A Simple Plan

by Scott Smith

  "And there was a witch inside," Sarah said.

  "No. It was full of gold. Gleaming bars of gold."

  "Gold?" she prompted me, but I hesitated. I was realizing that it might not be so clever after all.

  "How much gold?"

  "A lot," I said. "More than they ever would've dreamed of owning."

  "And were they excited?"

  "They were more frightened than excited. They realized that the neighboring kings and queens would be jealous of them now, and would attack with their armies to steal the treasure. They'd have to recruit an army of their own and dig a new moat before letting anyone know about the gold. Otherwise they'd lose not only it but their whole kingdom, too. So the king warned the two dukes not to speak of what they'd seen, and as a reward for their silence, he promised them each a portion of the treasure."

  I paused, to see if she'd caught on yet. She hadn't, though: she was lying very still, waiting for me to continue.

  "Days passed, and the king began to dig his new moat. But then, quite suddenly, he started to hear distressing rumors in his court, rumors about the gold. The queen heard the rumors too, and she came to see him. 'Something must be done about the dukes, Beloved,' she said."

  "Oh, Hank." Sarah sighed, her voice sounding pained.

  "The king agreed, and they decided to kill the dukes. But since they couldn't simply execute them without confirming the court rumors, they organized a jousting tournament and arranged for the dukes to die during the contest, apparently accidentally, one run through with a lance, the other trampled by his horse."

  "Was one of them the king's brother?"

  I started to shake my head, but then I stopped. "Yes."

  "And was the money safe then?"

  "The gold."

  "Was the gold safe? Did they build the moat and recruit their army?"

  "No. Right after they murdered the dukes, their neighbors appeared with their armies and arrayed them on the fields around the castle."

  I fell silent. When I glanced down, I saw that Amanda was staring directly at me. She'd been listening to my voice. The room was dark and cold, but we were warm together beneath the quilt.

  I felt Sarah's hand slide across my stomach toward the baby, and watched her as she stroked the infant's forehead with her fingertips. "How does it end?" she asked. Her head was heavy against my shoulder, like a stone.

  "The king went off alone to think. When he returned, he found the queen on the battlement of their castle. He was worn out with keeping his secret. His face was pale; his lips trembled when he bent to kiss her hand. 'Perhaps, Beloved,' he said, 'we shouldn't have opened the box. Perhaps we should've left well enough alone.'"

  "The queen kisses the king on his forehead," Sarah said, lifting herself so she could kiss me on my forehead. "She says, 'Beloved, it's too late to question things like that. The armies are arrayed for battle.' She waves her arm out over the edge of the battlement, toward the campfires which dot the fields for as far as the eye can see."

  "When was the time to question things?"

  "In the beginning, Beloved. Before the box was opened."

  "But we didn't do it then. We didn't know what we know now."

  She craned back her head, trying to see my face in the darkness. "Would you really give it up? If there was a way you could?"

  I was silent for a moment. When I spoke, I didn't answer her question. I simply whispered, "I should've turned it in right from the start."

  Sarah didn't respond to that, she just snuggled closer. The baby had fallen asleep, a soft warmth against my chest.

  "It's too late now, Hank," Sarah whispered. "It's too late."

  10

  EARLY the next morning, even before the sun appeared, the snow began to melt. It took its leave in the same manner it had arrived -- with a wild, headlong rush, as if the whole storm had been an embarrassing error on nature's part, a regrettable mistake that it wished to erase and forget as rapidly as possible. The temperature jumped into the upper forties, and a heavy mist rose from the ground, hiding the dawn. Groaning and hissing and dripping, the snow dissolved quickly into slush, and the slush even more quickly into water, so that by eight o'clock, when I drove into town, I was hindered not by ice on the roads but by mud.

  Carl was in his office, alone, reading the paper.

  "You're awful early, Hank," he said, when he looked up and found me standing in his doorway. "We aren't going to head off till nine."

