Reed Coleman - Gun Church

“This isn’t a game,” I said.

“But it is, just like in Gun Church with McGuinn. He wanted out and to save Zoe. I don’t see that happening today, Kip.”

Jim maintained a safe distance from us. He tucked the Glock in his pants, took the.38, unhinged the cylinder, spun it, then snapped it shut. When that was done, he did the same thing with the Colt. He tossed the.38 at Renee and the Python at me. He put the Glock back in his shooting hand.

“See,” he said, “Amy’s going to stay here with me while you and Renee go into the woods. Only one of you is going to come out alive. Then you or Renee gets to go back in there with me. If you or Renee gets lucky, Amy gets to go home. If it’s me that walks out of there, I’m going to kill her and I’m not going to do her the kindness I did her husband. I’m going to kill her an inch at a time, piece by piece.”

I didn’t move. “I’m not McGuinn and I’m not playing.”

“Well, I am,” Renee said, placing her fingers around the.38’s handle and standing up. “I want to live and I’m tired of sacrificing for you, Ken Weiler. I loved you even before I met you and all you’ve ever done is hurt me and shit on me. You never once asked me about where I came from or my family or anything. You never even asked me what my major was or if I wanted to go on with school after I got my degree. The only thing you know about me, I mean really know about me, is that I shave myself instead of wax and I spasm when I come. You think you’ve changed, but you haven’t. You’re worse now than you used to be.”

“That’s not true,” I said, even though most of it-maybe all of it-was.

“Okay,” she said. “If you answer this question right, I won’t play either. I’ll toss the.38 away and die right here with you. In your arms, if you want.”

“What question?”

“What’s my favorite flavor ice cream?”

Jim’s smile grew broader and smug. “Yeah, Kip, what flavor? I know Renee’s favorite. I know her parents’ names, where she grew up. Someone’s favorite flavor isn’t the kind of thing you should have to think about if you love somebody. I bet Amy knows your favorite flavor.”

“Butter pecan,” Amy said in a voice as far away as her eyes. Then, thankfully, she seemed to retreat back to that distant place.

“See. Go on, answer Renee. You don’t know, do you?”

“I don’t. You’re right, I should, but I don’t.”

“It’s strawberry,” Jim said. “Now pick up the Python and let’s get this over with.”

I reached for the Colt. “You won’t get away with any of this. Even if you kill all of us, you’ll get killed yourself or spend the rest of your life in prison.”

“Getting away’s not the point anymore. I’ll give myself up. I’ll be alive and you’ll be dead. Gun Church will be published and the only one left to tell the tale of how all this came down will be me. I will be your legacy and you’ll be mine. Our names, our lives, and our blood will be bound up together forever, Kip. Gun Church will be as much mine as yours … maybe more.”

“You’re assuming a lot, Jim.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Step away from Amy. Now! You too, Renee. I’m tired of talking.”

We did as he asked. As we stepped away, he came toward Amy, the Glock aimed at her head. When he reached her, he gently pulled her to her feet, keeping her between us and him.

“Both of you have two live rounds.” Jim looked at Renee and then at me. “It’s Kip versus Renee, just like Cutthroat. Only this is the real thing. Only one of you is coming out of those woods alive and don’t think you can fool me. I’ll be counting shots, so don’t get any fancy ideas about combining forces. Just remember, as good as you are with those weapons, you know I’m better with this.” He waved the Glock. “And I’ve got a lot more ammunition. The one of you who gets out of the woods alive takes their chances against me. It’s not much of a chance, but it’s something.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got one hour starting now. Kip, you go that way.” He pointed to his left. “Renee, that way.” He pointed to his right. “Remember, you try and fuck around with me and Amy suffers the consequences. Begin.”

I walked back into the thicket of trees to my right. As tempted as I was to turn around to look, I couldn’t risk it. Jim had gone over the edge. It wasn’t that he had so calmly and coldly murdered Peter Moreland. I think I accepted that Jim had the potential for violence in him that very first night in the chapel. His potential violence was part of my rush and what inspired Gun Church . No, what let me know he was really gone was his talk of blood and legacy: my blood, his legacy. When I was several yards into the woods and protected by shadows, I dropped to my belly and looked back. Renee was gone, and Jim and Amy were nowhere in sight. Only Peter Moreland’s wrecked body remained, but even as I got up and ran deeper into the woods I knew that Peter’s body would have others to keep it company. It was only a matter of who, how many, and when.

Between the darkening clouds and the canopy of the trees, I could not use the position of the sun to judge direction or the passage of time. My internal sense of time was utterly distorted by the alternating rushes of panic and calm. Much like that day in class with Frank Vuchovich, the world would suddenly speed up so that I felt I would almost fly off into space and then, just as suddenly, slow down so that each of my breaths and heartbeats seemed to have distinct histories. Only in the woods can you understand that shadows are as much a product of state of mind as light and the things that stand in its way.

I had no intention of killing Renee, but I couldn’t be sure of her intentions. She seemed angry enough down in the clearing to kill me right then and there. I didn’t blame her really. My narcissism was apparently so insidious that I was like a man who jumped a puddle and thought he’d crossed the Atlantic. I had never asked Renee anything about herself and the only things we shared were things about me. From the moment I walked back into the woods, I was determined to play keep-away until I could get a handle on what Renee had in mind.

Stopping every few yards to listen for her, I’d done a kind of zigzag pattern through the horseshoe-shaped woods. I was no outdoorsman, not by a long shot, but all my time with Jim in Brixton had taught me some important lessons. For one thing, forests can be very noisy places in their way. Swaying trees creak and crackle like old bones and wind whispers as much as it howls. Animals chatter, chirp, bark, rustle leaves as they scurry. Birds do more than sing and call. They make a hundred different sounds with their wings, claws, and beaks. Insects buzz and whine. Human sounds, however, are distinctive. They are clumsy and unnatural. The forest floor is littered with fallen branches and people can’t seem to walk without snapping them beneath their feet.

Only when I followed the slope of the hill down to the river and the falls did I have any trouble hearing. So I moved about forty yards back into the woods, twenty yards on the river side of where the access road from the shed cut a swath through the trees. I should have known that Renee would be lying in wait for me there. I was sitting on a log resting, listening for the telltale snapping of branches when I felt a ring of cold metal press against my neck.

“Go ahead, Renee, just pull the trigger and get it over with. But please try and save-”

“Shhhh! Quiet.” She removed the muzzle and fired a shot into a tree on my right. “Wait a few seconds,” she whispered, her breath hot on my ear, “then shoot at something on your left.”