I had expected to find a reporter with a video camera on the front lawn. Instead, I found Christopher Hughes hiding behind a tree. He was pointing a revolver at my dog. I put my shotgun to my shoulder and took aim.
“Christopher, drop your weapon!” I screamed.
He looked at me as if he were lost. My finger slipped past the trigger guard and to the shotgun’s trigger. Around here, people used shotguns to hunt game birds and deer. I didn’t use mine to hunt animals, though. I kept mine to defend my home. It had a rifled barrel, and it shot one-ounce lead slugs at almost two thousand feet per second. Few animals on Earth could survive a well-placed shot from a weapon like that.
Human beings were not one.
“Drop your weapon!” I shouted again.
“You won’t shoot me in the back.”
Before I could process that, he had already turned and run. And he was right. I wouldn’t have shot him in the back. I would have chased him and tried to tackle him, but I wouldn’t have shot him. My dog, though, didn’t play by the same rules I did. The moment Christopher ran, so did Roger. They reached the far side of the road in front of my house at the same time. Roger got in front of him and growled, but Christopher couldn’t slow down enough to avoid a collision.
They fell in a mass on the ground. Roger yelped, and Christopher grunted. I sprinted after them, holding the rifle against my chest with both hands. Christopher got up first, but Roger wasn’t slow to follow. They ran again, this time disappearing into the woods across from my house.
Where Roger could move well on trails, his short legs had difficulty in the weeds.
“Roger, freeze!” I screamed. It was one of the most important commands I had ever taught that dog. It kept him from running into the street after other animals, it kept him from chasing cars, it kept him from treading on glass when people threw bottles on the side of the road. It had taken weeks to get the command right. He should have stopped everything he was doing and come to a complete stop.
He didn’t, though. The excitement was too much.
He pushed through the thick underbrush at the edge of the wood to the clear, virgin forest inside. There, his speed was his undoing. Christopher turned and fired the revolver behind him. A round buzzed past me while another thwacked into a tree. The third brought about a yelp that broke my heart.
Roger tumbled and rolled on the ground before coming to rest against the base of a big tulip poplar. Christopher stopped running. I couldn’t see well in the dark, but I raised my shotgun to my shoulder. I wanted to check on my dog, but I couldn’t yet.
“Drop your weapon!” I shouted.
“He was coming after me,” he said. “Your dog would have bitten me. He was crazy.”
“Toss your weapon down and lay on the ground.”
Christopher glanced at his weapon and then to me.
“I shot your dog,” he said. “You’ll kill me if I do that.”
My heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through me.
“Drop your weapon. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
He considered me for a moment and then dove behind a tree. I ducked and scrambled to my left as he fired. Dried leaves crinkled and sticks popped beneath me as my torso hit the ground. Christopher ran. I held my breath and pushed myself to a kneeling position. My left elbow was on my left knee, stabilizing the barrel of my weapon as I lined up a shot.
Christopher turned as he ran and raised the gun, just as he had toward my dog. I didn’t give him the same chance Roger had. I squeezed the trigger. The heavy pump-action shotgun pounded against my shoulder, rocking me back. I chambered another round and lined up another shot as Christopher fell to the ground. For a few seconds, nothing moved. Roger whimpered, but I couldn’t go to him yet.
“Get up, motherfucker,” I whispered, holding the barrel of my gun in Christopher’s direction. “Run. I dare you.”
I counted to ten and then to thirty, just watching for movement. When Christopher didn’t get up, I crept toward him. He was, maybe, thirty feet from me, and when I reached his body, I saw why he hadn’t moved. I had hit him square in the back, just below his shoulder blades. Likely, it had clipped his heart. I felt his neck for a pulse, but he wasn’t breathing.
The man who had raped me all those years ago, the man who had ruined my life, was dead. I had killed him. I had dreamed about killing him, but I’d never believed it would happen. A wave of disgust came over me. I spit on his corpse and then kicked him in the ribs.
