Dead Soldiers (29 page)

Burns hoped that someone else had heard the shots and called the police, but he doubted that anyone had. His own house had been closed, and so were all the others. The shots had sounded like thunder in his kitchen, but they might not have been heard even in the houses next door.

Stilwell reached the carwash and grabbed at the car’s door handle.

“Stop!“ Burns called, forgetting for a moment that Stilwell was armed and dangerous.

He remembered almost immediately, however, because Stilwell looked up in surprise and saw him. Then he lifted his pistol, steadied it with both hands, and fired.

It was a good thing he was a bad shot. The bullet hummed past
Burns’s
ear like a hornet in heat.

Burns stopped running. Surely someone had heard
that
shot and was even now calling the police.

Stilwell fired again and missed again, but Burns realized that stopping had been a mistake. He started running again, in a serpentine pattern, like Alan
Arkin
in the original movie version of
The In-Laws
. The good one.

Burns wondered how many bullets a
Bisley
held. Five? Six? More likely the latter, but Stilwell had fired four already.

As Burns neared the carwash, he kicked a rock with one of his sneakers. The rock was a fairly sizeable one, so Burns stopped, picked it up, and hurled it at Stilwell.

He missed, of course. He really wasn’t very good at throwing things, either baseballs or rocks. He was going to be in big trouble at the game, assuming he lived to play in the game, that is.

Stilwell didn’t try to catch the rock, which bounced off his car’s windshield and onto the ground.

Stilwell didn’t even look at it. Instead he took another shot at Burns.

That makes five, Burns thought as the bullet tore a strip of asphalt from the street not far from his right foot.

Stilwell left his car and ducked into one of the carwash bays. Burns stopped right where he was and looked around. Nobody was driving by, but maybe the police were on the way. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911. To do that, not being as
dextrous
as his students, he had to look at the phone. So he didn’t see Stilwell step out of the bay and take aim at him.

He didn’t hear the shot, either, but he felt the bullet hit him. It tore into the top of his shoulder, and his arm went numb. He dropped his cell phone and heard it hit the street. He felt blood running down his arm, but it still took a couple of seconds for him to realize that he’d been shot.

“Son of a bitch,“ he said.

Stilwell smiled at him and pulled the trigger again.

T
he hammer of the
Bisley
fell on an empty chamber.

“That was six!“ Burns yelled, and he charged toward Stilwell.

He didn’t feel much like charging. He knew he was losing a lot of blood, because it was dripping off his fingers now, and his right arm was flapping loosely at his side. It still didn’t hurt, however. Burns figured that he was in shock, and that the pain would come later. That was fine with him. The later, the better.

Stilwell had ducked back into one of the carwash bays, no doubt to reload. Burns was going to get him before he could do that little job, and he dug his left hand into the pocket of his shorts where he kept his change. Stilwell had a gun, after all, so Burns needed one, too. And he thought he knew where he could get one.

When he reached the carwash, Burns jogged quietly around to the far end of the bays. There were four of them, and he thought Stilwell had ducked into the second one.

Burns went into the first bay and pulled a quarter from his pocket. He checked the little dial on the coin box. It pointed to “Soap,“ so Burns inserted his quarter and pulled the pistol grip washing gun from its rubber holster. Gripping the gun in his left hand, he walked across the bay, hoping the hose was long enough to reach into the next alcove. He saw that it was when he stopped at the wall. He had several feet left to play with.

Burns took a deep breath and peeked around the wall. Stilwell stood in the bay about ten feet away, facing in the opposite direction. He was jamming a cartridge into his
Bisley
and obviously had no idea that Burns was anywhere around.

Burns, remembering the Code of the West, said, “
Thisaway
, Stilwell, if you’re looking for me.“

Stilwell slapped the
Bisley’s
cylinder into place and turned, raising the pistol to fire.

Burns pulled the trigger on the washing gun, sending a burst of hot, soapy spray into Stilwell’s face.

Stilwell pulled the trigger of the Colt, but the bullet went well wide of Burns and
thwanged
off the brick wall of the bay and sailed on outside. Burns walked toward the antiques dealer, keeping the jet of water directed at his eyes.

Stilwell fired again. Burns didn’t know where the bullet went, but he did know that he’d gone as far as he could go. The hose wouldn’t reach any further. So he stopped where he was and continued to spray Stilwell, who was beginning to look like a midget sasquatch taking a bubble bath.

