A Simple Plan (26 page)

“You’ll shoot him yourself?”

“That’s right,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’ll shoot him myself.”

S
ONNY
lived in a house trailer, a tiny one, set up on cinder blocks about three quarters of a mile down the road from Lou’s. There were sawhorses littered about the front yard, covered with snow, and the side of the trailer had
S. MAJOR, CARPENTER
painted on it in large, black letters. Below that was written HIGH QUALITY,
LOW PRICE.
Sonny’s car, an old, rusted, and badly battered Mustang, was wedged into a gap in the snowbank lining the road.

I parked Jacob’s truck alongside the car and left the engine running. Mary Beth was sound asleep on the front seat; he barely even lifted his head when I climbed out. I jogged up the shoveled path to the trailer and, very quietly, tried the door. It was unlocked; it opened with a faint squeak.

I stepped up and in, crouching through the low doorway. The trailer was dark, and once inside I had to wait for half a minute, holding my breath, while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. I listened for sounds of movement around me, but there was nothing there.

I was in Sonny’s kitchen. I could see a small counter-top, a sink, a stove. By the window there was a card table with three chairs. The place was dirty, cluttered, and smelled stalely of fried food. I unzipped my jacket, careful not to make too much noise, took out Nancy’s robe, and draped it over one of the chairs. I set the lighter and the cigarettes on the table.

I took my time moving across the kitchen toward the rear of the trailer. I placed a foot, paused, shifted my weight forward, paused, placed my other foot, and continued this all the way into the adjoining room, listening every instant for sounds of Sonny stirring.

The next room was a tiny sitting area—a couch, a coffee table, a TV set. I took out Nancy’s lipstick and tossed it onto the couch. From where I was standing I could see, through an open doorway, the foot of Sonny’s bed. Sonny was lying there. I could see the shape of his legs beneath the gray whiteness of the sheets.

I listened very closely, holding my body still, and, barely, made out the sound of his breathing. It was soft and low, just this side of a snore. He was sleeping deeply.

“Sonny,” I called, my voice echoing against the trailer’s walls. “Sonny!”

I heard an abrupt movement through the doorway, skin sliding across sheets. The legs pulled up and out of sight. I took a heavy step toward the bedroom.

“Sonny,” I called. “It’s Hank Mitchell. I need your help.”

“Hank?” a voice came back. It was thick with sleep but a little edgy, too, a little scared.

I took another heavy step. A light came on in the bedroom, and, a second later, Sonny appeared through the doorway. He was a small man, wiry and stunted, like a little elf. He had brown, shoulder-length hair. He was naked except for a pair of white underpants, and in the dim light his skin looked pale, soft, like it’d be easy to bruise.

“Jesus, Hank,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me.” He was holding a screwdriver. It was clenched in his right fist, like a knife.

“Jacob’s hurt,” I said. “He’s puking blood.”

Sonny gave me a blank look.

“We were drinking at Lou’s, and he started puking blood.”

“Blood?”

I nodded. “Now he’s passed out.”

“You want me to call an ambulance?”

“It’ll be quicker if I bring him in myself. I just need you to help me lift him into the truck. Lou’s too drunk to do it.”

Sonny gave his eyes several rapid, exaggerated blinks, as if to clear them of tears. He stared for a moment at the screwdriver in his hand, then glanced around him, looking for a place to set it down. I could see that he wasn’t really awake yet.

“Sonny,” I said, forcing a note of panic into my voice. “We have to hurry. He’s bleeding inside.”

Sonny stared down at his underpants. He seemed surprised to be wearing them. “I have to put on some clothes.”

“I’ve got to get back,” I said. “You run over when you’re dressed.”

Without waiting for his answer, I turned and sprinted toward the front of the trailer. I ran outside and down the walk. I climbed into the truck and was just about to reverse it back up the road to Lou’s when I saw Mary Beth sitting in the middle of Sonny’s front yard. I opened my door and leaned out into the night. “Mary Beth,” I whispered.

The dog sat up straight, ears erect.

“Come on.” I made a clicking sound with my tongue.

The dog wagged his tail in the snow.

“Get in the truck,” I pleaded.

He didn’t move. I tried to whistle, but my lips were too cold. The dog stared at me.

I called his name one more time. Then I slammed shut the door and sped back up the road.

W
HEN
I got to Lou’s, I found Jacob exactly as I’d left him. He was sitting on the leather couch, his hands still gloveless, sipping from his glass of whiskey.

I stood in the entranceway for a good ten seconds, absorbing the scene. He’d taken off his boots, too.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

He looked up at me, startled. “What?” he said. He hadn’t heard me come in.

“You were supposed to wash those glasses.”

He held his glass up and stared into it. It was half full. “I wanted to wait till I finished.”

“And I told you to put on your gloves, Jacob. You’re leaving fingerprints.”

He set his glass down on the coffee table. He wiped his hands on his pants, then glanced around the room for his gloves.

“We’ve got to clean up,” I said. “It has to look like we weren’t even here.”

He found his gloves tucked inside his jacket pockets. He took them out and put them on.

“Your boots, too.”

He bent forward to pull on his boots. “I can’t tie them with my gloves on.”

I waved my hand in the air. “Then take them off. We’re running out of time.”

He took off his gloves, tied his boots, put his gloves back on. When he finished, he rose to his feet, picked up the glasses from the table, and started off toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He stopped halfway across the room, blinking at me. “You told me to wash the glasses.”

I shook my head. “Later. Sonny’ll be here any second.” I went over to the foot of the stairs and picked up Lou’s shotgun. “Where does he keep his extra shells?”

Jacob stood there with the glasses held out in front of him. “In the garage.”

“Come on. Show me.”