  His voice was loud in the empty office, cheery. As usual, he seemed absurdly pleased to see me, as if he were lonely and glad for the company. He poured me a cup of coffee, offered me a donut, and then we both sat down, his big wooden desk filling the space between us.

  "I was planning on swinging by the feedstore real quick," I said, "but I forgot my key."

  "They let you have a key?" Carl grinned. He had a mustache of powdered sugar on his upper lip.

  I nodded. "My face inspires trust in people."

  He studied my face, taking me more seriously than I'd intended. "Yes," he said. "That's probably true." He wiped the sugar off his lip, glanced out the window across the street toward Raikley's.

  "I'm going to have to wait till Tom gets in," I said. "That'll be around nine, so I might hold you guys up for a few minutes."

  He was still looking out at the feedstore, a slight frown on his lips. "That's all right," he said. "We can wait."

  Beyond the window, the street was wet, slushy. A light rain had begun to fall.

  "You really think there's a plane out there?" he asked.

  I tilted my head, as if debating. "I doubt it. I think we would've heard a crash if it'd been a plane."

  Carl gave a slow nod. "I imagine."

  "I'm sort of sorry I even reported it in the first place. I'd hate to waste this guy's time on a false alarm."

  "I don't think he minds. He seems fairly desperate, driving all over the state like this."

  We fell silent for a moment. Then I asked, "Did he show you a badge or anything?"

  "A badge?"

  "I always wondered if they look like they do in the movies."

  "And how's that?"

  "You know, bright and silver with the big F-B-I stamped across the center."

  "Sure they do."

  "You saw his?"

  He had to consider for a second. Then he shook his head. "No, but I've seen them before." He winked at me. "I'm sure he'd show it to you, if you asked him."

  "No," I said. "I was just curious. I'd feel silly asking."

  We both returned to our coffee. Carl took another bite from his donut, glancing down at the newspaper, and I stared out the window, watching as a pickup truck moved slowly past, a wet dog huddled up against the back of the cab. Inevitably it made me think of Mary Beth, caused a picture of him -- cold and uncomfortable, tied by a short length of rope to the hawthorn tree in my front yard -- to appear for a moment in my mind.

  A strange thing happened then, as soon as this image took shape. Right there, not even trying, just sitting in Carl's office with the cup of coffee in my hands, a half-eaten donut perched on the desk before me, the room stuffy and over-warm, I thought of a plan. I thought of a way to make things right.

  I turned from the window, my eyes straying up above Carl's head, toward the gun cabinet on the wall behind him.

  "You think you could loan me a gun?" I asked.

  He looked up from his paper, blinking. He had powder on his lip again. It made him look childish, unreliable. "A gun?"

  "A pistol."

  "What would you want with a pistol, Hank?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

  "I've decided to put Jacob's dog down."

  "You want to shoot him?"

  "He hasn't really been able to adapt to Jacob's absence. He's just gotten meaner and meaner, so that now I don't think I can trust him around the baby." I paused, slipping in a lie. "He bit Sarah the other day."

  "Bad?"

  "Bad enough to give us a good scare. She's making me keep
him out in the garage now."

  "Why not just take him to a vet? Pete Miller'll put him down for you."

  I pretended to consider this, but then, sighing, shook my head. "I have to do it on my own, Carl. The dog was Jacob's best friend. If it has to be done, he would've wanted me to do it myself."

  "You ever shoot a dog before?"

  "I've never shot anything before."

  "It's a horrible feeling, Hank. It's one of the worst things in the world. If I were you, I'd take him to Pete."

  "No," I said. "I wouldn't feel right doing that."

  Carl frowned.

  "It'd only be for a day, Carl. I'll do it this afternoon, and have it back to you by the time you leave tonight."

  "You even know how to use a gun?"

  "I'm sure you could show me whatever I need to know."

  "You'll just take him out in a field somewhere and shoot him?"

  "I thought I'd do it near our old place. Bury him there, too. I figure that's what Jacob would've wanted."

  He considered for a moment, his face serious, frowning. "I guess I could loan you one for a day," he said.

  "It'd be a big help, Carl."

