Clandestine

We both drew ourselves to our feet. Harris had retightened his grip on the gun, then realized it was useless and let go, causing me to fall to the ground. He smiled down at me through clenched teeth and pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket. He pressed a button on the handle and a gleaming, razor-sharp blade popped out. He advanced toward me. I was trying to get to my feet when I saw Larry Brubaker inching up in back of him, wielding a tire iron. Harris was within three feet of me when Brubaker brought it down with a roundhouse swing onto his shoulders. Harris collapsed to the ground at my feet and was silent.

Brubaker helped me up. I checked Harris's pulse, which was normal, then rounded up the two handguns from their resting place. Harris had a .32 Colt revolver. I put it in my back pocket, and reloaded my own .38 and placed it in my waistband. Brubaker was kneeling over Harris, gently stroking his thick gray hair and staring at him with a look that was equal parts longing and amazement.

I walked up to him. "Get the syringe from the glove compartment, Larry. There's a paper bag on the front seat with a bottle of water, a spoon, some matches and a little vial. Bring it to me."

Brubaker nodded and went to the car.

I dragged Doc Harris over to a large tree and propped his back up against it. I could barely manage the pulling: my arms were numb from tension and exertion, and my head slammed from the shot that had grazed me. Brubaker returned with the paper bag.

"You know where the stuff is buried," I said.

Brubaker said, "Yes, baby," very softly.

"Go get a handful of it. A big handful. Then come back here. I want you to cook Doc up a little cocktail."

Harris came awake a moment after Brubaker departed. When his eyelids started to flutter, I reached for my .38 and trained it on him. "Hello, Doc," I said.

Harris smiled. "Hello, Underhill. Where's Larry?"

"He went to fetch you a little surprise."

"Poor Larry. What will he do now? Who will he follow? He's never had anyone else."

"He'll survive. So will Michael."

"Michael likes you, Underhill."

"I like Michael."

"Like attracts like. You and I are Renaissance men. Michael is attracted to Renaissance men."

"What have you done to him?"

"I've told him stories. I taught him to read at three. He's got an amazing I.Q. and an astounding sense of narrative, so I've been giving him parables since he was old enough to listen. I was going to write my memoirs for him, when he was a few years older and capable of understanding them. Of course, now that will never be. But he has had enough of me to form his character, I think."

"You lost, Harris. Your life, your moral heir, your 'philosophy,' all of it. How does that feel?"

"Sad. But I've been to mountaintops that you and the rest of the world don't know exist. There's a certain solace in that."

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't, But I knew you knew about me. I've had a feeling since I read about you and poor Eddie in the papers back in '51 that you'd be coming for me someday. When you showed up at my door I wasn't surprised. I figured you might use Larry as a wedge, so I showed up here early without my car as a precaution."

Brubaker returned with both hands overflowing with white powder. I tasted the most minute amount I could put on a finger. It was very, very pure.

"I was going to shoot you up, Doc," I said. "But I haven't got the heart for it."

Still holding my gun, I scooped a handful of morphine from Brubaker's outstretched palms and dug the water bottle out of the paper bag. I uncapped it, and walked up to Harris.

"Eat it," I said, shoving the morphine at his mouth.

Harris opened his mouth and stoically took death's communion. I tilted the water bottle to his lips as one last act of mercy. Doc shuddered and smiled. "I don't want to die like this, Underhill."

"Tough shit. You've got five minutes or so until your heart bursts and you suffocate. Any last words? Any last requests?"

"Just one." Harris pointed to the ground in back of me. "Will you hand me my knife?" he asked.

I nodded and Brubaker got the knife and handed it to him.

Harris smiled at us. "Goodbye, Larry. Be gracious in victory, Underhill. It's not your style, but do it anyway. Be as gracious in victory as I am in defeat."

Harris unbuttoned his shirt and slowly removed it, then took the knife in both hands and slammed it into his abdomen and yanked it upward to his rib cage. He shuddered as blood spurted from his stomach and burst forth from his mouth and nostrils. Then he pitched forward onto the ground, his hands still gripping the knife handle.

We buried him in the spot where he had stored his morphine, jamming him into the deep narrow space he had originally created to hold a huge steamer trunk full of death. We covered him over with rock-strewn dirt and covered the dirt with a spray of dried leaves.