I sit by the window of my hotel room, staring down at the blinking neon sign of Village Tap.
I am not a violent person.
I’ve never hit a man.
Never even tried to.
But if I want my family back, there’s simply no way around it.
I have to do a terrible thing.
Have to do what Jason2 did to me, only without the conscience-protecting option of simply putting him back into the box. Even though I have one ampoule left, I wouldn’t repeat his mistake.
He should’ve killed me when he had the chance.
I feel the physicist side of my brain creeping in, trying to take over the controls.
I’m a scientist, after all. A process-minded thinker.
So I think of this like a lab experiment.
There’s a result I want to achieve.
What are the steps it will take for me to arrive at that result?
First, define the desired result.
Kill the Jason Dessen who’s living in my home and put him in a place where no one will ever find him again.
What tools do I need to accomplish that?
A car.
A gun.
Some method of restraining him.
A shovel.
A safe place to dispose of his body.
I hate these thoughts.
Yes, he took my wife, my son, my life, but the idea of the preparation and the violence is so ugly.
There’s a forest preserve an hour south of Chicago. Kankakee River State Park. I’ve been there several times with Charlie and Daniela, usually in the fall when the leaves are turning and we’re antsy for wilderness and solitude and a day out of the city.
I could drive Jason2 there at night, or make him drive, just like he did to me.
Lead him down one of the trails I know on the north side of the river.
I will have been there a day or two prior, so his grave will already be dug in some quiet, secluded place. I’ll have researched how deep to make it so animals can’t smell the rot. Make him think he’s going to dig his own grave, so he thinks he has more time to figure out an escape or to convince me not to do this. Then, when we’re within twenty feet of the hole, I’ll drop the shovel and say that it’s time to start digging.
As he bends down to pick it up, I’ll do the thing I can’t imagine.
I will fire a bullet into the back of his head.
Then I’ll drag him over to the hole and roll him into it and cover him up with dirt.
The good news is that no one will be looking for him.
I’ll slide back into his life the same way he slid into mine.
Maybe years down the road, I’ll tell Daniela the truth.
Maybe I’ll never tell her.
—
The sporting-goods store is three blocks away and still an hour shy of closing. I used to come in here once a year to buy cleats and balls when Charlie was into soccer during middle school.
Even then, the gun counter always held a fascination for me.
A mystique.
I could never imagine what would drive someone to want to own one.
I’ve only fired a gun two or three times in my life, while I was in high school in Iowa. Even then, shooting at rusted oil drums on my best friend’s farm, I didn’t experience the same thrill as the other kids. It scared me too much. As I would stand facing the target, aiming the heavy pistol, I couldn’t escape the thought that I was holding death.
The store is called Field and Glove, and I’m one of three customers at this late hour.
Wandering past racks of windbreakers and a wall of running shoes, I make my way toward the counter at the back of the store.
Shotguns and rifles hang on the wall over boxes of ammunition.
Handguns gleam under glass at the counter.
Black ones.
Chrome ones.
Ones with cylinders.
Ones without.
Ones that look like they should only be carried by vigilante cops in 1970s action movies.
A woman walks over wearing a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. She’s got a distinct Annie Oakley vibe with her frizzy red hair and a tattoo that wraps around her freckled right arm and reads: …the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
“Help you with something?” she asks.
“Yeah, I was looking to buy a handgun, but to be honest, I don’t know the first thing about them.”
“Why do you want one?”
“Home defense.”
She pulls a set of keys out of her pocket and unlocks the cabinet I’m standing in front of. I watch her arm reach under the glass and lift out a black pistol.
“So this is a Glock 23. Forty caliber. Austrian-made. Solid knockdown power. I could also set you up in a subcompact version if you wanted something smaller for a concealed-carry permit.”
“And this will stop an intruder?”
“Oh yeah. This’ll put ’em down, and they won’t be getting back up.”
She pulls the slide, checks to make sure the tube is clear, and then locks it back and ejects the magazine.
“How many bullets does it hold?”
“Thirteen rounds.”
She offers me the gun.
I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do with it. Aim it? Feel the weight?
I hold it awkwardly in my hand, and even though it isn’t loaded, I register that same I’m-holding-death unease.
The price tag hanging from the trigger guard reads $599.99.
I need to figure out my money situation. I could probably walk into the bank and tap Charlie’s savings account. It had a balance of around $4,000 the last time I looked. Charlie never accesses that account. No one does. If I withdrew a couple thousand dollars, I doubt it would be missed. At least, not right away. Of course, I’d need to somehow get my hands on a driver’s license first.
“What do you think of it?” she asks.
“Yeah. I mean, it feels like a gun.”
“I could show you a few others. I have a really nice Smith and Wesson .357 if you were thinking more along the lines of a revolver.”
“No, this would do fine. I just need to scrape together some cash. What’s the background-check process?”
“Do you have a FOID card?”
“What’s that?”
“A firearm owners’ identification card that’s issued by the Illinois State Police. You have to apply for it.”
“How long does that take?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me strangely, then reaches out and takes the Glock from my hand and returns it to its resting place under the glass.
I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re Jason, right?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve been standing here trying to put it all together, to make sure I wasn’t crazy. You don’t know my name?”
“No.”
“See, I think you’re messing with me, and it’s not a wise—”
“I’ve never spoken to you before. In fact, I haven’t been in this store in probably four years.”
She locks the cabinet and returns the key ring to her pocket.
“I think you should leave now, Jason.”
“I don’t understand—”
“If this isn’t some game, then you have a head injury or Alzheimer’s or you’re just plain crazy.”
“What are you talking about?”