An Incidental Reckoning (7 page)

Chris frowned as they approached. Will set a faster pace, and Jon increased his to match. A quick glance at his friend’s face showed features set in stone.
Like he was born for this
, Jon thought, thinking about all of the talk about cowardice and wondering if its purpose had been just to stir him up, that Will had his answer already and was on some misguided mission to save him. Jon found himself resentful of being manipulated this way, if it were true, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Now was the time to worry about Chris.

They stopped ten yards away with the prone and motionless Amish boy between them, facing off like predators over a kill. Chris looked even bigger up close, overweight but with thick arms and tree trunk legs planted apart, ready to attack or for balance in defense.

“We’re going to take him over to our campsite. Just leave the buggy when you both go and we’ll take care of that, too.”

Will sounded calm, while Jon fought to keep his hands from shaking. He ran over scenarios in his mind should Chris come at them. If he chose to indulge in fantasies, he could see himself winning with a single punch, a knee to the groin, or a spinning back kick if he pulled out all of the stops. But in reality, he would probably flail his arms, hoping to hit something while being pummeled. He wondered how close the nearest hospital was, or if either of them would be in any condition to drive…

“No, what you’re going to do is go back to your campsite, get in your cars, and leave. This doesn’t concern you. He’s our guest, and he’ll stay until he’s ready to go.”

“Not telling you again. Back away and let us help him. Jon, I think we’ll probably have to carry him. He's hurt.”

Chris laughed, an easy laugh that entertained no doubt about whose version of this scenario would play out. Jon found some strength in the even tone of Will’s voice, couldn’t guess the reason for it but he desperately held on for anything to keep up his courage. He felt like they had come over to challenge a grizzly bear that had graciously given them fair warning before rushing with fangs and claws.

Chris’ smile fled as quickly as it had come, and his eyes hardened within the flesh surrounding them so that they appeared as tiny black marbles. Slowly he reached down to his boot and pulled out a large knife.

“I’ll hurt you both. Bad. Time to go.”

Before Jon could react, Will reached under his shirt and pulled out a gun. Jon gasped in surprise, looked again at his friend’s face, the same face he had known these years but now the likeness of a stranger.

“Will,” he hissed, “what are you doing?”

Will ignored him and pointed the pistol at Chris. A new wariness had crept into their adversary’s face. Maybe even some respect and certainly a flicker of amusement. But not fear. Jon felt sick, couldn’t see how this could end well at all.

“I’ll kill you, fat man. Now back away from the kid. Jon, go get him. Drag him over here if you have to.”

“Put it down before you hurt yourself. Me and Jimbo had you both figured for a couple of pansies, so congratulations on growing a pair. But you don't back off now, I'll cut them off.”

“Are you stupid? I will shoot you. I want
you
to put down your knife and walk down the road that way. Down to where you set up the camp the first time. We’re going to carry him over to our campsite, put him in the car and drive away. I'll give you three seconds to start moving, or I put one in your leg. Be hard to miss from here.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Just calm down.” Chris said and did as instructed, except for putting down the knife. He walked backwards with his hands up, but kept his weapon.

“I said put down the knife.”

“All right.” In a movement nearly too quick to register, Chris let the knife handle slide down through his palm, and his fingers closed on the blade. He crouched and threw it all in one motion. Will fired the gun, and the hasty and poorly aimed shot probably saved his life, the recoil altering his stance. The knife struck his bicep instead of his heart, and instead of sticking into his flesh sliced a superficial gash in his arm and then spun away to the ground.

But Chris was already moving, coming low in the knife’s wake, and Will didn’t have another chance to fire before Chris tackled him. The impact knocked the gun away and it arced through the air towards the stream. Jon listened for a splash, didn't hear one, and marked the spot in the weeds and briars where it had disappeared and ran towards it.

He heard Will cry out in rage or pain, probably both, but didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see anything that would cause him to lose his nerve. He knew that retrieving the weapon was a commitment to use it; just waving it at Chris would not deter the man from tearing them in half. But the police would have to see it as self-defense. They would have the Amish kid to testify…if Chris hadn’t already killed him. Jon ran straight into the briars without pause, the thorns eager for exposed flesh, and bent down, patting down the rocks and vegetation for the touch of cold metal. He felt something dry and smooth, and closed on it. The thing jerked in his hand and he felt a stabbing prick on his wrist and flung it away, watched a snake writhe as it soared through the air, knew there were rattlesnakes here and prayed it hadn’t been of that species. He heard the thump of a fist on flesh, and a groan, and renewed his search, close to tears now. His hand slid between two rocks, and he felt the gun, picked it up with a trembling hand and found that he held it by the front with the muzzle pointing at his chest. He carefully turned it around and then stood.

Will lay on the ground, on his back with Chris atop him, and blood oozed from his nose but he fought back madly, repeatedly trying to poke Chris’ eyes. The big man grunted and caught Will’s hand and then squeezed. Will cried out, and Chris took advantage of the lull in his opponent’s movement to stretch over his body and grab the knife. He raised it high and Jon pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

At first he thought he had missed, but then Chris forgot his plan to stab Will and sat down hard on his friend's stomach. He released the hand and then slumped to the side and fell off entirely. He slowly stood up and began reaching around trying to touch his back, turning in almost comical rotations like a dog trying to catch his tail. Jon kept the gun pointed at him, hoping this was done, trying to keep from shaking too much. Chris’ eyes finally locked on Jon and they narrowed. He lumbered in his direction, the knife still in his hand, grunting with each step.

