42

 

Randall flexed his raw knuckles as he walked past the roar of the Mammoth waterfall. Measured steps along that shoulder-wide bridge toward town. The still, languid lake on his left was at odds with the endless, cascading curtain of water on his right just like the cool, practiced expression he wore concealed the rage within. Each crunch of concrete under his shoes brought him closer to his destiny. Maya made her choice, but he’d allowed this to happen. Let the preacher and his lady talk him into opening a door that should have stayed shut. Sealed. He’d made his bed. Time to lie in it.

Mist churned from below, dampening his face, mingling with tears that now obscured his vision. His shadow chased him as he went, lengthened from the last light of day.

The fickle sun dipped below the tree line, like raging fire.

Fool. After years of being in charge, of calling the crowds, hawking the midway, he’d at last been the biggest mark of all.

They’d sat in his trailer, laid out the plan, and all he could think was the fools would come, spend their money, take home their trinkets, and leave their paychecks. Instead, all they’d done was destroy his life. Destroyed everything that mattered.

Maya.

Because of that church. The pastor who brought the audacity of belief to his little girl, had made her think of something other than what he’d given her. The white church was a beacon on the hill, ever since his return from the hospital, across Riverview Drive.

Why had he listened to them? Randall didn’t listen to fools or suckers. He swindled them, got his way, and earned his coin from their pitiable dreams.

Either way, she was just a kid. And they were responsible for laying his daughter so near death. That was all he needed to know.

He adjusted the revolver, heavy in his belt, an emptiness rattling in his heart. Maya was in surgery. His only proof that possibly something bigger than himself and his dealings existed, or mattered—could’ve died. May still. Because of the boy. Maya clung to life by a thread while the boy who’d caused the accident sat in shock, mere bruises and butterfly band-aids over his mild injuries.

“Sorry,” the boy, Andy, had muttered while the trauma room doctors worked, his daughter’s blood smearing the fronts of their yellow paper robes. So apologetic. He was sorry he’d driven off the road. The rig had startled him. More than likely distracted by Maya’s curves, her flashing eyes, or her rich flame-red hair. The boy must have taken his eyes off the road. Perhaps he’d been blinded by her persuasive smile, her full lips, amber eyes, or her velvet voice.

The boy wasn’t responsible.

It was the preacher.

He flipped open the thirty-eight special, eyed the full chamber. Snapped the weapon shut, the bright lights streaming through the checker-curtained windowpanes. His steps carried him along the river’s edge almost of their own volition. Randall stuck the pistol behind his shirttail, hiking up the hill the rest of the way. It wasn’t the first time he’d pull the trigger, but surely, it would be the last.

Time to meet the devil on his terms. His way.