Harry rolled up and started to lunge, hit the chief with a tackle, knocked him to the ground. As he got up, the chief got up. Harry spotted the gun, and so did the chief.
And the chief was closer.
Harry ran full-out. He and the chief collided, knocked each other down. Harry was up first, and he kicked at the gun with all his might. It went skidding along the ground to the cliff’s edge, stopped there.
Damn it.
The chief was running for it.
Harry darted toward the ledge as the chief neared it, and then he put on another burst of speed as he felt the wind whistling around him, the dry leaves spinning, and he was one with them, moving fast, not worried, no, sir, he was the monkey, and he was selfish, and he was coming, baby. Batten down the hatches, motherfucker, or hide in the barn, or mix any goddamn metaphor you want, because I am coming.
But it was all a little too late. The chief took hold of the automatic.
Harry leaped. Just threw his body sideways, hit the chief as he lifted the automatic, and it went off right by Harry’s ear, the evil ear, the one that had already been numbed, and over went the chief with a groan.
And Harry went too.
But this time it was Harry who grabbed a root, hung onto it, looked down quickly, saw the chief sail way out, hit a high point, bounce.
Harry took a deep breath. He could feel something warm running out of his injured ear.
Blood.
And there was a kind of hollow buzzing sound inside, as if a magnificent seashell had been plastered over his ear and what he was hearing was not the sea, but all the roars of all the waters that existed, oceans, rivers, creeks, and runny taps.
It hurt.
Kayla, now awake and in pain, heard something tumbling. She tried to twist a bit to see, but it hurt too much.
A body bounced over her, landed just below her feet, then whirled with a twist off the slope and was sucked into the darkness by gravity. Leaves and dust that had enveloped him spun in the night air and drifted down on her like dirty snow.
She smiled. She had recognized that flying gentleman.
“Good riddance, asshole,” she said aloud.
59
EXCERPT FROM HARRY’S JOURNAL
And so I lay me down to sleep at night, and the bad ear, the gun-banged ear, lies dead, and the other, it does not pick up sound. No, sir.
I hear. But I do not hear what I used to hear. I do not hear behind the sounds. The images rest. No flashes at the edge of the eye, no wiggles of light, and no sensations of terror.
It’s just me now. No time-traveling souls.
And I realize something that I should have realized all along. I wasn’t just afraid of what was in those sounds. I was just afraid. Afraid of life. Afraid of failure. But I had a moment. I was brave. I actually fought well. Even if I won through luck. Had the chief not been standing on that ledge, had his arm lifted a bit more quickly, he might be writing in his journal, telling it what a fine shot he was.
Yeah. I was brave. Or crazy. Angry. And, for one fleeting second, I was one with the universe.
Good for me!
I did what I did, scared or not.
And you want to know something, my journal friend?
Come on. I know you’re curious.
Here it is. I’m still scared.
Scared my hearing in my right ear will come back, and with it will come again my special gift. My fucking curse.
Seems likely. It was just a sudden explosion. Temporary, the doctor says.
I’m scared of that, the sounds returning. Scared I might like a drink someday. Scared of lots of things.
But maybe not so much as before.
60
A week after it all happened, Harry and Kayla met at the hospital, in Tad’s room.
“I to’ed when I should have fro’ed,” Tad said.
Harry reached down and took Tad’s hand, lying limp on the hospital bed, and squeezed it.
Kayla, sharp in uniform, with a cast on her arm, sat stiffly in a chair on the other side of the bed. Tad turned his head to look at her. “You make me feel better than he does. He’s got bruises.”
“I’ve got rib wrappings and some cement,” Kayla said.
“You still look better than he does.”
“We were worried,” Harry said. “Doctor said it was a concussion, and a pretty bad bullet wound, and you were in a delirium for some time, kept asking the same question over and over.”
“What was it?”
“‘Why is he hitting me with that stick?’”
“Oh. Well, yeah. I wondered about that at the time. The chief? What happened to him?”
“He bounced real hard,” Harry said. “Over the side of the cliff. I think when they found him they had to pick his teeth out of his ass. But here’s the thing. He lived. He does any kind of activity from here on out, it’ll be like, you know, the Special Olympics. Maybe they got something there like the Jell-O roll.”
“Figures he would live.”
“It’s best,” Kayla said. “We can prove what he did much more easily. Even if he lies, he can’t say he wasn’t there, and his fingerprints are on the gun that killed Sergeant Pale, and there’s my word on things. And the files I used to put it together. I doubt Harry’s sound stuff is something we want to mention too much, if at all. But it won’t be too hard to prove the chief’s a killer. We also got you, and your testimony, and Harry’s. Joey, he’s in the morgue.”
“Poor guy,” Harry said, “he just can’t get buried.”
“Weasels are not one with the universe,” Tad said. “Even the ground doesn’t want to accept him.” Tad turned his head to look at Harry. “You did it. You actually fought a real bad guy and won.”
Harry shook his head. “After you softened him up. Anyway, looks as if it might all be over with.”
“Yeah,” Tad said. “Just might work out. You two do me a favor?”
“Name it,” Harry said.
“Leave me alone so I can rest. Go somewhere and commune with the universe. Or the bed linens.”
“Tad,” Kayla said.
“Or whatever, and later, maybe you can see if you can sneak me in a bag of taco chips. The hot kind. Maybe some kind of cheese dip.”
Joe R. Lansdale
LOST ECHOES
Joe R. Lansdale has written more than a dozen novels in the suspense, horror, and Western genres. He has also edited several anthologies. He has received the British Fantasy Award, the American Mystery Award, six Bram Stoker Awards, and the 2001 Edgar Award for best novel from the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his family.
Also by Joe R. Lansdale
Sunset and Sawdust
A Fine Dark Line
Captains Outrageous
The Bottoms
Freezer Burn
Rumble Tumble
Bad Chili
Mucho Mojo
A VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD ORIGINAL, FEBRUARY 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Joe R. Lansdale
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lansdale, Joe R., 1951–
Lost echoes : a novel / Joe R. Lansdale.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-27817-3
1. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3562. A557L67 2006
813'.54—dc22 2005058492
www.vintagebooks.com
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