Free The Kind Worth Killing by Peter Swanson Page A

it.”
    â€œMight as well take a look,” he said and turned his eyes back toward the well hole. “Now, what’s in it for me if we find a treasure chest down there?”
    He was doing what I hoped he would do, working his way down the rope to get a better grip. He ducked his head partway into the hole and shifted forward on his knees. “Don’t fall in,” I said. It was something I had planned on saying, to make him feel more safe.
    â€œHow far down is it?”
    â€œNot that far, I think.”
    Chet made a couple of whooping sounds into the well that echoed back up.
    â€œLet me hold on to you.” I had planned this as well, wanting to get him used to having my hands on his back. I didn’t want to just try and push him in and have him rear back suddenly and fight me.
    I grabbed the fabric of his overalls with both fists, just as he said, “I got it. It’s coming up.”
    I conjured all the strength I had and shoved as hard as I could. He tried to lift his head but it was in the hole and he banged the back of it on one of the layered stones that lined the well. His whole body tilted forward, falling, and for a moment I thought I was going to go down the well with him, a possibility that hadn’t even occurred to me. But somehow he managed to jack his legs out and stop his forward progress. I rolled to the side, listening to his surprised scream. One of his heavyboots was jammed between two of the flat rocks that lined the well entrance. “Jesus,” he yelled. Then: “Help me.” I heard a clattering sound as something struck the bottom of the well. His glasses, I thought.
    I stood. One of my fingernails had snagged on his overalls and torn. I only noticed because I had reflexively shaken my hand and flecks of blood had spattered me in the face.
    â€œLily, God, help me.”
    I crouched near where his foot was lodged between the rocks. It was pretty clear that it wasn’t going to hold him, and that he would fall anyway, but I took hold of the edge of the worn sole and shoved it forward. Chet made a grunting sound, then I heard the sound of scraping followed by a loud crash as he hit the bottom of the well. I expected to hear him yell some more but he was quiet. There was only the sound of falling dirt and debris still pattering down the well, plus two crows cawing at each other on the other side of the meadow.
    I pulled the penlight I had brought out of my back pocket and twisted it so it turned on. It didn’t produce a very powerful beam but it would be strong enough for me to see into the darkness of the well. I thought my hands would be shaky but they weren’t. I felt focused, and lost in my own brain, the way I felt when I was reading a good book and the afternoon disappeared. I peered over the edge and pointed the beam of the flashlight down toward the bottom. I was so sure that Chet would survive the fall and would be begging me to help him up. I had been prepared for it. Instead, he lay still at the bottom of the well, on his back, his legs against the side, and his neck at a funny angle. I stared at him for a while. My penlight beam was weak and the well was filled with shifting dust, but it didn’t look like he was moving. Then I saw an almost unnoticeable shift and heard a low sigh that could have come from Chet or could have come from something settling in the disturbed well.
    I stood and walked the few feet to my low pile of heavy rocks that I’d been collecting. I selected the largest, a jagged hunk of gray stone with a vein of quartz running through it. I had to carry it with botharms so I gripped the penlight in my teeth. Waddling like a penguin I came back to the well, straddled it, and bent at the waist. Pointing the penlight into the darkness, I lined up the rock as best I could and dropped it straight down toward Chet’s head. I didn’t watch the rock after I dropped it but I heard the noise it made when it