by D. J. Butler
Evil shook his head. I had to hand it to him, if our roles had been reversed and I’d been trying to schlep him around in a wheelbarrow, I’d have been grunting and sweating by the third step. He seemed nonchalant. “I figure it’s Charlie Herbert’s.”
“What am I going to do with it?”
At the door, Evil stopped to grab a fire blanket. He threw it over my legs and kept going.
“How bad’s the pain?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Smoke it.” He shrugged. “If you want. That’s what medical marijuana does, isn’t it? Ease pain?”
I looked at the stubby little joint and laughed. “Evil Patten, we’re alone in the woods and you’re trying to get me high.”
He chuckled, pushing the wheelbarrow onto a path between pine trees. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“And the Glock?”
“Both my hands are engaged.” Now he was grunting as he rolled me uphill. “If anyone needs shooting before we get to the marina, it’s your turn.”
I took the gun in my left hand and rested it on my right thigh. That was the only convenient way not to have it pointing at either me or Evil, since I sat facing him in the wheelbarrow and my right arm was still useless. My flannel shirt had entirely disappeared, though in my hazy state I wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened, so I had no pocket to put the joint into. Instead, I let it sit with the lighter in a depression left in the fire blanket where it stretched across my knees.
“Will it disappoint you that I’m not going to smoke it?” I asked Evil.
“A little bit.” Sweat trickled down Evil’s face and darkened his shirt under his arms.
“Tell you what,” I offered. “I’ll keep it. You and I can smoke it later.”
“Unless it’s evidence,” Evil said.
“Evidence of what? That Charlie Herbert smoked marijuana? You can’t prosecute a dead man. And anyway, there’s a whole bunker full of pot, if anyone’s wondering what Charlie’s job was.”
“Just trying to sound sophisticated.” Evil grinned. “Like a good pot banker does.”
“Pot bankers can probably afford lawyers to do the sophisticated thinking for them. Just no smoking at the Fun Lanes,” I said. “We have enough rogue smells to try to control as it is.”
“Well, if we smoke at my house, someone will tell us we have to pass it around.”
“I guess that just leaves school. We’ll be busted for sure.”
“You’ll have to be my lawyer.”
“I’m not qualified.”
“Pretty sure the court will let you make a motion. You can appear pro hunk.”
I stared at Evil for several long seconds before giggling. Yeah, I was light-headed and profoundly relieved, and I actually giggled. “Evil Patten, did you just make a Latin joke?”
“Thanks for laughing,” Evil said. “I’ve been saving that one up for a long time.”
“I will appear pro hunk if necessary,” I agreed. “But I’d rather smoke it somewhere where we won’t get busted.”
Evil shrugged and grinned. “Howard County’s a big place. I’m sure we’ll think of a good spot.”
A turn and slight depression in the trail gave me a clear look at the climb behind us. Evil had understated how rough the trail was, I could see. I didn’t think I could have pushed the wheelbarrow up this hill, even if it were empty.
“Evil Patten,” I said. “This may be the pot speaking, but you’re a good man.”
“It ain’t the pot,” Evil shot back. “It’s the blood loss.”
“It’s true I haven’t smoked the pot yet. But maybe it’s like a flashback. I’m having a flashforward, to when I will have smoked it.” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to smoke the joint, but the more I talked about it, the more normal it seemed for me and Evil to really light up a doobie and pass it back and forth. “The pot I will smoke in the future is coming back to the present to make me say dopey things. Kill brain cells, you know? I’ll probably never be able to graduate college now.”
“Pretty sure it’s the blood loss. Try drinking a little more Gatorade.”
I let go of the Glock long enough to finish the first bottle of Gatorade. Then I tucked the empty plastic down beside my leg where it couldn’t get knocked out of the wheelbarrow and took my grip on the pistol again.
I didn’t doze, but my mind wandered, and I slipped in and out of focus. Every once in a while, when I felt most dopey, Evil would stop pushing the wheelbarrow and pinch my knee. When we passed through trees, as we did from time to time, I noticed the birdsong and sometimes even the rustle of animals moving in the woods. When Evil trundled me along bare ridges, the heat of the sun soaked into the fire blanket and my skin. I smelled grass and sweat. At some point, Evil made me drink more Gatorade, and not long after that I had to ask for a halt.
