Gun Lake (43 page)

—holding a son in his arms and crying, actually weeping, at the thought of being a participant in something so magical, so wonderful, so awesome—

“What do you think you’re doing with that gun?” Sean asked him, laughing at him.

—touching the velvety cheeks and seeing the little hands and feet that looked so helpless—

The woman and the boy sat on the couch and a big, tattooed guy sat close to them, almost blocking them from Sean. Sean told the big guy not to do anything, that Paul wasn’t going to harm them or harm anybody, and then Sean shook his head and laughed again, calling him an old fool.

—talking with Lori about their future and about maybe a little brother or sister for Sean and maybe even a dog or two—

He aimed the gun and saw his hand tremble while Sean just laughed and shook his head and said, “Come on. You’re not going to do anything.”

—dreaming of being the father that might go fishing with his son or might throw a baseball or a football with him and watch
him from stands playing some sport and taking him out afterward for dessert—

“You’re not fooling anyone, old man,” Sean mocked.

—seeing it all end with one awful, stupid, ignorant mistake he allowed himself to make, knowing he had ruined everything—

And then in a moment, a single second, Paul decided. He squeezed the trigger.

—getting the letter from Lori and knowing it was over and figuring he would never see his one and only son again—

The gun roared. Sean’s hands moved down to grip his gut. Paul pressed again, aiming for the heart. Sean’s face showed shock, horror, amazement.

The woman and her son curled up on the couch, the boy shielding her with his arms. The big guy raised his hands to make sure Paul knew he wasn’t going to do anything funny.

Sean was leaning against the fireplace with his hands on his chest. He coughed and looked at his father in bewilderment.

Paul walked over to make sure he had done what he needed to do.

Sean looked like he was going to say something, utter some final profound statement for his father. For the man who had brought him into this world and taken him out of it. But Sean’s words left him without making a sound. His mouth stayed open as his legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground. He continued looking up at Paul Hedges, his father, with disbelieving, empty eyes.

Paul looked Sean over and knew that the man who had embraced the dream of having a son and a family was just as dead as the man who lay in front of him.

He looked at the other people in the room, walked back out to the truck, laid the gun on the passenger seat, and turned the key.

It was finished.

THIS IS IT
.

Kurt gripped the steering wheel tighter, pressed his foot against the pedal, felt the surge and rattle of the strong engine in the beat-up body of the car.

Snapshots of Norah now lit up in the black cell of his mind. Her smile. Her eyes. Her soft lips and tawny features. They took their place next to the pictures of Ben and Erin and his family and all the dreary prison shots he tried not to think about anymore.

All past. All gone
.

He drove to remove himself from the madness, but not for freedom. He had no illusions about that.

I’m the reason she’s dead
.

He knew this and knew there was no turning back. No slight bit of hope now. No room for redemption. He was done, and he was going to finally end it and finally give the world what it wanted, or at least what it deserved.

He looked at the gun on the passenger seat. It was the one they had kept in the car, hidden in the truck. An extra.

The Ford kept hurtling down the road, the speedometer quivering at seventy, the antique frame shuddering from the speed. Kurt kept it headed toward the distant sunset, the last he would ever see.

This is where it ends. On a highway in Michigan. Michigan, of all places
.

He’d left the letter on a shelf in the cabin, along with instructions for what to do with it. Someone would find it. Someone, he hoped, would get it to Ben.

He’d done his part.

Tears filled his eyes, and he knew why. He was scared. He was sickly scared but knew that he had no alternative. He wasn’t going back. He wasn’t able to change. He was finally going to give the world a necessary sacrifice.

Somebody already made one
.

Shut up
, he thought. His foot pressed on the gas.

Kurt
.

He kept driving and wiped tears from his face and kept hearing the voice inside his head.

Kurt
.

He cursed and wanted it to go away, but it wouldn’t. He slowed the car down on the side of the road and picked up the Glock automatic.

This is the moment. Just pull the trigger, and all of this pain and heaviness and wretched junk inside you will be gone and you’ll finally be free
.

His hand shook.

He stuck the barrel in his mouth, deep in his mouth. He’d heard that was the surest way to do it.

His hand continued to shake as his finger reached for the trigger.

Kurt
.

I don’t want this anymore
, he thought as tears soaked his cheeks.

Why are you crying?

’Cause I’m weak just like I always have been, just like a grown man who would hurt a baby, his own child.

You can be forgiven.

shut up you lie shut your mouth

Stop this, Kurt
.

no way I’m going back and changing I can’t

Listen
.

I gotta make it right have to do what I deserve

You’ve tried doing it on your own
.

Cars passed him by and he still could taste the barrel of the gun. He looked through the windshield at the glorious sunset and thought of Norah and Craig and Vicki and those poor people in Texas.

They’re all gone
, he knew.
And I’m next
.

And then, another voice.

I’m here.

no

Listen to me.

no

The price is paid.

liar

Nothing is too much.

this isn’t real

Come to me
.

shut up Sunday school church Christian double-talk nonsense

Kurt
.

He could barely breathe. He continued to cry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wept like this.

Come to me.

I can’t

Kurt
.

His hand shook, and he removed the barrel and then stared at the sunset and knew there was something more. He realized he had always known this, had just been too angry and afraid to admit it. He had always known that God was there, and that’s what had been so scary, so awful—knowing what he had done and believing there was no way of turning around and no hope of ever seeing heaven.

It’s okay
.

But it wasn’t okay, and Kurt knew it. He couldn’t pray and have it healed. The mess back on Gun Lake—what could he do about it?

Just tell me
.

what?

Everything. On your heart
.

