He dropped the speed as he neared the cabin, came in close to the shore and with the engine as quiet as possible until he saw the cabin. The van waited alone beside it. Nobody had noticed Atkins’s absence yet, or if they had, they didn’t know where to start looking for him. The cabin had one main window that looked out on the water, so Devin could be watching the lake right now, waiting for a boat to come in, sizing up the situation. If he saw it was Frank alone, he’d be ready.
Frank cut the engine and let the boat drift into the weeds. He was several hundred yards from the cabin and doubted Devin had seen or heard him. Possibly he’d heard the engine, but he couldn’t see this portion of the shore without coming outside, and the yard was empty except for that van.
He got out of the boat in the shallows, wrapped the bow line around a downed tree, and then climbed up the bank and into the woods and headed toward the cabin. He walked quietly but quickly, with his head up and the gun held down against his leg, finger hooked in the trigger guard.
Through the trees and into the yard without a shot fired or even a sound. Across the yard and to the door, still nothing. Hand on the knob, still nothing. He paused for one deep breath, slipped his finger completely around the trigger and tensed it, then twisted the knob and threw the door open and stepped into the cabin in a shooter’s stance, gun raised, ready to kill.
Devin was on the floor. Stretched out on his side, one cheek on the linoleum, his body slightly curled, as if he’d been going for the fetal position but couldn’t make it. His gun lay on a table beside the couch, out of reach, and Frank could see that he’d fallen from the couch onto the floor. There was a small puddle on the floor near his mouth, bile maybe mixed with traces of blood. For a second, Frank thought he was dead. Then he lifted his head.
He twisted to see the door, his hazy eyes taking Frank in before flicking to the gun on the table, several feet away, no chance of reaching it. When he moved, it was away from the table, rolling into a sitting position with his back against the wall.
“Where’s my wife?”
Frank stepped farther into the cabin, then reached back and swung the door shut behind him, never taking his eyes off Devin.
“She’s fine,” he said, “but you’re never going to see her again.”
“No?” Devin brought his head off the wall, and for a moment the light in his eyes seemed to fade, as if that small motion had still been too much.
“No.” Frank came closer. “The rest of them are dead. Your boy, AJ? I took his gun and I shot him with it. One round right through the eye. I watched him die, and then I came back. For you.”
Devin didn’t speak. He had his lips parted, was sucking air in through his mouth in slow, audible breaths.
“He had a chance,” Frank said. “Hell, he had better than that. He was holding both of the guns. Wasn’t enough. But I’ll give you the same chance.”
“Yeah?”
“Go for the gun,” Frank said, nodding at the table. “I’ll let you get your hand on it. I’m going to give you that much.”
Devin just stared at him. Frank’s hand, so damn steady when he’d fired that bullet into AJ’s face, was beginning to tremble. He ran his thumb up and down the stock, took another step into the room.
Just shoot him. Quit the bullshit, quit talking, and just shoot him.
“Going to kill me?” Devin said.
“Yes. Unless you get that gun first. I told you, better move for it.”
“You have to wait until I’ve got the gun, is that it?”
“I’m giving you a chance.”
“Your dad,” Devin said, “wouldn’t have needed to wait.”
“I’m not my dad,” Frank said.
Devin smiled. It was a dying man’s smile, a look not of hopelessness but of disinterest, and Frank hated him for it. Hated him for being in this condition, so weak. He wanted him at full strength, wanted the best the prick had to offer, and then Frank would still be better than him. He’d be better, and he’d kill him, and it would be done, finally, it would be done.
“Get up!” Frank screamed. “Get up and go for the gun, you piece of shit!”
Again the smile, and Devin just shook his head. “Can’t reach it.”
Frank ran to the table and kicked its legs, upending it and spilling Devin’s gun to the floor. It hit a few feet away from him, slid to a stop almost within reach.
“Pick it up!”
Devin shook his head again, and this time Frank went for him. He hit him backhanded with the Smith & Wesson, caught the side of his skull, knocked him away from the wall and back to the floor. He let out a soft moan of pain but didn’t move, didn’t reach for the gun. Frank reached down with his free hand and caught Devin’s neck, dragged him upright, and then slammed his head into the wall, still screaming at him to pick up the gun. He banged his head off the wall again, and then a third time, and then he dropped to one knee and jammed the barrel of his father’s gun into Devin’s mouth.
It was then, down on his knee with his finger on the trigger, that he saw Devin was unconscious.
He let go of Devin’s neck and pulled the gun out of his mouth and Devin’s head fell onto his right shoulder and the torso went with it. He landed with his body bent awkwardly, one lip peeled back by the floor, a trace of blood showing in his mouth now.
Frank laid his fingers against Devin’s neck, felt the pulse there. He was not dead.
He got to his feet and stared down as Devin’s eyes fluttered but stayed closed. He took the gun and laid it against the back of Devin’s skull, held it there for a few seconds, feeling the trigger under his finger.
I’d find him and I’d kill him.
Damn right you would. Damn right. You’re a good boy. Check that—a good man.
It’s justified, Frank had told Ezra. It is already justified. And Ezra’s response? Bullshit, son. Not in a way you can accept it’s not, and you know that.
Devin made some sound, a muffled grunt, and stirred but did not wake. Frank moved the gun across the back of his head, traced a circle in Devin’s hair with the muzzle. He thought again of Nora, of the fear in her eyes as she’d looked at him, and then he pulled the gun back and walked away. He picked up the table and set it back where it belonged, beneath his grandfather’s posthumous Silver Star. He looked at the medal for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes to the gun in his hand, and he ejected the clip into his palm. He took Devin’s gun from the floor and emptied that clip as well, and then he walked into the kitchen and set both guns on the counter, put the clips into his pocket, and ran cold water onto a towel.
When he turned off the water he could hear a boat motor, and he stood at the sink with his head cocked and listened. Something small, and headed this way. He went to the window, looked out at the lake, and saw the aluminum boat approaching, Nora up front and Renee at the tiller. Not surprising that Renee had refused to go to the dam.
He slapped at Devin’s neck with the wet towel, then held it over his face and squeezed a trickle of cold water onto his forehead and cheeks. The eyes opened, swam, then focused on Frank.
“Get up,” Frank said. “Your wife’s coming.”
When they arrived, Devin was sitting up against the wall, Frank standing in the kitchen with his back against the counter, near the guns. Renee came through the door first, saw Frank and said, “If you—” but then her eyes found Devin and she stopped talking and turned from Frank and ran to her husband.
“Baby,” he said, and he reached for her with one arm as she fell to her knees in front of him, almost in the exact position Frank had taken when he put his father’s suicide gun in Devin’s mouth.