Bill fell down and lay on the grass for a moment, then got up. He used his pocketknife and a few hard kicks to open the trunk, pulled out the jack, the tire iron, and the spare.

“What you doin’?” Fat Boy said.

“What’s it look like?”

“Chaplin’s dead!”

“He ain’t gonna get no more alive if we leave the tire flat. We got to get out of here.”

Bill put on the emergency brake and set to work jacking up the bumper to get at the blown tire. It was a real job in the dark and Fat Boy continued to wander about the car like a lost duck. He seemed to want to go somewhere but couldn’t quite figure which direction to take.

“Get your ass over here and help with these lug bolts,” Bill said.

Fat Boy lumbered over and got the lug wrench and went at it. He worked the bolts loose, popped two of his knuckles open in the process, pulled the tire off. Bill slipped on the spare. Fat Boy screwed down the bolts and Bill lowered the wheel and Fat Boy tightened them. Bill rolled the bad tire off into the woods and tightened down the trunk lid with a piece of a coat hanger he found back there. They got in the crumpled car, Bill on the passenger side now, and Fat Boy drove them out of there.

Three

They drove along the highway very fast and passed a deputy sheriff’s car running emergency lights and siren.

“Shit,” Fat Boy said. “Is that for us?”

“Got to be. Or at least for the shooting. Someone must have heard it and called. You think anyone could have seen us in the dark?”

“Ain’t that dark,” Fat Boy said. “And the stand had lights. We got to hide this car.”

“Can’t we dump it near your car?”

“Too far away. In a minute them cops’ll be on our ass like hemorrhoids.”