Free Under the Lake by Stuart Woods Page B

storekeeper say.
    “Uh-uh, Mama,” the male customer replied. His right hand went to his jacket pocket. “That’ll be everything you got in the cash register. Then we’ll go have a look in the safe.”
    Howell froze. Oh, God, he thought, it’s on. What am I doing here?
    “Yessir,” he heard the woman say, then a ringing and the sound of the cash register drawer opening. Howell braced himself and waited for Bo Scully to make a move. Sweat was trickling from his armpits down his sides, making him shiver. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the driver’s door to the Chevy open. The second patrol car was nowhere in sight.
    There was an explosion, and the man in the leather jacket seemed to leap backward onto another checkout counter. A potato chip display was knocked flat, and Howellsaw bits of bloody debris spattered over the bags.
    “Freeze!” Bo Scully shouted. “Everybody just freeze right where you are!” Scully stepped into the open area around the checkout counter, his pistol held in front of him with both hands. A movement outside the store caught Howell’s eye. The driver of the Chevy was out of the car and leaning on the top of the car, pointing a rifle at Scully. Howell pumped the shotgun, brought it up and fired. Simultaneously a six-inch hole appeared in the store’s plate glass window, and the windshield of the Chevy turned white. The man dropped the rifle and flung his hands in the air. Howell could see a patrol car racing into the parking lot toward the Chevy.
    “Freeze, everybody!” Scully shouted again. “Minnie, put that gun down!”
    For the first time, Howell saw that the elderly storekeeper was holding a heavy revolver. She put it down on the counter as she was told. The woman companion of the robber stood, frozen, her hands out in front of her as if to ward off bullets. In the parking lot, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy had the Chevy’s driver leaning up against the car being handcuffed.
    “Okay, now,” Scully said, “everything’s all right. It’s all right now, Minnie.” He moved forward, spun the robber’s companion around, made her lean against the counter, legs spread, and thoroughly searched her. Satisfied, Scully handcuffed her hands behind her back. Only then did he approach her male companion. Howell put the shotgun on safety and stepped forward, too. The man in the leather jacket was sprawled backward across the checkout counter, eyes and mouth open. There was a hole in the middle of his chest. Scully took hold of an arm and turned him halfwayover. His back was an enormous mess. Blood dripped down the stainless steel counter onto the floor. “Jesus, Minnie,” Scully said, “what you loading in that thing?”
    “Dum-dums,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “Jesse got ’em for me last year. They robbed me twice before, and they ain’t going to do it again.”
    “This one sure ain’t,” Scully agreed. He looked at Howell, then at the car outside. “Nice going, John.” Scully looked at him worriedly. “You all right?”
    Howell looked at the hole in the plate glass store window and at the shattered windshield beyond. He didn’t seem to have hit anybody. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Yeah, I guess so.” Suddenly, the entire window collapsed with a crash. Howell jumped a foot.

CHAPTER
7
    H owell opened his eyes slowly and listened. There had been a noise, he thought. He had been sitting on the sofa with a drink, about to doze off, when he thought he heard a car door slam. He couldn’t make himself move until the knock came at the door. When he finally swung his legs off the sofa, it seemed that every muscle in his body cried out. He struggled to his feet and walked stiffly to the door. It was Scotty MacDonald—or, these days, Miller.
    “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “You look like shit.”
    “Thanks. Come on in.” He switched on a lamp and threw a couple of logs on the embers of the fire. “Drink?”
    “Sure. Bourbon, if you’ve got