Gun Church

Twenty-Three

Meg called on Thanksgiving Eve, two weeks after the Fox Hunt. I had finally gotten past all of my concussion-related symptoms. In spite of the pain of playing Cutthroat and the disorientation of Fox Hunt, it was worth it. Both had opened my eyes to new possibilities for the book and the cursor no longer mocked me. I’d incorporated both experiences into the book and riffed on that scene of McGuinn in the river. I don’t know if I dreamed it or hallucinated it, but whatever state I was in when I conceived it, I loved the idea of McGuinn caught in a deadly cycle of violence where he tries to stop the killing. The outline and synopsis seemed to write themselves and new pages poured out of me. The world I had created for McGuinn was paradise, a redemption of bullets.

The most difficult thing I had to do during those days was to call Meg and beg for an extension to her arbitrary deadline. I repeated the lies Renee and I told the ER doctor about my falling off a ladder and sustaining a concussion. Meg gladly gave me a week. Although I’d met the new deadline, I hadn’t heard back from her since. I just assumed all my maneuvering to get a new book deal had fucked everything up. Surprisingly, I was okay with that. I kept on teaching my classes, writing the book, shooting with Jim, and playing house with Renee. I didn’t start drinking again or looking for coke or someone new to fuck. I almost qualified for Zen mastership. Om. I guess the only un-Zen aspect of the new me was my desire to fuck up Stan Petrovic in the worst possible way. Not only did I want to kill the prick, I wanted to humiliate him while I did it.

I’d missed one turn in the chapel, but had shot once last week. Though the thrill wasn’t gone, it was going. After playing Cutthroat and Fox Hunt, the chapel seemed tame and my rush was a bit less intense. The junkie’s dilemma: I’d hit that wall junkies always hit. No matter what anyone tells you, all addictions are the same. You’ve got to keep upping the dose. Jim seemed to know it without being told.

“Another couple of weeks, Kip, and maybe you can try the real thing.”

“The real thing?” I said, getting hard at the thought of it.

“Vests only.”

“Like you and the fat kid?”

“Yeah, just like that, but don’t say yes right away.”

“Yes.”

He laughed, but shook his head. “It’s dangerous, Kip. You saw what could happen if everything doesn’t go just right. I could just as easily have hit that guy in the throat or eye as his arm. If you get killed, we’re just going to take you out in the woods and bury you somewhere you won’t ever be found. Even if you’re real seriously wounded, that’s what we’ll have to do. We can’t risk everybody else to save one person. You understand?”

“Ever have to do that before, dig a hole out in the woods somewhere?” I asked, smiling.

Jim didn’t answer, keeping his expression cool and neutral. “Just think about it,” is all he said.

I didn’t have to think about it. I wanted it. I suppose I’d wanted it from the moment I saw Jim and the fat kid in the chapel that first time. I could still smell the gun smoke in the air.

“I want it, Jim. I want it.”

And then, for the first time in a month, I saw hints and flickers of that smile. The one that said: I know you, Kip Weiler; I know you better than you know yourself. But it quickly vanished, forced off his face by the proud mentor smile. He extended his right hand to me, and his grip expressed more pride in me and more love for me than my father had ever managed in his entire lifetime. Was it odd that I basked in the glow of approval of some twenty-year-old yahoo from Buttfucksville?

“Then let’s start getting you ready.”

But that was earlier and now Meg was on the phone. What she had to say made Thanksgiving seem so much more than an excuse to force down dry turkey and watch football.

“I don’t know how you did it, Weiler, but this book is fucking genius.”

“And … ”

“And Franz Dudek thinks so too,” she said. “It’s a deal. I was going to send the contracts down, but I think you need to come up here next weekend. We should talk face-to-face.”

“What for?”

“I miss you.”

“That’s horseshit, Donovan. If you missed me so much, why haven’t I seen you in seven years?”

“I don’t think you really want an answer to that, do you?”

“I suppose not, but you still haven’t given me a good reason.”

“Because Dudek wants to take us out to dinner and look you in the eye.”

“What, he’s going to read me the riot act?”

“I don’t know, frankly, but it must be something like that. And if he does, you’re going to sit there with your hands folded and take it.”

“For this, yes,” I said. “I’ll take whatever he’s dishing out.”

“The hotel’s on my dime, Weiler. I’ll e-mail the reservation details to you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

Click.