by Aaron Saylor
“Put the rifle down Elmer,” said Boone.
One more time, a crooked smile creased the lips of Elmer Canifax. The rifle never moved.
Samantha giggled, and pinched her grandfather’s nose between her delicate fingers. As she held on, Sheriff Slone joined them at the picnic table.
“You see anything interesting?” asked Walt, as he gently pushed the little hand away with a laugh of his own.
“Nah,” said the sheriff. “You?”
Walt shook his head slowly, not breaking his grin.
John Slone leaned back with his elbows behind him, rested on top of the table. He stretched his legs out straight, crossed them left over right.
Then, without any lead–in at all, he asked, “Now what do you think he’s doing?”
“Who?” Walt answered without looking away from Samantha.
“Elmer.”
“What are you talking about?”
John pointed across the park, towards Hank Deniston’s gun booth. “I dunno,” he said. “I probably need to go over there. With that rifle in his hands, it just don’t look good. Aw shit, and now Boone’s involved.”
That got Walt’s attention. His smile vanished. He looked up from Samantha and saw Elmer across the park, with a rifle in his hand, and Boone standing there at point–blank range.
Then, at almost exactly the same moment that Walt found Elmer, Elmer whacked Boone in the jaw with the butt of his rifle, whipped around in the opposite direction, and trained his sights smack in the center of Walt’s forehead.
“The little shit,” Walt sneered. “The little cocksucker!” Blood flushed into his face. The happiness he’d felt, with Samantha on his knee, vanished.
White starbursts of pain danced in Boone’s eyes. He rolled around on the dirt, grabbing his jaw. He tasted warm iron and knew it was his own blood. His jaw might be broken; broken or not, it hurt like all hell.
Through the pain, he could see Walt again. He could also see that for the first time, Walt himself recognized that a gun was trained on him. Boone saw his father–in–law hand his granddaughter over to Sheriff Slone, and before anybody realized what was happening, Walt was stalking across the ground, headed right for Elmer.
Elmer showed no signs of movement.
Walt jabbed his index finger in Elmer’s direction, mouthing angry, violent words that Boone couldn’t quite discern through the screaming agony in his head.
Boone felt the swelling in the jaw already. Still, for all the pain it brought, he knew that the jaw was not his biggest concern. The angry old man stomping across the park grounds –– that was his biggest concern. As it dawned on him what was really happening, Boone noticed that for once, the rest of the festival had come to a stop. Folks stepped aside, both to let Walt through and also to get a better view of whatever action was about to happen.
Boone struggled back upright. He grabbed at Elmer, hoping he could take the rifle away before Walt got there, but the blow to his jaw codded up all vision and his balance.
Still, even with the smears in his brain he knew that if Walt got there, the shit was going down. But surely Walt wouldn’t get there. Elmer had the rifle. The rifle was loaded. Walt was coming, but the rifle was pointed right at him. Elmer had the rifle. Walt was headed straight at him. Elmer wouldn’t let Walt get there, would he? Elmer had the rifle pointed at Walt. Elmer could shoot Walt whenever he wanted.
Oh shit.
The sheriff saw where Walt was headed. He set Samantha on the ground and took off after his father. “Hold on, Dad!” he yelled. “He’s got a gun!”
“I know he’s got a goddamn gun!” Walt yelled back. “That’s why I’m going over there!”
The sheriff heard Karen behind him, as she swooped in and picked up Samantha and shouted something at his back that sounded like, “What’s going on, John?”
He couldn’t answer her, though; his heart thumped in his neck. He flicked out one hand behind himself – hold on – and kept after Walt.
“Come and get it, motherfucker,” muttered Elmer, as he moved his finger to the trigger.
Walt approached faster.
Boone could barely believe what he saw. Flush with hot anger, Walt had covered the distance to Elmer in just a few strides. Only ten seconds had passed from the time Walt first realized he was in Elmer’s sights to now, when he was only a few feet away from them.
“Elmer, don’t be a dipshit,” Boone pleaded.
He saw Sheriff Slone draw a pistol of his own.
