Ghost Road Blues. Джонатан Мэйберри

blood-soaked gut, right next to the bullet wound. “Nice knowing you, Tony, but you’re a lousy fucking driver.” He fired a single shot.

      The blast folded Tony in half. He caved over and crunched his face once more smashing against the steering wheel.

      “Jesus!” Boyd howled and grabbed Ruger’s shoulder with his good arm and wrenched him back and spun him, then released his jacket and raised a balled fist; but Ruger went with the turn and stepped into Boyd, jamming the barrel of his gun hard under Boyd’s chin.

      “Throw the punch or put it away,” Ruger said with his wicked grin.

      Boyd froze.

      “If you’re feeling froggy, then jump. Otherwise put that fist away. I’m not in the mood for this shit, Boyd, and we do not have all fucking night.” His voice didn’t rise above a slithery whisper.

      Slowly, gingerly, Boyd lowered his fist, letting it drop limply at his side.

      “Good. Now step off.”

      Boyd moved back a few paces, and then turned and walked ten feet away. He stood facing the swaying corn, chest heaving, fighting for control. Into the waving rows of stalks he yelled, “Fuck!” at the top of his voice.

      “See how considerate I am? Now we don’t have to carry his sorry ass anywhere,” Ruger said. “Well, now the split is two ways. Not five, not four, not three. Just the two of us. That’s half a mil each, Boyd, and enough dope to pretty much double that. That’ll buy a lot of sympathy cards for Tony’s wife and kids. It’ll sure as hell take the sting out of feeling like you’re feeling now. So, let’s just drop this Mother Teresa bullshit and get a move on.”

      Boyd turned slowly to face Ruger. Boyd’s face was washed clean of any emotion, though something moved behind his eyes.

      “You’re a total piece of shit, Ruger.”

      Ruger shrugged. “And that’s a news flash to whom?”

      Boyd spat on the ground between them and walked heavily to the car.

      It took them five minutes to split the bundles of bloodstained money and the plastic bags of half-cut cocaine into two oversized backpacks. It was a very tight fit. Boyd tried to wipe away the blood that soaked the tightly wrapped bundles of used bills, but Ruger told him not to bother. “We don’t have time. It’s all stained. We’ll find a washing machine somewhere. I hear cold water’ll take the stains out.”

      Boyd looked at him in amazement. Karl’s voice was so calm, so offhand that it chilled him.

      Ruger winked. “Let’s do it.”

      Ruger helped Boyd strap on one pack, buckling it carefully around the limp and useless arm; then he shrugged himself into his own pack and adjusted the straps. Without a single backward glance at the car or Tony’s slumped form, Ruger set off into the cornfield. Boyd tarried a moment longer, staring at the silent shape huddled over the steering wheel.

      “Sorry, man,” he said softly, and then turned to follow Ruger.

      The tall stalks of corn closed around them.

      (4)

      Long minutes passed with no sound except the dry rustle of the corn. Then softly, faintly, “Boyd…help me…”

      Then silence.