Carved in Bone

gaping twin barrels at me.
    I stood frozen, too dumbfounded to move. She raised the gun to her shoulder. Her mouth pursed into a prunelike grimace. Fire blasted from one of the barrels, and I felt a searing wind roar past my right ear. Behind me, I heard my truck’s windshield shatter. “I said put your hands up. Next shot takes your head off. One. Two.”
    I raised my arms.
    “Now botha you get over there to the end of the porch. Go on, now.”
    I mounted the steps, as if toward a gallows, and moved to the far end of the porch. Art came and stood beside me.
    The old man struggled to his feet and limped to his wife. He reached out his hand for the gun, saying, “Vera—” The barrel caught him squarely on his right cheekbone. The front sight raked across the flesh, tearing a ragged gash that began to ooze blood. He staggered back against the porch rail, one hand pressed to the cheek. “Vera…”
    “You shut up. Get over there with them two.”
    “Vera, listen to me.”
    “No. No! You listen to me for once, you sorry sack of shit, and you get your ass over there with them two.” Kitchings sagged, then shuffled over beside me. “I been chokin’ down poison for thirty years on account of you, Thomas Kitchings, and I done had my fill of it. No more; no more. This ends right here, right now. I ain’t gonna take no more, and I ain’t gonna lie no more. This mess done ruint our lives. It’s done kilt Orbin, and it’s about kilt Tom, and I don’t aim to let that happen. Enough is a damn ’nough.”
    Art cleared his throat. “Mrs. Kitchings, if you’d please put that shotgun down, I know we can talk about this calmly.”
    “I don’t want to talk about this calmly,” she said. “I been calm way too long now. I been calm my whole life, and look what it’s got me.” She looked around, as if surveying the wreckage of her life; then she shook her head fiercely, her eyes blazing.
    “Mrs. Kitchings, I know things look bad right now, but it’s not hopeless,” Art persisted. “With a good lawyer—Dr. Brockton here knows some fine ones—your husband could plea-bargain. If he made a deal for manslaughter, he might be out in two or three years.”
    She stared at Art as if he were a madman. “Plea-bargain? Manslaughter? What the hell are you talking about?”
    “The girl. Your niece. She was killed. Strangled.”
    “Thomas never strangled that girl.”
    I finally found my voice. “Mrs. Kitchings, we found out a lot when we examined her body. Like your son said, your niece was pregnant.”
    “Hell, I knowed she was pregnant thirty year ago. You think I’m stupid?”
    “No, ma’am, I don’t think you’re stupid,” I said. “I just…I’m just not sure how many of the facts you know. Long about the time the pregnancy would’ve started to show, your niece was strangled.”
    “I know that, too.”
    “But you just said your husband…”
    “I know what I said, and I know what I didn’t say. I didn’t say she weren’t strangled. I said he never did do it.”
    A staggering thought was forming in the back of my mind. I pushed it away, but it came right back again. “Mrs. Kitchings, how can you be sure he didn’t do it?”
    She glared at me. “Because I did it.”
    “No!” cried the old man.
    “Yes,” she hissed at him. “Yes! I killed her.”
    “But it was a fever,” he said. “I come home from that hunting trip, and she was dead. You said something went wrong with the baby, and she caught a fever and died.”
    “And you said you never laid a hand on that girl, and I knew that was a goddamn lie. So I lied right back to you, and we been lyin’ ever since, the both of us. And look what it’s done brought down on us.”
    Art took a small step toward her. “Can I ask you something, Mrs. Kitchings?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His tone was mild, curious. “Leena was a pretty big girl. Had to be pretty strong. How could a small woman like you overpower a strapping young gal like her?”
    She shook her head impatiently. “I told you, I ain’t stupid. She was sick—she did have a fever—so I give her some tea with some honey and lemon in it. Put some whiskey in it, too. A right good bit of whiskey. And she got kindly tipsy, and that’s when she started cryin’ and telling me all about…” She seemed to lose her way, or her resolve, but then she clenched her jaw and drew herself up again. “She told me about what he done to her. I didn’t want to know—I’d been afraid