Night of Thunder

He picked up the cell, tried to remember the name of the goddamned place, then produced an image of the sign, LESTER’S GROCERY, on Route 167.

He punched 411, gave them the town and name of the place, waited for the connection, and shortly enough, after three and a half rings, he heard a familiar voice.

“Yeah?”

“Is this Lester’s?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“You recognize my voice. I’se just in there two hours ago. Old guy, gray hair, limp, gave you a little lecture.”

“Yes sir, I remember.”

“Okay, son, you listen hard to me, son. This ain’t bullshit. Okay?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m going to get there in about five minutes, maybe goddamned sooner. I will park, come straight in. As I park, you’ll see another car pull in behind me. In a bit two fellas will get out of it. They will have masks and guns-”

“Oh, shit,” said the boy. “I’ll call the-”

“You don’t call nobody. Ain’t time, sirens’d chase these boys, they wouldn’t show, you’d look like a fool and so would I, and I’d still be dead by morning. You understand?”

The boy made a sound that sounded like a cross between a whimper and a gulp.

“Son, you listen to me and you will come out all right. You reach under that counter and pull out the gun stashed there, an old Colt I’m guessing. I know you got one there, ain’t been cleaned or checked in twenty years, but it’s there, and let’s hope it’s working. Just take it out so I can reach it easy. I will come in, take it up, and git ready. Then when the two men in masks come through the door, you hit the deck. I will take care of them.”

“I-”

“We will get through this. It’s the only way, and you may even get your picture in the paper and a date with Mary Sue.”

He’d passed through town, turned right up 167, and by now it was full dark, and he was winding up in the hills, scooting by the odd little house here and there, otherwise alone on the road except for the headlights of his pursuers a couple hundred yards back.

“I just put the gun on the counter,” said the young man.

“We will get through this.”

“Oh, this is too good,” said Carmody. “He’s going back to that grocery store he stopped at earlier.”

“Maybe he’s going to visit the Reverend again.”

“Maybe. But he’ll stop there I’m betting and he thinks he can get something else out of that dumb clerk. Oh, this is too good. This is just what the doctor ordered.”

Carmody was driving, of course, so he reached into his belt and touched the piece he always carried, just to make sure it was there. It was a SIG P229 in.40, with thirteen fast-moving, husky hollow-points tucked into the magazine and another in the chamber.

Meanwhile, B.J. was rummaging around in the glove compartment, where he came up with two balaclava hats, which could be peeled down to make face masks, either for cross-country skiing or armed robbery, depending on the Grumley mood. He got them, then drew his own weapon from his shoulder holster, a stainless steel Springfield.45. He took the safety down, performed a chamber check to make certain there was a 230-grainer nested just where it should be, put the safety back on, and reholstered the gun.

“We goin’ kick some ass,” he said, the blood rushing to his extremes, and his breathing grew harder and shorter.

“Yes, we are, we are for sure,” said Carmody.

Bob pulled into the parking lot.

They think they’re hunting me; I’m hunting them. It felt familiar and now, from somewhere, his battle brain took over. Even as he walked to the store, past the pumps, up two steps, he felt things slowing down yet at the same time enriching in color and texture, as if his vision were mutating to something beyond excellence. His muscles were turning to flexible iron, his breathing was growing nutritious, his hearing super-attuned, so that every sound was crisply isolated in the universe.