He set the glasses down on the coffee table with a little clinking sound, then followed me out to the garage. There was an open cabinet there, just beyond the doorway, and on its floor was a cardboard box full of shells. I had Jacob show me how to load them into the gun. It held five shells in all. You had to pump a new one into the chamber each time you fired. I emptied the box of shells into my right-hand jacket pocket, and we went back inside.

When we got to the entranceway, I picked up my brother’s rifle and held it out toward him. “Here,” I said. “Take this.”

Jacob didn’t move. He stood there, about five feet from Lou’s body, and stared at the rifle. He seemed undecided as to what he should do. “You told me you were going to shoot him.”

I stepped forward, shaking the rifle. “Come on. You’re just going to point it at him. We have to use Lou’s gun to shoot him.”

He hesitated. Then he reached out and took the rifle from me.

I went over to the front door, cracked it open, and peered outside toward Sonny’s trailer. It was all lit up now.

“I’m going to wait for him on the porch,” I said. “You stand in here. When you hear us talking, step outside and point your rifle at him. Don’t say anything, and don’t let him see inside. Just stand there and point the gun at him.”

Jacob nodded.

I stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind me.

I
T WAS
another minute or so before I heard Sonny’s car start. It revved twice; then the headlights flicked on, and it shot out onto the road, made a tight U-turn, and sped toward me. He parked at the top of the driveway, right next to the garage, shut off the engine, and came sprinting up the walk. He was almost to the door before he saw me standing there, waiting for him.

“Where is he?” he asked, out of breath. He was wearing a light brown winter parka with a big, fur-lined hood on it. His hair was still uncombed. He glanced down at the gun in my arms, then touched the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. They were watering from the cold. He stepped up onto the porch. With the door closed, the house looked perfectly normal. You couldn’t tell what had happened.

“I had to—” Sonny started, but then, hearing the front door begin to open, he stopped. Jacob appeared through a crack in the doorway.

“You’re all right?” Sonny asked, surprised.

Jacob didn’t answer him. He squeezed his body out onto the porch and shut the door. Then he raised his rifle until it was pointing at the center of Sonny’s chest. I stepped down onto the walk, in case Sonny tried to run back toward his car.

Sonny stared at Jacob’s rifle for a moment. Then he glanced back toward me.

“Hank?” he said. He still hadn’t caught his breath. He touched his eyes again.

I raised the shotgun until it was pointing at his stomach. The gun felt heavy in my hands, and its weight gave me a sudden sense of power. It felt exactly like it ought to, dense, potent, like something capable of killing.
This is craziness,
I thought to myself, briefly, and then I let go, slipping into it. All my fear, all my anxiety fell away: I felt capable of anything. I smiled at Sonny.

“What the fuck, Hank?” he said. “You think this is funny?”

“Take off your jacket,” I said. I kept my voice very quiet.

He just stared at me.

“Come on, Sonny. Take it off.”

He glanced from me to Jacob, then back to me again. He started to smile, but only got halfway. “This isn’t funny, Hank. You woke me up.”

I took a step forward and raised the gun until it was right in front of his face. “Do it,” I said firmly.

Sonny’s hands started to stray toward the zipper of his jacket. Then they stopped and fell back to his sides.

“Sonny,” I said. “This is very important to me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He glanced back at Jacob; then he looked for a bit into the barrel of the shotgun. “You woke me up,” he said again.

I took another step forward. I touched the gun’s barrel against his forehead. “Take off your jacket, Sonny.”

He stepped back, staring at me. I tried to make my face into a stone, and, after a moment, it worked. He unzipped his jacket. Beneath it, he was wearing a blue flannel shirt and jeans.

“Take it,” I said to Jacob.

Jacob stepped forward and took the jacket from Sonny. He folded it carefully over his arm. Sonny watched him do this. I watched Sonny.

“Now your boots,” I said.

Sonny hesitated for about five seconds. Then he crouched down and took off his boots. He wasn’t wearing any socks. His feet were small and bony, like a monkey’s.

“The boots,” I said to Jacob.

Jacob picked up Sonny’s boots.

“Your shirt,” I said.

Sonny tried out a little laugh. “Come on, Hank. Enough’s enough. It’s cold out.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, glanced back at my brother. “Jacob?” he said. Jacob looked away.

“Take off your shirt, Sonny,” I said.

He shook his head. “This is fucked, Hank. This isn’t funny at all.”

I stepped forward and hit him in the mouth with the shotgun. It was the strangest thing—I didn’t consciously will it, it simply happened. I’d never struck anyone before in my life. Sonny took a step backward, but he neither fell down nor cried out. He gave me a dazed, vacant look.

“What?” he asked. His mouth was bleeding. He put his hand up to it and shut his eyes. He still seemed, on some level, to think that this was some sort of practical joke. When he opened his eyes, he looked at me as if he were expecting me to smile, to say that it was all right, that we were just fooling around.

“Take off your shirt,” I said.

He took off his shirt and dropped it to the ground.

“Your pants.”

“No, Hank,” he started to plead.

Without thinking, I hit him again, this time in the side of the head. He fell to one knee. He rested there a moment, then got back up on his feet.

“Do it.”

Sonny looked from me to Jacob. We were both pointing our guns at his chest. He took off his jeans.

“Your underpants,” I said.

He shook his head. “This isn’t a joke anymore, Hank. You’ve taken this too far.” He was shivering now, from the cold, his whole body trembling.

“Don’t talk, Sonny. If you talk, I’m going to hit you again.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Your underpants,” I said.

He didn’t move.

I lifted the shotgun until it was level with his face. “I’m going to count to three. When I get to three, I’m going to shoot.”

He still didn’t move.

“One.”

He glanced at Jacob. Jacob’s hands were shaking so much that his rifle quivered in the air.