by Lee Thompson
Robert was sitting in the passenger seat of Harley’s Cadillac and he had her draped across his lap and he was crying openly as he stroked her hair. I heard Angela’s footsteps behind me and waited for her to shoot me again. My neck ached. I said to nobody, “All I want is to sleep.”
Angela paused next to me. Her face was hard when she looked at Lou’s corpse, but it softened when she looked at Robert and Harley. She said, “Was my dad involved in killing Harley?”
I didn’t know if Don was involved with any of that. I wanted to tell her again that she knew the fight between him and me had been coming for a long time, that she had known to expect it, but part of me feared that she’d always imagined it differently, that it was my corpse she would be crying over as her father stood by, cold and immovable and satisfied.
She said, “Elmore?”
I sat on the lawn, my feet heavy on the asphalted driveway.
Angela said, “Will you answer me.”
“Lincoln and his friends killed Harley.”
“Are they dead?”
“Can’t be more dead.”
“What did Lou do?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said.
I heard sirens in the distance. Angela raised her head and said, “You need to get out of here, Elmore.”
“I’m not running anymore.”
She sat next to me and held my hand, her thumb soft against my knuckles. She said, “Robert?”
“He’s crazy. Harley was right. But who can blame him? I don’t understand him any more than I understand myself…”
Angela said, “The police are almost here. I can almost imagine that my dad will be with them and he’ll kill you.” I expected her to cry suddenly, but she didn’t. She pulled the magazine from the pistol and ejected the round from the chamber and set them on the driveway. Robert climbed out of the Cadillac and carried Harley over and laid her on the lawn next to me. He said, “She’s really cold.”
“Death does that to a person,” I said, wondering if he was thinking about his brother Derrick in similar form, his body invaded by that permanent stillness. I thought of my mother, my father, my sister, the bikers, Angela’s dad, and Fat Lou. I said to Robert, “It’s only death, brother.”
He shook his head, looking confused, and he was the one to cry as he sank heavily into the grass on the other side of my sister and he placed his hand against her thigh. I told Angela I was sorry for everything but she was looking at Harley and crying now too and I don’t think she heard me.
I rubbed her back as the cruisers tore up the driveway with their lights painting everything crimson and their sirens blaring like the hounds of hell. I leaned over and stroked Harley’s hair, realizing that she never knew anyone loved her but our mother, and I thought: I wish the world had been a gentler place to you, to all of us. But I didn’t make the rules, and even if I had, I would have broken them because I need to suffer to know I’m still alive…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lee Thompson writes Dark Fantasy and Crime fiction under his own name, Coming-of-Age Suspense as Thomas Morgan, and Supernatural Thrillers as Julian Vaughn. The dominating threads weaved throughout his work are love, loss, and learning how to live again. A firm believer in the enduring power of the human spirit, Lee believes that stories, no matter their format, set us on the path of transformation. He is represented by the extraordinary Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary. Visit Lee’s website to discover more: www.leethompsonfiction.com.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.
To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.
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IT’S ONLY DEATH
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