Fowler lost his temper. He strode the ten feet, pistol raised to prevent Bob from reacting. He pressed the tip of the barrel to Bob’s temple.
“I figure, hole’s too small or not, we’ll make it work. That means your time is done, smart mouth.”
By the edge, Czernowitz was staring into the grave again, his gaze bleak. “That right? You want me to do all the shoveling, Jeb?” he said. “You want me to bury the professor?”
Fowler took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, ward off another outburst, his eyes flitting between them, his body language nervous. “Witty, we both know you’re bigger and stronger. Take you half the damn time, and one of us still has to keep watch.”
“Watch?” Bob muttered. “From what?” He gestured around them. “Nothing for miles but sagebrush and coyotes.”
“Yeah,” Czernowitz agreed, a small nod. “From what?” He glanced at the hole again. Then at his friend, as if weighing things. “Maybe you can do it, Jeb…”
Fowler took a few steps back, then turned to his friend, closing the gap between them. “Witty… I ain’t doing nothing but running the god-dang show, making the smart decisions for both of us, like I always do!” He pounded on his own chest with his free hand. He tried to soften his tone. “He’s making it sound real bad, but they’ll fill up most of the hole. Won’t take you more than twenty minutes.”
His partner glowered at that. It was anger, Bob recognized, years of doing a bully’s bidding because losing his protection would feel worse.
“Plus, when you’re shoveling in that dirt for him,” Bob said, “you’ll helpfully be right next to the grave. That way, if he decides he wants that twelve and a half grand back, well… no heavy lifting for little Jeb.”
Czernowitz turned quickly to stare Fowler down.
Now that look, I know, Bob thought. That look is pure suspicion.
Fowler stared back warily. “What? WHAT!? You ain’t listening to this bullshit!?”
“Ain’t bullshit!” Czernowitz said. “Ain’t bullshit, not at all! He got a lot right. You did make me take your tests for you. You didn’t tell me about the professor. Why’d you do that, Jeb?” His tone was pained, frustration growing. “You always tell me we do the wrong thing sometimes, but it’s for the right reasons. But the professor… that don’t feel right. And you always call me dumb, like he said. It’s ‘you’re so stupid, Witty. You’re so dumb!’”
“He’s trying to divide us!” Fowler blared. “Trying to confuse you because you’re a little touched in the head! Don’t pay him no goddamned mind, Witty, goddamn it, you simple motherfucker!”
Bob saw Czernowitz’s eyes widen, a sense of outrage setting in, years of being the butt of the other man’s shots coming home to roost.
Bingo.
Czernowitz’s hand drifted towards his holster.
“Now, Witty… don’t you do nothing stup—”
“DON’T YOU FUCKING CALL ME STUPID!” Czernowitz roared. “I been taking that shit from you for too goddamned long, Jeb Fowler!”
He twitched, ever so slightly.
Fowler’s hand shot upwards, raising the gun to chest height, even as Czernowitz pulled his piece, a fraction too late. The Glock spat fire, the shot catching the bigger man chest-high.
Czernowitz went over backwards, his body thudding to the ground.
Bob was swinging the shovel before Fowler could finish turning towards him, stepping into it, letting the four-foot handle slide through his palms so that the tool was at full extension. The spade head caught Fowler in the shoulder as he turned, the Glock flying from his grasp.
It pirouetted through the air, bounced twice on the dirt, and came to rest.
Fowler regained his balance.
Both men saw it land. They had the same thought, glancing at each other, then diving for the pistol, scrambling across the hard-pack dirt to get to it first.
27
Bob tried to scramble over top of the smaller man, but Fowler’s right hand reached the pistol first.
Bob’s fist came down on it. The pipe cleaner plunged into the tender flesh, between the ligaments. Fowler shrieked, twisting under the bigger man’s weight and throwing a hard elbow. It caught Bob above the eye, and he fell sideways.
Fowler scrambled out from under him, his other hand grasping the pistol. He made it to his feet and turned as he rose, raising the pistol and training it on Bob.
He looked down at his right hand, the pipe cleaner’s short metal spike still protruding from it. “FUCK!” he bellowed. “GOD DAMN!” Fowler leaned down and used his teeth to pull on the cleaner. It slid out, accompanied by a quiet ‘squelch’ of torn flesh.
He spat out the pipe cleaner. “Sum’bitch.” Fowler’s face was bright red, contorted with anger and grief. “Sum’bitch hurts! You… you made me shoot Witty… you… you dirty motherfucker!”
“Oh, please… don’t pretend you gave a shit,” Bob said.
“Witty was dumber than fruit punch, mister. But he was mine! Mine to do what I want and have as a friend, whenever I needed him. And you fucking killed him, sure as you pulled the trigger!” He raised the pistol, aiming down the iron sight. “I should have shot you before we even came out here. That old bastard Feeney too.”
Get him mad, make him jerk that trigger, give yourself a chance to reach himwhen he fires wide. “Here’s your chance, you scrawny, braindead, inbred hillbilly motherfucker! Show me what you’ve got!”
Fowler’s finger drew back the trigger smoothly, training kicking in… the shot ringing out before he could complete the action, the hole appearing in his forehead in that split-second before the gun’s retort.
His grip gave slightly, the pistol hanging from his index finger by its trigger guard, his expression confused. “I-I-I…” He tried to say something, but the bullet had damaged something in his brain, the words not coming out properly, blood running freely from the hole. He dropped to his knees. “I-I-I…” he muttered, his head jerking sideways with each sound.
Fowler pitched face-first to the ground and stopped moving.
Bob turned around.
Czernowitz had managed to raise his torso, get onto one side. His pistol was in his right hand. “Pre… Pretty good shot, I guess,” he managed. His eyes narrowed as he peered, dazed, at Bob. He turned the pistol towards him.
