Every Shallow Cut (10 page)

“I can take care of you.”

“Don’t you understand that just makes it worse?”

“Let me help you.”

“You can’t!” I reached into the rucksack, pulled out the revolver, and pointed it at my brother’s chest.

His hands flashed up to protect himself. “Christ, what are you doing with that!”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop it. Stop pointing it at me.”

I lowered the gun.

“What’s this?” he asked. “What’s this mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to get yourself into bad trouble.”

“I’m already in bad trouble.”

“What did you do?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I’d done or where I’d gone wrong or how to fix it. I wasn’t sure what the next step should be, where I should go, how I could lift myself out. I wanted to go home. I didn’t have a home to go to. I wanted to finish the new book. I wondered what the ending would be. I wanted to tell my mother, There’s my name, Ma, right there on the bestseller list. I wanted to add new photos to the old photo albums.

I shouldered past my brother.

“Wait,” he said. He reached out to grab hold of me in his powerful arms. He was hugging me. He started crying. It shocked the fuckall out of me and scared me even worse. I broke his hold, gave him two short jabs to the nose and watched his feet slip out from under him. He clutched at his face.

“Don’t you get it?” I said. “If I stay here any longer I’m going to shoot you in the fucking head.”

I got behind the wheel and started the car. It was almost out of gas. What the hell. I jacked it into reverse with the tires squealing, pulled out of my brother’s driveway, and then wheeled off screeching down the road as he staggered after us. I kept my eyes on the rearview watching him become smaller and smaller until he was nothing. I stood on the pedal and the engine screamed. I got on a highway I didn’t recognize and jockeyed through traffic heading nowhere. Eventually I put the gun to Churchill’s head and pressed the muzzle between his eyes. He stared at me with that same puzzled expression. This is what they did before they took themselves out. They iced their wives and children. Gave them poisoned punch or put a bullet in their hearts. It was an act of benevolence and grace and kindness. You couldn’t protect your loved ones but you also couldn’t bear the thought of them suffering on without you. I cocked the hammer. He grunted and let his tongue hang out. His bulging fat furrowed brow swallowed two inches of the gun barrel. I loved my dog. I pulled the revolver away and pressed it to my own temple. Maybe I’d pop myself as soon as the car stalled. Or we hit a red light. Or before we took the next exit. Or after we crossed the median into oncoming traffic. I pressed harder. I thought this should be easy by now. Church barked happily. I wasn’t afraid. I knew what questions God would have waiting for me as all his legions of archangels surrounded my soul with their fiery swords, wings spattered with blood. I figured I could fudge the answers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Piccirilli is the author of more than twenty novels, including
Shadow Season, The Cold Spot, The Coldest Mile
, and
A Choir of Ill
Children. He’s won two International Thriller Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, as well as having been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and Le Grand Prix de L’imagination.

Learn more at: www.thecoldspot.blogspot.com.