  He spun his chair around so that he was facing the gun cabinet. "You wanted a pistol?"

  I nodded, standing up so I could get a better view. "How about that one?" I pointed at a black revolver hanging from a peg in the cabinet's bottom-right-hand corner. It looked like the one he wore on his belt.

  Carl took a key ring from his pocket, unlocked the glass-paneled door, and removed the gun. Then he sat down, opened his bottom desk drawer, and took out a small cardboard box full of bullets. He flipped open the pistol's cylinder and showed me how to load it.

  "You just aim along the barrel and squeeze the trigger," he said. "Don't jerk it, pull it easy." He handed the gun across the desk to me, along with two bullets. "The cylinder'll advance automatically. There's no safety or anything like that."

  I set the bullets down on the desk, side by side.

  "It's my old pistol," Carl said.

  I hefted it in my hand. It had a dense, compact feel, like a fist of iron. It was cool and oily to the touch.

  "It's like the one you carry now?" I asked.

  "That's right, just older. Probably older than you even. I got it when I first took office."

  We both sat back down. I placed the gun on the edge of the desk, beside the bullets. The bullets were smaller than I'd expected, with shiny silver jackets and gray conical heads. They didn't look like they belonged with the gun. They weren't sinister enough; they lacked the pistol's threatening quality, its overt potential for violence. They looked harmless, like toys. I leaned forward and picked one of them up. Its skin had the same oily surface as the gun.

  "I'll probably want to take a couple of practice shots before I actually do it," I said.

  Carl stared at me.

  "You think I could have a few more?"

  He opened the drawer again to take out the box. "How many?"

  "How many does it hold?"

  "Six."

  "How about four more, then?"

  He removed four bullets from the box and rolled them one at a time across the desk. I collected them in my hand.

  Beyond the window, I saw Tom Butler appear, stoop shouldered against the misting rain, a bright orange poncho clinging to his body. He was unloading something from the trunk of his car.

  "There's Tom," I said. I stood up, checked my watch. It was ten minutes till nine. "I should be able to finish by five after. Can you wait till then?"

  Carl waved his arm at me. "Take your time, Hank. We're in no rush."

  I started toward the door, but he stopped me.

  "Wait," he said, and I turned, startled. He held out his hand. "Let me have the gun."

  He picked up the bag of donuts and emptied it out onto the desk. There were three donuts inside, two powdered and one chocolate. The chocolate one rolled slowly across the desk's wooden surface, balanced for an instant on its edge, and then fell with a soft slap to the floor at my feet. I bent over to retrieve it. When I stood up, Carl was wrapping the pistol in the paper bag.

  "You don't want to get it wet," he said.

  I took it from him, nodding. The bag was pink and white, with blue lettering. LIZZIE'S DONUTS, it said, the words folding themselves slantwise across the pistol's butt.

  "You'll be careful, won't you?" he asked. "Hate to loan you a gun and have you accidentally shoot yourself with it."

  "I'll be careful," I said. "I promise."

  AS I WAS making my way down the town hall steps, I caught sight of Agent Baxter up the street, just climbing from his car. I paused on the sidewalk, waiting for him to approach.

  He strode toward me, his body erect, his head held up against the rain. His feet, bootless, cut straight through the piles of slushy snow scattered across the sidewalk. I watched him come, searching his face for similarities to the picture of Vernon Bokovsky. I scanned the close-set eyes, the small, flat nose, the low, squarish forehead, tried to draw in a beard along his jawline, to lengthen his hair and add weight to his cheeks, but I only had a second to do it. Then he was right in front of me, returning my gaze with a directness that unnerved me, made me feel awkward and suspicious. I looked away.

  "Good morning, Mr. Mitchell," he said.

  Confronted with his presence, I had an instant's tremor of panic. He was dressed exactly like the day before -- a dark suit; an overcoat; black, shiny shoes. His head was bare, his hands gloveless. He had that same confident air about him that I'd found so intimidating on our first meeting, and beside him -- dressed in my old jeans, a flannel shirt, my oversized parka -- I felt like a hick, a country bumpkin fresh from the fields.

