A Simple Plan Read online

  There was a pause, while Nancy seemed to consider. Then she was bending to pick it up.

  I stepped forward to grab it first, not to threaten her, only to keep her from getting it. We both got ahold of it, and there was a brief struggle. The gun was black and oily, and surprisingly heavy. I pushed, then pulled, then pushed again, and Nancy lost her grip. She stumbled back toward the stairs, fell against them, and, shrieking, lifted her arms to protect her head.

  I realized with a shock that she thought I was going to shoot her.

  "It's okay," I said quickly. I crouched down, began to lay the gun on the floor. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  She started to back up the stairs.

  "Wait, Nancy," I said. "Please."

  She kept moving away, one step at a time, higher and higher, and I came after her, the gun in my hands.

  "No," she said. "Don't."

  "It's okay. I just want to talk."

  When she got to the top of the stairs, she turned to the right and broke into a run. I sprinted after her, up the last few steps and then down the hallway. Her bedroom was at the very end. Its door was open, and there was a light on inside. I could see the foot of the bed.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," I yelled.

  She reached the door and tried to slam it shut, but I was right behind her. I caught it with my arm, forced it open. She backed away from me. The room was larger than I'd expected. There was a king-size water bed directly in front of us, pushed up against the wall. To the left was a little sitting area -- two chairs and a table with a TV on it. There was a door behind the chairs, shut, which I assumed must've led to the bathroom. To the right, pressed up against the house's front wall, were two huge bureaus and a dressing table. There was a doorway there, too. It was open and led to a walk-in closet. I could see some of Nancy's dresses hanging inside.

  "I just want to talk," I said. "Okay?"

  Nancy fell backward against the bed and started crawling, crablike, across it. A sloshing sound came from the mattress, and the covers rose and fell with the rolling of the water beneath them.

  I realized that I was pointing the shotgun at her. I took it in my left hand and held it out, away from my body, to show her that I wasn't going to use it. "Nancy--"

  "Leave me alone," she cried. She reached the headboard and stopped, trapped. Her face was smeared with tears. She wiped at it with her hand.

  "I promise I won't hurt you. I just want to--"

  "Get out," she sobbed.

  "We have to think about what we're doing. We have to calm down and--"

  Her right hand shot out suddenly, reaching for the night table. At first I thought she was going to pick up the phone and call the police, so I stepped forward to snatch it away. Her hand wasn't moving toward the phone, though; it was moving toward the night table's drawer. She pulled it open, reached inside, fumbling blindly, in a panic, her eyes locked on me and the gun. A box of tissues fell out, landing on the floor with a hollow thump, and then, right behind it, came her hand. It was holding a small black pistol. She had it by the barrel.

  "No," I said. I retreated toward the door. "Don't, Nancy."

  She pulled the pistol toward her, worked her hand around to the grip. Then she raised it and aimed it at my stomach.

  My mind was sending out a jumbled stream of contradictory orders, screaming at my body, telling it to leap forward and grab the pistol, to run away, to duck, to hide behind the door, but my body refused to listen. It acted on its own. My arms lifted the shotgun, and then my finger found the trigger, found its cold metal tongue, and pulled it backward.

  The gun fired. Nancy's body was flung back against the headboard, and a tiny fountain of water sprang up at her side.

  I stood there in shock. The spray of water made a sound like someone urinating when it landed on the bedspread. Nancy's body slumped over to the right, balanced for a second on the edge of the bed, then slipped with a thud to the floor. There was blood everywhere -- on the sheets, the pillows, the headboard, the wall, the floor.

  "Hank?" Jacob called. His voice sounded scared, shaky.

  I didn't answer him. I was trying to absorb what had just happened. I took a step into the room, crouched down, set the gun on the floor.

  "Nancy," I said. I knew she was dead, could tell just by the way she'd fallen from the bed, but the desire for this not to be true was overwhelming. I waited for her to answer me; the whole thing seemed like an accident, and I wanted to explain this to her.

