He couldn’t believe he hadn’t even bothered to check the gas. He was a damn fool and he had failed Kayla and little Jenna, which wasn’t to mention Old Bo up there in that dark, cold room. Shelton might have cried, he felt so low all of a sudden.
He wished he had figured a way to bring that nitrous tank with him. He wished he could have a party balloon out there in the woods by himself, or at least a little pint bottle to tug at in all his sorrow.
He pulled off his helmet and threw it down into the snow. He wiped some snot from his nose and felt the cold bite the tips of his ears. He yelled out for help, but there was no answer. He called out for Kayla, too, and when she didn’t respond he yelled that he loved her and that he was sorry.
He understood he was coming down now. Coming down hard. Crash, crash, crashing. He felt the blackness descend, felt the emptied-out lowness and dread. His heart was suddenly torn to shreds and his nerves were as hot as crackle wires. The problem with drugs was they didn’t last forever. They gave you the wings to fly and then up and took the sky away. Mayday, mayday, Shelton thought. Black Hawk down.
He ripped off his gloves, threw them at his helmet, and unzipped the front of his suit. He took a few deep breaths and then slid his hand to his beltline and pulled the Glock. The laser came on by itself when the weapon was gripped to fire, which always tickled Shelton. It was a pretty red line, and bright against the snow, but in this instance purely ornamental; he wouldn’t need it once he put that barrel to his temple.
One thing about that big head of his: easy target. One pull and it was done. He wouldn’t have to worry about getting back to the farmhouse, or how he was going to have to explain to Kayla that Jenna got took while they were asleep.
Shelton adjusted his grip on the handle, felt the soft rubber, and wondered, would it hurt? He thought it might, if only for some fraction of a fraction of a second. He kind of hoped it would, though he couldn’t say exactly why.
He wondered if there was a heaven and if he somehow got in, would Old Bo come running up to greet him with a ball to play some fetch?
Shelton doubted there was a heaven, though, and even if there was, he wasn’t likely to get in. And even if he did, say on a clerical error, why would Old Bo come running up and want to play?
He wouldn’t. Not after Shelton left him there to rot in that godforsaken coffin of a bedroom. So that would be it. Shelton would be dead and suffering an eternity of loneliness worse than he’d known here on earth.
All of a sudden it didn’t seem like much of a choice. Not with Kayla back at the house and all the promise their love still might hold, if he could only get her baby back.
Then Shelton remembered he had a few joints tucked away in his pants pocket and that about sealed it. It turned out he would not be shooting himself in the head after all. What Shelton would do is fire up a marijuana cigarette and walk down to the highway to see if he couldn’t hitch a ride. He was too far from the farmhouse to trudge back through the woods, and most of it uphill to boot.
Calling Krebs and the boys for help was simply out of the question. The boys didn’t respect Shelton as it was, and he could only imagine what they’d say if they found out about the sled and how he’d run her out of gas. Shelton was supposed to be in charge, but in his brief tenure he had already managed to lose a baby and strand himself in the woods.
There shouldn’t have been anything to be in charge of in the first place. Everybody bought from Rick and then sold at their own discretion, there was no real organization to it, but his uncle loved him and wanted to give him a vote of confidence and so he told the boys he’d be speaking through his nephew while he was gone. That if Shelton said he needed something they should treat it like it came from Rick directly.
Shelton was just out of prison and he’d done right by his uncle when he snitched out a competitor to plea down. Now that he was out and trying to make his way in the world Rick was repaying his loyalty, even if he didn’t profit from, or care for, his nephew’s product of choice.
Shelton smoked his joint and sat for a while in the snow. He was in the middle of a break in the trees and he tipped his head back to take in a bit of the sky above. The clouds were coming in low and fast and Shelton swore he bore witness to the very moment the storm returned, as if the norther had waited to make sure he was watching before it erased the dawn and its valiant crease of light.
Then the snow came. And the wind. Somehow, it felt personal.