“I can ease your mind,” she said.
I got up, walked to the door, and opened it.
“You’re kicking me out?” she said. “You’re really going to make me leave?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “After tomorrow, things will be different.”
She rose from the bed, walked to the door, and lingered a few inches from my face. “What happens tomorrow?”
“I can’t tell you. Now, please, this is extremely difficult for me, but I have to ask you to leave now.”
“But I’ll see you again?” she said. “Do you promise?”
“I hope so, Katherine. I really do.”
CHAPTER 58
The gunfight at the clearing near Petros was scheduled for dawn on a Thursday, two days after Christmas, but there was no way I was going to show up at dawn. I thought Pappy would probably get there and get familiar with the place as soon as he could, and I wanted to be there first. So as soon as Katherine left, I went into the bathroom and replaced the air vent, then picked up the silencer, the box the gun came in, and the extra clip of ammunition. I retrieved the pistol from beneath the mattress and went out and got in my car. I drove around several blocks, doubled back, ran red lights, and pulled into and out of strip malls and apartment complexes until I was certain I wasn’t being followed.
I then drove to a small storage space I’d rented when Grace had kicked me out. Inside the storage space was my camping gear and some heavy clothing, along with most of the rest of the things I’d accumulated after my mom was killed. The weather forecast said it would be cold and there could be some light snow in the mountains west of Knoxville on Thursday, so I put on a set of warm clothes, a pair of leather gloves, a leather coat, a pair of boots, and a stocking cap, then picked up a flashlight and a box of ammunition for the pistol. I drove to a convenience store, bought a couple of large cups of coffee, and filled my car with gas before I got onto the interstate. I planned to keep the car running with the heater on most of the night. I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping, so I thought I’d drink the coffee a couple of hours before dawn. It would be cold, but the caffeine would have the same effect.
From there, I went to my mom’s grave. I stood over the headstone as the wind howled around me. Surprisingly, I wasn’t sad or afraid. I almost felt lighthearted. I said, “Mom, if you know what’s going on, you know I might be joining you very soon. I’ve done some bad things and I know you might not be too happy with me right now, but when you were alive, you always had my back and I always had yours. If there’s anything you can do to help me out tomorrow, a little nudge here, a push there, a big gust of wind that throws him off balance or sends a bullet off target, I’d appreciate it.”
I got back into my car and pulled onto the interstate. As I drove west out of Knoxville toward Petros, I picked up one of my burner phones. I’d left my regular cell back at the hotel. I dialed my ex-wife, Katie’s, number. I wanted to talk to my son, Sean, just in case. I didn’t know what I’d say to him, but I wanted to hear his voice. The phone went to voice mail. I asked Katie to please have Sean call me on my burner number—that it was important—but I knew she wouldn’t. The next number I dialed was Grace’s. She didn’t pick up, either.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for anything I’ve ever done that hurt you,” I said on her voice mail. “I never intended to hurt you. I never wanted any of the things that have happened to happen. I want you to know I appreciate how kind you’ve always been to me, how good you were to my mom and my son, and that I’ll always love you.”
I was on the gravel road that led to the shooting range in just over an hour. Small flakes of snow were dancing across the headlights like tiny flying fish, and the darkness beyond the reach of the headlights was complete. I pulled my car into a small stand of trees about a hundred yards from the clearing where the targets were, turned off the engine and the lights, took the Walther P22 pistol out of my pocket, and got out. I walked around with the flashlight for a little while, then went over to the targets. I illuminated a target with the flashlight, backed up thirty feet, and emptied a clip into it. I popped another clip in and did the same. I walked up to the target and checked it. The pattern was tight—all of the rounds were close to the bull’s-eye. If I could stay calm, I at least had a chance.
I went back to the car, opened the trunk, picked up the box of ammo and reloaded the clips with 0.22-caliber long-rifle hollow points. The wind was whistling through the leafless tree branches all around me, and I shivered. I thought about cleaning the gun again—the kit was in the trunk, too—but since it had been spotless when I got there and I’d only put twenty rounds through it, I decided against it. I got into the car, started it, and turned the heater up. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was only 10:35 p.m. I wondered how long it would take Pappy to get there. I’d positioned myself in a place where I knew I’d see him come in. He couldn’t drive without headlights; it was just too dark. He would come over a rise that led to the firing range. It was in a natural bowl, almost like a box canyon. Three sides were flanked by steep banks that led to a ridge farther up the mountain.
Time crept by. I got out of the car and walked around several times. I kept impulsively checking the Walther to ensure it was ready to go. Finally, at 5:58 a.m., I was walking about thirty yards from my car, just finishing the second cup of cold coffee I’d bought earlier, when I saw the glimmer of lights coming up the other side of the rise and heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A vehicle topped the rise and stopped. It turned slowly to the left, and its headlights illuminated the target range. It had to be him. Big Pappy Donovan had arrived. The sun wouldn’t rise until 7:45 or so. The first light of dawn would appear about a half an hour before. We had a little more than an hour to wait.
I walked over and huddled against the trunk of a giant white oak tree. It protected me from the wind and gave me a clear view of the spot where the headlights had gone out. I couldn’t hear the engine running, and I couldn’t see the vehicle, but I imagined I could hear Big Pappy breathing. The breaths were slow, deep, and measured, the breaths of a predator stalking prey.
I stayed near the tree for more than an hour, when suddenly I noticed faint slivers of light beginning to emerge above the mountain ridges in the distance. Five minutes later, I stood and began to walk toward the range. I could make out the shape of Pappy’s vehicle; it was a small sedan of some sort. Another five minutes passed, and I saw the interior light come on. The door opened, and the huge man climbed out of the driver’s side. He took several steps toward the range, and I stepped out of the tree line.