* * *
“Well, if it ain’t the singin’ cowboy,” Jerry chided from a lawn chair as Andy emerged from the woods into the glow of the campfire. “Did you bag any big game?”
“Yep, got my limit,” Andy said as he blasted Jerry over backwards in the flimsy chair.
Paula screamed, and her legs trembled like saplings in a Texas thunderstorm. Shelly froze, paralyzed with fear. Paula ran to Jerry and crouched over his body.
“Oh my God, Andy! What have you done?” she wailed. She regained a modicum of composure and thought about her husband. “Where’s George?” she asked, trying to keep an even tone in her voice.
“He’s still in the woods.” Andy raised the shotgun at her.
Fighting back panic, Paula marshaled her wits. None of her hair patients had ever murdered anybody, let alone her husband. In the most convincing psychiatrist voice she could muster, she said, “Stay calm Andy. We’re going to do a little exercise. I want you to think of your favorite country western song.”
Andy thought of Lightning Strikes. Then he pulled the trigger. Paula fell with a hard thud across Jerry.
“Call me Garry,” he said.
Shelly broke into a sprint toward the water. Andy listened as her flip flops slapped against her heels in the darkness. Andy raised his shotgun, but reconsidered and leaned his weapon against a tree. He began to run after Shelly.
“Wait, wait for me! I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk. We can still be friends!”
Shelly reached the water’s edge and scrambled over the side of the boat. She glanced back at Andy closing the distance. She lunged for the glove box and fumbled wildly through the assortment of papers, sunscreen, and Jolly Ranchers until her fingers clutched the key ring. She jammed it into the ignition and twisted. The engine turned over a few times and growled to life just as Andy reached the water.
Shelly jammed the throttle down in reverse. George’s sleek, black boat lurched away from the shore a few feet until the mooring rope went taut.
Andy flung himself over the boat’s nose and sprawled onto the long front deck. The boat strained against the rope like a shark on a fishing line, shuddering furiously and churning water behind it.
In the moonlight Shelly, to her horror, saw Andy through the windshield on the front of the boat crawling toward her. He was yelling something about a misunderstanding, but the roar of the engine drowned out his voice.
The mooring rope snapped. The boat lurched backward again, and Andy grabbed the top of the windshield to keep from sliding off the bow. Before he could rise, Shelly jammed the throttle forward and cranked the steering wheel. The craft’s nose pointed skyward, and it fishtailed away from the shore. It accelerated into the moonlit open lake, engine screaming as Shelly fought for control.
Andy raised himself against the windshield. Shelly jerked the wheel from side to side. The boat careened haphazardly across the water, hurtling towards the cliff on the opposite side of the lake.
Andy inched forward over the windshield. He managed to raise himself and then flopped halfway over the top edge of the Plexiglas. He thrust his face inches from Shelly’s, displaying a stupid, insane grin.
She released the wheel and looked wildly around. George’s slalom ski lay on the floor between the seats. Grabbing the back end of the ski, she swung it in a sweeping arc at Andy’s head, hanging over the windshield.
The edge of the fiberglass ski smashed into Andy’s jaw, and his grip loosened on the top edge of the windshield. Shelly grabbed the steering wheel again and jerked it to the left. Andy slipped backwards onto the bow. She jerked the wheel in the opposite direction and launched the madman off the bow into the air. He hit the water at 60 mph in a tangle of arms and legs. Andy skipped across the dark, deep lake like a flat stone until the water grabbed him.
Shelly eased back on the throttle, bringing the craft under control. She steered in a wide circle on the smooth, night water. She could see Andy splashing in the water ahead of her. She slowed the boat to an idle, horrified. He was thrashing uncontrollably, screaming, “Help me, help me!”
Shelly agonized over whether or not to approach him, but fear of the crazed triple murderer repelled her. Andy choked down a couple of pints of Texas lake water and finally succumbed. He slipped beneath the surface for the final time in a flurry of bubbles -- Garry Boots to the end.
* * *
“And now folks, the man you’ve all been waiting for, GARRY BOOTS!”
The lights went up at The Grand Ole Opry. A figure in an oversized, black cowboy hat walked to center-stage. The crowd roared, and middle aged women in the front row swooned like teenagers.
“Thank you, thank you,” Garry Boots finally said, “I appreciate every one of you!” The crowd roared again. Garry held up his hands, guitar slung around his neck. “Thank you. I’d like to say something before I start tonight.” The crowd quieted.
“I know you’ve all read in the papers about the terrible incident that happened in Texas last week. One of my fans -- a fan who helped me out after a concert in Austin -- journeyed into the darkness of madness and took the lives of three other people before he, himself, died. I’d like to dedicate this first song to those people who died so tragically.”
The crowd fell respectfully silent. After several seconds, the opening guitar chords of Lightning Strikes wafted eerily across the auditorium as Garry Boots’ fingers glided fluidly over the strings.
The End
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