  "Hank?" Jacob called again. He was at the base of the stairs, but he sounded farther away. I had to strain to hear him.

  "It's all right, Jacob," I yelled, though it wasn't, of course.

  "What happened?"

  I stood up and moved around the bed to get a better look at her. Her T-shirt was stained black with blood. It had hitched up a bit when she fell, so that now I could see her rear end. Water was sprinkling down off the bed onto her legs, making them glisten. She wasn't moving.

  "You want me to come up?" Jacob called.

  "I shot her," I yelled.

  "What?"

  "I shot her. She's dead."

  Jacob didn't say anything. I listened for the sound of his feet on the stairs, but he didn't move.

  "Jacob?"

  "What?"

  "Why don't you come up here now?"

  There was a pause; then I heard him begin to climb. The water continued to shoot in a fine spray from the mattress. I picked up a pillow and set it on top of the leak. After a few seconds a little puddle started to form on the bedspread. There was the smell of urine in the air, an acidic tartness -- Nancy had lost control of her bladder. The urine was mixing with the blood and the water on the floor, the whole mess seeping down into the carpet.

  When I heard my brother's footsteps approach the doorway, I turned and said, "She had a pistol. She was going to shoot me."

  Jacob nodded. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to look at Nancy's body. He was still carrying his rifle. I could tell he'd been crying downstairs -- his face was damp and his eyes red -- but he'd stopped now.

  "What should we do?" he asked.

  I didn't know what to say. I still couldn't believe that I'd shot her. I could see her body lying there, could see the blood and smell the urine, but I couldn't connect all that to anything I'd done. I'd just raised the gun and pulled the trigger: it seemed like too simple an action to have resulted in all this carnage.

  "I didn't mean to shoot her," I said to Jacob.

  He glanced toward Nancy's body now, a quick, furtive movement, like a peck, then looked away. His face was extremely pale. He started toward the bed, as if to sit down on it, but I stopped him.

  "Don't," I said. "It's broken."

  He froze, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I guess we should call somebody," he said.

  "Call somebody?"

  "The sheriff. The state police."

  I stared across the room at the phone. It was sitting on the night table, above the open drawer. Nancy's body was slumped on the floor beneath it. Her hair was all wet now, a thick, dark clot. It was wound around her neck like a noose. Jacob was right, of course. The mess we'd made had to be cleaned up, and the police were the only people who could do this.

  "They're not going to believe us," I said.

  "Believe us?"

  "That we shot them out of self-defense."

  "No," he said. "They won't."

  I edged my way around Nancy's body toward the night table.

  "Will we tell them about the money?" Jacob asked.

  I didn't answer him. An idea had come to me suddenly, a way to postpone for a few more minutes the exposure of our crimes.

  "I'm going to call Sarah," I said. I tried to imply that this was a rational step, tried to make my voice come out sounding confident and resolute, but in reality there was no logic behind it. I simply wanted to speak with her, wanted to tell her what had happened and warn her of the storm that was about to engulf us.

  I half-e
xpected Jacob to argue with me, but he didn't, so I picked up the phone. It was dark brown, the same color and style as the one in my office, and I found this oddly reassuring. When I started to dial, my brother turned and shuffled back across the room toward the doorway. I watched him disappear into the hall.

  "Don't worry, Jacob," I called after him. "It's going to be okay."

  He didn't answer me.

  Sarah picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" she said. I could hear the dishwasher going in the background, which meant she was in the kitchen. She'd been waiting up for me.

  "It's me," I said.

  "Where are you?"

  "At Lou's."

  "Did you get him to say it?"

  "Sarah," I said. "We shot them. They're both dead."

  There was an instant's silence on the other end, like a skip on a record, and then, "What're you talking about, Hank?"

  I told her what had happened. I took the phone and walked around to the other side of the bed while I talked, to get away from Nancy's body. I went to the window and looked out toward the road. I could see Jacob's truck, parked down at the base of the driveway. Everything was dark.

  "Oh God," Sarah whispered when I finished, an echo of Nancy's cry. "Oh God."