“Fuck you, Boone,” said Elmer.
“FUCK YOU YOU GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING COCKSUCKER. GODDAMN SON OF A GODDAMN WHORE MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH!” Walt screamed, as loud as he could cut loose.
When the torrent of curses flew, the gathering crowd went cold silent like they’d been covered by a blanket.
“Don’t do it,” Boone said to Elmer again. He saw John Slone down on one knee now, his pistol almost squared up, just about ready to blow the top of Elmer’s skull into the afternoon sky.
Walt yelled, “MOTHERFUCKER YOU WANT TO GODDAMN POINT THAT MOTHERFUCKING THING AT ME MOTHERFUCKER YOU BETTER GODDAMN BE READY TO USE IT!” and he kept coming. Maybe ten feet away now.
Before Elmer could fire his rifle, Boone lunged for him.
Before Boone could get him, Elmer squeezed the trigger.
Before Boone could get in the way, Sheriff Slone got his finger on the trigger, ready to take out Elmer.
Before anybody could shoot anybody, Walt stepped to one side.
And then
CRACK!
Like a kid’s gunpowder snap–pop.
CRACK! CRACK!
Chaos erupted. Hundreds of panicked festival–goers scattered in hundreds of different directions, grabbing their children, leaving behind their arts and their crafts and their gyros and their chicken sticks.
Boone jumped into Elmer, even though he knew it was too late. He got his hands around the rifle barrel, knocked it to the ground, then slammed his body into Elmer’s and sent both of them flying into Hank’s countertop, which collapsed like wet cardboard.
On the way to the ground, Boone turned his head for a quick look and saw Walt going down, gripping his chest –
Gripping his chest –
Sheriff Slone jumped up. He holstered his pistol, clutched the microphone clipped to his shoulder and bellowed into it, “This is Sheriff Slone! We need an ambulance at the festival! We need an ambulance at the festival right now!” He pushed his way through the hellbent crowd, keeping his eye on the spot where his father went down.
Finally he found Walt, lying on the ground, gasping for air and looking up at the sky with faded eyes. His right hand rested on his chest; beneath the hand, a circle of blood slowly expanded across his shirt. Underneath him, more blood – thicker, redder – pooled on the ground.
“Daddyyyy!” Karen wailed. A second later she was there with them, holding Samantha in her arms.
“Hold on, dad,” said John. “Hold on, the ambulance is on its way. The ambulance is on its way. The ambulance is on its way.” He kept saying the line, over and over. He couldn’t think of anything else.
Over at the gun booth, Boone was flush with adrenaline. His head cleared, and his legs came back. He pounced on top of Elmer, landed one two three four five six seven hard punches to the middle of his face, until Elmer was unconscious and covered in his own blood.
When the beating was over, Boone took Elmer’s rifle and handed it to Hank. “Hang onto this,” he said. “They’ll need it for evidence.”
Hank accepted the gun.
“Don’t touch the trigger,” said Boone.
“Okay,” said Hank.
Boone looked at the gun dealer. Something wasn’t right. Hank seemed unsure of something.
“What?” asked Boone.
Hank took a deep breath. “The police can take this rifle, but it ain’t gonna help much,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Because.”
“Goddammit
it, Hank, this ain’t the time –”
“I’m telling you, it ain’t gonna help!” Hank yelled in Boone’s face. Boone pulled back, stunned.
Hank inhaled again. “Because I stood there and watched everything happen,” he said. “And I hate to tell you this Boone, but Elmer Canifax never fired one damn shot.”
PART FIVE: HELL TO PAY
DREAMS
Boone digs in the dirt. The black dirt, the cold dirt, the dirt like metal shavings under his nails, the dirt like blood caked between his fingers. Fast and frantic, he digs in the dirt.
Hurry up, says Jimmy.
I can’t go any faster, says Boone.
But he can go faster. He does go faster. The October air crackles cold in his lungs. He digs faster. His fingers cramp, his nails split and bleed, but still Boone Sumner digs faster. Without stopping, he looks over to one side and sees her body wrapped in black plastic. And he digs faster.
