Free The Midnight Men and Other Stories by Lee Moan Page B

second he didn’t know if his deputy was dead or not.
    So he pulled the trigger.
    The shot went clear through Parnell’s left temple. For a long time, Parnell just sat there on the steps, blinking like a man waking from a dream. A thin rivulet of blood ran down the side of his face and soaked into the cloth of his night robe. Then the gun slipped from his grip, clattering noisily on the bottom step before settling in the dirt. To everyone’s surprise, Parnell stood up on trembling legs, groaning like an old man rising from his bath chair. He turned, took one step up towards the front door of his house before stumbling sideways, hitting the steps and tumbling to the sand.
    Wade stood over the prone body for a long time, smoke still seeping from his gun, staring into the man’s eyes as they lost their lustre, as his last breath escaped from between his lips.
    Mrs Parnell fell onto her husband then, her screams filling the silence that had fallen over the Parnell homestead. If Wade had known then what was to happen shortly after that disastrous confrontation, he would have screamed too.
    ***
    He sat in the empty chapel, head bowed. The spectre, seated on the bench behind him, rocked and keened like a funeral mourner. Wade clasped his hands together as if in prayer, but communion with God was the last thing on his mind.
    There was a time, not long after the Parnell incident, that he came here to ask the heavens for an explanation for this purgatory . . . but that time had passed.
    It was there in that dusty silence that he made his decision. Tonight, he would take his own life. The only thing left to decide was how: whether it was a bullet in the brainpan or a noose around the neck, he would end this mockery of a life. He didn’t know the implications of his actions, what might happen to him afterwards or, for that matter, the spectre chained to his side, but he didn’t care. He’d persevered for as long as he could, waiting in vain for a solution to this problem, but after twelve long months he saw no end in sight. He yearned to be free of this burden. And if by ending his own life he might free the thing which had once been John Parnell . . . well, that was a price he was willing to pay.
    He knew that in the eyes of God this was no solution. Suicide was never a solution. But this was not an everyday problem. This was a decision he had to make alone.
    His only comfort was that he got to see Louise one last time . . .
    “Hello, Jeremiah.”
    Wade looked up. The gaunt figure of Reverend Simmons stood in the doorway of the vestry.
    “Reverend,” he said tightly.
    The preacher’s deep-set eyes studied Wade for a few moments, finally settling on the spectre at his side.
    “How are you, son?”
    “Fine, Reverend.”
    “No, you’re not, Jeremiah. Everyone can see that. You look-” He hesitated. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like a man sitting before the gates of hell, waiting for them to open.”
    Wade said nothing.
    “I’m always here if you want to talk, son.” He stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder—the empty shoulder. “I want to help you.”
    Wade met the older man’s eyes. “You can’t help me, Reverend. I killed a man. And ever since I’ve had to live with his soul, his ghost, whatever this thing is . . . this abomination! Explain that to me, Reverend. Explain how I can make it go away, how I can take it back. That would be helping me.”
    The Reverend’s features sagged. He glanced at the spectre. “I can’t, Jeremiah. It . . . it goes against everything I believe in or understand. But . . . all I ask is that you don’t turn away from God. The House of God is always open . . . to everyone.”
    Wade shook his head. “Tell me I can walk into this chapel on Sunday morning, Reverend, without the entire congregation getting to their feet and leaving through the side door, and I’ll be there.”
    Before Simmons could reply the chapel doors rattled open. Wade turned in his pew,