“Shoot him, Jon. Shoot.”

Jon pulled the trigger again. Chris’s torso jerked backwards but he kept coming, raising the knife as he closed. He fired three more times, not sure at all if he had hit him – Chris charging like and enraged bull - and then ducked and stepped out of the way as Chris lunged. His momentum carried him into the stream, and Jon heard a sharp crack as his head struck a partially submerged rock. Finally, he lay still in a pool of water about a foot and a half deep.

Jon dropped the gun and stared at the body, the long hair waving in the current. He sat down cross-legged and waited for him to get up. Surely he couldn't be dead.
Surely I couldn't have just killed a man.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Will's lips were moving but he spoke a foreign language while gesturing in the direction of the stream. Jon shook his head, wanted Will to shut up so he could rest. Will slapped him, and the sting brought the world back into bright focus.

"...have to get rid of him before that other guy comes back."

"Jim. His name's Jim. But his friend's call him Jimbo."

"Get up, Jon. Come on. We have to do this now."

With effort he stood.
I will never be the same man again. No matter what happens now, I will never be the same.
He looked at his hands and expected to find blood staining them, blood that would never wash off but they were just normal hands. His hands. But not his hands. Not anymore.

"We need to move him downstream. Down around that bend. Come on, Jon!"

Will's urgent pleas finally penetrated his shock, and Jon began to think.
Yes, we need to move the body.
He waded into the stream and took hold of Chris' ankle and pulled. The body moved easily towards him, the water just deep enough for it to be somewhat buoyant. Jon fell backwards and Chris floated on into him, some of his wet hair entering his mouth and Jon gagged. Then Will was next to him.

"Pull!"

They moved him along, dragging him over rocks and pausing to break up branches that snagged on his clothes or got caught under his arms. Jon's muscles screamed in protest but he ignored them. Nothing else mattered but getting the body where it wouldn't be seen. They heard a car pass on the road right above them and they froze, although Jon didn't think anyone could see down here without standing right at the guardrail. It passed without slowing and they resumed their morbid game of tug-of-war.
Dead weight. I get that now, what they mean when they say dead weight.

Jon pulled harder. At first he had tried to do so gently, to try and afford Chris a little dignity; no matter what else he had been, he was human. Now he yanked without mercy, not caring what further battering the corpse might suffer; he had brought this on himself, after all. He didn't stop long enough to think about doing it, only focused on it needing done. After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the bend in the stream. The water picked up speed here as the current descended over a small series of steppes made of shale, and they gave a final heave and the body tumbled over the rocks and hit the small plunge pool at the bottom with a splash. The corpse did a slow roll until settling face down, turning in a lazy circle.

Jon stared at Chris, still expecting he would stand up. How could he have killed someone? Even though he remembered firing the gun, remembered the glazed eyes during the last desperate charge; even though his body ached from pulling the corpse through the stream and he felt sure he had torn something in his thigh and his breath came in gasps and his clothing was pasted to his body from the drenching in the stream, he couldn’t add up these events to equal the taking of a human life. But there was the body, down below, lacking the life to animate it.

“Jon! Come on! We have to get rid of his bike. We’ll tell Jim he left, maybe that a ranger had come around and he got scared. He’ll believe that over us killing him.”

Will ran ahead, back to the campsite. Jon looked after him, and saw that the Amish boy had sat up but appeared disoriented, holding his hands to his head. Jon followed slowly. He considered running, but his thigh hurt his shoes had transformed into concrete blocks. And then a figure appeared, traveling down the camp road. Minus the buggy and walking, but still wearing the Amish hat.

Chapter 6

Will had reached the bikes and now straddled Chris’ motorcycle. He hadn’t seen Jim, who quickened his pace, then broke into a trot. Jon tried to call out, but only managed a hoarse croak. He waved his arms but Will wasn’t looking, had raised himself up over the bike while holding the handle bars, then fell on the starter and the bike roared to life.

Jon watched as Jim produced a gun from somewhere in his clothing and came up behind his friend. He put the gun to Will’s head, and Jon closed his eyes, not wanting to see. He didn’t hear the pop, not sure if he could over the noise of the motorcycle and risked a glance up.

The Amish kid stared at the men. Jim hadn’t fired but still kept the gun pressed against Will’s temple. He reached around him and turned off the bike, and then Will dismounted; directed by Jim, he lay face down on the grass. Jon had stopped, about fifty yards from the campsite, looking stupidly at the scene before him. Should he run away? Would Will die no matter what he did? He felt so tired, wanted to lay on the grass and sleep, and maybe when he woke up, all of this would have passed him by and he could go home. But he couldn’t leave Will.

“Hey! Jon isn’t it? You need to come over here. Going to kill your friend if you don’t. Good, that’s it. Come on.”

Jon stumbled towards the group, and then with a flare of anger forced himself steady, made his legs obey, mustered what dignity he could find and finished the forced march until he stood ten feet from Jim.

“All right. Good. Now where’s Chris?”

“I killed him.”

“The hell you did. I’m not messing around here, gentlemen. Where is Chris?”

“Dead,” he answered. Jon had no desire to lie, doubted he could get away with it. Jimbo’s demeanor had changed. The façade of friendliness had fallen away and his hard and unblinking stare pinned him in place. He projected a potential for violence; no, the certainty of violence, sometime soon. Probably now.