BRETT HASTINGS LEADS THE MAN to the edge of a pit, an abandoned coal shaft on the fringe of town.
A trash bag covers the man’s head, a black mass that swells with every breath. They went to school together, played as kids, parallel paths that later diverged.
There was once a forest here, rolling hills, before the strip mining. Now it’s a cratered wasteland, a few darkened trees, scalped plateaus. This ridge is restricted with death’s-head warnings, dangerous water, toxic earth. Deep ditches, fissures, churned soil, the treads of heavy machinery long gone.
But beyond a distant hill, above a deep bedrock of shale, a fracking pad’s halogens glow. The light cannot reach them. The air is cold with ashen clouds.
Hastings tugs on the man’s apron. He’d snatched him from behind a diner, interrupted his smoke break, a busboy, almost thirty, with long dirty hair and a degenerate mouth.
Hastings says, “Stop walking, Randy.”
Randy does what he’s told, laughs a little bit, still thinks it’s a joke. He cannot see where he’s been brought. There’s enough oxygen underneath, but the plastic still clings to his lips.
Hastings checks his watch, respects the time. The .357 revolver fits his hand perfectly. He wants to remember this feeling. It’s a beautiful night, he and Randy alive together. And in a few moments, only he will still be here.
“You know, Hastings, I really do love the bitch.”
Hastings had imagined this, considered what he would say, a severe speech, alluring and convincing, horrific and final. He had many words, but none of them meant enough. He had reasons, if anyone asked. But nobody would ask. Nobody would know. Randy Melvin dealt meth, poisoned the town, beat a little girl while playing stepdad and fucking her mother, a woman Hastings had once believed he loved. But Hastings considered none of this to be a reason, a why.
“You think you know what power is.” He thumbs back the hammer. “But you don’t.”
Randy tilts up, puzzled.
Hastings shoots him in the face. A loud crack, a blast of light, a wet split as the head ruptures inside the bag, then the body topples limp, scrapes against dirt walls, and disappears into black.
The gunshot lingers, and then sinks over the horizon. He’s alone now. It cannot be said aloud. He holsters the gun and removes the latex gloves, drops them into the pit. He straightens his black cuffs and adjusts his badge and walks thirty feet to his police cruiser. With a flashlight he inspects his black uniform for blowback, a spatter of brain, a fleck of skull. There’s no trace of Randy. The back seat is empty, clean. He did not scream, bite, hiss, or spit. He didn’t know what was happening. He trusted Hastings and went quietly. The dashboard is a deep red.
Soon, he can’t breathe. He rolls down the window and turns on the radio. The NPR station out of Wheeling plays jazz. Nothing but percussive noise, drums, bass, saxophones, highly rhythmic, disordered beats. He imagines savages jumping up and down. A part of him appreciates it, a celebration of chaotic life. But now he needs order, melody, and harmony.
On his phone he swipes past a photo of his wife’s pretty face, finds the correct playlist, a collection of Beethoven, Wagner, and Mozart. It begins with a seven-minute loop of “Für Elise.”
He drives down the dirt lane, passes the no trespassing gatepost, returns the rusted chain and sign to their rightful places, and then drives on. In the rearview his eyes are wet stones.
In town he stops at an empty intersection. Victorian homes column the narrow streets. Spires, crosses, so many churches. He’ll never understand it. People are still building churches.
He turns off the music, sets his hand out the window, and listens to the night sounds.