bar. The three buildings shared a backyard that was nothing more than a vacant lot of cinders and stone that the two bars used for a parking area. I knew he would be in one of the bars—either Callahan’s or Surf’s Up. I walked around his cottage twice, looking in the windows, seeking any sign of life. There was none, so I walked inside.
His bedroom smelled like the bait shop and resembled the town dump. Clothes strewn all over, a half-eaten cheese sandwich growing blue mold on a table beside a bed of unmade gray sheets. There was a picture of a glowing Jesus on the wall above the bed board.
I stepped into his closet and waited.
Twenty minutes later, I heard him come through the front door. Then I heard his footsteps in the hall, water running in the bathroom, the toilet flushing. When he stumbled through the bedroom door, he was naked—his limp dick wagging beneath a bulging belly full of beer.
Hector fell onto the bed and sighed. Then he did what I knew he would do: he tapped a Camel out of a pack for one last smoke before he passed out—just what my father would have done.
When Hector struck his match, I hurled my jar intothe face of Jesus. The son of God shattered, along with my jar.
And the room ignited.
What happens when the prey becomes the predator? What happens if you refuse to play the part of victim? What happens when you become more cunning and meaner than any other depravity in the world
?
Later that night, my sister sat with me after the police had gone. She looked into my eyes. “He didn’t die.”
“I didn’t want him to die. I just wanted him to know that if I’m to be afraid, and to have nightmares, then he can’t sleep anymore.”
Before my dream of the red boat, there was a flash of light up in the field to my right. I had stepped out the back door, a towel in my hand. A scope. A man holding a high-powered rifle. Blurred. Black pants, creased. A black shirt. Dark glasses. My height. Dark hair. So steady with his rifle, his elbow cocked out to his right. Military bearing. A sharpshooter. He shouldn’t have missed
.
“And maybe I, too, missed the mark,” I murmured.
I was aware of Lane standing in the doorway behind me. “Buck leave?” I asked.
“He had some state people he had to talk to.”
“Lane, one of the reasons you came out here was to talk about John Wolf.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t. You have questions about my actions in Vermont.”
“It’s like you said, Pop. We don’t have to agree.”
Lane, perhaps more than anyone else, knew that I worked from my own set of laws. Some were identical to those in the standard law books; the rest were more expedient or, in my opinion, more just.
Anyway, most of what was on the books represented a government’s feeble attempts to regulate morality. It can’t be done. People will use their drugs of choice. They will engage in mutually consenting sexual behavior that their neighbors consider an anatomical atrocity. Some won’t stand and salute the flag. Others will express their discontent with government by burning the flag.
“Lanie, I
planned
to kill him. It never entered my mind that I might not kill him, that I didn’t have to kill him. Nothing else mattered. I wanted him dead— there’s your premeditation—and he died.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Afterward, when the feds came to Michigan, what did you tell them?”
“I saw no reason to tell them the truth.”
She was shaking her head, running her hands back through her hair. “In the same situation, any other man would have wondered if he had any reason to lie to investigators. Your only question was, ‘Do I have any reason to tell them the truth?’ You see the world so differently, Pop.”
I shrugged. “Your mother used to tell me the same thing. Lane, I want you to scribble a fax to Buck. His office is number eight on the auto-dial. He’ll be getting there soon. Ask him where in Nebraska Mr. Weathers said he was
His bedroom smelled like the bait shop and resembled the town dump. Clothes strewn all over, a half-eaten cheese sandwich growing blue mold on a table beside a bed of unmade gray sheets. There was a picture of a glowing Jesus on the wall above the bed board.
I stepped into his closet and waited.
Twenty minutes later, I heard him come through the front door. Then I heard his footsteps in the hall, water running in the bathroom, the toilet flushing. When he stumbled through the bedroom door, he was naked—his limp dick wagging beneath a bulging belly full of beer.
Hector fell onto the bed and sighed. Then he did what I knew he would do: he tapped a Camel out of a pack for one last smoke before he passed out—just what my father would have done.
When Hector struck his match, I hurled my jar intothe face of Jesus. The son of God shattered, along with my jar.
And the room ignited.
What happens when the prey becomes the predator? What happens if you refuse to play the part of victim? What happens when you become more cunning and meaner than any other depravity in the world
?
Later that night, my sister sat with me after the police had gone. She looked into my eyes. “He didn’t die.”
“I didn’t want him to die. I just wanted him to know that if I’m to be afraid, and to have nightmares, then he can’t sleep anymore.”
Before my dream of the red boat, there was a flash of light up in the field to my right. I had stepped out the back door, a towel in my hand. A scope. A man holding a high-powered rifle. Blurred. Black pants, creased. A black shirt. Dark glasses. My height. Dark hair. So steady with his rifle, his elbow cocked out to his right. Military bearing. A sharpshooter. He shouldn’t have missed
.
“And maybe I, too, missed the mark,” I murmured.
I was aware of Lane standing in the doorway behind me. “Buck leave?” I asked.
“He had some state people he had to talk to.”
“Lane, one of the reasons you came out here was to talk about John Wolf.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t. You have questions about my actions in Vermont.”
“It’s like you said, Pop. We don’t have to agree.”
Lane, perhaps more than anyone else, knew that I worked from my own set of laws. Some were identical to those in the standard law books; the rest were more expedient or, in my opinion, more just.
Anyway, most of what was on the books represented a government’s feeble attempts to regulate morality. It can’t be done. People will use their drugs of choice. They will engage in mutually consenting sexual behavior that their neighbors consider an anatomical atrocity. Some won’t stand and salute the flag. Others will express their discontent with government by burning the flag.
“Lanie, I
planned
to kill him. It never entered my mind that I might not kill him, that I didn’t have to kill him. Nothing else mattered. I wanted him dead— there’s your premeditation—and he died.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Afterward, when the feds came to Michigan, what did you tell them?”
“I saw no reason to tell them the truth.”
She was shaking her head, running her hands back through her hair. “In the same situation, any other man would have wondered if he had any reason to lie to investigators. Your only question was, ‘Do I have any reason to tell them the truth?’ You see the world so differently, Pop.”
I shrugged. “Your mother used to tell me the same thing. Lane, I want you to scribble a fax to Buck. His office is number eight on the auto-dial. He’ll be getting there soon. Ask him where in Nebraska Mr. Weathers said he was
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