Chapter 9
Dane Amleth The Lodge was, to Dane's surprise, empty when he got home. He and Harmony had discussed everything that had happened that morning over lunch at the Café on Center--a favorite haunt of theirs from back before either of them could drive. During their conversation and planning, Dane had thought more than once that it was too bad they hadn't fallen in love. Falling for the realtor's daughter was a lot safer than the sheriff's daughter--bad move on Dane's part. There had been a time, maybe, when Harmony might have been open to it, might have thought there was something there. Whenever that had happened, however, Dane hadn't been ready. By the time he could even consider it, the possibility had fled. Instead, he had a best friend, even if they hadn't had a chance to see much of each other in the past few years. But that was life, he knew: Growing up was much less trying to figure out how to get a job and pay taxes, and much more coming to grips with the losses of friendships that had seemed perpetual. The glass shards in the hallway glinted, and for a moment, Dane considered sweeping it up--more for his mom's sake than anyone else's--but he couldn't quite seem to manage it. Instead, he sat down on the couch, shoes still on, though he'd taken off his black leather jacket and hung it by the door. The room was spacious, with large bay windows to let in the November afternoon's sunlight and allow him to see the withering trees that populated the front yard. A massive gas fireplace--cold and quiet now--took up much of the far wall. Above it, a flat screen TV hung, the blue lights of it and the sundry electronics that gave it life glowing with a disinterested aura. The leather couch, which probably had cost more than Harmony's first semester's tuition, creaked beneath his weight as he settled himself in the overstuffed upholstery. Despite having gone over the plan with Harmony for what felt like hours, despite having come to some sort of resolution through their work, Dane felt empty and defeated. It wasn't Clawson, necessarily; it was this monster inside of him, a brooding cloud that covered whatever sun of happiness his mind could muster. The memory from how he'd treated Gwen (Harmony, unsurprisingly, told him he needed to talk to her and apologize; Dane didn't disagree) ran through the gutters of his guilt like a sewer, tainting everything. His father's death, his mother's rapid engagement…it all just added up to an enervation that left him feeling physically drained despite the fact he wasn't moving at all. The energy that had galvanized him during Paul's visit and the unexpected arrival of Ryan and George had evaporated as easily as a puddle in Utah's arid air. In some ways, sitting was all that could be expected of him, and even that felt too much. While these sentiments swirled through him, a thought arrived: Maybe he could execute his and Harmony's plan now, while the house was empty. That thought didn't stay long, however; he didn't know how much time he'd have if he jumped the gun. "The gun?" The Amleth was one that believed in the Second Amendment; they had guns here. At last motivated, Dane stood and walked directly into Clawson's home office. This was the one area of the Lodge that hadn't been taken over by Clawson in the past few days, in part because it was already his. After his move from Salt Lake to Noah, Clawson had taken residence in the basement apartment. Papa Dane had given his brother a spare suite on the ground floor so that he, Clawson, could do some of the business related to Elsinore Ranch that Dane Sr. was sick of doing. Clawson's office, therefore, was lived in; a large mahogany desk with a black mat in the center where his laptop sat, screen closed. A telephone, a lamp, a black-wire bin for his paperwork, and a handful of knickknacks from sundry places he'd visited--a stone Kokopelli statue, likely from a gift shop near Zion National Park; a red rock he'd taken from St. George's famous Red Hill's Desert Garden; a souvenir Eifel Tower that could light up, should one bother to do so; and a taxidermized flock of different birds (how many he'd personal trapped Dane couldn't say)--did an admirable job of cluttering the space. His high-backed leather chair was carefully tucked in. Dane got the sense that Clawson wanted things a particular way. In the corner of the office was a metal filing cabinet. On top of that and secured with long nylon straps, was Clawson's handgun safe. In the basement, the family kept their entire hunting rifle collection--at least twenty of them--in a couple of massive Elite safes. Going downstairs, though, seemed like too much effort, and he knew that Clawson kept the key to the safe in his desk. It was only a matter of scrounging about in the center drawer for a minute before he found the barrel key. "We don't have kids in this