Free The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson

cold-looking man, but there was an aspect of understanding and reasonableness in his craggy face. He looked sympathetic. He took a moment to consider, looking away from the pleading, whining figure at his feet.
    At last he sighed and said, “All right. Let's have it then.”
    Elroy scrambled to his feet and felt inside the overcoat pockets. He withdrew packets of bills and handed them to Byron.
    Byron leafed through the stack. He looked back at Elroy, thoughtfully. “But if I take this,” he said, “you won't have any money, for when you get to Miami.”
    “I don't need it, Byron,” Elroy said quickly, hopefully. Then he noticed that Byron had a very large pistol in his hand.
    Elroy was calm, suddenly. He felt very distant from himself in a curious way. He thought about the little room where he had spent last night, about the hot tub bath and counting the money. It seemed to him to have been one of the most enjoyable evenings of his life. And now, for some reason, it was difficult for him to keep his mind on the present moment. He shook his head as if to wake himself.
    The difference between being safe in the room at the Tuttle and being out here on this bitter cold plain, where jets roared in the distance, seemed at once incredible and minor. He could just as easily be back at the Tuttle as out here. If only he could think how it was done. Or, he could be over there, across the field in that large glass-and-concrete passenger terminal. Obviously, some insignificant factor, some tiny secret, escaped him and kept him from being safe over there instead of here . . .
    “I have more,” he said.
    Byron looked at him closely. “Where?”
    He knew he should have said that it was back at the Tuttle, but instead, he said, “Right here.” He reached into his coat and drew out the .32.
    Click. Click. Empty.
    BAWHOOM! The blast from Byron's .44 was incredibly loud. It knocked Elroy spinning, back into briars that tore at his thin pants and scratched his legs. The second shot lifted him off the ground and he landed rolling. He no longer had his empty pistol.
    He thought about the room at the Tuttle, about his full cartonof Camels, about the unread Playboy. Doggedly, instinctively, he tried to get back on his feet.
    The third shot slammed him onto his back into a shallow ditch. He lay there, trying to clear his vision. He looked up and saw nothing. The sky was a gray overcast so solid and of such a texture that there were no features to it, no seams. It looked like there was nothing there. For a great second he lay on his back, as alive as he had ever been. Then he arched his back, as if to breathe. And then he wasn't there at all.
    Byron looked around him. There were no cars on the perimeter road, nobody in sight over the flat fields, nothing but crows flapping toward a patch of woods. The airliners landed and took off. A brightly colored pickup truck drove toward the GCA shack a mile away. The wind swept debris against the fence.
    Byron began to strip Elroy naked in the snow. Methodically he removed the overcoat, shoes, socks, pants, underwear. He took the remaining money and the jewelry and put them in the pockets of his leather jacket. He went back to the car and got the little Pan-Am bag. He put all of Elroy's things in the bag.
    The little man now lay completely naked, his eyes staring at the gray sky, his mouth open. It began to snow, just a few thin flakes that fell into the open mouth and melted. There were three dark holes in the chest and stomach. Byron knelt beside the body and formed the limp right hand into a fist. He laid the .44 Magnum next to the fingers and pulled the trigger. The fingers flew away. He did the same to the left hand. With his remaining bullet he shot away the lower half of Elroy's face.
    He picked up the overcoat and the airline bag and walked back to the cab. He drove off toward the airport.

Ten
    The room was white and brightly lit. There were no shadows and the walls were marred by black