He hesitated. Then he reached out and took the rifle from me.
I went over to the front door, cracked it open, and peered outside toward Sonny's trailer. It was all lit up now.
'I'm going to wait for him on the porch,' I said. 'You stand in here. When you hear us talking, step outside and point your rifle at him. Don't say anything, and don't let him see inside. Just stand there and point the gun at him.'
Jacob nodded.
I stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind me.
IT WAS another minute or so before I heard Sonny's car start. It revved twice; then the headlights flicked on, and it shot out onto the road, made a tight U-turn, and sped toward me. He parked at the top of the driveway, right next to the garage, shut off the engine, and came sprinting up the walk. He was almost to the door before he saw me standing there, waiting for him.
'Where is he?' he asked, out of breath. He was wearing a light brown winter parka with a big, fur-lined hood on it. His hair was still uncombed. He glanced down at the gun in my arms, then touched the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. They were watering from the cold. He stepped up onto the porch. With the door closed, the house looked perfectly normal. You couldn't tell what had happened.
'I had to--' Sonny started, but then, hearing the front door begin to open, he stopped. Jacob appeared through a crack in the doorway.
'You're all right?' Sonny asked, surprised.
Jacob didn't answer him. He squeezed his body out onto the porch and shut the door. Then he raised his rifle until it was pointing at the center of Sonny's chest. I stepped down onto the walk, in case Sonny tried to run back toward his car.
Sonny stared at Jacob's rifle for a moment. Then he glanced back toward me.
'Hank?' he said. He still hadn't caught his breath. He touched his eyes again.
I raised the shotgun until it was pointing at his stomach. The gun felt heavy in my hands, and its weight gave me a sudden sense of power. It felt exactly like it ought to, dense, potent, like something capable of killing.
'What the fuck, Hank?' he said. 'You think this is funny?'
'Take off your jacket,' I said. I kept my voice very quiet.
He just stared at me.
'Come on, Sonny. Take it off.'
He glanced from me to Jacob, then back to me again. He started to smile, but only got halfway. 'This isn't funny, Hank. You woke me up.'
I took a step forward and raised the gun until it was right in front of his face. 'Do it,' I said firmly.
Sonny's hands started to stray toward the zipper of his jacket. Then they stopped and fell back to his sides.
'Sonny,' I said. 'This is very important to me. I don't want to hurt you.'
He glanced back at Jacob; then he looked for a bit into the barrel of the shotgun. 'You woke me up,' he said again.
I took another step forward. I touched the gun's barrel against his forehead. 'Take off your jacket, Sonny.'
He stepped back, staring at me. I tried to make my face into a stone, and, after a moment, it worked. He unzipped his jacket. Beneath it, he was wearing a blue flannel shirt and jeans.
'Take it,' I said to Jacob.
Jacob stepped forward and took the jacket from Sonny. He folded it carefully over his arm. Sonny watched him do this. I watched Sonny.
'Now your boots,' I said.
Sonny hesitated for about five seconds. Then he crouched down and took off his boots. He wasn't wearing any socks. His feet were small and bony, like a monkey's.
'The boots,' I said to Jacob.
Jacob picked up Sonny's boots.
'Your shirt,' I said.
Sonny tried out a little laugh. 'Come on, Hank. Enough's enough. It's cold out.' He wrapped his arms around his chest, glanced back at my brother. 'Jacob?' he said. Jacob looked away.
'Take off your shirt, Sonny,' I said.
He shook his head. 'This is fucked, Hank. This isn't funny at all.'
I stepped forward and hit him in the mouth with the shotgun. It was the strangest thing -- I didn't consciously will it, it simply happened. I'd never struck anyone before in my life. Sonny took a step backward, but he neither fell down nor cried out. He gave me a dazed, vacant look.
'What?' he asked. His mouth was bleeding. He put his hand up to it and shut his eyes. He still seemed, on some level, to think that this was some sort of practical joke. When he opened his eyes, he looked at me as if he were expecting me to smile, to say that it was all right, that we were just fooling around.
'Take off your shirt,' I said.
He took off his shirt and dropped it to the ground.
'Your pants.'
'No, Hank,' he started to plead.
Without thinking, I hit him again, this time in the side of the head. He fell to one knee. He rested there a moment, then got back up on his feet.
'Do it.'
Sonny looked from me to Jacob. We were both pointing our guns at his chest. He took off his jeans.
'Your underpants,' I said.
He shook his head. 'This isn't a joke anymore, Hank. You've taken this too far.' He was shivering now, from the cold, his whole body trembling.
'Don't talk, Sonny. If you talk, I'm going to hit you again.'
He didn't say anything.
'Your underpants,' I said.
He didn't move.
I lifted the shotgun until it was level with his face. 'I'm going to count to three. When I get to three, I'm going to shoot.'
He still didn't move.
'One.'
He glanced at Jacob. Jacob's hands were shaking so much that his rifle quivered in the air.
'Two.'
'You're not going to shoot me, Hank,' Sonny said. His voice came out raspy and unsure.
I paused but saw no way out. 'Three.'
Sonny didn't move.
I tightened my grip on the gun, aimed down the barrel at his face. 'I don't want to do this, Sonny,' I said. He was ruining my plan.
Sonny just stared at me. With each passing second he was gaining confidence. 'Put the gun down,' he whispered.
But then I had a revelation. I could shoot him here, I realized, he was undressed enough. It would look just as good: Lou discovered them, shot Nancy in her bed, then chased Sonny downstairs and killed him by the front door. It had the disorderly verisimilitude of reality.
I gave him one more chance. 'Take them off,' I said. My finger brushed lightly against the gun's trigger.
Sonny watched me, and his confidence seemed to waver. He licked at the blood on his lip. 'What's this about, Hank?'
