Blackburn

was carrying his Remington pump twelve-gauge. He pumped it once, snapping a shell into the firing chamber.

Blackburn remembered lying in his tiny pantry room, reading a comic book, and hearing that sound outside. He remembered the explosion, and the shriek. He remembered running outside and going into the garage. He remembered finding the terrier hiding behind a pile of Dad's shop rags.

He hadn't understood what was wrong until the little dog had stood up. Then he had seen that its left side had no skin. The dog had come to him, trembling.

Now Dad was aiming at Dog. Again. And now Blackburn was fully ready to kill him. But he had left the Python in the car. Jasmine had distracted him, had made him stupid.

He grabbed the shotgun barrel with both hands, jerking it upward. As he wrenched the weapon from the old man's grasp, it roared with a flash of blue fire. Ceiling plaster exploded. Dog tried to scramble outside and ran into the base of the storm door. Jasmine backed against a wall and covered her ears. Dad collapsed onto the couch.

Blackburn went to the door and let Dog out. Then he pumped the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell, and fired upward again. He continued pumping and firing until the magazine was empty. The air filled with white dust and stank like the Fourth of July. Blackburn's skull rang.

He threw the shotgun at his father. The old man ducked, and the gun hit the wall and fell behind the couch.

'You don't kill a man or a dog with quail shot!' Blackburn yelled. He could hardly hear himself, so he yelled even louder. 'You do it with a bullet! One bullet to the head!'

Dad sat up straight. 'Damn dog was pissing on my floor!'

Blackburn came close and leaned over him. 'Piss doesn't matter. Chickens don't matter. Dogs matter.'

Dad looked confused. 'You're crazy,' he said. 'I raised a goddamn crazy man.'

Jasmine, her face pale with dust, stepped across the broken plaster. 'He's talking about that terrier,' she said.

The noise in Blackburn's skull was starting to subside. 'Yeah,' he said. 'That terrier.'

Dad lurched up from the couch. 'Gonna call the sheriff.'

Blackburn caught his arm. 'I cut the wire. We never had much quality time when I was little, so I thought we should have some now.'

The old man's eyes were as steady as a snake's. 'If you'd turned out to be worth a crap, I'd've done it then.'

Blackburn tightened his grip. 'You never did know much about 'worth.' You thought the chickens were 'worth' something, but all they did was shit and eat. That little dog, on the other hand, killed rats. One bite through the head, and then he went for the next one. And then the next. But one day he happened to kill a couple of chickens. Two stupid chickens. So you took your shotgun and blew a hole in his side. Blew a big hole. Very psychosexual, Daddy. Very Freudian.'

'Your mother overprotected you,' Dad said. 'You always were a sissy.'

'I made him lie down on the garage floor,' Blackburn said. 'And then all I could find to help him was a hammer. Afterward I wrapped him in shop rags and buried him behind the chicken coop. I hoped he would haunt you.'

The old man made a snorting noise. 'Am I supposed to feel guilty? Is that why you came back?'

Blackburn smiled. 'Not exactly. See, I've figured it out: It wasn't just that dog. It was everything. Every time I got to liking something, you'd blow a big hole in it. Kill it. But what you really wanted to kill was me.'

Jasmine tried to step between them. 'That's not so, Jimmy. You're his son.'

She had grown breasts and gone to college, but Jasmine was still as dumb as a dirt clod. 'Sure I'm his son,' Blackburn said. 'That's why he did it.' He fixed his eyes on the old man's. 'And that's why I've come back.'

He released Dad's arm, and the old man ran into the kitchen.

Blackburn started after him. He glanced back at Jasmine. 'Very psychosexual,' he said. 'Very Freudian.' He followed Dad into the kitchen and out the back door.

Dad scuttled under the sheets on the clothesline, then ran across the backyard and through the windbreak of evergreens on the north. Blackburn stopped at the windbreak and watched through the trees as Dad crawled under the barbed-wire fence into the hay meadow. The old man's shirt tore.

Blackburn waited until Dad disappeared behind the crest of the hill. Then he turned and walked to the Hornet. Jasmine emerged from the house as he brought out the Python.

She froze at the edge of the porch, and Blackburn saw that she thought he was going to shoot her. This saddened him. He had never been a perfect brother, but she should have realized long ago that he never did anything to anyone who didn't deserve it.

'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'It isn't even cocked.'

She didn't relax. 'What are you going to do with it?'

Blackburn started toward the meadow. 'Retroactive gene-pool maintenance.'

Jasmine jumped from the porch and ran to him. She grabbed his wrist and tried to make him stop. He kept walking. Jasmine wasn't very strong.

'Jimmy, there's no point,' she said. 'He's got cancer, and he won't accept treatment. He told the doctors to go to hell. They said he only has three to five months.'

'Then this is my last chance,' Blackburn said.

'But he's paying himself back for the things he did. All you have to do is let him!'

Blackburn shook his head. 'People can't punish themselves for their sins. Only the people they've sinned against can do that.'

'The Bible says only God can do that.'

'The Bible's full of chickenshit.' He pulled free and sprinted for the windbreak. He heard Jasmine running after him. 'Don't make me lock you up!' he shouted.

The sound of her footsteps stopped. When Blackburn reached the evergreens, he looked back and saw her getting into the Hornet. He wasn't worried. He had the keys. Even if she knew how to hot-wire, he would be finished before she could have anyone else here.

He climbed over the fence and ran up the hill. When he reached the top, he spotted Dad and Dog a few hundred yards away to the north. Dog was dancing around the old man, nipping, and Dad was kicking at her. As Blackburn watched, the old man kicked himself off balance and fell into the prairie hay. Dog darted in and slobbered on his face, then darted away again.

Blackburn slowed his pace to a walk. He cocked the Python.

'Hey, Daddy!' he called. 'Wanna play catch?'

There was no fear in the old man's face, and Blackburn was glad. Fear might have made things difficult. It occurred to Blackburn that this was the first time Dad had ever made anything easier for him.

He stood over his father and aimed the Python at the old man's forehead. Then Dog came up and slobbered on Dad's face again. Blackburn yelled and chased her away. When he turned back, he saw that Dad had gotten up and was trying to run toward the house. Blackburn almost put a slug into the ground at Dad's feet, and then was ashamed of himself. He hadn't played around with any of the others. When he killed, he killed clean. Mostly. To do otherwise would be to behave as the old man would.

Dad was a pitiful runner. Blackburn caught him and grabbed his shirt where it had been torn by the barbed wire. Dad twisted around, flailing, and hit Blackburn's gun hand. The Python went off,