  I didn't say anything. I could hear her trying to catch her breath on the other end of the line, as if she were about to cry.

  "What're you going to do?" she asked finally.

  "I'm calling the police. We're going to turn ourselves in."

  "You can't do that," she said. Her voice was quick, panicky, and it made me scared to hear it. I realized now why I'd called her: so that she might take control, fix what I'd broken -- Sarah, my problem solver, my rock. But she was letting me down; she was just as bewildered by what had happened as I was.

  "I don't have a choice, Sarah. This isn't something we can just walk away from."

  "You can't turn us in, Hank."

  "I won't involve you. I'll tell them you didn't know about any of it."

  "I don't care about that. I care about you. If you give yourself up, they'll send you to jail."

  "They're both dead, Sarah. I can't hide that."

  "What about an accident?"

  "An accident?"

  "Why can't you make it look like an accident? Like with Pederson?"

  I almost laughed, the idea seemed so absurd. She was flailing about, clutching at straws. "Jesus, Sarah. We shot them. There's blood everywhere. It's on the walls, the bed, the floor--"

  "You said you shot Nancy with Lou's gun?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you can make it look like Lou killed Nancy, and Jacob killed Lou in self-defense."

  "But why would Lou kill Nancy?"

  Sarah didn't say anything, but I could sense her thinking over the phone, could feel it like a vibration. An image appeared in my mind of her pacing up and down through the darkened kitchen, the telephone pressed against her cheek, its cord wrapped tightly around her fist. She was regaining her composure; she was searching for a way out.

  "Maybe he discovered she was cheating on him," she said.

  "But why shoot her tonight? It's not like he found her in bed with someone. She was all alone."

  There was a pause of perhaps ten seconds; then Sarah asked suddenly, "Did Sonny hear the shots?"

  "Sonny?"

  "Sonny Major. Are his lights on? Is he up?"

  I looked out the window again. There was only darkness down the road; Sonny's trailer was hidden behind it. "It doesn't look like it."

  "You have to go get him."

  "Get Sonny?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

  "You have to make it look like Lou came home and found Nancy in bed with him."

  I felt a dizzying wave of nausea rush over my body when she said this. It was all falling into place; she was making everything come together. Sonny was the only other person who knew about the money; if we killed him, it would just be us and Jacob. This was what I'd called her for, a solution to our trouble, but now that she'd found it for me, I didn't want it. It was too much.

  "I can't shoot Sonny," I whispered. I could feel my back sweating, could feel beads forming along my shoulder blades.

  "You have to," Sarah said, pleading now. "It's the only way it'll work."

  "But I can't just drag him over here and kill him. He doesn't have anything to do with this."

  "They'll send you to jail. Both you and Jacob. You have to save yourselves."

  "I can't, Sarah."

  "Yes, you can," she said, her voice rising. "You have to. It's our only chance."

  I didn't say anything. My mind felt dull, numb, my thoughts viscous and unmanageable. I could see what she was saying: by killing Lou and Nancy, we'd taken two steps out over an abyss. We could either stop now, and fall into the pit beneath us, or take this third step and cross to safety. The idea shot through my mind, quickly, more wish than thought, that I didn't really have a choice. For one brief moment I allowed myself to believe it, that I'd lost control. It was a simple, easy feeling. Everything had already been determined for me -- I was just following along now, handing myself over to my fate.

  I let the feeling pass, and then I chose.

  "This is bad, Sarah," I said. "It's evil."

  "Please," she whispered. "Do it for me."

  "I don't even know if he's home."

  "You can go check. You have to at least check."

  "And what about Lou?"

  "Lou?"

  "How do we explain Jacob's shooting Lou?"