“Call of nature,” I said.
He frowned and set down the wheelbarrow handles. I had never realized before how strong he was. He’d been hiding it from me, I guess, which seemed wrong. If you had a buff boyfriend, shouldn’t he be showing off his strength?
Of course, Evil wasn’t my boyfriend anymore. Really, he hadn’t ever been my boyfriend.
“I’m not sure you have the strength to stand,” Evil said. “Maybe you ought to just pee in the wheelbarrow.”
“Well, that would put an end to you wanting to watch The Last of the Mohicans with me.”
“Would it?” Evil shrugged. “Or I could just help you scoot forward and you could pee over the edge of the wheelbarrow.”
“That’s enough.” Too many unsettling images of Evil trying to help me urinate flooded my mind. No pun intended. I inched forward. “Help me stand up here.”
Evil shrugged himself under my shoulder—he’s strong, but he’s not much taller than I am—and easily hoisted me to my feet. “There are trees over there,” he said.
“I can walk.” I disentangled myself from his grasp and started limping in the direction he pointed, to a small stand of aspens. “Besides, you’ve been working like a dog. You need a rest.”
“Like a mule.” Evil grinned. “Dogs don’t generally carry stuff.”
I threw a faint nod in his direction and stumbled away. My ride in the wheelbarrow had let my legs lock up and my feet fill with blood, and the first few steps were excruciating. Halfway to the trees, I’d regained my land legs a bit, and by the time I left Evil’s sight, my walk was dignified again.
I found a place I could sit. “Don’t listen!”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you are! You heard that!”
Evil hesitated a few seconds before answering. “Well, I have to listen. Otherwise, how will I know if you’re in trouble and need help?”
“For the last time, Ronald Evil Patten, I do not need your help to pee!” I thought about it a bit. “Whistle! Whistle loud!”
He promptly whistled, but not a tune—he let out a wolf whistle.
“No! Something musical!”
“Oh, right.” Evil was quiet for a while, then started to whistle the opening bars to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.”
That would have to do. I set down the pistol and did my business.
With the distraction of Evil’s whistling, my having only one good arm, the aching of all my muscles, and the continuing lightheadedness, it took a few minutes.
Just as I was finishing, I heard a loud crack!
Evil’s whistling stopped.
I almost called out to him. I would have called out, except for the crack. But that sound struck cold fear into me. What if Evil had tripped and hit his head? What if Michael Fellows had caught up to us, and had hurt Evil?
I couldn’t wait, and I couldn’t be a delicate flower, however much I might want to.
I grabbed the pistol. Without pulling up my pants, I stood up and shuffled back through the trees. At least I was wearing a long t-shirt, I thought with relief.
Evil lay on the ground beside the wheelbarrow. He wasn’t moving, and there was bl
ood in his scalp. Leaning over him, with one hand checking Evil’s pockets and the other holding his long rifle, was Michael Fellows.
“Get away from him!” I yelled. Working the slide once to chamber a round, I pointed the pistol right at the center of Fellows’s chest. Aiming for the center of mass, especially with me using my left hand.
Fellows looked up. At another time, I’d have enjoyed the expression of complete astonishment on his face. As it was, my heart pounded in my ears and my head swam.
“Where’s the will?” Fellows stood and started walking toward me.
“Stand back,” I warned him.
“I know you took it, and your buddy there doesn’t have it. Where’s the will?”
“Stop!”
Michael Fellows raised his rifle.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I’d shot at a few targets in my life. Not a lot, but a few. But shooting a beer bottle or a paper cutout of Osama Bin Laden is a really different thing from shooting a live human being.
Michael Fellows jerked as I shot him. His body bounced up and back a bit with each bullet that hit, like a little dance.
Some of my shots missed—I was shooting with my left hand, after all, and maybe I was in shock, though at least I hadn’t lit up the joint—but several found their mark, and then Michael Fellows hit the ground.
