NOW
I struggled, dropping the phone and clawing at the strangling hold, but gave up when the arm tightened around my throat, causing black spots to dance in front of my eyes.
“And so, here you are,” said the voice near my ear. It was deep, slightly accented.
Mark looked up. “Timur?” His eyes widened.
“Oh, so you remember,” said the man, this Timur. “I was afraid you’d forgotten me, the man who gave you a job to do. The one you cheated.”
The smell of cigarettes and sweat came off him.
Mark stood slowly. “Listen, I didn’t cheat you. The bikes got stolen. It wasn’t my fault.”
“That is what they all say,” said the man, Timur. “Even your friend Tyler. He blamed the theft on his addiction and said he would pay us back and go to rehab. Of course, that was before his unfortunate accident on the highway.”
“I’m telling the truth. Somebody stole the bikes,” Mark said.
“It doesn’t matter. You know what I think?”
Mark shook his head.
“I think blame is the coward’s way. A real man accepts what he’s done, right?”
Mark didn’t answer. Something cold and hard pressed against my temple.
“Now toss your weapon.”
“She had nothing to do with it,” Mark began.
“Toss the weapon,” Timur said, “or I will shoot her and then I will shoot you and maybe then I will shoot the rest of your family.”
My knees threatened to give way.
“All right, all right.” Mark pulled the pistol from his waistband and set it on the ground.
“Step away from it.”
Mark obeyed. A hand shoved me on my back. “Stand next to your thieving husband.”
I went and stood beside Mark.
The snow fell straight and thick. Little earthquakes of fear rumbled through me and I recognized the assassin. He wore a puffy down jacket, a watch cap and expensive-looking hiking boots, but there was the unmistakable caterpillar mustache and the asphalt-colored eyes. He was the stranger who’d spoken to Xander that day in the backyard.
“I can pay you back, man. I just need a little time,” Mark said.
“Time is what you don’t have, asshole.”
The gun in the assassin’s hand seemed huge. It was all I could look at.
“If you kill me, you’ll never get your money,” Mark argued.
“Ah, but if I don’t, how will people know they cannot steal from us and expect to live happily ever after? You see my problem?”
“I’ll sell the farm.”
“That would be an ant on the elephant of what you owe.”
“I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Stand still so I can shoot you, then.”
Desperation filled Mark’s voice. “How did you find me?” He was stalling.
I looked over at the hunting knife and bear spray in the game sack, where I’d left them. Too far away.
“How could we not find you after your wife’s credit card was used at the store?” Timur said. “Did you think I was a peasant with no idea of technology?”
“No, never,” Mark said quickly.
“Even so, this place was hard to find,” the assassin said. “Everyone in your town pretended to have never seen your wife, and when I asked about you, they said it was none of my business where you lived. Such loyal friends.”
I thought Mark must have counted on that. He’d used my card, weighing the danger of doing so against letting his family starve.
The assassin made a tsking sound. “I’m afraid I had to threaten the old woman at the grocery store to find that you lived off this river. And yet it is a long fucking river, right? I looked everywhere. I had to camp in the woods, and you know how I hate camping.” He let out a mean chuckle. “I almost gave up, except…” He tapped a finger on a black plastic device hanging from his belt. “A very nice man, an animal doctor who lived not too far from here, recognized the photo I showed him and said he gave you some medicine for your goats. I asked for directions and he said all he knew was that you lived north of a flat-topped mountain. And then today, when I was almost giving up, I picked up a signal from a phone.”
I thought of the phone lying in the henhouse, sending out its telltale message. What had I done?
“After that, it was easy. I crossed the ice on the river and waited. Then I saw you run up this hill.”
A gust of wind made the snow slant sideways.
“Let her go.” Mark’s voice cracked. “It was all my fault.”
“A beautiful sentiment and yet way too late,” the gunman said. “Sorry.”
Mark leaped for his pistol.
The gunshot was like a thunderclap.
For a half second, I didn’t know who had fired. Then I saw Mark on the snowy ground, a bloom of red spreading across his chest like a rose opening up.
“Oh my God,” I cried.
“He should not have done that,” said the assassin. “I was going to kill you first so you wouldn’t have to see him die. He was a very selfish guy.”
Mark’s hands clenched at his chest. A groan came from his lips.
“I am sorry for what I am about to do, but your husband left me no choice.” He raised the gun. My heart stalled.
“You can’t,” I cried.
He cocked his head. “Oh?”
“My son needs me,” I said quickly. “He’s only seven and he has heart problems and I have to be there to take care of him. You met him. Remember? He has blond hair and you came up to him that day in our yard and asked him if he’d seen your dog.”
“I remember,” the assassin said, “although I don’t actually have a dog.”
I went on. “His name is Xander and he loves country music. Travis Tritt and Garth Brooks are his favorites.”
“I also like Garth,” the assassin said.
“And he was born without three chromosomes, so he’s developmentally delayed. Sometimes he trips on his feet and falls down but he always gets back up and he’s the happiest kid.”
“My brother was like that too. In the village where I grew up in Chechnya, he was considered good luck.”
“Yes, yes,” I said. I knew I had to keep talking. “He’s a very special boy but he also needs his mother. I have no family. There is no one to take him in, to make sure he eats right and gets enough sleep and stays warm, and to love him like I do. He would be alone. I’m sure your brother was never alone.”
The gun barrel lowered a fraction of an inch.
I kept on. “My son is an innocent. A good boy.”
The assassin considered me. “Do you know what your son told me?” he asked finally.
I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice. “No, what?”
“He pointed to my mustache and asked when I would turn into a butterfly and I said, ‘Maybe one day,’ and he said, ‘You’ll be a very good butterfly.’ ”
“He is the kindest boy I know.”
“So was my brother.”
Snow muffled every sound so that the world was as silent as a church. Something passed through the killer’s eyes, then disappeared. I held my breath.
He sucked at his teeth, like a man who’d finished a fine steak. “You remind me of my mother. She killed a wild dog with her bare hands after it went for my brother.”
I waited.
Slowly, he lowered the gun. “I will let your boy have his mother.”
“Oh, thank you,” I breathed.
“It is a gift to him,” he said, “from a good and noble butterfly. Tell him that.”
“I will,” I said, although I had no intention of doing so.
The assassin looked around the clearing. “Such a lonely place,” he said. Then: “Take good care of your boy. Do not let him grow up to be an asshole like his father.”
I watched him vanish into the woods. My legs noodled.
A faint groan came from Mark and I dropped to my knees beside him. I pressed my hand to the bloody hole in his chest, even though I knew he was too far gone to help. A crimson line trickled from the corner of his mouth. I lifted his head onto my lap and felt for his pulse. It was thready and weak. I touched his face. His eyes fluttered open. Snowflakes kissed his lips.
“I tried,” he whispered.
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Still, I answered, “Yes, you did.”
“Xander?” His voice was barely there.
I leaned over him. “Xander’s safe.”
“Don’t let him forget…” A gurgle came from deep in his throat and choked off his words.
“I won’t let him forget you,” I said. “I’ll make sure he remembers all the very best parts of you.”
Because there were good parts of Mark: his passion for life, his creativity, the way he loved his son.
I brushed the hair back from Mark’s face. His blood was slick on my hands. His eyes fluttered closed. A final, ragged breath.
Mark was gone.