  The panic passed, however, almost as quickly as it had come. I looked at the man before me, his crew cut slick with rain, his skin raw looking from the cold, and I realized that the walk, the handshake, the practiced formality, were nothing but a show. He was cold and uncomfortable, and he was going to be miserable when he got out into the woods.

  "The sheriff's inside," I said. "I've just got to run a quick errand across the street before we go." I waved my arm toward the feedstore. Tom Butler was standing outside its front door, a damp cardboard box clenched beneath one of his arms. He was searching his pockets for his keys. The poncho, all folds and billows, hindered him like a shroud.

  As I started out into the street, the agent called me back.

  "Hey," he said. "What's in the bag?"

  I turned halfway toward him. He was standing before me on the sidewalk, the barest hint of a smile on his face. I glanced down at the bag. I was holding it clasped against my chest, the paper molded into the damp, unmistakable shape of a pistol.

  "The bag?"

  "I'd kill for a donut right now."

  I smiled at him, relief rushing through my body like a drug. "They're inside," I said. "I just borrowed the bag so my camera wouldn't get wet."

  He eyed the bag. "Camera?"

  I nodded, the lie seeming to maintain itself of its own accord, without any conscious thought on my part. "I'd loaned it to the sheriff."

  I started to turn back toward the road but then stopped myself. "Want me to take your picture?" I asked.

  Agent Baxter retreated a step toward the doors above him. "No. That's okay."

  "You sure? It's no problem." I started to unwrap the bag.

  He backed another step away from me, shaking his head. "It'd just be a waste of your film."

  I shrugged, retightening the paper. I put the bag back against my chest. "Your choice," I said.

  Turning to cross the street, I caught sight of my reflection in the rain-smeared window of a parked car. Above my shoulder I could see Agent Baxter continuing on up toward the town hall's big wooden doors.

  Before I'd even fully thought it out, I'd called his name.

  "Vernon," I said.

  His reflection, murky and dim on the wet glass, paused as it pushed at the doors. He turned his he
ad halfway toward me. It was an ambiguous gesture; it allowed me to see in it whatever I wanted.

  "Hey, Vernon," I yelled, waving across the street at Tom, who was just disappearing into Raikley's. I jogged out into the road. Tom turned to stare at me, the cardboard box still clamped beneath his arm. He waited for me, holding open the door.

  "You call me Vernon?" he asked.

  I brushed the rain from my parka, stomped my boots on the rubber mat, and gave him a confused look. "Vernon?" I shook my head. "I said, 'Wait, Tom.'"

  When I glanced back across the street, the town hall steps were empty.

  MY OFFICE was dim, the blinds drawn, but I didn't turn on a light. I went straight to my desk and took the pistol from the bag. It was covered with donut crumbs.

  The clock on my wall said 9:01.

  I shined the gun against my pant leg, removing the crumbs. Then I loaded the bullets.

  When the clock flipped to 9:02, I picked up the phone to call Sarah.

  The line was busy.

  I put down the phone. I tried jamming the pistol into my jacket's right-hand pocket, but it was too big to fit: its butt protruded and its weight made the parka hang at an odd angle on my body.

  I took off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, and slid the pistol into my waistband, barrel first, fiddling with it until it felt secure. It was in the center of my belly, sharp and cold against my skin, its grip pointing to the right. Its weight there gave me a peculiar charge, a little burst of excitement, making me feel like a gunslinger in a movie. I buttoned up my shirt but left it untucked, so that it covered the gun. Then I put my parka back on.

  The clock changed to 9:03.

  I dialed home again. Sarah answered on the first ring.

  "It's him," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  I told her quickly about the badge, about how he hadn't wanted his picture taken, and how I'd called his name on the street. She listened quietly, not once questioning any of my deductions, but even so, as soon as I started to speak, I felt my sense of certainty begin to seep away. There were alternative explanations for everything that had occurred, I realized, all of which were just as plausible, if not more so, than the idea that Agent Baxter was an impostor.