Blow Out

“Janet, did you hear what he said to me about my mother?”

She nodded. “Yes. He said your dead mother came to him, then she came to him again in his dreams. She spoke of you, her precious boy. She wants him to help you.” She touched her husband’s shoulder. “Martin, please put down that shotgun. I never want to see it again, ever. I want to throw it in the river.”

He nodded and grinned at her, actually grinned. “It’s going to cost us a fortune to repair the wall.”

“Forget about the wall. Agent Savich is going to help us, Martin.” She held out her hand. “Give me that thing. I know it’s beautiful. I know you paid a bundle for it, but it frightens me. It destroys. I’m going to unload it and lay it beside the front door. Okay?”

“Here,” was all he said, and handed her the shotgun. She paused a second, because she really didn’t want to touch it, but she took it and did exactly what she’d said she would. She walked to the front door, unloaded the shotgun, and laid it on the floor.

Us, Savich thought, Janet had said us, not just her husband. And that may have been the right thing to say. When she returned, he said, “Please, both of you, call me Dillon.” Odd how so few people called him by his first name, but somehow, in this circumstance, he knew it was right. He smiled at both of them.

“Thank you, Dillon,” Janet said. “Sit down, Martin. I’m going to go talk to the girls. They’re scared and I want them to know everything is all right. I’ll be right back.”

Martin looked undecided, but for only a moment. “All right. I’m sorry, Janet, I didn’t mean to—the girls, God, I scared them to death. I’m so sorry.”

She hugged him, kissed his cheek. “It will be all right. I’ll speak to the girls, make them understand, then I’ll be back. I’m going to leave them in the bedroom, it’ll make them feel safer, I think. Now, would you like some coffee, Dillon?”

He smiled at her. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“A real live tea drinker. Goodness, we’re coffee addicts in this house. I’ll be right back. You talk to him, Martin. You talk to him, tell him everything, and then listen.” She nodded, patted her husband’s shoulder, and lightly shoved him down into a big easy chair with a remote control pocket holder on the side, obviously his chair.

Martin eased down into the chair like it was an old friend and stretched out his legs in front of him. As if by habit, he reached into the chair’s side pocket, felt the remote control, brought his hand back up. He didn’t face Savich yet, just looked down at the remote for several moments. Then he splayed his palms on his legs, as if trying to relax. He said, still without looking up, “I lost it. I just lost it. Like Janet said, it’s happened a couple of other times, but I never had a gun before.” He shuddered, drew a deep breath, and at last met Savich’s eyes. “I went out last week to a gun show in Baltimore, and I bought the SKB and a big box of shells.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know really. I felt I had to. Something was pushing me, like it had me by the throat. I felt like something bad was coming.”

“Was it a memory, or dream, what?”

“A dream where everything is black, and I’m hiding, where, I don’t know, but I do know to my soul I have to stay hidden. I know something horrible is happening, but I can’t move.”

“Do you think it had something to do with your mother’s murder?”

Martin looked toward the hole in the living room wall. “Everything was black. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even tell where I was. I didn’t even know my mother was murdered until I was eighteen.”

“You didn’t know or you didn’t remember?”

“I don’t really know which. All I knew was that she wasn’t there anymore. Sheriff Harms—I remember him really well—he was younger then than I am now—I saw him in my dream when I was eighteen. I actually saw my hand in his. Mine was so small and his was like a giant’s, I do remember that, and he was leading me downstairs and my father and a whole lot of people were there, looking very serious and sad. He handed me over to my father. Then I don’t remember anything, except that we were living in Boston, though I don’t remember moving there, or how or why. Mom was gone, and that was really hard, but my father said it wasn’t our fault she died, that he expected me to be a good, strong, young man.

“After a while I didn’t really ask about her anymore or think about her, accepted that my father and I were in Boston, and I went to school and made friends like any other kid.