I nodded. 'Put your gloves back on. And wash those glasses.'
'You'll shoot him yourself?'
'That's right,' I said, backing toward the door. 'I'll shoot him myself.'
SONNY lived in a house trailer, a tiny one, set up on cinder blocks about three quarters of a mile down the road from Lou's. There were sawhorses littered about the front yard, covered with snow, and the side of the trailer had S. MAJOR, CARPENTER painted on it in large, black letters. Below that was written HIGH QUALITY, LOW PRICE. Sonny's car, an old, rusted, and badly battered Mustang, was wedged into a gap in the snowbank lining the road.
I parked Jacob's truck alongside the car and left the engine running. Mary Beth was sound asleep on the front seat; he barely even lifted his head when I climbed out. I jogged up the shoveled path to the trailer and, very quietly, tried the door. It was unlocked; it opened with a faint squeak.
I stepped up and in, crouching through the low doorway. The trailer was dark, and once inside I had to wait for half a minute, holding my breath, while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. I listened for sounds of movement around me, but there was nothing there.
I was in Sonny's kitchen. I could see a small counter-top, a sink, a stove. By the window there was a card table with three chairs. The place was dirty, cluttered, and smelled stalely of fried food. I unzipped my jacket, careful not to make too much noise, took out Nancy's robe, and draped it over one of the chairs. I set the lighter and the cigarettes on the table.
I took my time moving across the kitchen toward the rear of the trailer. I placed a foot, paused, shifted my weight forward, paused, placed my other foot, and continued this all the way into the adjoining room, listening every instant for sounds of Sonny stirring.
The next room was a tiny sitting area -- a couch, a coffee table, a TV set. I took out Nancy's lipstick and tossed it onto the couch. From where I was standing I could see, through an open doorway, the foot of Sonny's bed. Sonny was lying there. I could see the shape of his legs beneath the gray whiteness of the sheets.
I listened very closely, holding my body still, and, barely, made out the sound of his breathing. It was soft and low, just this side of a snore. He was sleeping deeply.
'Sonny,' I called, my voice echoing against the trailer's walls. 'Sonny!'
I heard an abrupt movement through the doorway, skin sliding across sheets. The legs pulled up and out of sight. I took a heavy step toward the bedroom.
'Sonny,' I called. 'It's Hank Mitchell. I need your help.'
'Hank?' a voice came back. It was thick with sleep but a little edgy, too, a little scared.
I took another heavy step. A light came on in the bedroom, and, a second later, Sonny appeared through the doorway. He was a small man, wiry and stunted, like a little elf. He had brown, shoulder-length hair. He was naked except for a pair of white underpants, and in the dim light his skin looked pale, soft, like it'd be easy to bruise.
'Jesus, Hank,' he said. 'You scared the hell out of me.' He was holding a screwdriver. It was clenched in his right fist, like a knife.
'Jacob's hurt,' I said. 'He's puking blood.'
Sonny gave me a blank look.
'We were drinking at Lou's, and he started puking blood.'
'Blood?'
I nodded. 'Now he's passed out.'
'You want me to call an ambulance?'
'It'll be quicker if I bring him in myself. I just need you to help me lift him into the truck. Lou's too drunk to do it.'
Sonny gave his eyes several rapid, exaggerated blinks, as if to clear them of tears. He stared for a moment at the screwdriver in his hand, then glanced around him, looking for a place to set it down. I could see that he wasn't really awake yet.
'Sonny,' I said, forcing a note of panic into my voice. 'We have to hurry. He's bleeding inside.'
Sonny stared down at his underpants. He seemed surprised to be wearing them. 'I have to put on some clothes.'
'I've got to get back,' I said. 'You run over when you're dressed.'
Without waiting for his answer, I turned and sprinted toward the front of the trailer. I ran outside and down the walk. I climbed into the truck and was just about to reverse it back up the road to Lou's when I saw Mary Beth sitting in the middle of Sonny's front yard. I opened my door and leaned out into the night. 'Mary Beth,' I whispered.
The dog sat up straight, ears erect.
'Come on.' I made a clicking sound with my tongue.
The dog wagged his tail in the snow.
'Get in the truck,' I pleaded.
He didn't move. I tried to whistle, but my lips were too cold. The dog stared at me.
I called his name one more time. Then I slammed shut the door and sped back up the road.
WHEN I got to Lou's, I found Jacob exactly as I'd left him. He was sitting on the leather couch, his hands still gloveless, sipping from his glass of whiskey.
I stood in the entranceway for a good ten seconds, absorbing the scene. He'd taken off his boots, too.
'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' I asked.
He looked up at me, startled. 'What?' he said. He hadn't heard me come in.
'You were supposed to wash those glasses.'
He held his glass up and stared into it. It was half full. 'I wanted to wait till I finished.'
'And I told you to put on your gloves, Jacob. You're leaving fingerprints.'
He set his glass down on the coffee table. He wiped his hands on his pants, then glanced around the room for his gloves.
'We've got to clean up,' I said. 'It has to look like we weren't even here.'
He found his gloves tucked inside his jacket pockets. He took them out and put them on.
'Your boots, too.'
He bent forward to pull on his boots. 'I can't tie them with my gloves on.'
I waved my hand in the air. 'Then take them off. We're running out of time.'
He took off his gloves, tied his boots, put his gloves back on. When he finished, he rose to his feet, picked up the glasses from the table, and started off toward the kitchen.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
He stopped halfway across the room, blinking at me. 'You told me to wash the glasses.'
I shook my head. 'Later. Sonny'll be here any second.' I went over to the foot of the stairs and picked up Lou's shotgun. 'Where does he keep his extra shells?'
Jacob stood there with the glasses held out in front of him. 'In the garage.'
'Come on. Show me.'
He set the glasses down on the coffee table with a little clinking sound, then followed me out to the garage. There was an open cabinet there, just beyond the doorway, and on its floor was a cardboard box full of shells. I had Jacob show me how to load them into the gun. It held five shells in all. You had to pump a new one into the chamber each time you fired. I emptied the box of shells into my right-hand jacket pocket, and we went back inside.
When we got to the entranceway, I picked up my brother's rifle and held it out toward him. 'Here,' I said. 'Take this.'
Jacob didn't move. He stood there, about five feet from Lou's body, and stared at the rifle. He seemed undecided as to what he should do. 'You told me you were going to shoot him.'
I stepped forward, shaking the rifle. 'Come on. You're just going to point it at him. We have to use Lou's gun to shoot him.'
