Peter just sat and stared at Rex sleeping on the floor and did the only thing he could to blot out the horror - he began drinking in earnest and shut off all his phones. He reached for Kathryn’s little bag of weed.
Halfway through his beer and a joint, Peter began to imagine in vivid detail the way his sniper scenario would play out. He had felt nothing in particular when writing out all the planning necessary to murder Kathryn with a rifle. That’s why writing was so cool; he didn’t feel anything. Now, however …
I feel really comfortable here, belly on the ground, looking down the barrel of this beautiful Remington .308 with the big Leupold scope. I smell the earthiness of gun oil mixed with the perfumy banana smell of Hoppe’s #9 Nitro Powder Solvent. It is a smell I remember from hundreds of gun-cleaning sessions with my father.
It is just before dawn. There are a few cars scattered around the south end of the mall where there is a rear entrance to the Slim Gym Pilates Studio. This entrance is in use before the main mall doors open at 7 a.m. Kathryn is working out inside.
I check the distance to my target with my Nikon laser rangefinder. The distance to her car is 155 yards and the distance to the mall is 168 yards. This gun is capable of putting five shots into a silver dollar at that range. I don’t know if I am capable of shooting as well as the gun, even though I am resting it on a bipod and have the buttstock jammed down on a tightly rolled-up coat. I am sweating and shaking slightly. I have to pee again although I just did ten minutes ago. I have to decide if I will go for a head shot or a heart/lung shot. The head shot is a surer kill, but the heart/lung shot is a surer hit. I won’t be able to take a second shot. No one will see my muzzle flash because the Remington is fitted with a flash hider, but this thing sounds like a cannon when it goes off.
Kathryn will be the last one to leave after the class. She won’t go outside until her hair and clothes and war paint are just right. The next class is not for 30 minutes, so everyone should have left by the time she comes out, and no one else will be arriving for a few minutes. I will catch her alone. Perfect.
All the other cars leave. Only Kathryn’s Mercedes-Benz C-Class Coupe remains. I see her walking out slowly, fumbling in her purse for her keys. She is standing stock still near her car. I put the mini-dot reticule of the Leupold scope on her head. I hold a little low, about level with her mouth. The scope is sighted in to hit at 200 yards, and at 160 yards, the bullet is still rising. I don’t feel the recoil. I don’t hear the report. I never do when I’m hunting.
I see her jerk sharply backwards, then she begins to topple over. The 168-grain MatchKing jacketed hollow point bullet has entered her head just below the right eye. It strikes thin bone and begins its controlled expansion into a mushroom shape as it enters her brain. It is pushing a supersonic pressure wave ahead of it, smashing the tissue of the brain and creating a cerebrospinal fluid “mush” under such pressure that it squirts out through the exit wound like semi-solid projectile and paints the wall behind it a thin pink.
She hits the concrete like a rag doll, her muscles no longer receiving any information from her non-existent brain. She is dead. Her bladder and bowels let go. I can see this horrible mixture running out from under her short leather skirt.
I don’t want to see this.
“You don’t? It’s the best part, isn’t it?”
No. I don’t want to see this.
“But you must want to, because you are seeing it.”
No! No! No!
I remember when we made love, and I used to say when I entered her, “Darling, I’m home now.” And she would say, “Welcome home, love.” And now her pretty pink panties are fouled with shit and piss.
Peter shook his head rapidly, trying to shoo his thoughts with the same motion horses use to shake flies out of their eyes. A spasm hit him like a fist to the gut. He bent over and vomited on the living-room floor. He vomited until there was nothing left. Peter stared at the vomit for a minute or so. He walked to the kitchen and found a bottle of vodka to fill his new emptiness.