“Evil!” I shouted.
No answer.
I would have tucked the Glock into my belt, but I was afraid if I tried I’d shoot myself. I was shaking like a freight train, and my thoughts were bolting in six directions at once, too. I forced myself to concentrate.
I knelt at Evil’s side. “Evil.” Setting the Glock down in a clump of grass, I felt under his nose; he was breathing. I prodded him. “Come on, Evil, wake up.”
I could see the bright pink flesh under his hair. Fellows must have hit him with the butt of his rifle, and the blow had just about scalped Evil. The blood trickling down onto Evil’s forehead was shockingly red.
I shook his shoulder. “Come on, Evil, it’s time to watch Daniel Day-Lewis and his perfect hair. The Last of the Mohicans. Come on, wake up.”
“Mrmerumph. Erumph,” Evil muttered into the dirt.
My heart jumped in my chest. “What’s that?”
Evil turned his head slightly, getting his mouth out of the dirt. “Now I know you’re desperate. You hate The Last of the Mohicans.”
“I don’t hate it,” I said.
“That’s a good thing.” Evil’s eyelids fluttered as if he were fighting sleep. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to get desperate.”
“Your plan worked,” I told him. “All you had to do was get me to witness a murder, and then get lost wandering around the Ups with a killer on my trail.”
“Simple as pie. My Evil plan.”
“I have to ask you something.” In the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten. “And it’s kind of embarrassing.” I pushed Evil’s shoulder again. Until his eyes opened all the way, I worried about concussion. A hit to the head is a serious thing.
“There’s nothing wrong with a guy liking My Little Pony,” Evil said.
I laughed sharply, then caught myself, unsure whether he was joking. “Not that. It’s that…well, I may need help pulling up my pants.”
Evil wedged an arm under his cheek and pushed his face off the ground. He chuckled. “Well, that doesn’t embarrass me at all.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Tell you what. If it will help you be less embarrassed, I’ll let you pull my pants down before we start.” Evil pushed against the ground, and rolled slowly over onto his back. “Ow, ow, ow.” He covered both eyes with his hand.
“I respect your willingness to have a level playing field, anyway.”
“I’m all about fairness. For instance, you got shot, so I went and let an elephant run over my head.”
“It was Fellows,” I told him. “I guess he snuck up on you.”
“Must have. I was minding my own business trying to think of what to whistle next, and all of the sudden I’m on the ground feeling like I need to scream, with you standing over me asking me to pull down your pants.”
“Up,” I said. “Pull up my pants.”
“Right. That’s an important difference. Can you help me sit up?”
Evil stretched out an arm. I shot another look at Michael Fellows to be sure he wasn’t rising to his feet like a zombie to come take his revenge, and then I helped Evil. Me pulling a little and pushing some and then with him leaning on me like a ladder, and Evil was able to climb to his feet.
“Okay.” His breath was fast and deep, panting. “Let’s get those pants up.”
For all his joking about it, Evil was a gentleman when I needed him to be. He looked the other way, hooked his thumbs into the waist of my jeans, and hoisted them into place.
“Thanks.” I snapped and zipped up. Even that was awkward, with just the one hand.
“Missed opportunities,” he said. “Story of my life.”
“You’ve got a lot of story left to write.”
“So what would have been the right answer?” Evil bent slowly and picked up the Glock. He winced and grimaced every time he moved. “About movies, I mean. So, I get that you don’t love The Last of the Mohicans. You have explained that fact, and I have heard it. So what movie should I have picked?”
“Evil, it isn’t about the movie. It’s about…”
“Yeah?”
And I hesitated. It’s not as if I was going to become his girlfriend, because we’d been shot at together, or even because he’d saved me. But I did feel a little bit like I owed him.
“You know,” I said, “I like movies that are funny. Groundhog Day. I’d rather watch Groundhog Day with you than The Last of the Mohicans.”
“See?” Evil said. “Was that so hard?”
“Kind of,” I admitted. “And I’m really counting on you forgetting this whole conversation, what with the blow to the head and all.”