“Fuck you, Christopher,” I said, kicking him again. His body barely budged, so I kicked him again, almost wishing he would cry out in pain. He didn’t. He was dead. I kicked him until my leg grew so tired I couldn’t kick him again. Then, Roger whimpered once more, bringing me back to the present.
I leaned my shotgun against a tree and knelt beside my dog. He licked my hand and mewled as I cradled him. Christopher had shot him in the chest near his shoulder. Nothing I could do would stop the bleeding, so I petted him once more and then stood.
“I’ll be back, sweetheart,” I said. “Mommy loves you. I’ll be right back.”
He whimpered again. I wanted to stay with him, but he needed help. I sprinted home and picked up the phone in my kitchen. My first call was to 911, but my second was to Roger’s vet. He agreed to come out. Before going back out, I grabbed clean towels from the kitchen, a flashlight from near the back door, and my shoes.
When I got to my dog again, his breathing had slowed, but already I could hear sirens in the distance. He lifted his head as he saw me, and I held him and pressed towels against his wound, hoping the bleeding would stop.
“Please don’t die, honey,” I whispered. “Please stay with me. You’re my buddy. I need you.”
As I held my dog, a squad car skidded to a stop in front of my house with its lights blaring. I waved my flashlight around.
“I’m here,” I shouted. “In the woods.”
A man came running toward me. It was Sasquatch. His eyes were wide.
“That your blood all over your shirt or someone else’s?”
“It’s Roger’s,” I said. “I’m fine. Christopher is somewhere.”
More officers came within minutes. I lost track of things for a while until Travis knelt with me and tried to pry me away from the dog.
“No,” I said. “He’s mine.”
“It’s okay,” said Travis. “Your vet is at the road. We’ve got a back brace. Sasquatch and Vince will carry him. They’ll make sure he’s okay. You and I will go to your house, and you’ll change into some clean clothes. Your mom and dad are on their way. Everything’s okay.”
Travis put a hand on my elbow and helped me stand. Roger was alive, but he didn’t look good. He wasn’t moving much. Sasquatch and Vince transferred him to a back brace and then carried him toward the road. I looked around me. There were a dozen officers with me in the woods, and they all had flashlights or lanterns.
“Trisha’s at the house. Your neighbor, Susanne, is there, too,” said Travis. “They’ll get you cleaned up. We’ll figure this out.”
I nodded. Travis kept a hand on my shoulder as we walked.
“I shot Christopher,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Your lawyer is already on the way. Some detectives from the Highway Patrol will try to talk to you at the house. Don’t tell them anything until you’ve talked to your lawyer first.”
“I spit on him,” I said, drawing in a breath. “Then I kicked him. I wanted him to hurt.”
Travis said nothing until we reached the edge of the road.
“I’ll take care of you. Your mom and dad will be here soon.”
As Travis had said, Trisha and Susanne met me on the front porch. I was a little shell shocked, but I didn’t feel drunk anymore. The two of them stayed outside my bedroom while I changed. Afterwards, Trisha bagged my blood-stained clothes as evidence and then gave me a hug before leaving the house. Susanne made coffee and then sat with me on the front porch until Dad and Julia arrived.
They had to park up the road, but they ran from their car when they saw me. Julia threw her arms around me. Dad put a hand on my back.
“I killed the son of a bitch,” I whispered.
“I know,” said Julia.
“It’s over,” I said. “It’s over.”
“He’ll never hurt anyone again.”
And she was right. Christopher wouldn’t hurt anyone again. I had made sure of that. Part of me screamed that I should have felt sick to my stomach, that I should have felt guilty.
But I didn’t.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel afraid. When I went to bed, I wouldn’t have to check beneath my bed or in my closet to make sure he wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have to leave a loaded shotgun in my front closet to protect myself. I didn’t have to leave a light on in my hall in case he came in the night.
For the first time in years, I was no longer Christopher Hughes’s victim. I was me. Just me.
I was free.