THE DARKEST LIGHT

  When Graysmith returned, this time with a chainsaw, a new buzz rose through our crowd. He brandished it toward the fighters. “Use this,” he said. He yanked the pull-cord and the chainsaw rumbled once but nothing more. He yanked it again. Then his eyes fastened on the crowd and it seemed he was searching for someone. He settled on Flagg . . . paused . . . and then, as Flagg’s eyes drew my direction, Graysmith seemed to follow that gaze and he was staring directly at me. His hand rested over the cord. He held up a key from his pocket, licked it, and then shoved it into a bolt-sized slot. It slipped in with a snappy click. A metal plate slipped away from the chainsaw, exposing the trigger. “You know all about it, don’t you?” he muttered. He said this loudly but he was no longer shouting. He didn’t have to. I could hear him because everyone else had grown quiet. His fingers ran over the saw’s motor and then his eyes flashed to me. Blood from his nose drained over his lips, bearding him again, and he swiped at it before yanking the cord again a second time—then a third—and this time smoke clouded Graysmith’s hands as his finger revved the throttle and the saw became a bright and angry monster in his hands.

It was a short-lived glory.