He didn’t know if he was losing his mind or had hit a new rock bottom, but he suddenly and finally didn’t care. His hands grabbed the steering wheel and he looked at the lit-up heavens.

“You hear me up there?” he called out with a shout. “Are you really up there? Are you?”

Cars flew past, and the sky looked like a joyous explosion of red and orange.

“Can I change? Can I stop this? Can I—” then he stopped.

Kurt
.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, saying the words he had
wanted to say to an entire world but now suddenly knowing whom he should have said them to all along.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tears running down his face. “Sorry for everything. Help me, God.”

His hands, his guilty hands, came up to cover his tearstained face.

“I know you’re—there. Please … help me.”

He looked at the gun on the seat, hesitated, then tossed it out the window. He put his arms against the steering wheel and prayed for God to do something, to show him what to do next, to take this away from him. Then he buried his face into the steering wheel and wept.

The authorities found Kurt Wilson half an hour later, still weeping in a beat-up Ford at the side of Interstate 94.

THE CAR DRIFTED BELOW the seventy-five-mile limit toward the west. Toward a sky dipped in finger paint, the clouds streaked with sun-tinted shadows of orange and red. Don Hutchence kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the steering wheel, a bottle of Jim Beam on the passenger seat beside him next to his service revolver.

Every few minutes he’d look in his rearview mirror and study the highway behind him. Only a few vehicles were on the road. Every one caused him a moment of concern, but eventually passed him by.

Don thought of the past twenty-four hours and wondered how everything could have gone so wrong so fast. He retraced the moments, the steps leading up to this drive, all the misjudgments and mistakes.

All my fault
.

He could remember holding the gun and then everything
spiraling, tumbling out of control. Everything turning wrong right before his eyes. And doing nothing to stop it.

It was my last chance. And all I could do was run away
.

He could connect the dots and realize he should have known things would turn out this way. But he never saw things coming. His whole life, he’d been stumbling around blind—blinded by love, by passion, by stupidity. And now, when they caught up with him, it would all be his fault. A botched operation, all protocol ignored. People injured and maybe dead. He’d lose his job for sure.

And Collette will never come back
.

Don glanced down at the gun.

It was obvious, of course. It came down to this moment, and now it seemed logical.

An SUV passed him in the left lane, the driver looking over to see why he was driving so slowly. Don looked straight ahead. He steadied on the steering wheel. He wore a short-sleeved shirt. He could see the hair on his arm, the cut on his thumb, a scar from his youth.

The highway stretched straight ahead into the glistening sunset, but Don slowed down and pulled the car over to the shoulder. He set the parking brake, an old habit, then picked up the gun. Held it in front of him and considered it. Outside the firing range, he had rarely pulled the trigger. He knew how it felt to be shot, though. He had once caught a thirty-eight round in the leg while answering a domestic-disturbance call. But this would be different, he thought. Quicker. Easier.

He breathed in and out, slowly, knowing what was coming. He put the gun down, exchanged it for the half-empty bottle, and took a swig, feeling the welcome burn in his throat. The open window next to him brought in a gush of warm air. He hadn’t turned on the air, and he could feel the dampness of sweat on his lower back.

He thought of his childhood and wondered how it all could have come down to this. He’d wanted more. He’d wanted so much more and had thrown it all away with one act.

But not just one. One act after another. One choice and then the next.

When you thought about it, life came down to a matter of minutes. A matter of simple choices—yes or no. Now or later. Stay or leave. Move in now or call for backup. He knew this, but he also knew it was far too late. If he could just back up, redo some moments, make different choices, he could change all of this, every last bit of it. But he couldn’t.

Not now
.

He glanced in the mirror. No one was behind him. He took another swig, then made a decision.

That’s my last sip. I’m quitting cold turkey right now
.

He put the bottle of Jim Beam on the seat and picked up the gun again.

It’s not AA, but it’ll still do the trick
.

He thought of who he’d be leaving behind. Collette and the boys. Steve, maybe. His buddies at the Joint. In the long run, he thought, they’d all be better off without him. Not right away, maybe, but in the long run.

Don opened his mouth and slipped the gun barrel inside. He took one last look in front of him. The highway stretched straight ahead. If he kept going he would enter Indiana and the usual backup of traffic on I-94. Then he would enter the congestion and the interstate options that could take him into Chicago or St. Louis or wherever else he wanted to go. But he wouldn’t reach them. He knew he wasn’t going to reach anywhere.

You can still get away. Make it up to everybody
.

He gripped the gun and felt the trigger. His head felt light, and he stared up at the sky for a moment and saw a light gray smear of a cloud, like a smear in the fog of a windshield, as though God himself wiped it there.

It’s too late
.

His hand began to shake.

I’m going to die on the side of an interstate in the Michigan countryside
.

The scene was easy to picture. He’d seen it on TV, in crime-scene reconstructions, in the videos they showed during his
training. The car. The body. The questions. At first he might appear to simply be a man parked alongside the interstate, maybe out of gas, maybe taking a nap, maybe broken down and waiting for a tow. But when authorities checked they wouldn’t find a car out of gas, but a man. And the capper to an ongoing tale, the climax to an unfolding story. “Escaped convicts saga ends with roadside suicide.”

As Don closed his eyes one final time, he pictured Collette’s face and saw her smile and knew that things should’ve been different. But they weren’t. He had lost her, and it was all his fault.

This was his condemnation.

His head bent down, and then he pressed the trigger.

And as his body slumped down in the seat, the car parked alongside the highway, this was also the end of the Gun Lake saga.

I write this knowing just a bit of what I’ve done, the path I’ve been traveling down. And I know the end is near. There’s only one kind of end for men like me. You’ll probably already know that by the time you read this—these mumblings from a man who once loved you
.