I left Oberlin, circling the countryside while I waited for daybreak. A few miles out of town, I followed signs to a twenty-four-hour truck stop. The face in the bathroom mirror looked familiar, like I was seeing a distant cousin, someone from my childhood. I forced down a fried egg sandwich and a cup of coffee, all the while giving myself these little internal pep talks, my mind a coach on the sidelines, calling plays to my body. Sure you’re tired, but you can’t stop now! You’ve got the target in sight!
There were two other cars in the parking lot when I emerged, and I figured they belonged to the waitress and the cook, the only other humans around. Still, I kept an eye out as I popped the trunk of the Explorer and fished around until I located the Colt in its wad of T-shirts. From my suitcase, I removed the little pouch, the bag where I’d stowed the press clippings about Daniel’s recitals, his death and his killer. Since there was time to kill—a joke, Curtis, a fucking hysterical joke!—I spread out the clippings one by one on the passenger seat and studied them in the dim glow from a nearby light pole.
All the before pictures, where Daniel was alive and well, smacked of happiness. I couldn’t feel that anymore, though. Now each smile was a sting, a slap in the face. The last one had been taken on Daniel’s summer home from college, when he’d been teeming with confidence, eager to tell us everything he’d learned. Kathleen had snapped the picture when he was playing the piano, a new piece, something he’d composed. His eyes were half-closed, dreamy. He would always be that way now—twenty, dreamlike, an angel.
I hoped he couldn’t see what I was about to do, but still I wanted him to know I’d done it.
It was strange how a man like me, who was not powerful at all, and certainly not powerful enough to keep my son from dying, could feel formidable with a gun in his hand. That was the attraction of a gun, the allure. If the waitress from the truck stop came outside at that moment and saw me with the Colt, she would only need a glance—not even a shot fired—to regard me in a way she hadn’t before. She would fear me.
Some men wanted this kind of respect, I figured. I just wanted to kill Robert Saenz, that son of a bitch.
In order to reach the bullets, I had to bend over awkwardly, my head butting against the steering wheel. I was proud of myself for thinking of this hiding place, almost a MacGyver move, a place where Olivia would never have looked. I seized a corner of the duct tape between my thumb and forefinger and gave it a little yank—too hard, apparently, because the bullets popped free and hit the floorboard, scattering. Damn. I forced the seat back, giving myself enough room to bend forward, my hand feeling along the dark floorboard. I lifted one of the cartridges, then snapped on the overhead light and bent down for a closer look.
I held the bullet to the light, understanding coming slowly, thickly, like breaking through a dense northern California fog.
What I held in my hand wasn’t a bullet at all.
It was a battery.