Chapter 17
The next morning, Peter was sick with the worst hangover he’d had since he was in his twenties. He hadn’t tied one on like that even after his paintings had been spray painted and slashed. He walked through the morning hours in a black fog. The vision of Kathryn’s legs covered in her own waste danced circles in his mind like a whirling dervish on crack. He finally put the phone back on the hook at about 11 a.m. and checked his messages. Peter listened to the obviously disguised female voice saying, “Riches. Bitches. Snitches.” He skipped through several messages to get to the one he had been dreading - the vet. But she hadn’t called.
Peter phoned Andrea’s office, and she came on the line after a brief delay. “Peter, the X-rays I did of Rex’s lungs show masses that I’m sure are metastases from the cancer in the shoulder. The additional views I did of the shoulder just confirm the worst. Rex’s shoulder is in immediate danger of a major fracture. I don’t know how it held up this long. My consultant at the university agrees with my diagnosis. To deal with this, we need to make an immediate appointment to do something to avoid a total collapse of that joint and the intractable pain that fracture would cause.
“There are only two solutions, I’m afraid: amputation or putting Rex to sleep. As Rex’s friend, you have to make that decision, and you should make it immediately for his sake. There’s no doubt in my mind about this. If Rex were my own dog, I’d do one or the other today.”
“There’s no way out, is there?”
“No, Peter. I’ll be here all day, and I’ll make sure any call from you gets through to me directly.”
“I won’t be calling you. I’ll take care of Rex myself. He’s a hunting dog and he belongs in the field during the last minutes of his life, not on a stainless steel table. We’re going bird hunting today. How many of those pills can I give him before he passes out?”
“Are you going to try to give him an overdose?”
“No, I want to know how much pain relief I can give him and still have him be able to hunt.”
“Okay, I understand. You can give him no more than double the dose on the label. They’re pretty effective. On second thought, maybe just give him his normal dose and it’ll be all right. You’re a brave man to do this for him. I grew up on a farm, and my dad and uncles used to take our old and sick dogs out behind the barn. I never knew how they could do that, but those were different times, and that’s what all the farmers did back then. Good luck. Do a good job. Make it quick.”
“It’ll be quick, Andrea. I’ll make it quick.” And Peter hung up. He had a decision to make, and he made it quickly.
Chapter 18
Peter called his hunting buddy. “Gregor, it’s Peter. Are you working today?”
“No. I was waiting all morning for some materials to show up, and then I found out that the guy I’m working for forgot to order them. So I’m stuck here at home trying to find something on TV.”
“Do you want to come hunting with me and Rex?”
“It’s not hunting season for another two months, numbnut.”
“We aren’t hunting birds. We’re just going hunting, the three of us, and only two of us are coming back.”
“Are you fucking nuts? Are you threatening to kill me or yourself or what?”
“Nope. I need a back-up shooter to kill Rex. He has an aggressive cancer and has to go down today or his shoulder will collapse. That fucking shoulder looks like it’s made of Swiss cheese on the X-ray and the vet says she’s amazed it’s held together this long. I’m going to get Rex stoned and shoot him when he goes on point. I want him dead instantly, and you know me - I shoot so bad that I might end up just wounding him. I need you. And I need someone to drive after, because I know I won’t be able to, and I need someone to get drunk with me after we get back.”
“I can do that. We should load up with slugs or heavy buckshot. The shock will take him out no matter where we hit him.”
“I have slugs.
”
“Ten minutes. Hang on.”
Peter called Rex to his side and told him to sit. “What’s your favorite thing, pup? Hunting, right? Mine too. We’re going bird hunting with our friend Gregor. You’re going to find a pheasant for us. Come on pup, let’s go get my shotgun, and then we’ll find your hunting collar. Good boy.”
Rex padded along beside Peter as he prepared to go out in the field. Rex knew something was up, and he was excited. Peter went to the refrigerator and pulled out some hamburger. He stuffed some pain pills in the meat and gave it to Rex, who sat and wagged his tail. Rex was polite when he was given treats.
