Envy the Night

round right through the eye. I watched him die, and then I came back. For you.”

Devin didn’t speak. He had his lips parted, was sucking air in through his mouth in slow, audible breaths.

“He had a chance,” Frank said. “Hell, he had better than that. He was holding both of the guns. Wasn’t enough. But I’ll give you the same chance.”

“Yeah?”

“Go for the gun,” Frank said, nodding at the table. “I’ll let you get your hand on it. I’m going to give you that much.”

Devin just stared at him. Frank’s hand, so damn steady when he’d fired that bullet into AJ’s face, was beginning to tremble. He ran his thumb up and down the stock, took another step into the room.

Just shoot him. Quit the bullshit, quit talking, and just shoot him.

“Going to kill me?” Devin said.

“Yes. Unless you get that gun first. I told you, better move for it.”

“You have to wait until I’ve got the gun, is that it?”

“I’m giving you a chance.”

“Your dad,” Devin said, “wouldn’t have needed to wait.”

“I’m not my dad,” Frank said.

Devin smiled. It was a dying man’s smile, a look not of hopelessness but of disinterest, and Frank hated him for it. Hated him for being in this condition, so weak. He wanted him at full strength, wanted the best the prick had to offer, and then Frank would still be better than him. He’d be better, and he’d kill him, and it would be done, finally, it would be done.

“Get up!” Frank screamed. “Get up and go for the gun, you piece of shit!”

Again the smile, and Devin just shook his head. “Can’t reach it.”

Frank ran to the table and kicked its legs, upending it and spilling Devin’s gun to the floor. It hit a few feet away from him, slid to a stop almost within reach.

“Pick it up!”

Devin shook his head again, and this time Frank went for him. He hit him backhanded with the Smith & Wesson, caught the side of his skull, knocked him away from the wall and back to the floor. He let out a soft moan of pain but didn’t move, didn’t reach for the gun. Frank reached down with his free hand and caught Devin’s neck, dragged him upright, and then slammed his head into the wall, still screaming at him to pick up the gun. He banged his head off the wall again, and then a third time, and then he dropped to one knee and jammed the barrel of his father’s gun into Devin’s mouth.

It was then, down on his knee with his finger on the trigger, that he saw Devin was unconscious.

He let go of Devin’s neck and pulled the gun out of his mouth and Devin’s head fell onto his right shoulder and the torso went with it. He landed with his body bent awkwardly, one lip peeled back by the floor, a trace of blood showing in his mouth now.

Frank laid his fingers against Devin’s neck, felt the pulse there. He was not dead.

He got to his feet and stared down as Devin’s eyes fluttered but stayed closed. He took the gun and laid it against the back of Devin’s skull, held it there for a few seconds, feeling the trigger under his finger.

I’d find him and I’d kill him.

Damn right you would. Damn right. You’re a good boy. Check that—a good man.

It’s justified, Frank had told Ezra. It is already justified. And Ezra’s response? Bullshit, son. Not in a way you can accept it’s not, and you know that.

Devin made some sound, a muffled grunt, and stirred but did not wake. Frank moved the gun across the back of his head, traced a circle in Devin’s hair with the muzzle. He thought again of Nora, of the fear in her eyes as she’d looked at him, and then he pulled the gun back and walked away. He picked up the table and set it back where it belonged, beneath his grandfather’s posthumous Silver Star. He looked at the medal for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes to the gun in his hand, and he ejected the clip into his palm. He took Devin’s gun from the floor and emptied that clip as well, and then he walked into the kitchen and set both guns on the counter, put the clips into his pocket, and ran cold water onto a towel.

When he turned off the water he could hear a boat motor, and he stood at the sink with his head cocked and listened. Something small, and headed this way. He went to the window, looked out at the lake, and saw the aluminum boat approaching, Nora up front and Renee at the tiller. Not surprising that Renee had refused to go to the dam.

He slapped at Devin’s neck with the wet towel, then held it over his face and squeezed a trickle of cold water onto his forehead and cheeks. The eyes opened, swam, then focused on Frank.

“Get up,” Frank said. “Your wife’s coming.”

When they arrived, Devin was sitting up against the wall, Frank standing in the kitchen with his back against the counter, near the guns. Renee came through the door first, saw Frank and said, “If you—” but then her eyes found Devin and she stopped talking and turned from Frank and ran to her husband.

“Baby,” he said, and he reached for her with one arm as she fell to her knees in front of him, almost in the exact position Frank had taken when he put his father’s suicide gun in Devin’s mouth.

Nora stepped inside, stood in the doorway staring at Renee on the floor with Devin before she looked at Frank. Her eyes searched his, then flicked to the guns on the counter.

“They’re empty,” he said, and he pushed off the counter and walked into the living room. Renee turned at the sound of his approach, a protective motion, covering Devin with her body.

“Get him up,” Frank said, “and get out of here.”

“All right.”

“The keys to the van are inside it, I think. You’ve got to get him out there, though. I’m not helping. If I touch him again, I’m going to kill him.”

She just nodded.

Frank turned and walked outside, leaving the empty guns on the counter. Nora followed him, and a few minutes later Renee appeared, with Devin on his feet but leaning heavily against her. Frank and Nora stood together beside the cabin and watched as she got the van door open and got him inside.

“You’re letting them go,” Nora said.

He shook his head. “They aren’t going far. He’s got to get to a hospital. Anybody can see that.”

She didn’t answer. Renee slammed the van door shut and walked toward the driver’s door. She paused for a moment in front of the van and looked back at them.

“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Frank said, “You know what he does. You know what he is. So how the hell do you love him so clean?”

“Hon,” she said, “whoever said anything about it being clean?”

Frank looked away from her, out at the lake. He didn’t turn when the doors opened, didn’t turn when the engine started, didn’t turn when they drove up the gravel drive.

When the sound of the van had faded and they were alone, Nora said, “Is there a phone inside?”

“No.”

“Mine’s ruined. The water.”

“Yeah. Mine, too.”

“Where can we go to call the police?”

He waved toward the drive, and then they turned and started up it together, not speaking, stepping over puddles and through the mud. They were halfway to the main road when they heard the hum of an engine and the crunch of tires and Nora said, “Are they coming back?”

They weren’t coming back. It was a car, not a van, and when it slid to a stop and the door opened and Grady Morgan stood up and stared at them, all Frank could say was “You’re too late, Grady. Too late.”

Grady looked over his shoulder and then back at Frank. “Who was that? Who was in that van?”

“Devin Matteson and his wife,” Frank said.

“I can’t let them drive away from here.”

“Sure you can,” Frank said. “You never saw them. Didn’t know who it was. Didn’t ask me about it just