“Huh.” Fowler strolled until he was behind Bob, but still out of reach. “Go on and pick that there shovel up and I’ll let you know how that concept sits.”
Bob sighed and did as requested. Halfway through bending down, Fowler skittered forward and pistol-whipped him, slamming the butt of the gun into his temple from behind.
Bob collapsed to one knee, a jolt of pain shooting through his brain.
Damn it. He fought wooziness, remnants of concussions past.
“Thar! That’s what I think of your suggestion,” Fowler said. “Let me give you a little hint that a big northern city fella like yourself should have had down by now: it hurts a whole lot more when I use the other end. Now get digging!”
Clearly, he’s never been shot, Bob thought. It entirely depended on where, and how, and by what. But he did as he was told, rising to his feet and moving to the edge of the grave.
He looked down at Jenkins as he shoveled the first pile of dirt out of the hole.
You deserved a damn sight better, I figure.
“Now maybe that’ll get you thinking right. I know what you got to be doing, which is weighing all this, figuring out the angles,” Fowler said. “You’re thinking, ‘this is going to take a while, and eventually, they won’t be paying attention.’ But remember, Bob—or whatever your name is…”
“It’s Bob. Really.”
“Well, you remember, Bob, that we picked you up on a legit charge. Even if you escaped, even if you killed us both doing it, you’re a wanted man. They’ll just figure you dug this hole to put all three of us in it. So you’re stuck, Mr. Clever. You’re up shit creek and there ain’t no paddle… or even a boat, I’ll tell you what.”
Bob glanced back at him angrily, the point irritating him. Then he noticed Czernowitz’s empty, broken expression. He was staring ahead blindly, into a distant place, his mind somewhere else, as if there was nothing left but to contemplate loss. The professor’s death had shaken the other officer who clearly still saw himself as on the side of the angels.
That’s something I can work with. He really does not want to be here.
Patience, Bobby.
This could take a while.
26
The ground was hard, baked by the sun to a resilient crust. It took Bob nearly an hour to get two feet deep, a pile of dry, pale dirt building slowly.
The two officers wandered back to the cruiser, sitting on the edge of the front and back seats with the door open and engine on, cooling themselves and the rest of the desert with its air conditioning.
It was quiet, aside from the wind and the sound of shovel on dirt, the only company an occasional squawk from a buzzard.
Bob stood up straight and leaned on the shovel. It had to be above a hundred degrees, and he’d soaked through his shirt in minutes. He stretched, trying to loosen his joints. The bum knee hadn’t started to ache yet, which was a plus.
“You ain’t done yet,” Fowler said.
Bob looked over. The little man was waggling his gun, directing him back to work.
“It’s strenuous. I’m tired. If you actually want me to finish, you’re going to have to give me an occasional break, or it’ll be dark when I’m done.”
Fowler checked his watch. “Past noon. We’ve got all day, don’t we, Witty? Assuming you didn’t make no dumb plans or nothing.”
“I remembered what you told me, Jeb,” Czernowitz replied brusquely. “No need to be so dang rude about it, not after everything you done already.”
He’s just bristling now, Bob thought, every time Fowler takes a shot at him. “He calls you ‘dumb’ a lot, doesn’t he, Officer Czernowitz? Doesn’t seem respectful. Still, I bet you did better on the entry exam than he did.”
“Hah!” Fowler interrupted before his friend could answer. “Shows how much you know. Witty ain’t no Bill Gates or nothing.”
Between Jenkins and the constant haranguing, Czernowitz was becoming irritated. “Matter of fact, I do believe I was five points higher, Jeb.”
Fowler shot him a dead-eyed stare. “You what now?”
“I asked Captain De Jong ‘fore he was fired. He said I was five points better.”
“Did not!” Fowler muttered. “Don’t you go lying to me about police business, Witty! You know dang well you never done nothing right without my help.”
Bob intervened. “He said…”
“Now just SHUT IT!” Fowler barked at Bob. He turned back to his partner. “Don’t you see what he’s trying to do, getting us fightin’, like we was kids in class? He don’t know you or respect you, Witty.”
“Yeah… about that,” Bob said. “I bet it sucks that he keeps calling you ‘Witty’ all the time.”
Czernowitz’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He stared back at Bob with something bordering on disappointment. “Why? My name is Czernowitz.”
“Witty?” Bob said. “As in, he thinks you’re anything but.”
The officer looked at his partner, befuddled. “What’s he mean, Jeb?”
“He don’t know what he means.”
“I mean the word,” Bob explained. “Witty, as in funny and smart.”
“I know’d that,” Czernowitz insisted. “I know’d was what it meant. That… that ain’t right! That ain’t right, is it? You ain’t being sarcastic or nothing?”
