The wind on the water whipped and whirled around the dock, over and under, over and under. Christmas eve never felt so cold -- not in Texas, not in my lifetime. I didn’t have to stick around. Gas in the tank, air in the tires. Still, something kept me there, silent as a snowflake. It was the red, I reckon, the red on the white, glistening dim and pale in the moonlight. I knew better than to stare, never stand and stare. One bad judgment call to the next, I suppose.
Another smoke to warm up the lungs. Keeping it steady -- keeping my cool. I thought I was good. Hadn’t done wrong, not technically, not in the eyes of any sort with a soul. No one had been around to hear the shots. No one but the dead, and the dead have a nasty tendency to forget the details. The sizzling sound of the cigarette sat on my eardrums, loud and obnoxious in the still night air. Twelve o'clock, by my watch. I’d been there an hour. Sitting, smoking, staring at the beautiful girl and the beautiful man and the beautiful puddles in the snow underneath.
On the red on the white came the first flash of blue. Then more red, and more blue, and the white disappeared. The end of the cigarette went down cold, hard, lifeless as the b----- on the dock. A little embering piece of cotton melted a hole through the powder by his feet, doused as quick as the longer stick lit. The law finally showed. Seemed about right.
“Mister Durbin,” I heard from the big boy in blue. It was Sheriff Harris. Old friend of mine, for what it’s worth, which at the time ought’ve been jack s***.
“Howdy, Roy.” The words went slow and steady. My eyes flicked up and back down again quick. I couldn’t look at anybody. Not here, not now, definitely not at him. Still, I saw him come closer in my head, following the sound of his boots in the snow.
“What in God’s name…” The question trailed off. He saw exactly what in God’s name happened. No need to ask. No need to wonder. “S***… S***, Hank, that’s your wife, that’s your--”
“I know.” I had to cut him off. Didn’t help, really. He didn’t have to say it -- I heard the extra word. That superficial title, that personal attachment. I didn’t want to hear it, but I heard it anyway, I heard it with a gallivantin’ twang of irony. This perforated sack of s*** was a liar and a con, a rapist and a killer.
“You know I’m gonna have to bring you in, Hank.”
“I know it, Roy.”
“You gonna tell me how it went down, or do I have to guess?”
“I killed him.”
“And Joanne?”
“He killed her.”
“And you killed him?”
“And I killed him.”
That there put a little damper on the mood. Not sure how, on account of the mood being dim to start. I guess it sort of sunk in a little on the both of us. Then Roy had to be the one to break the silence. He was always doin’ that.
“You’re looking at a life in prison here, Hank. Best you can do is plead crime of passion, but it ain’t normal circumstances. See, you catch yer wife cheating, you can put a bullet through her and the son of a gun on top. You kill yer wife an’ son, well... It don’t look too good.” Always was good with perkin’ me up, Roy.
I pulled out two more cigarettes, sparked up the first, and told him I didn’t kill her. He took the second outta my hand and told me he knew. I knew he knew, and he knew that. Had to say it anyway. Not for him, not for me, but I had to say it for her. Sweet Joanne. Love of my life. We leaned against the railing there and shut up for a second. It was nice, shuttin' up together one last time. Then Roy went and did his breakin’ the silence thing again.
“You’re on my dash-cam, Hank. You can’t walk away here. I wish I could let you, I really do, but you've got two choices here -- the car or the casket.” Always liftin’ my spirits, he was. We stomped out our regulated doses of cancer, me and then him.
“You’re right, Roy,” I said to him, standing up straight. “It is my choice.” I paced a couple feet away and turned back ‘round -- smile for the camera. My eyes pointed straight his fat white countenance. Then I let the barrel of my colt do the same.
“What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doin’, Hank?”
“Takin’ the easy way out, I reckon.”
“What are you saying?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, not no more. I’m threatening you with a deadly weapon. You’re a cop, Roy. Act like it.”
“You ain’t threatening me, you’re just--”
I pulled back the hammer and locked his eyes in mine. “I’m just what, Roy?”
He stood up nice and slow. “Are you trying to get shot?”
“You do what you gotta do.”
At first he wasn’t sure what that was, I reckon. For a good ten seconds he went dumb as a post. Then his hand went for his hip. My finger went stiff, and the quiet air exploded. Not just my shot, but three more from Roy. At that point I was runnin', boy, was I runnin’. And it hurt. Bad. Roy didn’t kill me that night, but he sure slipped a nice hunk of lead under my hamstring. I jumped off the dock in the right spot, I guess. No water underfoot, and too dark to see. I could hear the call in my head -- three dead, one sinker. I died that day, but Roy Harris didn’t kill me. He just filed the report. Gave me a chance.