I Love My Smith and Wesson Read Online Free PDF Page A

would just make him angrier.
    They came to a large clearing, out of the shadow of the trees. Snow hurtled down vertically, blocking out the sky. The pines towered around them on all sides. Billy peered through the dense blizzard. About a hundred yards away, a grim little tableau awaited him. It was as if a lunatic had designed a child’s snowstorm, imprisoning an abomination under the glass rather than Father Christmas or a fairy cottage.
    In the center of the clearing stood a young fir tree, no more than twelve feet tall. From its branches, like a macabre Christmas decoration, hung a dead man. He was upside down, his left leg caught in a noose, his hands trailing on the ground. He was dressed like a trapper in a thick parka, sturdy boots, leather mittens, and a woolly hat. His throat had been cut. The blood that filled his eyes and mouth resembled treacle threaded with ice.
    Billy didn’t want to look. But he couldn’t help himself. The corpse’s mouth gaped. Its eyeballs were sugar-coated. Snowflakes fell on the extended tongue. Billy had seen two dead people in his life. This was the second. On both occasions he’d been in the company of Rawhead.
    â€œWho is he?” said Billy.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Rawhead. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
    In a single fluid movement, Rawhead drew a huge, broad-bladed knife.
    Billy looked at the knife and looked at Rawhead. “Now it’s my turn?” he said.
    Rawhead gave a solemn nod.
    A snow-laden breeze spun around Billy Dye’s head and ears. All he could think of at that moment was his daughter. He regretted that he’d never see her grow up, or even live to see her second birthday. But mingled with the sadness was an unmistakable sense of relief.
    He’d never have to brush his teeth again or comb his hair. Never have to get up in the morning or worry about money, or desire the unattainable or regret anything ever again. He’d never grow old or sick.
    Death definitely had its good points.
    Rawhead, eyes sunk in shadow, cheekbones protruding savagely, gazed down at Billy.
    Then the moment passed.
    Rawhead turned away, grabbed the corpse’s head, and lifted it. The hat fell off, showing sparse tangled hair. Rawhead’s right arm began to move in a rapid sawing motion.
    At first, Billy felt drunk with relief. Then he edged closer and realized that Rawhead was cutting off the corpse’s head. “Aw, Jesus,” said Billy.
    Ignoring protests, Rawhead continued to slice through muscles and tendons.
    â€œWhat’re you doing that for?”
    â€œI want to know who this is. Normally, I’d take a snapshot. But I don’t happen to have a camera on me.”
    There was a crack as the head came free. Rawhead put the knife away, took out a pocket torch, and shone it into the dead man’s face. An undistinguished face, fat, coarse, and bearded. He looked extremely surprised.
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t know him?” said Rawhead.
    â€œPositive.” Billy jumped back as the head swung close to his leg. “Keep that fucking thing away from me.”
    â€œOK. But would you do me a favor? Would you have a closer look?”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œI’m not going to do anything.”
    Reluctantly Billy leaned closer. Rawhead thrust the disembodied head into Billy’s face. Their mouths touched in a frozen kiss. Billy jerked his head back far enough to scream; then Rawhead grabbed Billy’s neck and repeated the exercise.
    â€œBilly, meet Nobody. Nobody, meet Billy.”
    Billy fought and punched himself free, then sprawled on the ground, gagging and rubbing his lips with snow to take away the taste of the dead, gaping mouth.
    â€œYou are such a horrible bastard,” said Billy when he’d got his breath back. “Just kill me and get it over with. At least I won’t have to look at you again.”
    â€œWhat’s all this shit about me killing