Chapter 3

As Mark maintained a flow of reassuring chatter, trying to make sure that the boy had had enough time to get himself composed, Bobby watched him guiltily, desperately trying to think of some way to stop him that would not bring Nick's wrath down on his head. In the end, his expression was sufficient to alert Mark that something was amiss. As Mark saw his stricken face, he put down his half-empty glass on the table.

"What is it?" he asked in concern. He was moving towards Bobby when a wave of dizziness overtook him, and he swayed unsteadily. Bobby jumped up and guided him to a chair.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered; but Mark wasn't listening to his abject apology. He felt very strange; time seemed to be slowing down, and the world was suddenly looking very different. Somehow it all seemed so much less serious than it had a few minutes ago. Little details that he had never bothered to notice before suddenly seemed much more noteworthy. He stared at his hands in apparent fascination. Experimentally, he poked at his left hand and seemed to find the results highly amusing. Bobby sighed, feeling he'd just lost his only ally and knowing he only had himself to blame. He moved protectively in front of Mark as Nick approached.

"Come on, grab the gun and let's get out of here."

"Gun...yes I have a gun," Mark supplied helpfully, pulling it out and waving it in the direction of the two boys who backed off in alarm. "It's a good gun. Doesn't it look nice?"

"Come on," Bobby pulled at Nick. "Just leave him alone. We'll do this some other way. It's not worth it."

Nick watched Mark for a few moments, seeing his brandishing of the weapon as a threat instead of the playful exploration it was. He swore viciously, but allowed himself to be pushed in the direction of the path that led to their vehicle. As he followed, Bobby, with a swipe of his arm, backhanded Mark's glass containing the rest of the drugged lemonade into the bushes, determined to prevent the older man from finishing the potentially lethal dose. With one last troubled look at Mark, he left.

Mark didn't notice their departure, as he was busily engaged in twirling the gun round his finger and attempting to juggle it into the air and catch it behind his back. He meandered slowly up the hill along the path, vaguely remembering that he had to catch some fish for supper.

As he reached the clearing at the top of the hill, he tried again to catch the gun, but his coordination was completely disrupted, and it fell away from his hand. As it hit the ground, the gun discharged loudly, the shot narrowly missing Mark, who stared at it for a while, waiting for a repetition of this interesting phenomenon. When it failed to perform, he picked it up, shook it lightly, and examined it with drunken interest.

***************


Steve drove back toward Clear Valley, feeling fully relaxed now that his part in the trial was over. Things had gone more smoothly than he had expected, and the DA had been satisfied both with Steve's performance on the stand and the odds of getting a conviction. So Steve headed back to the cabin with a serene anticipation of enjoying these last few days with his father untainted by any remaining responsibilities.

As he pulled his truck up behind the cabin, Steve realized that he was back somewhat earlier than he had expected and grinned to himself as he anticipated his father's pleased welcome. Retrieving his overnight bag from the back of the truck, he approached the door to the cabin, noting that the main door was open, with only the screen door in place, allowing the cool breezes to enter. Good, he thought, his father must be inside. He walked cheerfully through the door, calling out in the time-honored manner of his long-ago school days, "Hi, Dad – I'm home!"

Somewhat surprised at not getting a response, Steve headed for the bedroom to deposit his bag and see if his dad had succumbed to the restful atmosphere enough to take a nap. Not finding anyone in the bedroom either, he moved back into the living area, casting a glance around for any evidence of what his father might have been doing. He certainly wouldn't have gone far, Steve knew, since he had left the door open. As he looked around, it occurred to him that things seemed somewhat messier than usual. A couple of the desk drawers weren't closed all the way, and there were things scattered around in a manner indicating that someone had been searching for something. Since his father, despite his pack rat tendencies, was essentially a very neat person, Steve found this rather odd. He went out to the patio behind the cabin, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of what appeared to be the remains of a half-eaten lunch. A closer look revealed that, while there was only one bowl and one glass, there were two paper plates, one of which still contained part of a sandwich. Apparently his father had had company. But where were they now and why had they abandoned their lunch?

