walking steps across the grass verge to the car, stooped, and slipped Wigge into the backseat.
    Stepped back, slammed the door, slapped his hands together, as if dusting them off. “I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. We might have to hold him for a while.”
    “If he dies ...”
    “Then we’re in no more trouble than if he died here. We need to talk to him. Take him to the barn. I’ll meet you there.”
     
 
WHEN HIS PARTNER was gone, taking Wigge, the shooter walked back to the van. He’d killed an outsider, and that had broken the protocol. There’d been no choice—he’d fired in self-defense—but that might not make a difference. The unknown man was still dead. That meant that time was running out: if the unknown man wasn’t