The two men watched him nervously. Dale looked bored. Desmond was pretty sure he knew why the man was there.
“Make it twenty-five thousand and you’ll never hear from me.”
The lawyer cut his eyes at the other man, who said, “I’m authorized to pay up to twenty thousand total.”
“That’s a deal,” Desmond said flatly.
Dale smirked.
The oil executive drew a checkbook from the inside pocket of his suit, folded the alligator skin cover back, and wrote out a second check for ten thousand dollars.
The lawyer shuffled papers in his briefcase and presented Desmond with two copies of a four-page agreement.
“This explicitly waives your right to further litigation…”
Desmond signed them before the man could finish speaking.
The lawyer collected them from the table and took out an envelope.
“We’ve sent your uncle’s body to the Seven Bridges Funeral Home in Noble. Due to the nature of his injuries, he’s already been cremated. We will, of course, cover the expense.”
The lawyer waited. When Desmond said nothing, the lawyer opened the envelope.
“Your uncle, like all contractors, was required to file a will with us. We’ll read that now.”
He squinted at the page. Through the glare of the sun through the window, Desmond could tell there was only one line.
The sweating man in the suit cleared his throat.
“The last will and testament of Orville Hughes is as follows: To my nephew, Desmond Barlow Hughes, I leave everything. 39-21-8.”
From the recliner, Dale let out a laugh. “Well, least we know Orville was sober when he wrote it.”
All eyes went to him.
Dale shrugged. “He was a man of few words when he wasn’t drinking.”
No one responded.
The oil executive again expressed his condolences, this time without the forced sincerity. They were in a hurry to leave now. They were out the door within seconds.
Dale told them he wanted to stay, “in case Desmond needs anything,” as if they were anything more than work acquaintances. When the oil men had left, Dale and Desmond sat across from each other in the shabby living room, Dale chatting about nothing in particular, seeming unbothered by Desmond’s silence. He was working up to something. Or working up the courage to do what he’d come here to do.
“The thing is, Des, your uncle owed me some money.”
“That right?”
Desmond had never seen his uncle borrow a dollar—or get up from a card table with a debt to his name.
“Sure did.”
Desmond could see the outline of a small revolver in Dale’s pants pocket. A .38 caliber snub-nose if he had to guess.
“Tell you what,” Desmond said. “We’ll head to the bank, I’ll cash these checks, and we’ll settle up.”
Dale thought about it a moment. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you go ahead and sign the back of ’em checks right now.”
His eyes bored holes into Desmond.
Slowly, the teenager turned the checks over and signed them.
“Old Orville wasn’t much for banks, was ’e? Didn’t trust ’em.”
Desmond’s eyes settled on the lever-action .30-30 leaned up against the door. Orville kept it there in case a deer wandered near the house. Dale saw him glance at it, tried to act like he hadn’t, tried to make his tone casual.
“Heck of a will he left. Them numbers at the end—sounded like a combination to a safe to me. That what you think, Des?”
Desmond’s mind raced. He needed to get out of this living room. He said nothing.
“Yeah, that’s ’zactly what it is. Let’s see if that combination works. I’ll take what’s owed me, and I’ll be off.”
He stood quickly, shuffled over next to the rifle. “Where’s the safe, Des?”
Desmond didn’t make eye contact. “Under his bed.”
Dale smiled. “Nah, doubt that. Orville’s too smart for that. Somebody robbing you is bound to search the house. Twister could get it too. Bad fire might burn it, melt the lock.”
He stuck his hand in his pocket, the one with the gun.
“Where is it? I ain’t gonna ask again.”
“Shed out back.”
Dale stepped forward, snatched the will from the coffee table.
“Show me.”
He opened the door and stood with his back to the rifle, blocking Des from reaching it. The setting sun flooded into the shabby old farmhouse.
Desmond marched past Dale, onto the porch, and down the few steps. The grass was cut short. Brown dirt patches littered the ground like a coat that had been sewn back together countless times.
The shed was a hundred feet away. It stood there, placid in the fall wind, its oak walls and rusted tin roof silently waiting for an event that would change Desmond’s life forever. The building had been just big enough for a tractor in the sixties. Now it held the broken-down Studebaker truck and a John Deere riding lawnmower Orville had made Desmond cut the grass with.
“How’d he die, Dale?” Desmond walked quickly, trying to put distance between them.
Dale quickened his pace to keep up. “Blowout.”
It was a lie. Desmond could tell by the way he said the word, knew the man would never tell him the truth.
At the door, Desmond paused, acting like he expected the other man to open it.
Behind him, he saw that Dale now held his right arm behind his back. His pocket was empty.
“Open it,” Dale said, nodding to the door.
Desmond flipped the latch and pulled at the door, which caught on the grass around it. He slipped inside quickly.
Startled, Dale rushed forward, through the breach.
Desmond’s eyes didn’t have a chance to adjust, but it didn’t matter; he knew what he needed and exactly where it was.
In the darkness, his hand reached from memory, gripped the spare lawnmower blade hanging above the workbench, careful not to let the sharp side dig into his fingers. He swung it without even sighting his target.