Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

pants and shoes were black as well. He moved quickly toward the LTD and, upon reaching it, reached out and yanked the door open.
    The interior light came on. In Frank’s fist was his .45 semiautomatic Colt. He leaned in across the man with the limp and with one sudden, violent motion smashed the dome with the butt of the gun. The light blinked out fast. For a second I wasn’t sure what to expect.
    Frank’s moves were certain and swift, like those of a man on a mission, or caught up in an obsession. He leaned back out of the LTD then and pressed the muzzle of the pistol hard against the head of the man.
    Frank wasn’t here to play games, and he wanted everyone present to know it.
    “We’re taking you for a walk,” he said. “Do you understand?”
    The man nodded once, his eyes straining to see Frank. Strands of wet hair were matted to his forehead. Frank held the gun steady and said to me, “Undo him.”
    I leaned in and undid the belts and cut the laces of his shoes with my knife. Free of the noose, the man leaned forward, his body relaxing, and drew in deep breaths. Frank allowed him little time to enjoy his freedom. He pulled the man out roughly, dragging him by the collar of his overcoat, spilling him onto the pavement. I heard then for the first time the familiar sound of heavy waves breaking over the shore. I had heard that sound most every day of my young life, a steady hiss spilling over the sill of my bedroom window. That house sat not far for here, but it was, now and always, the last thing on my mind.
    “Get up,” Frank ordered, his hand still on the man’s collar.
    I walked around the car to them. Frank pulled till the man scrambled to his feet. I watched but did nothing. It was Frank’s show now. I had done my part and was free to go. But something, maybe a sense of dread, made me want to stay.
    The man with the limp looked at Frank, then at me, then back at Frank. He was almost too drunk to stand. I don’t think he knew anymore where he was.
    “Toward the water,” Frank ordered. He stood behind the man, the gun pressed into the base of his skull. With his left hand on the man’s collar, Frank steered him off the narrow lot and onto the sand and between two dunes. The man fell more than once, and each time he did Frank would yank him back up to his feet.
    There was frost on the surface of the sand, but it was broken through easily, and once you broke through it you sank heel and toe deep into the softness. I walked behind Frank, careful to step in his footsteps, hoping to hide my presence. My gut told me not to be here but I continued to follow him. The snow was falling heavy and fast, swirling crazily. It was a squall, blinding and chaotic. Cold shards hit my open eyes, caused a quick chill, and then melted. I blinked continuously and tucked my chin into my chest. It did little good.
    I followed Frank into this storm, between the two dunes, and stopped at an overturned boat and waited as they continued down the beach to the water’s edge. It was high tide, a frigid mist in the air.
    The man went to the water’s edge and stood facing the turbulent Atlantic, his back to Frank. Frank took a few steps back and aimed his .45 square at the back of the man’s head. Even from this distance and through the wild snow I could see the man’s eyes shifting frantically. Always the question, “What did I do?” I knew this question well: I had asked it with wild eyes just before a bullet tore into my shoulder a few years ago. The half-dollar-size wound itched now, just as it always did before and during snow and rain.
    I watched from the safe distance of a hundred feet and kept still on that overturned boat and said nothing. I watched what I could see of the side of the man’s face, hoping to see something to hate. All I saw was a man afraid for his life.
    I could not hear Frank speak over the sound of the ocean. Occasionally I heard the sound of a raised voice, but no words. The man with the limp held both his hands high in the air and Frank remained behind him by a few paces, the .45 aimed at the back of the man’s head. They were discussing something now. I heard curses, mainly from Frank. Things seemed to be reaching a pitch, and then Frank took several fast steps forward and placed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s head and, with his left hand, shoved the man toward the water.
    The man stopped, refused to move, and then Frank shoved him again. I saw Frank cock the .45. The man