Philipp Meyer - American Rust

He looked out over the dark woods and the river in the distance, it was a good spot he had chosen, you could see all the way down the Valley. Many good years, more than anyone deserved, it was time to do what was best for the others. For his family. As he thought this the land seemed to fall away, he was on a high ledge, there was a wall of stars and sky in front of him. He had never seen anything like it. The air was so clear. With his last bit of energy, before he fell asleep, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and began to feel warm.

He parked his truck around the corner from the first address. The grass in the small front yard was cut but in the rear of the house the lot was badly overgrown. A large willow tree hung over the yard and there was the shell of an ancient Oldsmobile and a wheelless farm tractor, strangely out of place in the small backyard. A refrigerator sat on the back porch, humming noisily, and the roof of the porch sagged so low it nearly blocked the door to the house. Harris discerned only one person inside and he stayed in the shadows and made his way through the waist-high brush trying to avoid debris that was hidden in the grass. He went through the back door. In the living room an old woman was lying on a narrow bed with an oxygen tank stood up next to her. He put his gun away.

“Where's Murray,” he said to her.

“He ain't here,” she said. “He don't have any money, neither.”

They looked at each other.

“Been laid off three years,” she said. “You ain't gonna get nothing from him.”

— —

Several hours after dark he was in a different neighborhood, sitting on an empty bucket in an abandoned house. As far as he could tell, the houses on this end of the street were all empty — the grass was tall in all the yards, except for a clear path beaten through that led from the street to the porch of the house he had his eye on. At the far end of the block there were two houses with their porch lights on, but aside from that there was no sign of habitation. At midnight a few deer strolled down the street, it was strange to see them walking on pavement, browsing on bushes, then they filed between the house he was sitting in and the house he was watching. They didn't spook or notice his presence and he took it for a good omen.

He was wearing gloves and a watch cap but he was beginning to get cold and hungry. Around three A.M., a pair of men went into the house he'd been watching and he was pretty sure one of them was Murray. The electricity must have been off because they were lighting candles and building up a fire in a fireplace. Shortly after that, one of the men went into another room and lay down. It wasn't the best situation, two men being there, he wondered if he should wait until he could get Murray alone but there was no telling what would happen, Murray Clark might up and disappear at any minute, come back for the trial.

He watched for another half hour and decided the second man was asleep.

He opened and closed the revolver's cylinder and checked his.45 to make sure there was a round chambered, there was a faint glow from the night sights. At least you can see your sights, he thought, it was comforting, he was happy he'd gotten those sights installed, it was Ho who'd made him do it, gun's no good if you can't see your sights, those were not things Harris worried about. It had always seemed like bad luck to think about those things too much, about the particulars of your weapons, it was like looking for an excuse to use the weapon. The best way into this house was from the back, past the bedroom where the second man was sleeping now.

The steps creaked slightly but he froze for a long time and didn't hear anything. He opened the back door very slowly and made his way inside, through a kitchen, there was junk and boxes piled everywhere, construction debris, a long hallway to the front room. As he made his way down the hallway, someone said, “That you, Jesús?”

He took a few quick steps and he was into the living room holding on to the gun in his coat pocket, there were two old couches and candles stuck in beer bottles.

There was a man in his forties sitting on the sofa. There were circles under his eyes and he hadn't shaved in a long time.

“Murray,” said Harris.

“You look familiar,” said Murray. He peered at Harris's face under the watch cap. “Chief Harris?”

Harris took the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Murray. Murray put his hands up.

“Whoa,” he said. “You got the wrong guy, Chief.”

“You need to leave this valley,” Harris heard himself say. He had a distant awareness that his finger had come to rest on the trigger.

“Sure,” said Murray. “Anything you say.”

“If anyone tells me they even saw you in this state they're gonna find you in the river. I find out you've been talking to that DA in Uniontown anymore, same thing.”

“I'm gone,” said Murray, but then he made a strange gesture and Harris felt someone behind him and he knew it was either turn around or pull the trigger. He pulled the trigger. The gun went off and Murray knuckled over on the couch. Someone tackled Harris from behind, sending them both crashing into the wall. He tried to roll the man off but he was pinned on his stomach with the man on top of him, there was a peculiar feeling, he was being punched in the ribs but it hurt more; the man was stabbing him but having a hard time getting through his vest. Then he dropped his knife and went for Harris's gun. Both of his hands were pinning the revolver to the floor and working it out of Harris's right hand. Harris's other gun was in his rear waistband and he was arching his back trying to get at it left- handed, the grip was facing the wrong way, the man broke something in Harris's hand, Harris heard the noise but barely noticed, he was focusing on getting each finger of his left hand closed around the grip of his automatic, the man got control of the revolver just as Harris got the.45 free and cleared the safety with his index finger and crammed the muzzle into the tangle of hair behind the man's ear. He was faintly aware of the gun going off, saw the shell casing bounce off the wall next to him. Murray stumbled past and Harris shot him through the pelvis; Murray made it through the door and was gone.

The room was dark with only the flickering light from the candle; he rolled out from under the dead man and ran out onto the porch after Murray half deaf; the.45 had gone off right next to his head. He couldn't hear his own footsteps, it felt like his ears were clogged.

The street was pitch black and his heart sank — there was nothing. He raised the gun in his left hand and scanned closely fumbling in his pocket for the flashlight, looking for anything moving, there — something there in the brush at twenty or twenty- five yards, he got his light out and worked it with his mostly broken hand and saw Murray, crouched over and limping through the undergrowth; when the light hit him he froze. Harris made a small adjustment to his sights and shot him between the shoulderblades. Then he fired a second careful shot.

When Harris caught up to him Murray was on his hands and knees, as if praying to someone Harris couldn't see. He seemed to have no idea he wasn't alone and after a few seconds he sank slowly into the tall grass, not moving again. Harris's hands were shaking; he tried to reholster his gun, but couldn't.

He stayed in the shadows on the way back to his truck, a two- block walk. He couldn't get his head clear, all he could think was Keep Moving. Should have gotten their wallets, make this look like something else. Too late. His right hand was broken and throbbing. There was one shell casing in the house or maybe it was two and then a few more on the porch — he couldn't remember how many shots he'd fired. It was too dark to find the shell casings. The revolver was still in there as well — had his gloves come off? No. Is your hat still on? He checked. Yes.