one of the few things I truly remembered about him. He said, you do what’s right because it’s right and you don’t need a reason.
Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
I wondered if dad was thinking that way when he put the gun in his mouth.
Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
I got back to Jim Bob’s feeling small enough to walk under a snail’s belly on stilts, and when I went inside, Jim Bob said, “Your wife’s on the phone. She sounds a little distressed. She’s been holding for you till you got back.”
“Thanks,” I said. I started for the phone. Jim Bob reached out and took me by the shoulder.
“Dane, you got a problem at home, you go home and take care of it. This ain’t your business. Not really. You’re a frame builder from LaBorde, Texas, not a shootist.”
“That’s what Ann says.”
I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Richard,” Ann said, “I think you’re a big, dumb, foolish sonofabitch that’s seen too many John Wayne movies and read too many cowboy books, but I’ll be waiting. You do what you got to do, damnit. And please, please, be careful and don’t get yourself killed. Jordan and I love you.”
“Love you too,” I said.
When I hung up, I turned to Russel and Jim Bob. “I’m going to need a gun too,” I said. “I’m in. All the way.”
40
“Barring some unforeseen circumstance,” Jim Bob said, “I’m willing to bet Freddy’s routine stays pretty much the same, day in and day out. Off to work at six-thirty-five, back from work just before eight. Except maybe the weekends. But we’re not going to wait that long. We’re going to do it tomorrow.”
It was later that night and we were sitting at Jim Bob’s table drinking coffee and eating cookies. He’d had them all along, they were just well hidden.
“I want to give you one more chance to get out, Dane,” Jim Bob said.
“Take it,” Russel said. “You got what I wish I’d kept. A wife and a son and you’re a good father.”
“I’m not so sure about the good father part,” I said. “I always feel like I’m fucking up.”
“Comparing yourself to me,” he said, “you’re as good a father as they come.”
“You had nothing to do with Freddy turning out to be a monster,” I said.
“Once he was a little kid playing in the floor with a toy truck,” Russel said. “He was like any other kid then. There was no monster in him.”
“It’s all moot now,” Jim Bob said. “You in or out, Dane? Now’s the time to put your cards on the table. Be sure.”
“I said I was in, and I’m in.”
“All right. We keep it simple. No hiding out. That would just give us time to be seen by someone. We’ll take the truck. I’ll put the camper on it, and I’ve got some putty that looks like mud. I can dab that over the license plates so they can’t be made by some alert citizen. I’ve also got some light blue tape striping, and we’ll put that down the sides of the truck. And we’ll put a big hood ornament on it. When we get finished, after we do the job, I mean, we’ll come back here and get rid of the tape and the putty and the ornament, and we’ll take the camper off.”
“I know we’re going to kill them,” I said, “but what’s the plan? Do we drive by in the truck and start firing at them?”
“No. That ain’t certain enough,” Jim Bob said. “When they slow down to go up the little hump that leads into Freddy’s driveway, “we’ll be in motion. We’ll pull up at the curb and jump out and shoot at them through the windows. They won’t be in a good position to do much fighting back. It’s the perfect time.”
“And if the windows are rolled up?” I asked.
“Shoot through the windows, Dane,” Russel said. “Bullets break glass.”
“Oh.” Some killer I was. That hadn’t occurred to me.
“Thing for us to do now,” Jim Bob said, “is go to bed, sleep late, fix up the truck tomorrow and drive over there and wait. And then do it.”
· · ·
That night I dreamed I was standing at one end of a dusty street wearing Roy Rogers garb, lots of fringe and a white hat, and a two-holstered gun belt sporting pearl-handled revolvers. At the other end of the street was Freddy. He was wearing the suit he’d been wearing at the video store. He didn’t have a gun belt. The Mexican was off to the side holding his horse for him. The horse was the color of the Chevy Nova. Both Freddy and the Mexican were smiling. I started walking. Freddy started walking, and the closer he got to me the taller he got, until he was way up there with his head in the clouds. I pulled my revolvers, quick as the wind, as they say in Western movies, and I lifted them up and started blasting away, and Freddy leaned down from the clouds and his face came closer and closer to the ground and my bullets speckled his flesh like peppercorns, but it wasn’t bothering him. He was smiling. And his eyes were as cold as the arctic wastelands. He reached out with his hands, which had become gigantic, and took me in them and began to wad me into a ball. Great gouts of blood shot out from between his fingers.
I sat up sweating. I put my back against the baseboard and wished I smoke d.
The bedroom door opened. It was Russel.
“You screamed,” he said.
“I did?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“Fine. Nightmare.”
“I have a lot of them.”
“And after tomorrow?”
“I’ll have a lot more, I guess. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m all right.”
“Well, goodnight, son,” Russel said and went out.
I almost said, “Goodnight, Dad.”
41
I awoke about eleven to find Russel and Jim Bob out in the garage applying putty to the license plates of the truck. The camper and hood ornament and stripes were already on it.
“What a day I’ve had,” I said.
“Yes sir,” Jim Bob said, “worked your little fingers right down to the bone. We’re gonna grab a sandwich in a minute.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Not now,” Russel said, and he smiled at me.
After we ate our sandwiches, Jim Bob opened a drawer in the kitchen and took out the guns he and Russel had chosen. He put them on the kitchen table and went out to the Bitch and got the sawed-off and the little ankle holster with the revolver in it. He went upstairs then and came back down with the Ithaca 12-gauge, a. 45 automatic and a Western style. 44. He also brought down a gun cleaning kit and several boxes of ammunition.
“Okay,” Jim Bob said to me, “I’m gonna suggest you take the Ithaca. You’re not used to shooting guns, and this one is very light and you can hit what you’re shooting at without being a good shot. Just in case you need a backup, take one of the handguns.”
I picked up the. 44. Guess Ann was right, too many John Wayne movies and cowboys books. It was in a
