Part 33 (2/2)

”Isn't it.”

”Are you trying to be cryptic? You're talking way over my head, young man.”

”I don't imagine it was the money that stopped you. I guess it was just having someone know. Or maybe you have that strange form of distorted honesty that saw it as one way to get me out of a jail where I didn't belong.

There was a good chance I might get electrocuted for killing her. You wouldn't have liked that. Conscience is a funny thing, Mr. Pryor. Even your twisted one.”

”This is the d.a.m.nedest nonsense I ever heard.”

I measured the distance between us and then said softly, ”How did she look through the binoculars, w.i.l.l.y? Lush and desirable? You know when I mean. When you broke Dusty's arm.”

”You must be quite mad.” He said it with discouraging calm.

”It's the hot sun, w.i.l.l.y. I wonder how you fit your conscience around another thing, though-that elastic conscience of yours. How...”

”Why don't you leave before I throw you off my land?”

”How do you adjust to what happened to your sister?

You did that, you know. You killed the father and then watched the father's blood come out in the daughter. You framed the beloved sister Nadine.”

Again it was the poker table. He had matched the large bet. Now the stranger's cards were turned over. He looked beyond me. His mouth moved and was still. His eyes saw nothing.

”There'll be more,” I said.

”Somebody else will figure it out next. Maybe one of your own girls. Maybe your wife. Or maybe she half suspects already. There aren't any secrets, Mr. Pryor. Not about a thing like this.”

There was something reminiscent of a bull in the set of his shoulders, in the hump of muscle at the nape of his neck. He came at me with the wild sudden fury of a bull. I had driven him a little bit too far. There was no room in his brain for cold plans and projects. There was room for nothing but fury, a very desperate fury.

I had destroyed his world and I must in turn be destroyed. A fist Uke a sledge numbed my left arm. I struck back once and a second blow thumped my ribs and he was on me. His arms locked around me, head driving against my chin, knuckles in the small of my back. I tripped and fell heavily and he was on top of me, smas.h.i.+ng the wind out of me as he fell. I was young and reasonably husky, but you can't fight that sort of fury.

You can't even survive that kind of fury. He got a blocky knee on my stomach and husky brown hands locked around my throat. I tensed my throat muscles and tried to get hold of a finger to pry it back and loosen his grip.

My hands were sweaty and I could not get a grip. The last bit of air rasped in my throat and then his hands closed the air pa.s.sage. My chest convulsed. The sun swam and darkened and I slapped weakly at his face with hands made of balsa and paper, like the frail drifting wings of toy gliders.

He was taken off me. I sat up, retching and coughing, and color came back into the world. I saw Pryor stagger and then make what must have been a second or third charge at Paul France, trying to get his hands on him. He hit Pryor three times as Pryor came at him, moved almost casually to the side and hit him twice more as Pryor went by. The last blow was decisive. Pryor's legs worked for three more strides before he went down on his face. The four Pryor females came running down from the cottage, one of them emitting short sharp screams with each stride.

John Fidd appeared with a shotgun.

I got to my feet. A lot of little white dots whirred around like so many bees and slowly faded away. France said, ”Your girl said to find you and keep an eye on you, bub.”

”Thanks.”

He touched a red mark on his chin and said, specula lively ”Think nothing of it. Nothing at all.”

”Get back,” Fidd snarled.

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