Part 17 (1/2)
Headspins:
b.l.o.o.d.y BACKPACK GUN CAROUSEL.
Lucas worked to still his mind, then tried to imagine his brother-younger, bored, miserable, picked on, grieving, everything-then half smiled. ”Thought you weren't much of a talker.”
Ryan gave him the finger, shook his head, sort of smiled, too.
”I didn't know,” Lucas said. ”I'm sorry you went through that.”
”You were there, too. There was like an open house for families who were starting kindergarten the next year.”
”I don't remember.”
”Shocker.” Another half smile.
”Did they at least catch the shooter?” Because justice helped. It had to, right?
”Killed himself. Dad said that it was a good thing because Dad would have done it if he hadn't.”
Lucas sat quietly with that thought, rolled it around, trying it on for size, liking it.
Justice.
Or something else.
Revenge?
Yes, that.
Lucas said, ”I want to kill whoever did this to me,” and the spins started up again.
REINS. SADDLE.
FUN-HOUSE REFLECTIONS WRAPPED AROUND.
GOLD POLES STABBING HORSES.
Ryan waved a hand dismissively. ”You'll get over it.”
”Why should I?” Lucas put his hands to his head, like he might somehow physically steady it.
”You want to go to jail?” Ryan said. ”Right after you got back?”
”It'd be worth it.”
”Well, if and when you find him-or her, or them-you let me know.”
”So you can stop me?” Maybe he needed medication for this thing in his head? ”No, thank you.”
Ryan went down the hall to the sleeping area, and there was some slamming of cabinets and then he was back, carrying a wooden box.
He took a key off a hook on the inside of a kitchen cabinet-a pineapple keychain with a smiley face on it. Returning to the table, he opened the box, then spun it around and pushed it toward Lucas.
At the sight of the gun, Lucas stood, wanting to flee, wanting to tell Ryan to close the box, lock it, get rid of it.
But . . .
Then . . .
ONE RIGHT TWO LEFT HISS CLICK.
SNAP UP DONE.
Everything stilled.
Lucas took the pistol in his right hand-the magazine in his left-and loaded up.
Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
AVERY.
Back at home around dinnertime, there were no signs of dinner. Mom was in bed, surrounded by still more tissues. The woman had become a movable flowering tissue tree, dropping fruit wherever she went.
”Have you eaten anything today?” Avery started collecting some of the tissues and put them in the small trash can in the master bath. ”Where's Dad?”
”No appet.i.te. Where else.”
Avery breathed out hard. ”I'll make you something.” She muttered, ”Guess I'll make myself something while I'm at it.”