The bullet punches him in the back and he falls. He falls in slow motion, down to his knees, then tilting toward the earth. He goes to catch himself, but his hands fold up, useless, and crumple underneath his weight. There is the crack of his skull hitting a rock. Then all is quiet.
I stare at his dead body and feel nothing but my living one. I feel my pulse, my breathing. My hearing is magnified a thousand times; my eyesight is too vivid, like I’m seeing in the ultraviolet spectrum. I am nothing but a living body, the dial on all my senses cranked so hard they’re in the red.
I don’t know how long I stare like that, nothing but a living body devoid of thought, but then emotions fill that empty, physical space. My little bullet hit. I did it. I stopped him. It’s over. The pursuit is over. Relief is there first, but it’s chased by regret. I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want this memory in my mind forever. I don’t want it. It’s not fair that I have this image of a man, dead by my own hand, facedown on the forest floor. I’ll never be rid of this, never, never, never. From now on it’s a part of me, a part no one else will understand. This moment has made me an alien. I will be alone with it my entire life, unable to escape what has happened, what I’ve done. The weight of this image suffocates me.
I try to get air into my lungs, but I can’t, and my breathing turns into huge, gulping gasps.
I want to run, as though I can get rid of this thing, this moment, by racing away. But there’s no getting rid of it; it’s sticky on my soul like glue.
“I don’t want it!” I scream to no one. A keening wail breaks out of my throat and echoes out across the silent autumn valley. It sounds like it comes from an animal, this cry coming out of me, and it won’t stop.
I stare at his still form and my regret turns to rage. All of this is his fault. He did this to me. He’s the one who made me do this. It makes no sense, but murderous rage takes over my regret, and I want to kill him all over again.
I want to kill a dead man, and this desire makes me hate myself. I feel crazy. I’ve gone crazy. I’m nothing but a bundle of contradictions made electric by feelings too big for my body, for my heart, for my mind.
I want all of this to go away.
I want that body to disappear.
Then, the slightest bit of movement.
My tears stop like somebody turned off a faucet. My sobs turn into held breath. I’m not sure, but it looks like maybe his rib cage moved.
Now, for the first time, I notice something very important.
There’s no blood.
My bullet hit him in the back. It hit him square and it took him down; there should be blood. Wiping away tears from my eyes, I get a clearer look. There’s definitely no blood. I can’t even see the bullet hole.
Shaky, I untie myself from my limb. Without my seat belt I feel dangerously tippy. It’s harrowing, making my way down the tree. He’s crumpled right at the trunk, and it requires an extra-big step to avoid walking on him. It’s strange, but I feel as scared as I’ve ever felt. I’m scared I’ve killed him; I’m scared he’s alive; I’m scared of his limp body; I’m scared of everything.
But I make myself kneel down.
I touch his back.
It’s hard to tell, but then I’m increasingly certain he is breathing. Shallowly, but still breathing.
Thank God.
I search out the bullet hole with my fingertips. The fancy hunting vest is strangely stiff and thick. I find the hole higher than I thought, higher than I aimed. It hit right beneath his neck.
And it’s not a bullet hole.
It’s the bullet.
My brain crashes like an overloaded computer. I don’t get what I’m looking at. Again my fingers slip along the strange material of the vest, which is dull orange on top, khaki on the bottom.
As though somebody else is talking to me, a word pops into my head: Kevlar.
This vest is made out of Kevlar.
This fucking vest is made out of Kevlar.
And Wolfman isn’t dead.
Six Months Ago
THE MAN SITS IN HIS La-Z-Boy, drinking beer and contemplating the nature of promises. He made a promise to a woman, but is he obligated to keep that promise if she broke her word? She betrayed him. She destroyed their family before it had even really begun. So why should a promise to a dead woman hold any power over him? Why should it count for anything?
He has felt the power of the promise eroding like a clear-cut hillside. At first he fought it, trying to buttress the dirt, trying to build cinder-block walls to hold back the earth. Today he wants to just go ahead and claw at the soil, encourage it to fall down. It’s coming down, anyway. He knows that. He knows it’s coming. Why not just pull it all down?
His keys are on the counter. His truck waits in the drive. His notepad is in his flannel pocket. Maybe this afternoon he’ll take a drive. Do a little reconnaissance.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN