Hall whimpered, “Kyle. Please. Take all the money. I have more. Millions. It’s all yours. Just let me go.”
“I sentenced you then to a slow and painful death.” Swanson took a sip of coffee from his thermos, then bit into the sharp cheese. He sat, chewing, and stared at Jim Hall, the fire warm on his face.
Hall whimpered, “I’ll do whatever you want, Kyle. Just let me live.” He began to cry.
“I’m all out of words, Jim.” He took another sip of coffee, another bite of cheese, and wrapped the blanket tighter around him, his empty eyes watching the burning cash. Kyle Swanson felt nothing for the man bleeding to death in the snow. He adjusted the hood of his parka. The snow was starting to fall heavier, and a stiff breeze was picking up.
He waited as more blood oozed out of the wounds with every heartbeat, and new snow kept covering the angry crimson stain, as if trying to erase what was happening. Within minutes, Jim Hall’s eyes fluttered and closed as he fell unconscious. Kyle waited a while longer before standing up, moving to the body, and kneeling beside it. He removed a glove and felt for a pulse, finding none.
Standing up, he took out the heavy pistol once again, aimed carefully, and put a 9 mm bullet right between the eyes. The body jumped with the impact. The job was done, his pledge fulfilled.
Kyle Swanson looked straight up into the falling snow. He just wanted the flakes to wash over him and the cold wind to take him away, to fly him through that steel-gray sky. The pistol in his hand was the ticket that could take him away from all of this. One more squeeze of the trigger was all that would be required. He stood like a statue, not a muscle moving, for several minutes, and eventually a fragment of the Robert Frost poem swam into his thoughts:
He sighed heavily.
Jack Coughlin
Donald A. Davis
