The impact staggered him just as he saw the flash from the muzzle and heard the weapon's report.
Not pausing to assess the damage, he threw himself
to the side, his right arm whipping across his body. There came a second shot, but he felt nothing. With a snapping movement, he hurled Flowers of Evil at the shadowy gunman, then broke, into a run toward his vehicle.
He tore around the front of the truck to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and threw himself flat within. As he groped beneath the seat for the .45 he kept there, he heard footfalls on the gravel on the other side. A voice from a greater distance on that side called out, "Hold it, mithter! You're covered!" There followed a gunshot and a soft curse, just as his fingers wrapped around the butt of the heavy revolver. He fired once, up and out through the window on the driver's side— a moment's insurance. Then he backed out and crouched.
Sounds were now coming from the building, as though the front door had been flung open and numerous loud conversations were in progress. There were several shouted inquiries. No one seemed to be approaching, however.
He stayed low and moved to the rear of the truck. Glancing behind him, he dropped to all fours, peered beyond the tailgate, looked around the bumper. Nothing. No one in sight...
He listened for a telltale footfall, heard none. He moved around to the rear, crawled toward the left side.
"He'th in front, heading right," came a sharp whisper.
He heard a sound from the front then, a hasty foot on gravel...
He tossed a rock behind him, to the right of the truck. No response. He waited.
Then, "Looks like a stalemate," he called out in foretalk lingo. "Want to discuss it?"
No reply.
"Any special reason for wanting to shoot me?" he tried.
Again, silence.
He rounded the left rear corner of the vehicle and started forward, rising into a low crouch, placing each foot carefully, easing his weight onto it.
"Thtop! He'th backed off into the treeth. Mutht be covering the front."
He transferred the weapon to his left hand and slid his right arm in through the open window. He jerked on the headlight switch and threw himself flat, to peer around the left front tire. A shot from the trees passed through the windshield on the driver's side.
From where he had fallen. Red saw the partial silhouette of the gunman drawing back for cover. He fired at it. The figure jerked and fell heavily against the tree trunk. He fired again as it began to slide downward, a pistol slipping from its fingers. The figure spun backward, struck the ground and lay still.
Red rose and advanced, covering the fallen man.
....lack trousers, a black jacket with a leaking hole drilled through its lower right quadrant. It was the man he had seen in the dining room earlier, with his back to the wall. Red put an arm about his shoulders, supported his head, raised him.
Pinkish bubbles had formed about the man's lips. He gasped as he was raised. His eyes flickered open.
"Why?" Red asked. "Why were you trying to shoot me?"
The man smiled weakly.
"I'd rather leave you—with something to think about," he said.
"It won't do you any good," Red said.
"Nothing will," replied the other. "So the devil with you!"
Red slapped him across the mouth, smearing the bloody spittle. He heard a gasp of protest from behind him as he did. A crowd was forming.
"Talk, you son of a bitch! Or I'll make it harder than it's going to be!"
He jabbed him in the upper abdomen with stiff fingers, near the wound. "Here! Stop that!" said a voice from behind him.
"Talk!"
But the man followed a sharp gasp with a long sigh and stopped breathing. Red began hammering at his chest beneath the sternum.
"Come back, you miserable bastard!"
He felt a hand on his shoulder and shook it off. The gunman was not responding. He let him fall and began going through his pockets.
"I don't think you should be doing that," came another voice from behind. Finding nothing of interest. Red rose. "What car was this guy driving?" he asked. Silence, then murmurs. Finally, "He was a hitchhiker," the Victorian gentleman stated.
Red turned. The man was staring at the body, smiling faintly.
"How do you know that?" Red asked. The man withdrew a silk handkerchief, unfolded it, touched it several times to his brow.
"I saw him being dropped off here earlier," he replied.
"From what sort of vehicle?"
"Black, C Twenty, a Cadillac."
"Did you get a look at anyone else in the car?"
The man looked back at the body, licked his lips, smiled again. "No."
Johnson came up with a piece of sailcloth and covered the body. He picked up the fallen pistol and stuck it behind his belt. Rising, he placed a hand on Red's shoulder.
"I'm setting out a bleeper," he said, "but there's no telling how long it will take to call us a cop. You should stay to give a report you know."
"Yeah, I'll wait."
"Let's get back then. I'll get you a room and a drink."
"Okay. Just a minute."
Red returned to the parking area and retrieved his book.
"That bullet damaged my thpeaker," came its sibilant voice.
"I know. I'll get you a new one, the best they make. Thanks for stopping it. And thanks for distracting him."