All of us were quiet.
It was a big handgun, a long-barreled revolver with a tarnished nickel plating. Brett held it in front of him at chest level in his right hand. He looked awkward, as if he wasn't used to a handgun. Lots of seventeen-year-old kids aren't. His elbow was bent and held close to his side and he had to cock his wrist forward to keep the gun level. He was hunched forward over the weapon, his head extended on his fat neck. From where I sat the gun looked bigger than a .38. Maybe a .44.
Brett said, 'You bastard, you get out of here. You leave me and my mother alone.'
I said, 'Brett, unless you've got some experience with handguns there's a pretty good chance that you won't hit me if you shoot from there.'
'Bastard,' Brett said.
Caroline said, 'Brett, where did you get that?'
That didn't seem the most important issue to me.
'I got it,' Brett said. He was still looking at me, red-faced and wheezy, hunched fatly over the old revolver.
'Put it down, right now,' Caroline said.
I edged my feet under me behind the coffee table.
'Now, Brett,' Caroline said.
'It's mine,' Brett said. But the edge in his voice had dulled.
'Now,' Caroline said.
Brett looked away from me.
'Now.'
He lowered the gun. Caroline reached out and took it by the barrel. They stood motionless for a moment, he holding the butt, she the barrel. Then he let go of the gun and Caroline took it, holding it by the barrel.
I stood and stepped across the living room and took the gun. Brett had his head down, his arms at his sides.
'Everything's going to be spoiled,' he said. I looked at the gun. It was an old Navy Colt with a palm-worn walnut handle. And it wasn't a .44. It was a .41. His mother's question took on more weight.
'Where'd you get the gun, Brett?' I said. He shook his lowered head.
'Is it one of your husband's?' I said to Caroline.
She shook her head. 'I've never seen it. I turned all of Bailey's guns in to Henry Macintire after the funeral. I don't want Brett having anything to do with guns.'
I said, 'It's a forty-one caliber. Same caliber that killed your husband. It's a very uncommon caliber.' I opened the cylinder. It held four slugs. 'Where'd you get the gun, Brett?'
'I found it,' he said. He was still staring at the floor.
Caroline's eyes were wide. 'What are you saying,' she said.
'I'm saying this might be the gun that killed your husband.'
'That's ridiculous,' she said. 'There must be thousands of guns like that.'
'There are no forty-one-caliber handguns registered in the state,' I said.
'For God's sakes; what does that prove, Brett wouldn't kill his own father.'
'I'm sure he wouldn't,' I said. 'And this gun doesn't prove he did, but I sure would like to know where he got it.'
'I found it,' Brett said.
'Where,' I said.
'On the ground.'
'Where on the ground.' I had stepped closer to him.
'Near the library.'
'In the snow?'
'Yah.'
'So how come there's no rust where the nickel's worn?'
'I dunno.'
Brett's voice got softer with each response and his gaze stayed unvaryingly on the blue and red braided rug on the living room floor.
'I think you're lying, Brett,' I said.
'No.'
'Yes, you're lying.'
Brett began to snuffle. 'Am not,' he said.
