He slid into Aidan’s bedroom and froze. The rifle Sean had set up, jammed into the homemade wooden vice, hung on the window. The stock, heavier than the barrel, tipped down toward the floor and the barrel pointed outside at the sky. A bar stool sat just in front, beckoning him to sit. To do the deed. Suddenly, everything felt very real, and his gut twisted. He stared at the weapon, trying to convince himself not to do it. He dismissed the thoughts and approached it without breathing.
The window allowed him to see most of the backyard, minus a small thatch of roof covering the garage entry and part of the yard. The view allowed him to see Sean’s chopping block, but the tarp where he stored the wood was behind the roof. The block was less than a fifty-yard shot. Easy enough—he had been practicing like Sean had asked. Easy if he didn’t think too hard about what he was doing.
He settled onto the seat and took a few deep breaths, pulling the rifle up and pressing the stock against his shoulder. Rogue thoughts told him to stop what he was doing—that it was wrong. It was a sin to kill. They continued to pester him, but he ignored them. He blinked and thought about his family downstairs—not just his wife, but Elise and Aidan. They wouldn’t last against Sean without Michael doing something. He had to take care of the problem even if it made him unpopular. Even if it was hard. He could answer for his actions later. But not if Sean killed him first.
He tipped the rifle downward and angled it toward the chopping block. He leaned his dominant eye in front of the scope and paused. Nothing. No Sean. Panic seized him. For another minute, he looked around but saw nothing except the soot covered landscape and bare trees swaying in the icy wind. He shot up from his chair, his hand gripping the butt of the rifle to keep it level, and looked out the window over the vice. Nothing.
A noise caused him to twist around. He imagined Sean marching up to him, pistol in hand, blowing his head off right there in Aidan’s room. He tugged on the gun, but it was clamped in the mount, unmovable. He had nothing to defend himself with, except for the shotgun downstairs that he hadn’t brought, if it was even still loaded. Not that there was time to get it if Sean was already aware of his plan.
He looked back toward the yard, hoping Sean was only adjusting the woodpile under the tarp. The minutes dragged on. No sound from the stairs or the first floor. “Come on,” he whispered.
He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. When he brought the gun’s sight back over the yard, a dark figure stepped into view. Sean walking toward the chopping block.
Adrenaline surged. He put his eye behind the scope and tracked the man. Pulled back on the rifle’s bolt action and leaned his head over to watch a brass round feed into the chamber. Looked down the scope. As he steadied the crosshairs over Sean’s body, Sean grabbed a chunk of wood and placed it on the trunk. He wiggled the axe free and let it rest on the ground.
Michael only had one opportunity. One shot. If he missed, Sean would be back in the garage within seconds—and probably coming to kill him after that. Michael paused, the bead holding steady between Sean’s shoulder blades, his finger wrapping against the trigger, trying to hold it still despite his trembling, pressing his palm against the side of the gun to steady it. He was about to take a man’s life, and once he pulled the trigger there was no going back. Either Sean died, or Michael did. No other way.
He lifted his head. Taking in one more deep breath and holding it, he kept the crosshairs on Sean. He felt a resistance at the trigger like a wedge had been shoved behind it. Do it, he told himself. Do it. Do it. Do—
The gun popped and kicked against his shoulder. Smoke rose from the barrel and was stolen by the wind outside. Everything blurred. He pulled his head back from the gun and took his hands off it, the weapon thudding to its resting position. His body shuddered. He laced his fingers behind his neck and sucked in air as if he couldn’t get a breath.
A thought. A realization. He didn’t know if he had hit him. Didn’t know if Sean was dead.
He jumped back into the seat and hoped his stupidity hadn’t cost him another shot. He leaned the rifle back. Sean’s body lay face down next to the stump, a spring of blood erupting from the center of his jacket. Michael pulled his head back and shook it. He returned his eye to the scope and saw Sean’s arm move. Watched him reach up toward the stump and pull himself closer to it.
The thought never crossed his mind that the first bullet might not kill him. Bullets kill. One should have been enough. More shots were required, but he hadn’t prepared himself to take them.
He steadied his hand and pulled the bolt back, and a hot shell ejected from the side of the rifle. He pushed the next round into the chamber, locked the bolt forward, and aimed down the scope again. He looped his finger against the trigger. Aimed for Sean’s head this time. Sean scarcely moved below, only making an inch of progress toward the stump before stopping and resting. Michael squeezed the trigger.
The gun popped and the wood above Sean’s head exploded into a puff of splinters. Sean flinched and looked as though he was trying to turn around. Michael discarded the shell and put another round into the chamber. He didn’t even think the third time. Just acted. He fired again, and the bullet hit Sean in the back. His limbs went limp and sank into the snow. Michael waited. Sean’s head had collapsed onto the base of the tree trunk, unmoving. He had done it. Sean was dead. Kelly was safe. Elise and Aidan were safe.
He was safe.
And he had just killed someone.
The sounds erupted from downstairs as if the whole time he had been in a bubble that just burst. He heard a woman’s voice.
Elise.
“What’s going on?” she yelled from downstairs.
He staggered off the stool and into the hallway. He threw up. Gagged once more and threw up again. His ears were still ringing with the sound of gunshots. He felt like the room was tilting, as if the world were inverting. He reminded himself that he had needed to do it. Needed to.
No choice.
With his hand running across the wall to keep his balance, he made it to the stairs. They expanded and contracted in his vision. He shook his head, gripped the railing, and descended one long step at a time, unsure if his knees would buckle and he would tumble down. He kept himself steady.
When he got to the bottom, Elise was already there. His vision had stabilized, but he struggled to keep the scant contents in his stomach from rising up his throat again. Aidan was in her arms, his fingers shoved in his ears. He didn’t blame the kid for being scared. Every gunshot since this thing started brought new terrors, new pains. This one would be the worst of them. He remembered losing his own dad, how it hollowed out a piece of him he could never quite replace. He promised himself that he would be there just like a father for the kid. He owed him that much.
“Was that you shooting?” Elise asked, frantic.
Michael walked around her, moving her to the side with his forearm.
“Michael, is Sean upstairs? Did he shoot someone else?”
He went to the shotgun, lifted it from the ground, turned it to the side, and pulled the action back. The sound cut through the room, and he looked back at his panicked sister. He turned and walked toward the garage.
“Michael,” she shouted. “Michael, what’s going on? That was gunshots. Did Sean shoot someone else?”
Sean would shoot no one again.
He stomped toward the garage and slipped his boots on, not stopping to tie them. He leaned the gun on the wall and put his coat on. Picking his weapon back up, he turned toward Elise, feeling sorry for her, thinking about how this would crush her. He couldn’t imagine losing Kelly. But some things had to be done.