John Hart - Down River

And the gun began to rise.

“Don’t,” I said.

He hesitated, took a last mighty suck on the vodka bottle. Then his eyes glazed as if he was already gone. I leaned into the stock, finger so tight on the trigger I felt it creak.

But deep down, I knew.

The gun came up, straight and smooth and unstoppable. The hard round mouth settled against the bellow of flesh beneath the old man’s chin.

“Don’t,” I said again, but not very loudly.

He pulled the trigger.

Painted the ceiling with red mist.

Sound crashed through the tight space, and Jamie staggered back, collapsed into a kitchen chair. He was in shock, mouth open, eyes wide and dilated. “Why’d you wait?” he finally asked, voice uneven. “He could have shot us.”

I propped the shotgun against the wall, looked down on the crumpled ruin of a man I’d known for most of my life. “No,” I said. “He couldn’t have.”

Jamie stared. “I’ve never seen so much blood.”

I took my eyes off Faith, looked hard at my brother.

“I have,” I said, and walked outside.

When Jamie came out, he held onto the loose rail like he might bend over it and hurl. “You didn’t touch anything?” I asked.

“Hell, no.”

I waited until he looked at me. “Faith had soot all over him, a nasty burn on his arm. The whole room stank of gasoline.” Jamie saw where I was going. I put a hand on his shoulder. “I owe you an apology,” I said.

He waved a hand, but did not speak.

“I’m serious, Jamie. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“The gambling is my problem,” he said. “Not anybody else’s. I’m not proud of it, and I have no idea what I’m going to do about it, but I would never do anything to hurt Dad or Grace or anybody else.” He paused. “It’s my problem. I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll help you,” I said.

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re my brother and I owe you. But right now we’ve got to figure out what to do.”

“Do? We get the hell out of here. That’s what we do. He’s just a crazy old drunk that killed himself. Nobody’s even got to know we were here.”

I shook my head. “No good. I was here yesterday, asking questions. Prints in the house, probably. And even though the windows we passed on the way in were dark, I guarantee we didn’t come this far in unseen. This place knows a stranger. We’ll have to call it in.”

“Damn, Adam. How’s that going to look? The two of us here at the crack of dawn. In his house with a 12 gauge.”

I allowed myself a small smile. “Nobody has to know about the 12.” I stepped into the trailer and retrieved the gun. “Why don’t you go lock this in the trunk. I’m going to look around.”

“Trunk. Good idea.”

I caught him by the arm. “We had our suspicions about the fire. We came out here to ask a few friendly questions. We knocked on the door and walked in just as he killed himself. Nothing different from what happened. Just no gun.”

I went back inside and studied the scene. The old man was on his side, the top of his head opened up. I crossed the last few feet, careful of where I stepped. His face was largely clean of blood. Except for a slight lengthening, it looked the same.

I left the TV on. Vodka soaked into the ratty carpet. The newspaper was on the floor beside him: a picture of his son on page one.

The story of his murder.

Jamie came back into the trailer. “Check the other rooms,” I said.

It did not take him long. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a bunch of junk.”

I pointed at the paper, saw the photograph register on Jamie’s face. “He’s been holed up here for days. I’m guessing he got the paper tonight.”

Jamie stood over the body. “I don’t see him doing this over Danny. He was a shitty father. Selfish. Self-absorbed.”

I shrugged, took another look at the body, thinking of Grace. I expected to feel something. Satisfaction. Relief. But standing over a broken old man in a dump trailer at the shit end of the universe, what I felt was empty. None of it should have happened.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jamie said.

“In a minute.”

There was a message here somewhere, something about life and the living of it. I bent to take one last look at the face of a man I’d known since I was a kid. He died twisted and bitter. I felt something turn in my chest, and looked deep, but there was no forgiveness in me. Jamie was right. He was a shitty father, a bad man, and I doubted that he would have killed himself over the murder of his only son. There had to be more.

I found it in his left hand.

It was squeezed into his palm, a wad of newsprint, crumpled and damp. He’d been holding it between his hand and the vodka bottle. I pulled it from spread fingers and twisted it toward the light.

“What is it?”

I met Jamie’s eyes. “A notice of foreclosure.”

“Huh?”

“It’s for the land he bought on the river.” I riffled through the newspaper on the floor, found where he’d ripped it out. I checked the date, then balled the scrap back up, and replaced it in his hand. “Looks like his gamble didn’t pay off.”

“What do you mean?”

I took a last look at the crumpled husk of Zebulon Faith. “He just lost everything.”

We spent the next six hours slapping bugs and talking to stone-eyed men. Local cops responded first, then Grantham and Robin, in separate cars. They had no jurisdiction, but the locals let them stay when they learned about all the reasons they had an interest: murder, assault, arson, methamphetamines. That was real crime, hard-core stuff. But they would not let them talk to us. The locals had a body, here, now; so, the locals came first, and Grantham didn’t like it. He argued and he threatened, but it was not his jurisdiction. I felt his rage from across the clearing. This was the second body I’d called in. First the son, now the father. Grantham sensed something big, and he wanted me.

He wanted me now.

He cornered the lead investigator on three different occasions. He raised his voice and made violent arm movements. He threatened to make calls. Once, when it looked like the locals might back off, Robin intervened. I could not hear what was said, but Grantham’s color deepened, and when he spoke to her, there was little movement in him. The obvious frustration had been tamped down, contained, but I could feel the tension, the resentment, and his gaze was sharp on her back as she walked away.

The locals asked their questions and I gave my answers. We knocked. We opened the door. Bang. End of story.

Simple.

Drug enforcement rolled up just before noon. They looked sharp in matching jackets and would have been there sooner, but they got lost. Robin could hide neither her contempt nor her amusement. Nor could she hide her feelings toward me. She was angry, too. I saw it in her eyes, the line of her mouth, her stance. Everywhere. But it was a different kind of emotion, more personal, laced with hurt. As far as she was concerned, I’d crossed a line, and it had nothing to do with the law or the things I did. This was about the things I did not do. I did not call her. Did not trust her. And again, I had to face the dangers of that two-way street.

She’d made her choice. Now she had to wonder about mine.

So I watched Grantham stew as the sun rose higher and the locals ran the investigation as they saw fit. Cops moved in and out of the trailer. The medical examiner made his appearance, and the morning faded into heat and damp. They carried Zebulon Faith out in a dull, black body bag. I watched the long car disappear, and the day stretched on. None of the people who lived on the loop showed themselves. No bystanders. No flipped curtains. They kept their heads down and hid like squatters. I couldn’t blame them. Cops did not do community outreach in places like this. When they showed up, it was for a reason, and none of them were good.