Killer Summer

87

The crack of a gunshot echoed off the rocks. In the confusion, it sounded as if a second round had been fired. Then a third.

“KEVIN!!” Summer screamed, spotting him atop the rock face, Christ-like, arms outstretched.

Kevin felt a searing jolt to his right shoulder-not exactly pain but the presence of something foreign and frightening-the impact of the bullet spinning him a quarter turn, speckling his face with his own blood. Losing his footing, he fell to the ledge below.

He opened his eyes. He was still conscious.

The pilot and copilot had stopped dead in their tracks, their weapons raised in Kevin’s direction.

The cowboy came out of the bog at a sprint from behind the three, their attention being on Kevin, reaching them in four or five long strides. John hit the pilot in the ribs and sent him to the ground. A gun discharged, but Kevin couldn’t tell whose. John then scooped Summer off her feet, cradling her in his arms, angling himself in such a way so as to shield her, anticipating the shotgun blast from the copilot. He took the hit, went down on one knee, then somehow managed to stand back up, still holding Summer tight. He continued toward the rocks.

The copilot tracked him with the shotgun, took aim.

The revolver’s nickel plating sparkled not five inches from Kevin’s face on the ledge.

Without thinking, he reached for it, his finger finding the trigger, and, extending his arm, aimed it.

Red spray erupted from the center of the copilot’s back, directly behind his heart. He didn’t move. Still standing up, he was already dead. Instead of falling, he wilted to the ground like a marionette having its strings slowly released. His knee struck his chin, throwing his head back, and the shotgun discharged. A waft of gray smoke rose into the morning sky.

The pilot placed his hands on his head and spread his legs, making a dusty angel in the soil. Deathly silence followed, with not a bird or squirrel or even the wind announcing itself. For Kevin, gun still in hand, it was as if the whole world were holding its breath. He hadn’t even realized that he’d pulled the trigger. But there was blood and there was the man, and he most certainly was dead. Kevin was mar veling at the accuracy of his shot when his stomach suddenly erupted and he vomited up bile.

Recovering, he couldn’t see the cowboy or Summer and didn’t know if they’d made it to the rocks.

He released the revolver from his hand, its barrel brushing his forearm as it tumbled to the dirt. The barrel was cold, not hot. The gun hadn’t been fired.

Had the cowboy shot the man?

Footfalls came running toward him. In that instant, Kevin realized he’d lost track of Matt. Kevin grabbed the revolver, sensing he was a fraction of a second too late already. He rolled on his side and aimed where the rock horizon met the sky, his finger finding the trigger.

The footfalls slowed. Then a silhouette appeared.

Kevin closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

There was a pop, followed by loud ringing in his ears. The smell of cordite hung in the air.

He opened his eyes. The silhouette was gone. Only rock and sky remained. No Matt.

“Put down the gun, Kevin!”

Kevin heard the voice of the man he wished were there instead of the man who wished to kill him. He heard his uncle’s voice, not Matt’s. Were his ears playing tricks on him?

Before leaving this earth, Kevin was determined to summon up the defining moment of his short life: his finding his father’s body. But he couldn’t do it like he usually could. Instead, he only saw peaceful blue sky and pristine white clouds.

“Kevin!”

No mistaking it this time: it was his Uncle Walt. There was no way it could be but it was.

In his mind’s eye, Kevin replayed, videolike, the shots striking the copilot’s chest. His uncle could hit a matchbook at a hundred yards.

“Kevin, is the gun down? Put the gun down!”

“Okay,” Kevin muttered, releasing the revolver, “it’s down.” It tumbled off the ledge and landed in the sage.

Kevin heard something and stole a look at the pilot. The man was now facedown, his hands still over his head. The cowboy, five yards away, his rifle trained on the man, was missing his shirt. His back was bloody.

Walt’s face appeared cautiously over the edge of the rocks. He reached out a hand and pulled Kevin up.

Matt lay awkwardly on the ground ten yards away, his eyes blinking, his legs twitching, with two holes in his chest. Kevin had to look away.

“Good thing you’re a lousy shot,” Walt said.

“I thought it was-”

“That arm okay?”

“It’s felt better,” Kevin said. Then he shouted: “Summer?”

His uncle smiled.

“Down here!” came her voice.

For Kevin, it was all that mattered, it was all he’d wanted to hear. But then purple orbs loomed at the periphery of his vision. He felt faint.

“Morgan Ranch,” Walt said into his radio.

“Is he okay?” Summer cried out in panic.

“He’s going to be fine,” Walt answered. “Just fine.”

Kevin felt his uncle’s arms around him. He felt a sense of peace he had not known in a long time. And then the world went dark.