She picks up the discarded rifle and tosses it into the station wagon. She’s still shaking. Her arm throbs from the blow of the shotgun’s recoil and her ears are ringing and the baby is at it again, doing her loudest, and she can’t think of anything sensible to say to the kid except this:
“You’re right. Screaming is the only possible proper response to all this.”
Doug looks up at her with dulled eyes. She says, “I can’t lift you. You’re going to have to help me.”
He struggles to get his legs under him. There’s blood high on the chest of his shirt. Maybe with luck it’s high enough to have missed the lung. He says, as if apologizing, “Doesn’t hurt too bad. Deep wounds usually don’t.”
“I’ll get you some help.”
Over there near the truck Bert is bellowing at her but she gives him no more than a glance, hiking the baby up firmly in one arm while she gives Doug the other and helps him to his feet and assists his stumbling progress toward the station wagon. She gets him into the back seat, tosses Bert’s suitcase on the floor to make room, and helps Doug lie down on the seat.
Then she looks in the ignition. No keys.
Just like Bert. So methodical he put the keys in his pocket, even way out here-even with all that on his mind.
She gets out of the car, baby in one hand and shotgun in the other, and walks toward the truck. She detours wide around Bert, ignoring his pleas and threats, and reaches up into the cab to take the keys out. Then she closes the driver’s door and goes around to close the passenger door and only then does she look down at the man she once lived with.
“Give me the car keys.”
He broods up at her. The constriction of his voice betrays the effort with which he is attempting to keep pain at bay. “How about getting me an ambulance?”
“You’ll live. Strip your shirt off. Use it for a tourniquet. Sooner or later somebody’ll stop and give you a hand.”
“CB radio-the truck.”
“I don’t know how to use it.”
“Jesus God almighty you fucking bitch, get me some help. You’ve smashed my fucking kneecap, you know that? God knows if I’ll ever walk straight again.”
She’s very calm. “Throw me the keys, Bert, or I’ll shoot the other knee.” She works the pump action of the shotgun, one-handed, tossing the empty paper cartridge out and seating the next one. Aren’t you glad you taught the little woman how to shoot skeet, you great macho gun handler?
She points it at his knee. The one that isn’t shredded. “The keys.”
He bends his head back in an arching spasm of agony. Unmoved, chilled, she taps his knee-the good one-with the muzzle of the shotgun.
He cries out. She watches him dig clumsily in a trouser pocket. With a vestige of defiance he throws the keys away and then his head sags against the pavement.
She picks up the keys. He lies panting with his eyes half shut and unfocused. She hesitates-but there’s nothing left to say to him. She walks away.
“Madeleine …” A husky croak. “For the love of God …”
She settles the baby in the station wagon and shuts the door and starts the air conditioning. Then she twists around. “Doug?”
“Still here.” Lying on his side, fetal, he tries to smile.
“My fault. I used you. I’ll try to make it up.…”
“You shoot the son of a bitch?”
“In the knee. He’ll survive I’m sure. I just don’t figure to make it easy for him.”
“That’s all right. Long as we whupped him.”
“Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“No idea. Don’t worry about me. No real harm ever comes to the iron duke.”