Jerry had started to walk away, but he turned back because the fat man was crying in the most pitiful voice he had ever heard. It was stupid even to consider helping him. As soon as he got to his car, he’d get on the radio and call for help, and more than likely for some deputies to come after Jerry. One part of him said “leave him,” but he didn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if he did that. He didn’t want to be responsible for the man’s death, even after what had just happened. All he wanted was to get away.

Against his better judgment, against the nagging little voice of his conscience, he slipped the sheriff’s arm around his neck and said, “Come on.”

The bitten arm was swelling rapidly now. Already the fingers were puffed up so bad he could barely move them.

“Which way’s your car, man?”

Jerry was having a hard time holding up the fat man. Sweat poured off both of them.

“Straight up the hill … over to … the left … buncha … pine trees.”

Jerry staggered under the dying man’s weight and the pounding pain still racing through his head. After five minutes of all-out effort, he came out on the road below the car. He was so tired he could hardly stand. Taylor sank down slowly to his knees. His arm was turning purple, and every vein stood outlined against the skin. His flesh looked as if it was about to burst.

“Can’t go … no further,” he panted. “You got to … drive the car … down … here. Get me to … a … hospital. Keys … under the seat.”

Jerry sagged against a tree and looked down at him. The sheriff had lost his hat somewhere back in the bushes and his graying hair hung in his eyes. The man appeared near death. Jerry closed his eyes briefly against the sweat stinging them, then turned and ran in a shuffling, head-jarring trot.

He almost ran past the tan cruiser, hidden in a thicket of pine trees. The keys were right where the sheriff had said they would be. Jerry cranked it quickly, then pulled out and backed down the road until he saw Taylor. The sheriff was sinking fast. Jerry couldn’t tell that the fat man was watching him carefully from under slitted eyes. He allowed Jerry to pull him to his feet and help him under the wheel. Then, with a practiced fluid movement, he reached and pulled a double-barreled shotgun from under the seat. The barrels were sawed off six inches ahead of the chambers. The spit dried in Jerry’s mouth when he found himself staring into the twin black holes.