Just over Moody Bridge, Calvin parked in a muddy pull-off along a freestone section of the Tuckaseigee where trout made meals of mayflies, and redhorse lined seams of current. A single-action Colt revolver that had belonged to his grandfather rested in his lap. The brass frame held a rainbow patina like oil on wet pavement, the blued barrel dark and dull. He’d only ever shot the pistol a handful of times. Never had cared much for guns aside from a few hunting rifles and a pump shotgun he kept for home protection.
Calvin opened the loading gate on the side of the revolver and shook a few tarnished shells from a ratty box of .45 long colts. He slid the cartridges into the cylinder a shell at a time, held the hammer half-cocked when he loaded the last. He remembered his grandfather shooting a pumpkin one fall, holding that revolver by his waist and fanning the hammer like a gunslinger in an old Western. He remembered how the old man laughed when the gun was empty, how shattered pieces of pumpkin littered the yard.
On the passenger seat was a framed photograph he’d taken from the house. When Calvin pulled in and saw Angie’s car sitting there in the driveway, the doors slung open, he knew that no matter the consequence he would do whatever Dwayne Brewer asked. Reaching across the cab for the picture, he flicked on the overhead light and looked at how happy they’d been. One of Angie’s friends had started a photography business and told them she’d shoot them for free if they let her use the photos for her Facebook page. They dressed up nice one Sunday and took pictures around the farm—the same sitting in a field, standing by a barn, walking down a dirt road, leaning on a fence, watermarked photos as every other couple posted on Facebook. At the time, he’d thought it was stupid, but it had made Angie happy.
In the photo, the two of them walked through the field beside his house, golden light haloing the grass and their bodies. The thing he loved about that photograph was that it carried sound. She was laughing in the picture and just looking at it he could hear her, and that made the immediate decision easy. He didn’t know what would come after, but as he watched the moonlight spark on the river’s crests, what he had to do right then was as certain as any truth he’d ever known.
Up the road, Stillwell lived in a ranch-style home that had once belonged to a man named Ronald Brinkley. Michael had bought the place when the old man died of pneumonia one winter, the way Calvin heard it, scooping the place up for damn near nothing. Calvin set the picture back on the seat, took the pistol from his lap, and opened the door to the night. He stepped out and could hear the water running on the other side of the trees, the gravel scratching beneath his boots.
You do this and it’ll all be over, he thought. He’d bury him at the jobsite where the ground was cleared and muddy. His heart raced and he stood there, body tingling, nearly out of breath. The unthinkable had suddenly become one more thing a man had to do to survive. He had everything in the world to lose, and only one way to keep it.