The Viking Funeral

Chapter 30

THE SPEEDOMETER ON the Vogue motor home hovered near seventy while its tires sang in the rain cuts on the concrete highway. The ornate grille reflected the dotted white lane markers on the chrome bumper, hoovering up lines like a Main Street junkie.

Shane was trying to sleep in the big blue crushed-velvet club chair, forward of the galley. Jody was stretched out on the bed in the rear compartment. Tremaine and Lester Wood were up front, engaged in whispered conversation, while Victory Smith was in the booth nursing a beer and brooding.

But Shane was restless. His mind kept touching the edges of new, soul-defining realities: Alexa's death, Chooch left in the wake of this catastrophe, the powerful memory of sex with Lisa-a woman he knew was corrupt and dangerous but whose darkness he was inexplicably drawn to.

When he thought about everything that had happened, he knew Jody was right.

If Tony was on the level, why would the LAPD be calling him a murderer on TV and making him a shoot-on-sight fugitive for every law-enforcement agency in America? The Day-Glo Dago had picked a scenario that eliminated Shane from the equation. It was now pretty obvious to Shane that Filosiani didn't want to face the consequences of his own mangled plan. A plan that had resulted in the death of a police officer under his direct supervision. With this news story, he had cut off Shane and forced him to run. Shane was completely alone.

The weird thing was, it didn't seem to matter much. His perspective had changed. He felt like someone else. His world had lost the vivid colors that had always characterized his thoughts and feelings. In their place, a gray mist had descended, taking the volume way down. Shane suspected he no longer had very many things he really cared about. Maybe he had become like Jody. Although the treasured memory of Alexa and Chooch lingered, even these once powerful performers in his life failed to fully penetrate this new fog of listless disinterest.

He began to realize that the ache inside him was really more of a craving. He needed something… Something to brighten this reality.

How had Jody put it?

A little chemical help after a confusing day.

He was looking at Lester Wood's travel case sitting on the blue carpet, not five feet away. He wondered if Wood had found a way to smuggle one of his little Baggies past Jody's inspection. Or maybe he had found a connection in Palm Springs and hooked himself up, scored some polvo bianco. So Shane stretched his foot out around the case and began to nudge it closer.

"You banged the bitch, didn't ya?" Victory interrupted his thoughts, dropping into the chair in front of Shane. "I told ya t'leave her be."

"Get away from me," Shane said softly.

"I told ya not t'fuck 'er."

"I don't take my orders from you, Vic. 'Sides, with all those anabols and oxys you pop, you couldn't lay a carpet."

"Gonna teach you a lesson, then blow yer worthless head off." Smith was sitting with his huge legs spread out in front of him, leaning back in the chair, acting as if all of this was his choice and on his terms.

Shane shifted his right foot and let it fly… kicking the steroid junkie right between the legs.

The weight lifter screamed in agony, doubled over in the chair, then dropped to his knees on the carpet, moaning. His left hand cradled his balls, but his right was snaking toward the Uzi tucked into his belt.

Shane yanked the Mini-Cougar out of his ankle holster, pushed it toward Smith, thumbing off the safety as he slammed the muzzle hard into the man's simian forehead. Shane beat Smith's draw by a full second. Victory was caught with one hand on his nuts and the other on his half-drawn Uzi.

"Go on. Bust a move. Let's see what ya got," Shane whispered. He could actually feel the weight lifter's heartbeat pulsing through the muzzle of the Beretta.

Jody exploded out of the bedroom and in an instant was standing over them, his own Mini-Light pulled and chambered. Shane could feel the motor home gearing down as Tremaine Lane slowed, turning around to see the drama that was playing out behind him.

"Put it down, Shane," Jody ordered.

"Him first."

"Unhook, or I'11 lose the both a'ya right now," Jody commanded.

"This ape's been threatening me for two days. I want this over with," Shane demanded.

"Fuck you," Smith said.

Jody fired his Mini-Light. It was on auto-fire, and half a dozen bullets ripped holes in the carpet between them. The rounds blew chunks out of the floor of the motor home and ricocheted off the pavement below, then whined away across the desert. Somehow, miraculously, nothing hit the gas tank or driveshaft. The insanity of the event carried the moment.

Victory Smith let go of his weapon and put both hands out to his side.

Shane still didn't take the Mini-Cougar off the giant's pockmarked forehead. He found himself actually contemplating pulling the trigger, his fingers twitching inadvertently on the cold steel. Then he finally saw fear in Smith's eyes.

In that second, Shane knew he owned the man. He'd have to risk death to pull the trigger because Jody really might take him out, but Shane was seriously tempted to end it-

kill Victory and let Jody shoot him for it. It was Shane's call in that split second, and everybody knew it.

And then Shane felt it.

Jody was right. There was a spark of pure joy in this simple equation. It emanated from Victory across the two feet of bullet-torn carpet into Shane. He saw the fear of imminent death register in Smith's pig-mean stare. Shane desperately wanted to seal his own fate. He couldn't remain caught between what he used to be and what he was becoming. He needed to be one thing or the other.

Jody reached out and slowly pushed Shane's wrist aside, shoving the gun away from Victory's sweat-slick forehead. "This ain't it, Hot Sauce."

And then it was over.

"This pile a'shit gets near me again, I'm gonna put him down." Shane's voice, as well as his whole body, was shaking.

Victory was still on his knees, rocking slightly back and forth on the bullet-ravaged blue shag carpet, cupping his balls in both hands. "Lose this motherfucker, Jody," the weight lifter whispered. "There's a five-state manhunt for him. He's poison. Get rid of him."

Jody didn't respond. Instead, he reached down and yanked Smith's Uzi up off the floor. "Let's have yours, too," he said sharply to Shane.

Shane shook his head and put the gun back into his ankle holster. Then he walked to the back of the motor home, into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut. He sat on the queen-size bed with his head in his hands. He could hear the others talking low, as the vehicle once again picked up speed. Jody's voice was louder than the others. Shane couldn't make out the words, but he could feel the vibe right through the paneled bulkhead. Jody was scared. They had started pulling guns on each other, and he was losing control. The mix had turned dangerous, with a strong suicidal flavor.

The gray mist settled lower, engulfing Shane inch by inch. He had been half an ounce of a trigger pull away from murder. Half an ounce from putting a round through Peter Smith's head.

It was exactly what Jody had talked about: getting a guy down, seeing that look-the look making you feel pure and alive, but also driving you… Pushing you. In Victory's weakness, he felt rage; in his total surrender came a surge of unreasoning violence.

He remembered a saying from somewhere but couldn't recall where it came from… Perhaps a Sunday school lecture, or maybe just some barroom psychologist: When a man is severely tested, only then does he discover who he really is.

So who the fuck am I? Shane wondered.