Every Shallow Cut Page 7

  It took me six hours to get back to Penn Station. The whole day was a blur of bus transfers and trains heading in the wrong direction. I finally figured out the way to get back home, caught the L.I.R.R. out of Penn and made it back to my brother’s house. I rushed up his driveway and threw the rucksack in the back of my car. There wasn’t any reason to go back inside except to get Church.

  I walked in and my brother slid the ottoman out from under his feet and jumped out of his chair.

  He hissed, “Where’ve you been? You’ve been gone for almost three whole days!”

  “I had to see my agent,” I said. “I had a manuscript to drop off. His girl is going to type it up. He’s sure something will break for us soon. And he’s going to keep pushing the other books. I’m keeping the faith. He’s going to get me a nice fat cheque—”

  “I had to take care of your dog. That’s not my responsibility.”

  “Thank you. Where is he?”

  My brother had the temerity to look a little self-satisfied. “In the garage.”

  I glared at him. “You piece of shit.”

  I went to the kitchen and through the door to the garage. Church was tied to a nail hammered into a work bench, sitting, waiting, looking a bit stunned. There was a bucket of water and an open can of tuna fish in front of him. When he looked at me he got to his feet and his ass started swaying. He groaned out a little yelp.

  I untied him and pulled him into my arms and buried my face in the folds of his chest fat. I hugged him and after a while I began to whimper, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, Church, I’m sorry I’m sorry . . .”

  The worst thing that had ever happened to my dog had been me finding him in that cage in the pet store. If I had just moved along he’d be settled in with some loving family, an attentive and adoring mommy and daddy, and a little girl that hadn’t been scraped out of a womb. He’d be chasing tennis balls around the yard and eating barbecue all summer long, stretched out on a patio deck.

  “I’m so sorry, Church, I’m sorry I’m so sorry . . .”

  “What’s happened?” my brother cried. “What’s going on with you?”

  I gritted my teeth. I fought for air. “I’m leaving.”

  “What? Leaving? Why?” He tried to pull Church out my arms and both me and the dog growled at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  I found the button to open the garage door and hit it with my elbow. Then I ran to my car carrying my dog with my brother on my heels.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I!”

  I flung open the driver’s door and tossed Churchill in. He climbed across to the pass-enger seat and got his front paws up on the dashboard, staring at me. I started to get in and my brother grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Stay here.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “I want you to.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason.”

  “I’ve liked having you around. You and the dog.”

  “Now you’re just flat-out lying.”

  “No, I’m not. Besides—” His hard face began to crumble. I watched as it softened up around the edges and began to fall in. “There are things I should tell you. That I want to tell you.”

  “I don’t want to hear,” I said. “Keep your secrets. Everyone has them. I’m not telling you mine.”

  “I don’t need to hear yours if you don’t want to share.” He shook his head. We had jumped the tracks again. He pulled us back on topic. “The point is you’re my brother. I love you.”

  “Oh Christ, don’t. Don’t say it.”

  “I can take care of you.”

  “Don’t you understand that just makes it worse?”

  “Let me help you.”

  “You can’t!” I reached into the rucksack, pulled out the revolver, and pointed it at my brother’s chest.

  His hands flashed up to protect himself. “Christ, what are you doing with that!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stop it. Stop pointing it at me.”

  I lowered the gun.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “What’s this mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re going to get yourself into bad trouble.”

  “I’m already in bad trouble.”

  “What did you do?”

  I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I’d done or where I’d gone wrong or how to fix it. I wasn’t sure what the next step should be, where I should go, how I could lift myself out. I wanted to go home. I didn’t have a home to go to. I wanted to finish the new book. I wondered what the ending would be. I wanted to tell my mother, There’s my name, Ma, right there on the bestseller list. I wanted to add new photos to the old photo albums.

  I shouldered past my brother.

  “Wait,” he said. He reached out to grab hold of me in his powerful arms. He was hugging me. He started crying. It shocked the fuckall out of me and scared me even worse. I broke his hold, gave him two short jabs to the nose and watched his feet slip out from under him. He clutched at his face.

  “Don’t you get it?” I said. “If I stay here any longer I’m going to shoot you in the fucking head.”

  I got behind the wheel and started the car. It was almost out of gas. What the hell. I jacked it into reverse with the tires squealing, pulled out of my brother’s driveway, and then wheeled off screeching down the road as he staggered after us. I kept my eyes on the rearview watching him become smaller and smaller until he was nothing. I stood on the pedal and the engine screamed. I got on a highway I didn’t recognize and jockeyed through traffic heading nowhere. Eventually I put the gun to Churchill’s head and pressed the muzzle between his eyes. He stared at me with that same puzzled expression. This is what they did before they took themselves out. They iced their wives and children. Gave them poisoned punch or put a bullet in their hearts. It was an act of benevolence and grace and kindness. You couldn’t protect your loved ones but you also couldn’t bear the thought of them suffering on without you. I cocked the hammer. He grunted and let his tongue hang out. His bulging fat furrowed brow swallowed two inches of the gun barrel. I loved my dog. I pulled the revolver away and pressed it to my own temple. Maybe I’d pop myself as soon as the car stalled. Or we hit a red light. Or before we took the next exit. Or after we crossed the median into oncoming traffic. I pressed harder. I thought this should be easy by now. Church barked happily. I wasn’t afraid. I knew what questions God would have waiting for me as all his legions of archangels surrounded my soul with their fiery swords, wings spattered with blood. I figured I could fudge the answers.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tom Piccirilli is the author of more than twenty novels, including Shadow Season, The Cold Spot, The Coldest Mile, and A Choir of Ill Children. He’s won two International Thriller Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, as well as having been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and Le Grand Prix de L’imagination.

  Learn more at: www.thecoldspot.blogspot.com.