Stilwell started to back away, and Burns dropped the spray gun. He grabbed the long handled brush from the wall of the bay and brought it down hard, whacking Stilwell’s gun hand. Stilwell dropped his pistol, and when he stooped to pick it up, Burns smacked him on the back of the head.

Using his left arm, Burns couldn’t develop much power, but the metal handle made a satisfactory clonking sound when it met Stilwell’s skull. Stilwell dropped to his knees, and Burns moved close enough to kick the pistol out of his reach. Then he hit Stilwell again. It felt good. Burns did it again.

Stilwell fell on his face near the drain. Burns stuck the brush back in its holder and went to the coin box. He had another quarter, so he turned the dial to “Soap“ and put the money in the slot. He was standing over Stilwell, hosing him down with the soapy water, when Boss Napier and the rest of the Pecan City Police Department arrived.

I
t was a great day for baseball, Burns thought. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t hot, just pleasantly warm. There was a slight breeze, but not enough to affect the flight of the ball should someone get lucky enough to hit the old pill high into the air. There was a good crowd at the game, and while the students had by far the largest and most vociferous fans, the faculty had a fair number of rooters.

Among them was Burns. He recalled having read that in World War II, soldiers sometimes referred to their “million-dollar wound.“ That was the one that got them sent home, and that was the kind that Burns had.

He hadn’t been sent home, but he’d spent a few hours in the emergency room the previous night, and now he was sitting in the stands with a heavily bandaged shoulder as he watched the game. He wasn’t seriously hurt, though there was a small chunk of flesh missing that he wished he had back. He didn’t like the idea that it had been torn away by Stilwell’s bullet. He’d been given some pills for any pain he might feel, but at the moment he felt just fine. And he had good reason.

Stilwell was in jail, and earlier that day, Burns had been treated pretty much as a hero when he walked into the church before Hart’s funeral. Elaine had said that she was filled with admiration for
Burns’s
bravery and had hinted that when his shoulder was better there might be some activities they could try out for rehab purposes. Burns was ready to get started.

Dean Partridge, in spite of her regret that Burns had been right about Stilwell, had congratulated him on a job well done and let him know that if anyone ever got a merit raise, Burns would be at the top of the list. Since as far as Burns knew, no one at HGC had ever received a merit raise, he wasn’t too excited at the prospect, but it was nice to be thought of as someone who deserved one.

Boss Napier had, of course, excoriated Burns for being an idiot who should have called the police sooner. Burns had tried to explain that he hadn’t been in a position to do so, but that hadn’t mollified Napier.

“You could’ve been killed,“ he’d said. “If your neighbors hadn’t called, you’d be lying on the street with a bullet hole in you. Not that I’d care, except that it would make the department look bad.“

“But you look good now,“ Burns had told him. “You’ve captured a cold-blooded killer and saved the life of the bungling English teacher.“

“Yeah,“ Napier said. “I gotta admit that’s gonna look good in the headlines. I was a little surprised that Stilwell was the
perp
, though.“

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
Burns thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. He wasn’t sure Napier would care for philosophy at the moment.

Napier certainly wouldn’t be interested now. He and Dean Partridge were sitting in the stands, sharing peanuts from a paper bag. Mary Mason was there too, though not with Neal Bruce. She was unescorted, and even the males among the student population couldn’t resist a few appreciative glances in her direction. She was sitting beside Dr. Partridge, who Burns thought had better keep an eye on Boss Napier. If she didn’t Mason would be sharing the peanuts instead of Partridge.

 
Burns sat a couple of rows above them, watching Elaine turn the double play at second base. She looked wonderful in her shorts, with her red hair tucked up under her baseball cap with a red pony tail dangling out the back.

When Elaine had volunteered to take his place, Burns had been amazed. But it turned out that she was a much better second baseman than he had been, not that he would ever admit it. He didn’t have to, thanks to his wound. Now he could spend the rest of his life telling everyone how well he would have done in the game if only he hadn’t been shot in the pursuit of evildoers and thus deprived of his chance at athletic stardom.

If anyone ever asked him to play in another game, he would jump at the chance. And then he would grab at his shoulder and say, “Wow, that smarts. I was shot, you know. But let me get my glove, and I’ll see if I can play.“

Everyone would admire his courage, and when his arm just wasn’t up to the strain, everyone would understand and ask him to tell the story again of how he’d foiled the master criminal at the risk of losing his own life and how he’d won the shoot-out at the carwash.

And if Boss Napier was nowhere around, Burns would tell them.