to double and even treble.
If I'd had a
gun! I thought. If only Id had a gun! I could have ended his rotten, miserable life right then if I'd only had a gun!
Miles later some sort of reason reasserted itself If I'd had a gun, the only thing I could have been sure of was getting
myself killed. If I'd had a gun I could have pulled over when the man using the bumper-jack beckoned me, and gotten
out, and begun spraying bullets wildly around the deserted landscape. I might have wounded someone. Then I would
have been killed and buried in a shallow grave, and Dolan would have gone on escorting the beautiful women and
making pilgrimages between Las Vegas and Los Angeles in his silver Cadillac while the desert animals unearthed my
remains and fought over my bones under the cold moon. For Elizabeth there would have been no revenge - none at all.
The men who travelled with him were trained to kill. I was trained to teach third-graders.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
This was not a movie, I reminded myself as I returned to the highway and passed an orange END CONSTRUCTION
THE STATE OF NEVADA THANKS YOU! sign. And if I ever made the mistake of confusing reality with a movie, of
thinking that a balding third-grade teacher with myopia could ever be Dirty Harry anywhere outside of his own
daydreams, there would never be any revenge, ever.
But could there be revenge, ever? Could there be?
My idea of creating a fake detour was as romantic and unrealistic as the idea of jumping out of my old Buick and
spraying the three of them with bullets - me, who had not fired a gun since the age of sixteen and who had never fired a
handgun.
Such a thing would not be possible without a band of conspirators - even the movie I had seen, romantic as it had
been, had made that clear. There had been eight or nine of them in two separate groups, staying in touch with each
other by walkie-talkie. There had even been a man in a small plane cruising above the highway to make sure the
armored car was relatively isolated as it approached the right spot on the highway.
A plot no doubt dreamed up by some overweight screenwriter sitting by his swimming pool with a pina colada by one
hand and a fresh supply of Pentel pens and an Edgar Wallace plot-wheel by the other. And even that fellow had
needed a small army to fulfill his idea. I was only one man.
It wouldn't work. It was just a momentary false gleam, like the others I'd had over the years - the idea that maybe I
could put some sort of poison gas in Dolan's air-conditioning system, or plant a bomb in his Los Angeles house, or
perhaps obtain some really deadly weapon - a bazooka, let us say - and turn his damned silver Cadillac into a fireball as
it raced east toward Vegas or west toward LA along 71.
Best to dismiss it.
But it wouldn't go.
Cut him out,
the voice inside that spoke for Elizabeth kept whispering. Cut him out the way an experienced sheep-dog cuts a ewe
out of the flock when his master points. Detour him out into the emptiness and kill him. Kill them all.
Wouldn't work. If I allowed no other truth, I would at least have to allow that a man who had stayed alive as long as
Dolan must have a carefully honed sense of survival - honed to the point of paranoia, perhaps. He and his men would
see through the detour trick in a minute.
They turned down this one today,
the voice that spoke for Elizabeth responded. They never even hesitated. They went just like Mary's little lamb.
But I knew - yes, somehow I did! - that men like Dolan, men who are really more like wolves than men, develop a sort of
sixth sense when it comes to danger. I could steal genuine detour signs from some road department shed and set them
up in all the right places; I could even add fluorescent orange road cones and a few of those smudge-pots. I could do
all that and Dolan would still smell the nervous sweat of my hands on the stage dressing. Right through
If I'd had a
gun! I thought. If only Id had a gun! I could have ended his rotten, miserable life right then if I'd only had a gun!
Miles later some sort of reason reasserted itself If I'd had a gun, the only thing I could have been sure of was getting
myself killed. If I'd had a gun I could have pulled over when the man using the bumper-jack beckoned me, and gotten
out, and begun spraying bullets wildly around the deserted landscape. I might have wounded someone. Then I would
have been killed and buried in a shallow grave, and Dolan would have gone on escorting the beautiful women and
making pilgrimages between Las Vegas and Los Angeles in his silver Cadillac while the desert animals unearthed my
remains and fought over my bones under the cold moon. For Elizabeth there would have been no revenge - none at all.
The men who travelled with him were trained to kill. I was trained to teach third-graders.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
This was not a movie, I reminded myself as I returned to the highway and passed an orange END CONSTRUCTION
THE STATE OF NEVADA THANKS YOU! sign. And if I ever made the mistake of confusing reality with a movie, of
thinking that a balding third-grade teacher with myopia could ever be Dirty Harry anywhere outside of his own
daydreams, there would never be any revenge, ever.
But could there be revenge, ever? Could there be?
My idea of creating a fake detour was as romantic and unrealistic as the idea of jumping out of my old Buick and
spraying the three of them with bullets - me, who had not fired a gun since the age of sixteen and who had never fired a
handgun.
Such a thing would not be possible without a band of conspirators - even the movie I had seen, romantic as it had
been, had made that clear. There had been eight or nine of them in two separate groups, staying in touch with each
other by walkie-talkie. There had even been a man in a small plane cruising above the highway to make sure the
armored car was relatively isolated as it approached the right spot on the highway.
A plot no doubt dreamed up by some overweight screenwriter sitting by his swimming pool with a pina colada by one
hand and a fresh supply of Pentel pens and an Edgar Wallace plot-wheel by the other. And even that fellow had
needed a small army to fulfill his idea. I was only one man.
It wouldn't work. It was just a momentary false gleam, like the others I'd had over the years - the idea that maybe I
could put some sort of poison gas in Dolan's air-conditioning system, or plant a bomb in his Los Angeles house, or
perhaps obtain some really deadly weapon - a bazooka, let us say - and turn his damned silver Cadillac into a fireball as
it raced east toward Vegas or west toward LA along 71.
Best to dismiss it.
But it wouldn't go.
Cut him out,
the voice inside that spoke for Elizabeth kept whispering. Cut him out the way an experienced sheep-dog cuts a ewe
out of the flock when his master points. Detour him out into the emptiness and kill him. Kill them all.
Wouldn't work. If I allowed no other truth, I would at least have to allow that a man who had stayed alive as long as
Dolan must have a carefully honed sense of survival - honed to the point of paranoia, perhaps. He and his men would
see through the detour trick in a minute.
They turned down this one today,
the voice that spoke for Elizabeth responded. They never even hesitated. They went just like Mary's little lamb.
But I knew - yes, somehow I did! - that men like Dolan, men who are really more like wolves than men, develop a sort of
sixth sense when it comes to danger. I could steal genuine detour signs from some road department shed and set them
up in all the right places; I could even add fluorescent orange road cones and a few of those smudge-pots. I could do
all that and Dolan would still smell the nervous sweat of my hands on the stage dressing. Right through
Similar Books