As he was contemplating this puzzle, the empty plate was blown off the table by a sudden gust of wind. Just as he started to chase it, Steve was startled by the sound of a gunshot, not far away. Alarmed, he abandoned the picnic table and headed in the direction of the shot, automatically pulling his own weapon. He knew the sound of a handgun when he heard it, and since his father was not into taking potshots at the local wildlife, nor likely to encourage such an activity on the part of his unknown guest, his instinctive reaction was to assume this was trouble. Cautiously, he moved toward the woods from which the shot had sounded. As he quietly drew closer, he could hear the sound of someone moving around ahead of him and the occasional murmur of a voice. As he approached the small clearing above the lake from which these sounds were emanating, he realized that the voice was his father's, and, although there was definitely something odd about it, it didn't sound like Mark was in trouble. Nevertheless, he peered warily into the clearing, wanting to see what was going on before he stepped out into the open.

As Steve peered through the bushes, he froze in shock at the unimaginable sight of his father holding a gun pointed at his own face. For one totally horrified second, his heart stopped, as his stunned brain struggled to take in the image of his father apparently about to commit suicide; then he lunged desperately into the clearing.

"Dad!" He skidded to a halt, his heart pounding in his chest, as Mark looked up, but didn't lower the gun. "Dad, what…" He got no further before he realized that Mark's expression wasn't that of a man about to kill himself. Instead, his father looked at him with an expression of pleasant vagueness, as he seemed to be trying to focus on Steve.

"Steve?" The voice matched the expression – pleasant, spacey, slightly slurred. With a new sense of shock, Steve realized that his father appeared to be extremely drunk – an almost equally improbable scenario from a man who rarely indulged in more than an occasional beer or glass of wine. "You know, these are very weird things," he heard his father say as he looked back at the gun he was still holding, turning it over and over, checking it out from all angles. Steve's stomach lurched as Mark ended up peering directly down the barrel of the gun as if trying to see what was inside.

Steve swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice and movements calm. Whatever was wrong with his father, he'd find out later. Right now he had to get that gun away from him before he hurt himself. He could see that the safety was disengaged, and all it would take was an incautious movement on Mark's part, and the gun could go off. And at literally point blank range, it would blow a good-sized hole in his father's head.

"Dad… why don't you put the gun down," he suggested, stepping very slowly toward his father.

Mark looked back at him. "You have one too," he pointed out with an air of perfect reasonableness. "I want to see how mine works."

Steve glanced down at the gun he had forgotten he was still holding. He carefully reholstered it, all the time keeping his eyes glued to his father's face and moving steadily closer to him. "I'm putting mine away, Dad," he said; "how about you do the same."

Mark suddenly turned mildly belligerent, refusing to give up the gun, and backing away from his son. Steve halted his approach, conscious of the sudden drop-off down to the lake that was barely a few feet behind his father, not wanting Mark to inadvertently step over the edge. By now he had realized, from the dilated eyes, erratic behavior, and disconnection from reality, that his father was most likely under the influence of some sort of drug. Finding out how and why that had happened could wait; getting that gun out of his hands before he shot himself couldn't. He took a deep breath, and tried again.

"Dad, please – give me the gun before you get hurt," he urged, starting to slowly edge closer again.

"It won't hurt me," Mark protested. "I'm just looking at it." He started to raise it up to eye level again, to illustrate his point, causing Steve to exclaim in alarm, "No! Don't do that!" Mark looked at him as if the yelling had hurt his feelings, and continued to protest the safety of what he was doing. Steve decided to try another tactic.

"Dad, please, for me, okay?" he asked pleadingly. "I just want you to give it to me – please." He saw Mark hesitate, and persisted, continuing to play on his father's usual willingness to do anything for his son. "Come on Dad, I know you're just checking it out, but I really need you to give it to me … for me, okay?" He watched with bated breath, as his father glanced again at the gun in his hand and then lowered it reluctantly.

"Well… if it means that much to you …" Mark said, slowly extending his arm toward Steve.

"It does," Steve avowed fervently, never taking his eyes off his father as he moved swiftly to grab the gun, not wanting to give Mark a chance to change his mind. Unfortunately, with his attention focussed exclusively on the gun and the hand that held it, he failed to notice a section of raised tree roots in front of him; and in his hurry, he tripped over them, falling directly into his father, who was in no condition to maintain his own balance, let alone support Steve. The two men toppled heavily to the ground, and the gun went off, the sharpness of the report muffled by the body that covered it.