Dunning went down, feet in the living room, head in the archway between the living room and the kitchen. But not all the way down. The tip of the blade dug into the floor and held him up. One of his feet kicked a single time, then he was still. He looked like he’d died trying to do a push-up.
Everyone was screaming. The air stank of gunsmoke, plaster, and blood. Doris was lurching crookedly toward her dead son with her hair hanging in her face. I didn’t want her to see that-Tugga’s head had been split open all the way down to the jaw-but there was no way I could stop her.
“I’ll do better next time, Mrs. Dunning,” I croaked. “That’s a promise.”
There was blood all over my face; I had to wipe it out of my left eye in order to see on that side. Since I was still conscious, I thought I wasn’t hurt too badly, and I knew that scalp wounds bleed like a bitch. But I was a mess, and if there was ever going to be a next time, I had to get out of here this time, unseen and in a hurry.
But I had to talk to Turcotte before I left. Or at least try. He had collapsed against the wall by Dunning’s splayed feet. He was holding his chest and gasping. His face was corpse-white except for his lips, now as purple as those of a kid who has been gobbling huckleberries. I reached for his hand. He grasped it with panicky tightness, but there was a tiny glint of humor in his eyes.
“Who’s the chickenshit now, Amberson?”
“Not you,” I said. “You’re a hero.”
“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Just toss the fuckin medal in my coffin.”
Doris was cradling her dead son. Behind her, Troy was walking in circles with Ellen’s head pressed tight against his chest. He didn’t look toward us, didn’t seem to realize we were there. The little girl was wailing.
“You’ll be okay,” I said. As if I knew. “Now listen, because this is important: forget my name.”
“What name? You never gave it.”
“Right. And… you know my car?”
“Ford.” He was losing his voice, but his eyes were still fixed on mine. “Nice one. Convert. Y-block engine. Fifty-four or-five.”
“You never saw it. That’s the most important thing of all, Turcotte. I need it to get downstate tonight and I’ll have to take the turnpike most of the way because I don’t know any of the other roads. If I can get down to central Maine, I’ll be free and clear. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Never saw your car,” he said, then winced. “Ah, fuck, don’t that hurt. ”
I put my fingers on his stubble-prickly throat and felt his pulse. It was rapid and wildly uneven. In the distance I could hear wailing sirens. “You did the right thing.”
His eyes rolled. “Almost didn’t. I don’t know what I was thinkin of. I must have been crazy. Listen, buddy. If they do run you down, don’t tell em what I… you know, what I-”
“I never would. You took care of him, Turcotte. He was a mad dog and you put him down. Your sister would be proud.”
He smiled and closed his eyes.
I went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, soaked it in the basin, and scrubbed my bloody face. I tossed the towel in the tub, grabbed two more, and stepped out into the kitchen.
The boy who had brought me here was standing on the faded linoleum by the stove and watching me. Although it had probably been six years since he’d sucked his thumb, he was sucking it now. His eyes were wide and solemn, swimming with tears. Freckles of blood spattered his cheeks and brow. Here was a boy who had just experienced something that would no doubt traumatize him, but he was also a boy who would never grow up to become Hoptoad Harry. Or to write a theme that would make me cry.
“Who are you, mister?” he asked.
“Nobody.” I walked past him to the door. He deserved more than that, though. The sirens were closer now, but I turned back. “Your good angel,” I said. Then I slipped out the back door and into Halloween night of 1958.
I walked up Wyemore to Witcham, saw flashing blue lights heading for Kossuth Street, and kept on walking. Two blocks further into the residential district, I turned right on Gerard Avenue. People were standing out on the sidewalks, turned toward the sound of the sirens.
“Mister, do you know what happened?” a man asked me. He was holding the hand of a sneaker-wearing Snow White.
“I heard kids setting off cherry bombs,” I said. “Maybe they started a fire.” I kept walking and made sure to keep the left side of my face away from him, because there was a streetlight nearby and my scalp was still oozing blood.