What are you doing, son?
Nothing, Mama.
But Mama knows he’s lying. He can tell from the look on her face, the way she bites her lower lip and tightens her brow and glares at him through half–squinted eyes. Of course she knows when he’s lying. She always knows.
Hey Boone, Jimmy says. I came by your house last night. You weren’t home. Were you out with Karen again?
Yeah, we were out, says Boone.
Jimmy smiles. Walt Slone’s got somethin’ he wants us to do, he says.
Will he pay? asks Boone.
You know Walt Slone will pay, says Jimmy. Walt Slone always pays. He runs everything. He’s got the money.
How much for this job?
Two thousand.
Two thousand? That’s real money. What’s he want?
Get your pistol and we can talk about it in the truck, says Jimmy.
Boone’s heart sinks. He could use the money, but not that badly. He doubted he would ever need Walt Slone’s dirty money that badly. Then again, two thousand dollars was a lot of money for an eighteen–year–old. A guy could do a lot with two thousand dollars. And besides, it was just this one thing, then they could get the hell out and never have to worry about Walt Slone or his gang again.
Just this one thing. Just this one thing. How bad could it be? Two thousand dollars is a lot of money. A man could do a lot with two thousand dollars. And it’s just this one thing.
What are you doing son?
Nothing, Mama.
They stand at the edge of the woods, the woods behind the big house on top of the hill. Quietly they stare at a black marble slab. Etched in the slab are words that they read over and over and over: wife. Mother. Friend. Ellen Slone.
Do you remember her very much? says Samantha.
Sure I do, says Boone. She was so nice, and pretty, too. You look a lot like her.
I wish she was still alive when I was born, says Samantha.
I wish I never dug in the dirt, says Boone.
Boone wonders what his father might have said to him in that moment.
You and your brother gotta watch out for each other now, you hear?
Keep your family close as you can, Boone. Close as you can, you hear?
Walt leans out the window of his truck. He motions for Boone to come over. Boone looks back at Jimmy one more time, then steps forward.
It’s just this one thing, says Walt. You and your brother can do this one thing for me, right?
He offers Boone an envelope. Inside the envelope, Boone finds two thousand dollars in fives, tens, and twenties. It’s just this one thing.
Ellen Slone stumbles through the woods. Boone and Jimmy walk a few feet behind her, but they are in no hurry – Ellen can’t get far. Her hands are duct–taped behind her back. She is blindfolded.
Boone raises his gun to shoot.
Hold on! Jimmy calls out.
Ellen stumbles. Falls.
Boone gets there first.
It’s just this one thing.
It’s just this one thing.
It’s just this one thing.
Jimmy runs back to the truck and gets the plastic tarp. They will need that, to wrap up the body. In less than five minutes they have her wrapped up. A minute after that, Boone digs in the dirt. The black dirt, the cold dirt, the dirt like metal shavings under his nails, the dirt like blood caked between his fingers.
What are you doing, son?
It’s just this one thing, Mama.
Soon, Jimmy joins him. Jimmy has the shovel. They dig faster now, Jimmy with the shovel, Boone with his hands.
Boone stands on Walt’s front porch. He’s waiting. Finally the door opens and Walt stands there.
Boone hands him a brown paper bag with two fingers in it. Walt takes the bag, looks inside, says nothing. He nods slowly at Walt, hands him back the bag. Get rid of her, he says.
What do you want me to do with her? asks Boone.
Go see Harley Faulkner, says Walt.
Boone turns around and looks into the valley. He sees everything sinking, sinking, sinking. The earth crumbles and opens up, spitting steam and fire. Churches and gas stations fall in. Old farm machinery falls in. Mobile homes fall in. Schools fall in. Pillheads fall in. Meth makers fall in. A dead cow falls in. Goddamned Sewardville falls in to the hissing pit.
