Gone South by Robert R. McCammon Page A

it but I couldn’t. Hell, I was never even a very good shot. One bullet was all it took, and he was gone. I knew it, soon as I saw where I’d hit him.”
    “What had this man done to you?”
    Dan had the sudden realization that he was confessing to a stranger, but Gwinn’s sincere tone of voice urged him on.
    “Nothin’, really. I mean … the bank was repossessin’ my pickup. I snapped. Just like that. I started tearin’ up his office. Then all of a sudden a guard was there, and when he pulled a gun on me I got it away from him. Blanchard — the man I shot — brought a pistol out of his desk and aimed it at me. I heard the hammer of his gun click. Then I pulled the trigger.” Dan’s fingers gripped the armrests, his knuckles white. “I tried to stop the bleedin’, but there wasn’t much I could do. I’d cut an artery in his neck. I heard on the radio that he was dead on arrival at the hospital. I figure the police are gonna catch me sooner or later, but I’ve got to see my son first. There are some things I need to tell him.”
    “Lord have mercy,” Gwinn said very quietly.
    “Oh, I’m not deservin’ of mercy,” Dan told him. “I’d just like some time, that’s all.”
    “Time,” the reverend repeated. He took the silver watch from his pocket, snapped it open, and looked at the numerals.
    “If you don’t want me sittin’ at your table,” Dan said, “I can understand.”
    Gwinn’s watch was returned to the pocket. “My son,” he said, “will be here any minute now. You didn’t ask what kinda work Terrence does.”
    “Never thought to.”
    “My son is a deputy sheriff in Mansfield,” Gwinn said, and those words caused the flesh to tighten at the back of Dan’s neck. “Your description on the radio?”
    “Yes.”
    “Terrence might not have heard about it. Then again, he might’ve.” Gwinn held Dan’s gaze with his dark, intense eyes. “Is what you’ve told me the truth, Mr. Farrow?”
    “It is. Except my name’s not Farrow. It’s Lambert.”
    “Fair enough. I believe you.” Gwinn stood up, leaving the chair rocking. He went into the house, calling for his wife. Dan left his chair as well, his heart beating hard. He heard the reverend say, “Yeah, Mr. Farrow’s got a ways to go and he’s not gonna be stayin’ for dinner after all.”
    “Oh, that’s a shame,” Lavinia answered. “The chicken’s all done!”
    “Mr. Farrow?” There was just a trace of tension in Gwinn’s voice. “You care to take some chicken for the road?”
    “Yes sir,” Dan said from the front door. “I sure would.”
    The reverend returned carrying a paper bag with some grease stains on the bottom. His wife was following along behind him. “What’s your hurry, Mr. Farrow? Our boy oughta be here directly!”
    “Mr. Farrow can’t stay.” Gwinn pushed the paper bag into Dan’s hand. “He’s gotta get to … New Orleans, didn’t you say, Mr. Farrow?”
    “I believe I might have,” Dan said as he accepted the fried chicken.
    “Well, I’m awful sorry you’re not gonna be joinin’ us at the table,” Lavinia told him. “You gots family waitin’ for you?”
    “Yes, he does,” Gwinn said. “Come on, Dan, I’ll walk you to your truck.”
    “You take care on that road now,” Lavinia continued, but she didn’t leave the porch. “Crazy things can happen out there.”
    “Yes ma’am, I will. Thank you.” When he and the reverend had reached the pickup and Lavinia had gone back inside, Dan asked, “Why are you helpin’ me like this?”
    “You wanted some time, didn’t you? I’m givin’ you a little bit. You better get on in there.”
    Dan slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He realized that some of Blanchard’s dried blood still streaked the steering wheel. “You could’ve waited. Just turned me in when your son got here.”
    “What? And scare Lavinia half to death? Take a chance on my boy gettin’ hurt? Nosir. Anyhow, seems like you’ve had enough