After the hamburger, they went to Peter’s gun cabinet and when Rex saw the bird gun, he began dancing in circles and whining with excitement. Peter pulled on his favorite hunting pants and laced up his best field boots. Rex lay down at his feet, whining softly with his tail wagging.
Gregor arrived and was dressed for the field. Rex greeted him with excited barks and whines. He leaped into the back of Gregor’s crew cab as soon as Gregor opened the door.
They drove in silence to a public game preserve where the three of them had hunted before. Rex stood the whole way, shaking with anticipation. He could smell the guns on the floor in front of him. Hunting doggie perfume.
Rex hit the ground running when they arrived. He didn’t limp. He cast left and right with his usual thoroughness and intensity. He kept his nose high in classic long-distance search mode. The arcs he cast become smaller and smaller and his head lowered slightly until he locked up in a stylish point on a hen pheasant in short grass. Peter and Gregor approached the dog’s point from behind, got very close and fired, and then fired again. Peter turned back to the car after the second volley and motioned for Gregor to do the same.
“Fucking dogs, Gregor, fucking dogs. I hate fucking dogs.”
Halfway home Peter spoke again. “My old man had fucking cancer too and wanted to die. He begged for a gun. He just wanted some fucking dignity. He saw one function after another shutting down and wanted to die before he shit himself and couldn’t walk. I was too scared to smuggle a gun into the hospital. I’ve always hated myself for being such a goddamned coward. I just treated my dog better than I treated my old man. Fuck!”
“I couldn’t shoot my own dog like you just did.”
“I didn’t think I could either; that’s why I brought you. You could see Rex was doing what he was born to do. He was happy in the last few moments of his life. How would you rather die, Gregor? Four quick shots to the base of the skull while you’re hunting, or in a hospital with a tube in your arm?”
“Neither.”
Chapter 19
Gregor drove Peter home, but Peter didn’t ask him to come in for a drink as planned. He hopped out of the truck in the driveway and walked to the back deck of his house. He just wanted to be outside for awhile and drink in the green of his late-spring yard. He sat in his deck chair and tried to think of something pleasant but could not. He left the chair, fished for his house key and approached the back door with the key in one hand and his bird gun in the other. He froze in his tracks when he saw three knives stuck in the wood. They were cheap dime-store steak knives with plastic handles. Two knives had the handles partly snapped off. The snapped-off handles were red and black in color and the undamaged handle was white.
Peter was afraid to touch the knives, so he walked to the front of the house and went in that door instead. He looked at the phone and thought briefly of calling the police, but remembered what had happened the last time he phoned. They would treat him like a criminal again.
Peter’s phone rang. He picked it up like it was a snake and held it away from his ear; he did not say “Hello.” He still had his shotgun in his hand.
The caller said “Cut. Slut. Shut.” And nothing more.
Peter sat down quietly at his dining-room table. He set the bird gun down and reached into his pocket and took out two shells. He picked up the gun, loaded it and set it down once again on the table.
Peter didn’t drink any alcohol that night. He sat in his dining room. He had tea at the dining-room table. He waited. He did not know what he was waiting for, but he was pretty sure who he was waiting for. He stared at the word “WHORE” still written across his three best paintings. He hated her. He looked at the draft printouts of his assassination essay scattered around the table. The essay put his hate into words. His bird gun, still smelling of burnt powder, lay in front of him. He stared at the elegant little shotgun, tempted to shove the barrel in his mouth, pull the trigger and end the confusion.
The evil glow of the defaced paintings, the spread-out essay, and the gun he had used to kill Rex made an overwhelming combination. All he’d done was fool around with a client who just happened to be a “working girl” and the world had turned to shit. And all the shit that had happened since then was Kathryn’s fault.
In this mood, Peter began to write down some random thoughts about killing Kathryn, this time with no particular enthusiasm or grace. Still, writing made him feel better. It was the only thing short of suicide that Peter knew had any chance of dulling the pain. Writing did help.
