A change occurred in Ricky's face and it seemed to Poole it shot through his entire posture as if he were a cable pulled taught at both ends. There are other people involved now, Ricky said with decisive inflection. Other people? People he can't hide from now. What are you talking about? what other people? I've told you what happened in Fort Worth, DP, I don't owe you any more than that. Goddammit, Ricky! Poole sensed a terrible shift as if the floe beneath him had cracked and he could see the unhindered part of it lifting before him, the deadly dark frigidity threatening to swallow him. I sent him to you because I trusted you. You sent him to me and he killed my brother. But you had already sold him out hadn't you, Ricky? that's what you meant when you said other plans had been made. You delivered him right to us, DP. I delivered? DP, I don't have time to argue with you; I'm leavin and yer not gonna stop me.
Poole moved to the door and planted his foot against the threshold. The options rattled the structure of his mind in stormy cadence. If he let Ricky go, Hatchet would most likely be dead within weeks, maybe days. The police were out of the question since Ricky was informed. Everyone would go down, including himself, including Jane. Even though calling the cops would save Hatchet's life, he would never forgive Poole as long as they lived. How could he stop him? Could he hold him here? Poole evaluated the possibilities of restraining him and although he had faith in his ability to overpower him in a struggle, what then? He couldn't keep him here with the threat of his girlfriend or his wife or anyone else making random visits. It wouldn't matter if he did have a safe place to secure him. He could never hold Ricky hostage for long. He could free himself and he might hurt someone in the process. But how could he let him go? How could he let him leave to hunt Hatchet down? Do I kill him? Poole wondered. Can I do that to him? Can I do that to myself? He could hear Jane reminding him, Don’t let Hatchet down, not again.
You think yer gonna to stop me? Ricky asked him, his fists clenching. I'll fuckin kill you, DP; I swear to fuckin god, I'll pull this gun out and I'll fuckin kill you, man. Poole stepped away from the door and held his hands away from his body. Fine, Poole told him, get outta my house; get outta my sight before I change my mind. Ricky glared at him for a second then made for the door.
Poole snatched the gun as Ricky moved, tearing it through his shirt, grabbing Ricky by his hair in the same motion and slammed his face into the door, shattering another pane. Ricky fell to the floor, holding his bleeding face. Poole stepped back and released the magazine to the floor and ejected the remaining bullet. You didn’t quite think this through, he said and pitched the empty gun into Ricky’s face, breaking teeth, sending him groaning backward.
Yer fuckin up, DP! yer blowin it!
No, I’m not, not really.
He grabbed Ricky by the hair again and slammed his face onto the dining room table, the little metal sculpture that lived there tumbled to the floor with a vibratory clang. I am gonna let you go, Ricky, he told him, don’t you worry your stupid fuckin head over it, however, Poole reached into a drawer and produced a hammer from a cloud of other tools sent flying in the struggle, you wanna play games with me? you like fuckin games? let’s play the fuckin game but you’re not leaving here without some handicaps. I’ll go to the cops, DP! No, you won’t. Poole gave him a heavy blow to the gut that shut down his squirming torso and then he clamped Ricky’s right hand to the table and smashed it with the hammer several times in rapid succession, chasing it across the table as Ricky screamed and pulled it from his grip.
Poole stared at the blood smeared across the table and the trail of it on his floor. He felt sick. Get up, he told the moaning Buckney, I said get the fuck up! He kicked him in the ribs. Ricky made a drunken effort to stand only to slip on the blood and fall back to the floor. Poole latched onto him in frustration and kicked open the door and dragged him to the threshold. But know this, Ricky Buckney, if I ever see you again, I'm gonna take your eyes away from you; I'll tear them right outta your fuckin skull; you betrayed my trust and you're threatening what amounts to my family and I just can't let that stand.
Well, Ricky spat with his trembling hand over his ruined face, I'm glad we understand each other.
Poole wrenched him through the door by belt loop and shirt collar then he slammed the door and plucked the little black device from the wires in the alarm box and the house filled with squelching sirens.
Poole moved to the door and planted his foot against the threshold. The options rattled the structure of his mind in stormy cadence. If he let Ricky go, Hatchet would most likely be dead within weeks, maybe days. The police were out of the question since Ricky was informed. Everyone would go down, including himself, including Jane. Even though calling the cops would save Hatchet's life, he would never forgive Poole as long as they lived. How could he stop him? Could he hold him here? Poole evaluated the possibilities of restraining him and although he had faith in his ability to overpower him in a struggle, what then? He couldn't keep him here with the threat of his girlfriend or his wife or anyone else making random visits. It wouldn't matter if he did have a safe place to secure him. He could never hold Ricky hostage for long. He could free himself and he might hurt someone in the process. But how could he let him go? How could he let him leave to hunt Hatchet down? Do I kill him? Poole wondered. Can I do that to him? Can I do that to myself? He could hear Jane reminding him, Don’t let Hatchet down, not again.
You think yer gonna to stop me? Ricky asked him, his fists clenching. I'll fuckin kill you, DP; I swear to fuckin god, I'll pull this gun out and I'll fuckin kill you, man. Poole stepped away from the door and held his hands away from his body. Fine, Poole told him, get outta my house; get outta my sight before I change my mind. Ricky glared at him for a second then made for the door.
Poole snatched the gun as Ricky moved, tearing it through his shirt, grabbing Ricky by his hair in the same motion and slammed his face into the door, shattering another pane. Ricky fell to the floor, holding his bleeding face. Poole stepped back and released the magazine to the floor and ejected the remaining bullet. You didn’t quite think this through, he said and pitched the empty gun into Ricky’s face, breaking teeth, sending him groaning backward.
Yer fuckin up, DP! yer blowin it!
No, I’m not, not really.
He grabbed Ricky by the hair again and slammed his face onto the dining room table, the little metal sculpture that lived there tumbled to the floor with a vibratory clang. I am gonna let you go, Ricky, he told him, don’t you worry your stupid fuckin head over it, however, Poole reached into a drawer and produced a hammer from a cloud of other tools sent flying in the struggle, you wanna play games with me? you like fuckin games? let’s play the fuckin game but you’re not leaving here without some handicaps. I’ll go to the cops, DP! No, you won’t. Poole gave him a heavy blow to the gut that shut down his squirming torso and then he clamped Ricky’s right hand to the table and smashed it with the hammer several times in rapid succession, chasing it across the table as Ricky screamed and pulled it from his grip.
Poole stared at the blood smeared across the table and the trail of it on his floor. He felt sick. Get up, he told the moaning Buckney, I said get the fuck up! He kicked him in the ribs. Ricky made a drunken effort to stand only to slip on the blood and fall back to the floor. Poole latched onto him in frustration and kicked open the door and dragged him to the threshold. But know this, Ricky Buckney, if I ever see you again, I'm gonna take your eyes away from you; I'll tear them right outta your fuckin skull; you betrayed my trust and you're threatening what amounts to my family and I just can't let that stand.
Well, Ricky spat with his trembling hand over his ruined face, I'm glad we understand each other.
Poole wrenched him through the door by belt loop and shirt collar then he slammed the door and plucked the little black device from the wires in the alarm box and the house filled with squelching sirens.
Edit 12.6.2018