Then, Boone feels the mountain slide beneath him. A loud CRRRAAACKKK rips through the air as Walt Slone’s house splits down the middle and tumbles forward. Down. The house crashes into the pit, the house that Boone hates more than any other house in the world. The expensive wood, the Civil War relics, the patriotic election signs. And then, after all his worldly possessions, Walt Slone falls in, head over foot. Then Karen falls in. Samantha falls in. A black marble slab falls in, and Boone reads the words that are etched on it: wife, mother, friend. Mountain orchids fall in, the money falls in, the pain falls in, Mama falls in, Jimmy falls in. Boone falls in. Nothing remains.
NOW WHAT
The morning after the Orchid Festival incident, Boone woke up in a chair at Sewardville Medical Center. He was positioned awkwardly on his right side, his chin propped up by a hand that still had tiny flecks of Walt Slone’s blood splattered on it. In another chair beside him, Samantha slept, with her little head resting against his shoulder.
Through the gauze of waking, Boone realized that they were just outside the hospital room where Walt Slone lay hooked up to a ventilator. Sheriff Slone and Karen were there, standing next to Walt’s bed. The steady MEEP. MEEP. MEEP. of the electroencephalograph drummed into the hum of fluorescent lights.
Slowly, a mundane tableau of dispassionate hospital surroundings drew into focus: the dull white tile, the matte grey paint on the walls, the controlled bustle of doctors and nurses in the corridors.
Boone stood, stretched his legs.
Samantha’s eyes fluttered open. “Is Grandpa awake yet?” she asked, her voice still full of sleep.
Boone tousled her hair. “Not yet, baby.”
“I hope he wakes up soon,” she shrugged.
He smiled at her. With great love he traced his finger down her face, coming to a rest under the dimples in her chin. But he said nothing.
Samantha put her head back down against the chair’s arm rest, and soon she passed back into quiet slumber. He, wished he could do the same, wishing he could just fall into a deep sleep, free of torment, free of the Slones, free of Sewerville, free of it all.
Karen and John exited Walt’s room. They gathered with Boone a few feet away from the sleeping child and talked in low voices just to be certain she didn’t hear anything.
“How’s he doing?” asked Boone.
“Hard to say,” said the sheriff. “Bullet lodged five millimeters from his aorta. Doctor said if anybody’d moved him at all it probably would’ve killed him. They got ‘im through surgery, but now we just have to wait and see.”
“How long?”
Karen spoke up. “He could be in the hospital a month, maybe longer. They don’t know yet.” Her voice was flat, shell–shocked, as thou
gh her words came from across the room by a ventriloquist.
Boone started to ask if anybody thought Walt would pull through, but he caught himself and decided against it. Truth be told, it didn’t matter what anybody thought. Either Walt pulled through, or he didn’t. They would all know soon enough. No point wearing out the conversation until then.
Instead, he asked, “Now what?” He didn’t really expect an answer. He didn’t get one, either.
The sheriff nodded his head and sat down in one of the chairs near Samantha.
Karen came over and picked up the sleeping child, and quickly mother and daughter disappeared down the corridor. She didn’t want to talk about now–what. In that awful moment, as her father lay in a hospital bed with a near fatal gunshot wound to his chest, now–what was the last thing on Karen Slone’s mind.
“Okay, let’s try this again,” Boone asked John. “Now what?”
John leaned his back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know. It’s a fucked up situation. What do you think we ought to do?”
Boone didn’t have an immediate answer.
With his eyes still closed, the sheriff said, “Karen told me about Elmer and Rogers.”
Boone tightened up.
“She said you found a crate of ours,” John continued. “Up at Elmer’s place, when we were there the other night. I guess I should have known. That little bastard.”
Hearing this didn’t surprise Boone in the least. He’d actually counted on Karen telling her brother about the scheme of Elmer and Deputy Rogers, how they’d stolen some of Walt’s merchandise to kickstart their own enterprise, and how they’d tried to bring him in on the deal. Karen looked out for the family above all else. She wouldn’t keep that kind of information down. That was exactly why he’d told her about it – and left out the key part of the story, that he’d actually taken them up on the offer – because she would go right to her father and her brother. He wanted to make sure that the story got out on his terms, not theirs.