Then Sam was next to me and I was murmuring a prayer between clenched teeth and everything was blurry but clear when I blinked. The bridge seemed to rock like a roller coaster. I lifted my eyes up and saw the big fawn-colored dog wandering over the yard far, far away. It was a dream. A very bad dream.
"It's okay… goin' to be okay, Doc," I heard Sam say softly. Then Mary opened her eyes and stared at me. She didn't say anything, just stared. Then she looked confused. She frowned, and tried to sit up. We held her back. I heard Popeye barking far away.
"Charlie?"
"What?"
"He hit me."
"I know."
"He hit me with his coat I think."
"You're not shot anywhere? I can't see any blood."
"No. I was standing here on the bridge when he ran past. He held out the side of his coat at me-"
"Probably had a sap in his coat pocket," said Sam. "You'll be all right in a minute. just don't move fast."
Sam should've been a doctor, I thought. Then I saw that her face was all wet. Wet with tears. Mine. I wiped it dry and she got up. When I saw that she was really honest-to-God okay, I dropped her arm and went over to the railing of the bridge and puked.
I'm as tough as they come. You bet.
I led her to the car and was about to slide behind the wheel when I looked back. I saw Sam walking up behind the dog with his gun in his hand. The dog was going through the blown-out doorway of the big mill building in the front yard. Popeye was walking slowly, stiff-jointed, in a stoop-shouldered stalk. Sam was looking up at the rows of dusky windows where a bad guy could lean out and loose off a couple of rounds. They needed help.
"Can you drive? Good. Get out of here and find a pay phone at least live blocks away. Call the local fuzz and have them send a bunch of cruisers here. Then hang up and dial Joe in Boston. Don't come back here no matter what. I'll meet you at a pub called the Dubliner on Market Street."
"But I don't know where Mar-"
"Just ask; they'll tell you."
"I'm not going unless you come too! You can't-"
"Get out of here or I'll knock your block off"' I said, gripping her upper arm until she winced. I watched her speed off. Marital discussion is nice and everything, but when a couple of bad-asses are walking around the place with heaters drawn, discussion has no part in the program. Discussion is closed.
I dogtrotted back through the gate and into the yard, headed toward the old wrecked chimney and the big building next to it where the man and dog stood frozen, straining forward yet still, like hunters in a field of quail. I trotted along a zigzag path, deliberately making myself bounce. I wanted to keep moving. I caught up to them. We all scanned the dark windows above.
"He in there, Doc. That sucker in there. He tried to split the scene but ol' Popeye head him off."
Still looking up, the gun muzzle raised to guard himself, Sam ran his sinewy arm down the leather lead and unsnapped it from Popeye's collar. The collar was big enough for a Clydesdale. He pointed at the near door and said stay. The dog placed himself in front of it in a half-crouch, mouth open, panting. Then the heavy flews drew back, revealing a mean grin. Popeye growled.
"Ain't nobody goin' through that door," said Sam as he led me around the other way. We stood on each side of the old wooden door for several seconds, listening. Then we went in. The first floor was deserted. There was nothing in it but dirt anyway. We went to the far end where the dog was, then walked softly back to our side of the building, leaving the dog to guard the other, and went up. This was the floor with the old mattresses and office furniture piled high and strewn about. Dark and dirty, with a thousand places to hide and ambush.
"Now I wish we had the d0g," whispered Sam. "You stay behind me now; don't get off to the side, you'll get shot."
He didn't have to tell me. I was beginning to feel like Huck Finn on the old steamboat wreck: I was sorry I'd come. Halfway through the building and nothing. Then Sam stopped and held a finger to his lips. We waited motionless in the gloom. Then I heard it, a faint sound at regular intervals. Breathing. Somebody was in the building not far from us, breathing. Almost panting. I held the cane four inches above the ferrule, ready to wing it at the first thing that moved. Its knobby end was heavy, but it was a pathetic weapon against a handgun.
Sam led me to a spot behind a plaster-covered column and an old tipped-over desk. He held his motorcycle keys up and began to jingle them softly. Then louder.
"C'mon, Popeye," he said in a coarse whisper. "C'mon!"
Instantly there was a rustling and scrabbling in the far darkness. Sam drew back the hammer of his piece with a loud clack.
