Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

“Gavin-”

Crack. This time, the top of his head seemed to levitate slightly. He crumpled to the ground like a dressing gown that had missed its hook. The gun clattered on the stoop.

In the next street over, a dog began barking. To the south, the gray sky became a curtain of slate where rain was falling.

Nicholas watched Gavin’s body for a moment, then let himself fold to sit on the front step. A packet of John Player Specials poked out of the dead man’s jacket pocket. Nicholas leaned forward and pulled it out. Then he fished in the pocket again, found a lighter.

“Nicholas?!”

Two pairs of bare feet rushed down the hall toward him. Nicholas lit a cigarette. “It’s okay,” he said. “I got the door.”

“Oh my goodness…” whispered Katharine.

“Who is it?” asked Suzette. Her face was as white as paper.

“Gavin Boye.” He sucked in lungfuls of smoke. His hands shook. “He was a smoker.”

“Oh my goodness.”

Nicholas fought the urge to cough. He could feel his sister and mother standing, staring. “Maybe phone someone?” he suggested.

“I’ll go,” whispered Suzette.

Heads were poking out of the doors and windows of neighboring houses. Nicholas raised his hand to them. Then he felt something on his lip and wiped it off. The gobbet was hard white and soft pink. He retched dryly between his knees.

“I’ll get a cloth,” Katharine said thinly, and walked away on unsteady legs.

As Nicholas wiped the ropy spittle away, his eyes were drawn to the truncated rifle that lay neatly beside Gavin’s body. Something was carved into the stock. The gouges in the walnut were fresh, pale against its darker burnished surface. The figure was a rough oval. From it sprouted two jagged lines like antlers. Within the oval was a symbol: a vertical slash with a half-diamond arrowhead on one side.

Nicholas flipped the rifle over so Suzette wouldn’t see it.

B y ten o’clock, Nicholas had counted eleven police officers step through the front gate, and Katharine Close had made tea for all of them. Four had arrived-lights and sirens-in answer to Suzette’s telephone call, then another two who left soon after discovering the claim had already been staked, then the police photographer accompanied by the scientific officer who phoned an armory specialist.

Finally, two plainclothes detectives arrived, a slim man and a woman. Nicholas instantly forgot the man’s name, but the woman was Waller.

“Detective Fossey,” said Nicholas. “Out of the jungle today?”

Waller’s ever-present scowl deepened.

“The name is Waller, Mr. Close.”

Nicholas felt too tired to explain his little joke, so he simply nodded.

Waller watched him a moment longer, then stepped back to regard the flecks of gore on the very spot on the Close porch where she’d stood so recently during her fruitless search for the missing Thomas boy. Nicholas saw her heavy frown lift slightly and her eyes flicker with something he couldn’t quite define-doubt? unease?-and he almost felt pity for her. Then, her gaze landed on him and her scowl returned. The moment was gone.

“Can we talk, Mr. Close?”

Nicholas nodded wearily, and Waller’s partner asked Nicholas to, once again, describe what happened. Nicholas sighed and, for the fifth time, recounted the story of Gavin’s unexpected arrival and even more unexpected departure. The male detective took notes. Waller watched Nicholas from under knitted brows.

As usual, and without questioning himself, he omitted the bulk of the conversation he’d had with Gavin, restricting it to Gavin saying that he’d heard Nicholas was back, and that he felt it should have been Nicholas, not Tristram, who died in 1982.

“Died?” asked the male detective.

“Murdered,” answered Nicholas. “Like the Thomas boy. You guys should keep records. They’re quite handy.”

“You were involved in a homicide when you were a child?”

“I nearly was the homicide when I was a child,” said Nicholas.

Tristram touched the bird. But it should have been you.

He was awfully tired. Shock, he knew, could weary a person, but this was just fucking tedious.

“I hadn’t seen Gavin in more than twenty years. I don’t know how he knew I was back, but it’s not exactly a state secret. I’m sure he was resentful that Teale murdered his brother instead of me. And yes, these are his smokes.”

Nicholas lit another one, and offered the open pack to the detectives. They refused, and he saw them exchange a glance.

Katharine arrived quietly at the living room doorway with a refreshed tray of tea and cups, placed it, and just as silently retreated. Nicholas just wanted to sleep.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “You guys…”

“Is that it?” asked the male detective.

“I really fucking wouldn’t mind if it was.”

He rubbed at his stubbled chin and felt a lump come away. It was a piece of pinkish bone the size of a match head. He felt his tongue sink back in his throat. He just wanted to shower and get to bed.

“Okay.” The male detective folded his notebook, then looked again into Nicholas’s face. “Why do you think he didn’t shoot you?”

“Well,” said Nicholas, “it took him two shots to hit his own brain. Maybe he was afraid he’d miss.”

“We’re done.” The male detective stood. “Thank you, Mr. Close. You’ve had a very disturbing morning and I strongly suggest you consider making an appointment with a qualified counselor. We can recommend one if you like. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Close,” he called into the kitchen. Nicholas watched him reach into his pocket and switch off the tiny digital recorder there.

He followed them to the front door, where Detective Waller hesitated. “Do you recognize the mark on the gun stock?” she asked.

Nicholas met her eyes. “What mark?” Lying, he realized, was easy when you just didn’t care.

Waller watched him for a long moment, then nodded, and the pair left.

Nicholas helped mop the blood off the front steps before he finally took his shower, then he went to bed and fell into a sleep as deep and empty as the night sky.

S uzette popped another two ibuprofen from their foil card, put them in her mouth, and concentrated on swallowing them. She had the unpleasant sensation of the hard pills ticking at her molars like loose teeth, and into her mind jumped the horrible flash of Gavin Boye folded on the front stoop, his eyes partly open and seeming to stare at the potted philadelphus, his own shattered teeth grinning from his red and ruined slash of a mouth. Her head throbbed. For the hundredth time she wished she were at home and could grab some mugwort from her herb garden. Finally, the pills went down.

W hen he woke, his room was dark. Thunder rolled grimly outside, stabbed by flashes of lightning. He was shaking and so cold that his muscles had spasmed tight, making it difficult to sit up. As soon as he did, a swell of nausea rode up to the back of his throat. He put his feet over the side of the bed and reached with jittering fingers for his watch. It was nearly two in the morning.

Tristram touched the bird. But it should have been you.

Something had wanted him dead a long time ago. And now that something knew he was back. It had sent Gavin. And it wants me to know that it knows.

Why didn’t Gavin shoot him?

Because he wasn’t supposed to.

Nicholas kept his eyes open, because whenever he closed them he saw the top of Gavin’s scalp rising on its little font of red and gray. You’re one small step from the loony bin, my friend. Not content with seeing reruns of suicides-you need premieres now?

He felt hungover, foggy.

Either Suzette or his mother-it had to be Suze-had left a glass of water on the bedside table. Nicholas reached for it. His hand quaked with every beat of his heart, making tiny, circular ripples.