  Sarah answered me quickly, her voice breathless. "You tell the police you heard a gun go off as you were pulling out of the driveway. You thought Lou had surprised a burglar, so you stopped the truck and ran up to the house, Jacob with his rifle. As you came up the walk, Lou opened the door. He was drunk, enraged. He saw Jacob running toward him with the rifle, and he raised his shotgun at him. Then Jacob shot him in self-defense." She paused, and then -- when I didn't respond immediately -- said, "But you have to hurry, Hank. You're running out of time. They'll be able to tell if the shootings happen too far apart. They'll be able to tell who died first."

  The urgency in her voice was contagious. I felt my pulse thump out from my chest into my arms and head. I started to move back toward the night table. The carpet was soaked with Nancy's blood. I had to walk along the edge of the wall to keep from getting it on my boots.

  "Is Jacob okay?" Sarah asked.

  "Yes," I said. "He was crying before, but I think he's all right now."

  "Where is he?"

  "He's downstairs. I think he's getting a drink."

  "You have to talk to him. The police are going to question him. You have to make sure that he understands the story, that he doesn't break down and confess."

  "I'll talk to him," I said.

  "This is important, Hank. He'll be the weak link. If he breaks down, he'll send you both to jail."

  "I know," I said. "I'll take care of him. I'll take care of everything."

  Then I hung up the phone and ran downstairs.

  I FOUND my brother in the living room, sitting on the couch. He'd unzipped his jacket and was drinking from a glass full of whiskey. His rifle was lying propped up against the foot of the stairs. I didn't look at Lou's body, just scanned it once as I passed through the entranceway, to make sure Jacob hadn't moved it, then stepped quickly down into the living room.

  There was a woman's bathrobe draped across the arm of the couch. It was sky blue, silky. I picked it up and sniffed at it -- a sweetish mix of perfume and tobacco. I unzipped my jacket and stuffed it inside.

  "Are they coming?" Jacob asked.

  "Who?"

  "The police."

  "Not yet."

  "Did you call them?"

  I shook my head. I saw a pack of Marlboro Lights sitting on the coffee table. Beside it were a lighter and a tube of lipstick. I scooped all three of them up and slid them into my jacket pocket. "I'm going to go get Sonny," I said. "We're going to make it look like Lou
shot him and Nancy together."

  I could see Jacob struggling to make sense of this. He frowned up at me, his forehead wrinkling, the glass of whiskey trembling a bit in his hand. "You're going to shoot Sonny, too?"

  "We have to," I said.

  "I don't think I want to do that."

  "It's either that or go to jail. That's our choice."

  Jacob was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Why can't we run? Why can't we go get Sarah and the baby and the money and just drive off? We could head down to Mexico. We could--"

  "They'd catch us, Jacob. They always do. They'd track us down and bring us back. If we want to save ourselves, this is how we have to do it." I was feeling panicky with the loss of time, jittery. It seemed like I could actually sense the two corpses cooling, draining, indelibly marking the chronology of their passing. I didn't want to have to argue with Jacob; I'd already made my decision. I turned and started toward the entranceway. "I'm not going to jail," I said.

  I heard him stand up, as if to come after me. When he spoke, his voice came out high and tight, stopping me in midstride. "We can't kill all these people."

  I turned to face him. "I'm going to save us, Jacob. If you let me, I'll be able to make it right."

  His face took on a scared, frantic expression. "No. We have to stop."

  "I'm just going to--" I began, but he didn't let me finish.

  "I want to leave. I want us to run away."

  "Listen to me, Jacob." I leaned forward and took his sleeve in my hand. I held it very lightly, just a small fold of red nylon between two of my gloved fingers, but it created a sudden, nearly palpable tension in the room. We both fell silent.

  "I'm telling you how it's going to look," I said.

  He met my eyes for the briefest of moments. He seemed to be holding his breath. I let go of his jacket.

  "Lou comes home. He finds Nancy in bed with Sonny. She thought he was supposed to be out till late. He's drunk, violent; he gets his shotgun, and he shoots them both. We're just pulling out of the driveway. We hear the shots, think that he must've surprised a burglar. We run up to the house, you with your rifle from the truck. Lou opens the front door. He's gone berserk. He points the shotgun at us, and you shoot him."