"Stay down," he said. I saw the dim figure of the man jump up from behind old boxes and furniture. He wasn't where we'd thought. A brightness and a big explosion, and at the same second Sam returned fire from our refuge behind the column. If you ever have the chance to be in an enclosed place with somebody letting off a large-bore pistol, don't take it. My ears hurt, and there was a silent ringing in them as I crouched deeper in the junk furniture. I finally raised my head when I again heard the scrabbling sound of someone moving fast in a crouch. The place was brighter now, owing to the fact that one of Sam's big slugs had torn away part of a metal window frame and let more sunshine in. Nothing like a little cheer…
"Stay put," whispered Sam, inching ahead. The man had not left the building. Apparently he now knew that the dog wasn't really with us. Since I was not armed- and totally unprepared mentally for using a firearm against a human- Sam thought it best that I remain safely tucked behind the pillar. And I agreed. Sam catwalked to the next column. The rustling sound was moving to our right. I could see nothing there. The bright shaft of sunlight was a hindrance because it made the darkness beyond even blacker. All I could see was the explosion-bright dust-swirl in the sunlight. I heard the clack of the hammer as Sam cocked a the revolver. He shouldn't have done that, because less than a second later a big chunk of the column blew away inches from his head. Sam fired twice at where he'd seen the muzzle flash, but after all the roaring and ringing died away I could again hear that scrabbling and rustling sound that told me our quarry was still moving around. He was a cool one, too. Chances are he'd been in scrapes before. Hunkering down in the dust and dirt, I remembered my previous adventure in another old factory, where I'd almost lost my life because of people shooting each other. The morning had indeed taken, a nasty tum. I couldn't help wishing I were someplace else. Like Bhutan, for instance. I crept forward and to my right. I didn't want to pull any fancy stuff; if Sam mistook me for the other guy I'd have nowhere to hide. More scraping and rustling. Then I heard breathing pretty close by. Or was it farther away and I was just nervous? I was nervous, no doubt about that. More creeping forward. Two quickish jumps to my left. Sam. I thought…
Next there was a long period of quiet. Which I did not care for at all. I'd rather have them shooting now and then just so I could keep my bearings. Then I heard the breathing coming closer, but before I had a chance to creep forward with my cane, Sam fired again. The shot was dead on, or almost, because I heard a distinct running and shortly afterward saw the upright rectangle of light which meant the far door had been flung open. Sam fired again as it swung shut. We charged the door and I saw the baseball-sized hole in it where the doctored bullet had I spread out on impact like a pancake. Running footsteps on the stairs. Another door. Where was the dog? We followed down, around, down, and out into bright daylight.
There sat Popeye, who hadn't moved a muscle. He seemed glad to see us; obviously our stranger-marksman hadn't come out this way. Then the dog was off, sprinting around the corner of the big mill. Sam reloaded, and we followed in time to see our trenchcoat-clad friend making a beeline for one of the smaller buildings. When we got around the side enough to follow the action, we saw him rush in and slam the door behind him. The dog never broke stride, and must have been doing at least thirty when he hit the door. Popeye left the ground fourteen feet in front of the door. For an instant he seemed to sail through the air like one of those gazelles in a slow-motion nature film. His black muzzle was down, and he hit the door just like the Billy Goats Gruff. It exploded, and he sailed right on in.
"Gotdamn!" said Sam as we closed the distance. We backed up tight against the doorway, then Sam peeked around. We went in. The dog was standing in front of yet another door at the opposite end of the building. He was so far away, and the interior so dark, we could scarcely see him. We trotted toward him, flinging glances over our shoulders, and opened that door, and the dog went out trailing, nose to the ground, in the direction of the fence.
"He's not inside anymore?" I asked.
"Naw. Popeye would smell him. He gone now. And look."
He pointed at a dark spot on the buckled asphalt.
"Winged him too. Just a sliver, no more. But I winged him."
We stared at the fence. Sam called the dog back. Popeye wasn't moving so fast. His eyes had lost their brightness. I realized how the beast had gotten his name. The eyes protruded from the flat, mashed face. Now they looked tired. I felt tired. Sam looked- tired. Our weary trio went slowly, half stumbling, back to the main gate. The dog sat, then sank to his belly. Popeye was working on a monstrous concussion.
Two cruisers pulled up, sirens blaring, lights snapping, and we all got in.