John Hart - Down River

I left the door open, backed along the side of the car, feeling for the loose trunk. I got a finger under the metal and lifted. It rose in silence and I risked a glance inside. The gun pointed in, barrel first. My hand closed around the stock. Eyes on the dogs.

The gun came out, smooth and slick. I cracked the barrel to check the loads. Empty. Damn. Jamie must have unloaded it.

I looked at the porch. One dog was still muzzle-down, but the big one stared at me, unmoving. I risked a glance in the trunk. The box of shells was on the far side, tipped over, still closed. I stretched for it, lost my view of the porch. The stock clanged against the car and my fingers closed on the box. I straightened, anticipating the hard silent rush, but the dog was still on the porch. He blinked, and the painted tongue spilled out.

I fumbled at the lid, opened the box. Smooth, plastic shells. Brass caps bright against the red. I got two between my fingers and slipped them in, eased the gun closed, flipped the safety off. And just like that, the dynamic changed.

That was the thing about guns.

I put shoulder to stock and made for the porch, checking the far corners for other dogs. More than three dogs in the pack. The others had to be somewhere.

Ten feet, then eight.

The alpha dog lowered its head. Lips rippled, black and shiny on the inside, jaws two inches apart. The growl rumbled in its throat, grew louder so that the other dog looked up and joined in; both of them, teeth bared. The big one stepped closer and hair rose on my neck. Primal, that sound. I heard my father’s words: Only a matter of time before they find a streak of bold.

Another step. Close now. Close enough to see the floor.

The pool of blood spread wide and deep, so dark it could pass for black. It was smeared where they’d licked it, stepped in it, but parts of it were smooth, like paint cut with fine lines where it slipped between the boards. From the pool to the front door I could see drag marks and bloody handprints.

Blood on the door.

But this was not a dog attack. I knew that at a glance. It was the way the blood pooled, how it had already turned as tacky as glue.

Scavengers, I told myself. Nothing more.

I angled to the side of the steps and the dogs tracked every step, shoulders hunched, heads low. I gave them plenty of room, but they did not move. We froze like that. Gun up, teeth bared.

Then the alpha dog flowed down the stairs and across the yard. He stopped once and seemed to grin, and the other dog joined him. They loped over the grass and disappeared into the trees.

I mounted the steps, still watching for the dogs, and crossed the porch as quietly as I could. The smell of copper filled my nose, bloody paw prints streaked the floor. I turned the knob slowly, pushed the door with a fingertip.

Grace curled on the floor, blood around her, black dress dark and wet with it. She clutched her stomach. Her feet pushed feebly against the floor, church shoes slipping in the fine, red film. Blood welled from between her fingers. I followed her eyes.

Miriam sat on the edge of a white chair across the room, facing Grace. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hair hanging over her face. The gun dangled from her right hand, a small automatic, something blue and oiled. I stepped into the room, pointed the 12 at Miriam. She straightened, flicked the hair from her face, and pointed the pistol at Grace. “She took him from me,” Miriam said.

“Put the gun down.”

“We were going to be married.” She paused, scrubbed away tears. “He loved me.” She jabbed with the gun. “Not her. That bitch aunt was lying.”

“I’ll listen, Miriam. I want to listen to everything. But put the gun down first.”

“No.”

“Miriam-”

“No!” she screamed. “You put it down!”

“He used you, Miriam.”

“Put it down!”

I took another step. “I can’t do that.”

“I’ll put the next one in her chest.”

I looked at Grace: the slick, red fingers, the agony in her blued-out face. She shook her head, made a wordless sound. I lowered the gun, put it on the table, and held out my hands. “I’m going to help her,” I said, and knelt next to Grace. I took off my jacket, folded it over the stomach wound, and told her to push. Pain burned in her eyes. She groaned as she pushed. I kept my hand on hers.

“She’s nothing special,” Miriam said.

“She needs a doctor.”

Miriam stood. “Let her die.”

“You’re not a killer,” I said, and realized immediately that I was wrong. It was the way her eyes glittered, sparks of crazy light. “Oh, my God.”

I saw it all.

“Danny broke up with you.”

“Shut up.”

“He was breaking up with all of his girlfriends. He wanted to marry Grace.”

“Shut up!” Miriam yelled, stepping closer.

“He used you, Miriam.”

“Shut up, Adam.”

“And Gray Wilson-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” All but incoherent. Rising to a scream. Then the pistol jumped in her hand. One slug tore into the floor, peeled back bright, white splinters. The other struck my leg, and pain exploded through me. I hit the floor next to Grace, hands clutching the wound. Miriam dropped beside me, face twisted with worry and wild regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fast and loud. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

I struggled to pull off my belt. Blood jetted onto the floor before I got the belt around my leg. The flow diminished. The pain did not.

“Are you okay?” Miriam asked.

“Jesus…” Agony rifled through me, hot, acid spikes of it. Miriam found her feet. She paced rapid circles, the gun in agitated motion, black eye spinning away from me and then back. I watched it anxiously, waiting for it to wink red.

The pacing slowed, the color fell out of Miriam’s face. “The things Danny did to me. The way he made me feel.” She nodded. “He loved me. He had to have loved me.”

I couldn’t help myself. “He loved lots of women. That’s who he was.”

“No!” An angry scream. “He bought me a ring. He said he needed money. A lot of money. He wouldn’t say what it was for, but I knew. A woman can tell. So, I loaned it to him. What else would he use it for? He bought a ring. A fine, forever ring. He was going to surprise me.” She nodded again. “I knew.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Thirty thousand dollars.”

She froze. “How could you know that?” Her face twisted. “He told you?”

“He used it to pay off a gambling debt. He didn’t love you, Miriam. Grace did nothing wrong. She didn’t even want Danny.”

“Oh! She’s so fucking special.” Something flooded into Miriam’s face, a new awareness. “You think you know everything,” she said. “Think you’re so damn smart? You know nothing. Nothing!” She paused, suddenly crying. Bewildered. She rocked from foot to foot. “Daddy loves her more.”

“What…?”

“More than you!” Her voice trailed off. “More than me…” She rocked again, tapped the gun against her head the way that Zebulon Faith had.

A voice came from the open door. “That’s not true, Miriam.” It was my father. I’d not heard his approach. He filled the door, wearing muddy snake-boots and thornproof pants. He held the rifle low, but pointed at Miriam. His face was gray under the tan, his finger inside the trigger guard. When Miriam saw him, she jerked, pointed the gun at Grace again. The tears welled harder.

“Daddy…” she said.

“It’s not true,” my father repeated. “I’ve always loved you.”

“But not like her,” Miriam said. “Never like her.”

My father stepped into the room. He looked at Grace, then at Miriam. He did not deny it again.