King of the Woods, or Trivial Pursuit

Part 29 - Huntsman

"I said, drop the gun!" Rony thumbed the shotgun's safety off, but kept his finger outside the trigger guard.

The robber's face was so swollen that Rony wondered whether he could see. Tears streamed down his puffy cheeks, and he gasped for breath every couple words. "What did? You do? To me?"

Rony shook his head. "You're sick. I can take you to the hospital, but you have to drop the gun."

"I can't." The robber's swollen hand resembled a clenched lobster claw. He could not let go of the gun any more than he could fire it.

Rony set his shotgun on the counter. "Just lower your arm. We don't want any accidents."

"I didn't mean it," the robber begged. "Take it off. Please."

Rony showed the robber his hands. "I can't take it off. But I'm not going to hurt you."

"Ok." The robber lowered his arm.

The Kangaroo's door shattered. There was a sound like a muffled firecracker, followed by several explosions.

The robber gave Rony a betrayed look, pressed his lobster-claw hand over his chest, and slumped to the floor.

Bewildered, Rony examined his shotgun. It had not fired.

A police officer entered the Kangaroo, pistol in hand, crunching glass beneath his boots. He wore a JSO uniform, but Rony had only ever seen two models of JSO officer: obese and steroid abuser. This officer looked perhaps fifty years old, judging by his close-cropped, greying hair, but he had a gymnast's build and moved like he'd been assembled by a Swiss watchmaker. If he was alarmed at having just shot a man to death, it did not show on his narrow, almost canine, face. His nametag said "Huntsman."

Huntsman touched his index finger to the robber's throat and holstered his pistol. "How fortunate for you that I arrived when I did."

Jesus, Rony thought, though he did not think his father would have protested had he said it out loud. "Should I call an ambulance?" he said.

"I'm not injured." Huntsman took the shotgun off the counter and set it aside, out of Rony's reach.

Rony was not concerned. Policemen must do that sort of thing to control a crime scene, he thought. He pointed at the dead, or dying, man. "I meant for him."

"He is beyond saving," Huntsman said.

"How do you know?" Rony said.

"Because I shot him." Huntsman's tone was even, something in his voice emphasized the word 'I,' instead of the word 'shot.' Something akin to pride.

The robber lay still, emptying his blood onto the linoleum. The hives covering his skin had survived him.

Rony stepped around the counter and crouched next to the body. "He was dropping his gun."

"Hm?" Huntsman said. Blood lapped against his boots, but if he noticed, he did not seem to care.

"He was trying to put his gun down," Rony said, raising his voice.

"I heard you," Huntsman said. "I was just surprised by your ingratitude."

The carnage twisted Rony's stomach, but he could not look away from the robber's body. "He couldn't have shot me if he wanted to. He was sick and scared. Look at his hands!"