The spot I picked was about three feet to the left of where Vern had fallen. If he shot himself with the gun in his right hand, the gun should go to his right. My left. I picked it up with both hands.
It was heavy to lift, all sodden wool. I swung over my right shoulder and it reached the top, the spray draining back down the granite. Again. It slid back.
Nothing.
The sound. I'd hear the metal scraping and I'd trap it against the wall as it came down. I hoped. I had to hope.
I swung again, a foot farther to the right. Something fell and I lunged. Missed it.
It floated. A piece of board a foot long.
Again, I told myself. I screamed. The sound was lost. I swung the jacket.
Something clattered. I fell against the granite, pinning the fabric against the rock. Frisked it.
Nothing.
My feet had disappeared underneath me, somewhere beyond the point where feeling was lost. I was going. Slowly, it was working its way up.
When I couldn't stand, I'd fall. Like Arthur.
I looked up for another try. I'd heard it. Up there, five feet away. Just five feet.
The jacket came up slowly. I swung. It slapped the rock and something scraped and I nearly fell as I pinned the jacket as it fell toward me.
This time I felt it. I put my hands underneath it, two lumps of flesh. I let the jacket fall toward me until a black butt showed against the granite.
I reached one hand up slowly and gripped the gun above the butt. I drew it toward me.
I was armed.
The snow would muffle the sound. If someone heard it, they would listen, hear nothing, and dismiss it. I raised the gun to the sky and pulled the trigger with both hands. My fingers moved by millimeters and the gun banged and kicked.
I screamed.
Shoot and shriek.
I did it four times. The fifth time the revolver clicked. I lowered it and dug in my pants for the other shells.
It took me precious minutes to fish out a shell. Several more minutes to break open the cylinder. Trying to aim the shell into one of the chambers, I dropped it into the water.
The cold.
Methodically, with no other hope, I shoved my hands inside my pants.
I got six in the gun, one at a time. Shrieking hoarsely, I fired into the sky. Once. Twice. Until the gun was empty again.
I was tired. I felt like sitting down.
"Fight it," I screamed. "Fight it."
I had six shells left. After that I had screams. Screams until I ran out of those too.
"Fight it!"
I dug in my pants again.
Stopped.
Something. Something up there. I'd heard it.
I shrieked and fumbled for the shells. Dropped one. Got one in. Another.
Two more made five.
I heard it again. Someone was up there.
Shrieking, I raised the revolver and fired. I shouted.
"Help me! Help me! Help me!"
I heard a voice and stopped.
"Put the gun down and put both hands up."
"Over here!" I screamed. "Over here!"
It was over. There'd be cops. Ambulance. A hospital. They'd get me out. Out of this and into warm.
I shouted again. No words. Just joy.
Standing in the water, I looked up. There was someone standing above me.
Vigue.
27.
He looked down, his boots on the edge of the wall.
"My God, get me out," I said, my teeth rattling uncontrollably.
"Put down the weapon," he barked.
"It's ... it's me. I've got to get out ... fast."
"Fine. Just put the gun down before you hurt somebody. What's that there?"
I looked down.
"Vern's. Vern's jacket. He's gone. Shot himself. I've got to get out now. Out of here. Get me out of here."
I leaned against the wall, my right hand holding the gun, finger frozen to the trigger. Vigue bent to one knee.
"What'd he tell you?"
I didn't understand.
"Get me out!"
"They're coming. Soon. What happened? With Vern."
I tried to follow the questions.
"He's gone. Killed ... killed himself. Tried to kill me. Arthur wanted out. He killed him."
"What'd he say about me?"
"Nothing. I don't know. You knew him. About him. Where are they? Where are they?"
"Coming. Just take it easy. Take it easy."
"Out. Out. Get me out!"
He was kneeling on the edge of the wall. His hand came down.
"Toss the gun up here," he said. "Just throw it up here."
I listened. I heard my teeth chattering.
No sirens.
I pushed off the wall. Took the gun in both hands. Pointed it at Vigue's face.
He smiled.
"Jack. I'm here to help you. You've got to get to a hospital. Now drop the gun."
With a frozen thumb, I pulled at the hammer. It started to slip and I caught it. Vigue's smile disappeared.
"You shoot me, we're both dead. We've got one dead. Let's not make it three."
"Call them." My jaw clenched. "Slow. Get out the radio and call. Talk loud. I want ... I want to hear them answer."
He reached for the portable on his belt. The radio came into view. He raised it slowly to his mouth. He licked his lips.
"Call."
"Twelve-one to comm center. We've got a man in the canal. Off the access road."
The dispatcher answered. He hadn't read the location.
"Tell 'em. Tell 'em it's where Arthur died."
My fingers were frozen. I couldn't pull the trigger.
"I'll kill you. I will."
Vigue looked down at me.
"Twelve-one, comm," he said slowly. "That's the access road. Same place where we had Arthur Bertin."
28.
They said the rescue crew had to pry the gun from my hands. I didn't remember it. I didn't remember much, just glimpses of lights and shouting, and a doctor slitting my clothes with giant shears as big as hedge clippers.
It was five o'clock Wednesday afternoon when I woke up, groggy from Demerol. My hands were wrapped in bandages. I thought I had all my fingers; I wasn't sure.
A doctor came in that night. He was very distinguished-looking, with gray at the temples. He said I was very lucky. I said I knew that. He said he thought I'd keep all but the toe he'd removed the night before. The little toe on the right foot.
"So much for playing the violin," I said.
The cops came after supper. A state police detective named Reed whom I'd run into before. An assistant AG named Merritt. I asked her if she knew Olin, and she said she'd heard I'd tried to call him Tuesday.
"Probably should have tried earlier," I said.
"Probably," she said.
A detective sergeant arrived with a tape recorder and we all sat and talked. They had found the notes I had given to Vern and we took it paragraph by paragraph. They were very thorough. Merritt was very professional, very intelligent, very understanding. After two hours, I was very tired.
Merritt told me Vigue had been suspended pending the outcome of the investigation. Vern was in Augusta for an autopsy.
She wrote something on her legal pad.
"We haven't investigated your allegations of kidnapping. But I heard-is that right, Sergeant?-that we have a James Libby in custody, and he's agreed to cooperate in the investigation. We're looking for Cormier."
They looked at me and looked at each other. The detective wrapped a cord around the tape recorder.