The Lesson of Her Death

did.”
    “He didn’t!” Corde shouted furiously, risking the boy’s reaction. “I talked to him about what happened. Some people at the sheriff’s office tricked him. He didn’t know they followed him. He was trying to save you. He has a message for you.” Corde held his hand in the Naryan salute.
    The gun in Philip’s hand wobbled. “He said that?”
    “He sure did.”
    Philip nodded and smiled weakly. Then he turned to his father and spoke in a mournful voice, “You didn’t come see me.”
    “They said I couldn’t. There was visiting hours. I was coming tonight. Like at the hospital when we went to visit Gram. They said I could only come at four o’clock.”
    Philip looked at Corde, who said, “That’s true, Philip. It’s the Sheriff’s Department rules.”
    The boy’s eyes swept the floor.

    Outside when he heard the gunshot and the scream, Charlie Mahoney put aside the Motorola walkie-talkie on which he’d just called T.T. Ebbans and Hammerback Ellison. He pulled his federally licensed automatic pistol out of his pocket and started up the porch stairs.
    After following Corde here he had waited on the front steps considering what to do next. The gunshot ended the debate. Crouching, taking a fast look through the rusted, torn screen, he pulled the door open and crawled onto the porch. The lime green indoor-outdoor carpet was filthy and Mahoney’s expensive gray plaid slacks ended up hoof-marked on the knees with dirt.
    He watched them talking, Corde and the Halperns, until the two squad cars silently pulled up. He crawled back to the door, opened it and motioned the men forward. Ebbans and Ellison went around back and Slocum and a county deputy held up on the front steps where Mahoney signaled them to stay.
    Mahoney crawled into the living room.
    “Son, please, there’s nothing to be gained by this.…”
    “Philip, your father and mother and I want to help you.”
    The boy was crying now. “He’s always hitting me. I don’t
do
anything but he hits me.”
    “I want you to be strong,” Halpern said. “That’s all. I know you have it in you. It’s going to be all right. They’ll see the note and you’ll be free. Tell him about the letter, Corde.”
    Corde asked, “Letter?”
    Halpern said desperately, “The note! Tell him!”
    Mahoney stood then walked along the corridor into the dining room, holding his breath not only to keep silent but to keep the stink of the dog piss and rotting food out of his nostrils.
    “What note, Halpern?” Corde asked.
    “Didn’t the sheriff tell you?”
    Mahoney eased forward. A board creaked.
    Corde spun around and saw him. “No!”
    The boy’s silver-dollar eyes saw Mahoney and he raised the gun. Mahoney did the same. Corde lifted his arms, palms out, his back to Philip and stepped in between them. His nerves bristled at the thought of a Smith & Wesson muzzle ten feet behind him and a Browning automatic’s the same distance in front. “Mahoney, what the hell are you doing here?”
    “You fucking son of a bitch, Corde, get out of the way! You fucking—”
    “Get out of here, you’ve got no business! …” Corde was shouting. Mahoney was dancing in the doorway, jockeying for a target. The boy stood frozen with fear, the muzzle pointed at Corde’s spine.
    “Philip,” Corde shouted over his shoulder, “drop the gun! You’ll be okay. Just—”
    “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY!” Mahoney shouted.
    Philip’s hand drooped. His father looked at him and said, “Put it down, son. Please.”
    The gun sank lower.
    A shadow flashed across the kitchen floor. Mahoney shouted, “Drop it!” And fired two shots into the ceiling.
    Ebbans and Ellison leapt into the kitchen. Philip whirling toward them, Ellison screaming in panic, “He’s shooting he’s shooting take him out!” The men’s hands vanished in ragged flares of muzzle bursts. Mahoney dropped to the carpet. One slug hissed past Corde’s left ear as he collapsed on the floor. Philip spun around and around. Then he fell. Corde scrabbled toward him, shouting, “No, no, no!” Philip’s father stood frozen, his right hand outstretched toward his son.
    In the enormous silence that followed, Charlie Mahoney stood up and steadied himself on a pink metal table. He knocked off a flower pot, which broke and scattered a wiry geranium along the carpet, a flower as red and dazzling as the artery blood that sprang from Philip’s neck and chest and soaked the filthy floor that may at one time