place," Clawson had said to Dane Sr. when Jenny pointed out Clawson's lackadaisical philosophy, "and I'm not going to get murdered by an intruder just because I can't get to my guns. A locked up gun is as useless as no gun at all." Dane popped the safe's door open with a deft twist of the key. He stared inside. Two pistols sat next to each other, their dark metal sucking in the dim light from the windows. Surprised at the steadiness of his hands, Dane pulled out one of them, hefting it in his palm. It was his uncle's ASP 9, one of the few things that he had shared with Dane upon moving in. In retrospect, it was likely more of a pique of avuncular interest more than any genuine attempt at making a relationship, but he had shown it to the teenaged Dane with a broad smile on his face. "This thing," he had said in a conspiratorial tone, "is a spy gun." He had flipped it so that Dane could take it in nervous hands. "Plastic grip, see? That way, you know how many shots you have in the magazine without having to eject it. Got rid of the iron sights so that it's easier to conceal. Like a snake in the grass, you see? That's why it's called the ASP." "Really?" Dane had asked, equally impressed and intimidated. He'd grown up around guns--most everyone in Noah had two or three--but he'd also been taught to respect them. The gun was deceptively light--much lighter than what he was used to with the Beretta he'd fire with his dad when they'd go out to the foothills to blow away potguts and empty cans--and had the familiar deadly heft he'd come to expect from a handgun. "That's why they called it that?" Clawson had looked slightly embarrassed and said, "Yeah, of course. Remember, though, I spent over $3,000 on that thing. It's not a toy." "I know. I'm not an idiot." "Right. Just making sure you knew." He'd locked it up then, in the same safe from which Dane took it now. How easy it would be. "I should just do it, you know," Dane said aloud, startling himself. The cold emptiness of the room had enveloped him, the silence becoming too loud. Unpacking his heart with words suddenly seemed the only thing that he could do: Talk himself off the ledge. Instead, he said, "Why does it matter anyway? What's the point? No one would miss me." He snorted, looking around the room as he stood with a pistol in one hand and suicide in his mind. "What am I saying? Of course they would. For a while. Who knows? Maybe Mom would die of grief and then, at the double funeral, Clawson would propose to Gwen at my graveside. One up himself, you know?" Dane shook his head and looked out at the world, the blue of the afternoon slipping into the endless gray of an hours-long twilight. "What a horrible place." He looked over the familiar acres, the distant grazing horses, the farmland that sat mostly fallow. Elsinore Ranch no longer worked the land next to it, profiting instead from other farms that Papa Dane had purchased over the many years until he became one of the wealthiest men around. A fortune that maybe Clawson had killed for. Probably had. And what did it matter? Dane felt the cold reassurance of an answer in his hand. What was there to fear? Why stick around for another year, another month, another day, another minute? Everyone died at some point; why not do so on his own terms? Dane was surprised to realize tears were trickling down his cheeks and the faint smell of gunsmoke was tickling his nose. He had the muzzle against his teeth. He didn't remember moving. With a gasp, he pulled the gun from his lips, spitting. No. No, he couldn't do that…he wouldn't. But why? The thought wouldn't leave him. "I'm not…" The tears made it hard for him to talk, his throat was too tight. Yet he felt he had to get the words out or he would explode. "I'm not suicidal." Yes, you are. He didn't know where the voice was coming from--and it was his voice, he wasn't so naïve as to assume differently--but he knew he had to deny it. "No, I'm not…" You are. Let's leave. They'll be sad for a while, but you won't be. Dane stared at the gun for a long time--longer than anyone would rationally consider it--before saying, "But I don't know." Don't know what? "What comes next." You're studying philosophy, Dane. You know there's nothing that comes next. Darkness. And silence. Everything becomes silence. Dane drew in a deep breath. Silence--including of the words in his mind, his mind that was trying to kill him. Yes. Even this voice would go silent. It's easier this way. For everyone. The tears didn't stop as he thumbed off the safety of the ASP. They continued to drip down as face as he brought the pistol up to his temple. They dripped off his chin as his finger curled around the trigger. He took a breath--his last breath, it would be the last one, no more taste of air, smell of leaves, no more--and closed his eyes. Another tear fell out. The doorbell rang. |