Chapter 20
Peter had an appointment with Lisa the next day. He needed the appointment but didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay home and wallow in his grief. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to drink too much. Instead, he left the loaded gun on the dining-room table, standing watch over his disfigured paintings, and drove to Lisa’s office.
“Come in, Peter, and take any seat you like but mine.”
Peter sat. Peter was silent.
“Tell me about your week.”
Peter remained silent. He had no clue where to start, so he didn’t start at all.
Lisa began, “Shelly printed out your e-mail for me, about shooting your wife. I read it and …” Lisa made eye contact with Peter and stopped. She saw something awful there. She waited for Peter to speak.
Peter finally said, “I shot my dog.”
Lisa nodded, resting her clipboard on her knee and putting down her pen. She tried to make contact with Peter’s eyes again. Peter quickly averted them.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know how to get rid of the pain. I want to tear my hair out. I’m afraid.” And, again, in a very soft voice, “I’m afraid.”
“Tell me about shooting your dog. Please talk slowly. I want to hear you.”
Peter sniffed and cleared his throat, then spoke clearly and slowly as if making a speech. “I shot him because he had a very aggressive bone cancer that was within days or hours of causing his shoulder to collapse, leading to intolerable pain. I couldn’t allow him to die on a steel table in the vet’s office.”
Peter had memorized this sentence like a Bible verse the previous evening. He needed a moral justification for having shot Rex, in case anyone tried to make him feel guilty about it.
“Go on.”
“I shot him; that’s all.”
“How did that feel when you did that?”
“It felt bad then. I don’t feel anything now.”
“If you don’t feel anything now, why did you mention it as the first thing in our hour?”
“Because I don’t feel anything, and I think I should. Shouldn’t I be crying or something? The previous administration called me a sociopath. Am I a sociopath? Is that why I don’t feel anything?”
“Peter, the mind often puts up a shield of numbness to help us through painful things. Feeling nothing now is a stage in the healing process. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“I don’t think you understand why I shot my dog. He was my total responsibility from puppyhood to death, and I wanted to be there for all of it. I didn’t want to delegate something as important as killing him to someone else. Hunting dogs live to hunt and he died pointing game in the field. I’d like to go that way myself.”
“So you did the right thing and now you’re mourning him, and …”
“And
I’m frightened, because I don’t know how much more pressure I can take without getting really depressed. I’ve been depressed before and it’s worse than any other illness. I’m frightened I might go over the edge.”
“What happens when you go over the edge?”
“The normal list of depression things: anorexia, insomnia, heavy drinking, street drugs, crying, inability to concentrate or plan, delusional ideation - the works.”
“You sound like you’re quoting from a textbook. Are any of those things happening now?”
“No. Maybe a little more drinking and some pot, but none of the other stuff.”
“So why do you think you’ll go over the edge?”
“Someone is trying to push me over the edge with weird phone calls and headless dolls on my car and knives stuck in my back door.”
“What are you doing about these threats?”
Peter was silent for a moment. “She did it. She killed Rex. She did it all.”
“She? Do you mean to tell me that Kathryn killed Rex?”
Peter nodded his assent.
Lisa went on, ”Where did that thought come from, Peter? Tell me why you think Kathryn killed Rex.”
“I don’t know. I just know that she did it somehow and now I have to kill her to protect myself.”
“Peter, do you mean that? I have to know if you really mean that. Are you planning to kill her?”
“No, I don’t mean I’m really going to do it, but even if I meant to, shooting is out of the question. I’ve been thinking about that. Shooting’s too good for her. I did that for my Rex. You only shoot your friends. It’s quick and merciful. I want to poison her slowly and watch her die.”
“Are you really going to poison her, Peter? Look at me. I have a legal responsibility here. You know that.”
“No, no. I’m gonna do some research on poison and just write about it. Writing’s the only thing that helps me feel better. Writing doesn’t make me happy, but when I’m doing it, it takes away the pain of thinking, and the hurt.”
How to Kill Your Wife Page 7