“You’re forgetting about my Evil plans.” Evil limped over to Michael Fellows. He bent down and put two fingers on the killer’s neck. “Shoot.” He stood straight and pointed the Glock at Fellows’s head.
“Wait!”
Evil cocked his head in my direction. “You’re in bad shape, Bucky,” he said. “And so am I. We can’t let this guy follow us. So as far as I’m concerned, the first time you shot him was self-defense, and you…fired a couple more bullets than you realized.”
“It was self-defense,” I said. “Shooting him now would be murder.”
“I dunno,” Evil said. “I see it more as additional self-defense. Of the preemptive kind.”
“Don’t do it.” In that moment, I saw Evil clearly. Not the physical Evil, but Evil’s person, his soul. He was a good person, with humor and patience. I was afraid he’d spoil all that if he killed someone. But that couldn’t be the reason I gave Evil himself. “This guy’s a witness. Remember, he’s not the only one involved. The cops are going to want to talk to him, find out who he’s working for.”
Evil sighed. His hand shook a little, and I thought maybe he felt relief that I had taken the option and the responsibility away from him. “Then you gotta take his rifle.”
I limped over to Michael Fellows and took the weapon. It was a bolt-action Remington Model 700, a hunter’s gun. I worked the bolt, which was awkward with only one arm working properly, to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber. Then I cradled the rifle in my arms and stepped back.
I breathed deeply to keep from feeling giddy. “Let’s go,” I said. “Dad’s been at the marina for a while.”
“Hold on.” Wincing again as he bent down, Evil rummaged through Michael Fellows’s pockets. He came out with keys, a wallet, and two cell phones, one of which was Evil’s own. Evil tapped open some app and started typing.
“Email?” I asked. “Are you getting reception all the way up here?”
“Nope, just taking down a note.” He turned his phone and showed
it to me. Groundhog Day, he’d typed into a text file. “See? Now it doesn’t matter even if I get hit on the head again.”
Michael Fellows mumbled something and twitched. His eyes were closed. Close up, I could see that I’d hit him at least three times, once in the ribs and twice in the shoulder. He wasn’t bleeding as much as I’d expected.
“I hope this guy lives long enough for Sheriff Sutherland or the FBI to talk to him.”
“Really?” Evil asked. “Me, I kind of hope he dies. But I wish I had something to tie him up with in the meantime. Like those elephant-sized zip ties he used on me.”
“He won’t be coming after us.” I nodded northward, toward the Reservoir. “Sorry I don’t have a tampon to tape to your head. Let’s go.”
I walked right past the wheelbarrow without mentioning it, and Evil didn’t say anything. He was in no shape to be pushing me anymore, he just held his own shirt to his scalp in one hand and the pistol in the other and walked. We limped north. The good news was that once we got along one more ridge, it was basically downhill all the way to the marina. Also, we had Evil’s phone, so every fifteen minutes or so we stopped and looked to see if we had reception.
We looked over our shoulders, to see if Michael Fellows was coming after us, much more frequently.
Evil’s phone connected with the network just as we crested the last hill and came in sight of the water. And before we could text or call anybody, Dad saw us. He sat leaning against his Taurus and scanning the hills, but the moment he spotted us he came charging across the two-lane highway and up the slope.
Just behind him came Sheriff Sutherland.
I sort of lost it at that point, to tell the truth. I don’t remember much, except that I tried to tell the sheriff what had happened and it all came out in incoherent gobs, just like my story had the night before at his house. No, worse. I’m pretty sure in those two short conversations I managed to convince Sheriff Doug Sutherland that I’m the world’s worst storyteller.
Evil said less than I did, and mostly to agree with me, and pretty quickly Sheriff Sutherland had him sitting on the bumper of his pickup truck while the sheriff looked to his scalp with a first aid kit.
We handed over both guns, and I told the sheriff I’d shot Michael Fellows. I skipped the detail about me being in the trees to urinate at the time Fellows attacked Evil, but otherwise I left nothing out. Sheriff Sutherland nodded and patted me on the back, and then he sent a couple of his deputies up into the hills the way we’d come.
