The Return: A Novel by Michael Gruber Read Free Book Online Page A

had crouched down under the blow and had buried his fist up to the wristbone in the fellow’s crotch. The man screamed and fell on his side, retching heroically. Mr. Studded Vest attempted to throw a choke around Skelly’s neck but instead, mysteriously, found himself flying through the air into a table and chairs. At that point the bartender pulled a cut-down ball bat from under the bar and swung it at Skelly’s head. He deflected it with his left hand, which turned into a grip, pulling the woman forward. Her face smashed down on the bar with an awful crunching thump, a splash of blood, little droplets falling on Marder’s hundred, and now Skelly had the bat.
    He was just wading into the crowd with it, clearly to his doom, since there were at least a dozen people armed with cues, chairs, bottles, one with a thick bike chain, when Marder pulled his fancy pistol out from the small of his back and fired a shot into the ceiling.
    Everyone paused, and for an instant the place was as quiet as an art museum. Skelly turned and looked at Marder inquiringly, frowning a little, like a child called from the sandbox. Marder jumped toward him, embraced him in a bear hug with his free arm, shouted out, “You’ll have to excuse my friend, he’s still crazy from Nam, crazy from Nam ! There’s money on the bar, drinks are on us. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
    He dragged Skelly toward the door and out into the lot. The people outside backed off when they saw the pistol, but Marder knew one of them was bound to have a gun and it was only a matter of minutes before they started using it.
    The first shot sounded and Marder heard the snap of the bullet. He shot out the two beer signs. People scattered. He let go of Skelly and they both reached the camper, putting its bulk between them and the crowd of bikers.
    “Give me the keys,” said Marder.
    “Oh, please!” replied Skelly, scooting into the truck from the passenger side, slipping into the driver’s seat, and cranking the engine. Marder got in. More shots and the sound of bullets striking the sides and back of the camper as they roared away.
    Then Skelly slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel violently, sending the truck slewing across the road. It teetered for a hideous second, all four wheels crashed to the pavement, and they were pointed back toward the roadhouse, accelerating. A bullet holed the windshield as Skelly drove the big truck’s brush guard into the line of Harleys, which went over like dominoes, some skidding away, others crushed under the heavy tires. More shots: Marder could hear them thudding into his new camper.
    Skelly did yet another 180, swinging across the two-lane and sending a road sign flying. Marder slid off the seat into the foot well and wrapped his arms over his head. A horrible metallic grinding from below, the sound of gunfire from above, Marder literally praying and then laughing inwardly at the absurdity of it.
    Now they were heading at high speed back toward the interstate. In the side mirror Marder could see the glow of flame—perhaps the gas from the smashed motorcycles had caught fire. Amazingly, no one had shot out the tires, no one had sent a lethal bullet into either of them or punctured the fuel or propane tanks. Marder got up on his seat. Skelly said, “Christ, you know what? I’m starving. I could go for some Hardee’s. What do you say?”
    “Hardee’s would be good,” said Marder. “To go, I think.”
    *   *   *
    He awoke with bright sunlight in his eyes. A shaft of it, thin and bright as a laser, was coming from a bullet hole in the over-cab compartment. It took Marder a moment to recall where he was and how he’d come to be there. The truck was not moving. The only sound was wind and, faint and distant, the twang of a country song. He left the bed and slipped down into the camper’s main cabin. Well, so much for his fourteen-thousand-dollar investment. Most of the windows were shattered, and the cabinetwork was