Free Chinese Handcuffs by Chris Crutcher Page B

considered charging him to try to get the gun, but too much distance stood between them. And he knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Preston was serious.
    â€œI watched it all,” Preston said. “I cheered them on. I even hollered out some techniques I thought ought to be tried, and every one was. By the time they were halfway through, she was dead behind her eyes.” Preston paused and looked away. “Then I’m being lifted out of my chair, laughing and all surprised, and next thing I’m on my back on the table, ’cause I don’t perform all that well with no legs and all. Wolf tells her to straddle me, while he’s undoing my pants. She gazes at him, and she’s a mess, face all bruised and blood trickling out of her nose, and she says no. I don’t know how she could have it in her to say no; but she does, and old Wolf slaps her so hard I think her face will come right off her head, and then his knife is at her neck. So she does it finally, and somewhere in there Wolf’s attention turns away, and she passes out, just slumps over andfalls off the table. No one but me even noticed. It was over for them when they sat her on the cripple.”
    Dillon said, “Preston . . .”
    â€œYou know what I thought about?”
    Dillon shook his head.
    â€œRemember Old Lady Crummet’s cat? Old Charlie? I thought about old Charlie while I was struggling to get my pants back on up on the pool table. While I should have been thinking how the hell I was going to get down and get more drugs, I was thinking of old Charlie. I was remembering how I told myself, clear back then, if I ever got that far out again— anytime in my life—well, that would be the end of me.” He nodded, staring at the Luger. “Well, last night I did it.” He looked at Dillon straight in the eye as he raised the gun. “I left you a note, Dillon. And I left something else.”
    He put the gun to his temple; Dillon screamed and lunged for him, but it wasn’t even close. He didn’t actually see Preston do it, didn’t see the blood or the brains or the mess because he jerked his eyes away the moment he saw the pressure of Preston’s finger on the trigger. But Dillon heard it. And he saw it in his head.
    Â 
    I can’t begin to describe what’s gone on inside me since that day, Pres. There are lots of times I want to takethe blame. I mean, you said it: If I hadn’t been “mirror, mirror on the wall,” constantly serving up the wrong answer, well, things might have turned out differently for you. And I was always so goddamn flip about the reasons I thought Stacy should dump you and pick up on me—way before you ever got involved with dope and all those bad actors. But there was certainly never any danger of her doing it, and I really don’t think I ever meant it. Stacy was hopelessly yours.
    There are other times, though, when I’m so mad at you I want to shove a steel tube down into your grave and pour raw sewage into it. Where the hell do you get off blaming me for your size and temperament? And your choices, for Christ’s sake. And where do you get off tricking me into watching you die?
    There’s a lot to consider. I have never loved and hated anyone at the same time and so ferociously as I do you for what you did. My emotions churn inside me like a hurricane, and when it’s at its worst, I can only lay back and let them take me away.
    I miss you, Pres. I don’t miss the drugs and the craziness of the end, but I miss the real you from back before.
    Your brother

CHAPTER 5
    Jennifer sat on the edge of her hospital bed, absently fiddling with the electric position controls while she read the Sunday paper and waited for Coach to come pick her up. There had been no word from her parents, which didn’t surprise or bother Jennifer in the least, but she was anxious to get out of there and get home. She always preferred to be