Finch.

I can’t remember much.
Next thing I see, I see Matthew Fletcher with a nice blow to the head, knocked unconscious.
“Oh,” I hear myself saying.
With that, I’m throwing him over my shoulder.
And I’m driving and I don’t know where to.
Chicago is such a big city.
But I am in the middle of nowhere.
The sign says Springfield.

Matthew Fletcher is awake. Matthew Fletcher is screaming at me to turn around. Matthew Fletcher doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.
I take the gun out of the glove box.
“Shut the fuck up!” I scream, and then it’s silent.
He wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t expecting that. Hell, God wasn’t expecting that.
I’m still driving.
The stars are dull from the city smoke.
I just want to go back to Adelanto, or maybe just two days earlier.
My ears are plugged up, my mouth is dry, I want to smoke.
So I do, with blind rage and my left hand on the steering wheel.
For five minutes, the green numbers on the dashboard change and blink, and it is quiet.
“Nick, turn the car around.”
“I told you to shut up,” I say without turning around.
“At least pull over.”
“Fine.”
I do, I pull over on the highway. It’s raining slightly. It’s hot in July.
Matthew gets out, I get out. The gun isn’t pointed at anything but the ground.
“Where did you get that?” Matthew asks. I shrug.
“It’s always been in the van. I’ve always had it. What does it matter?”
“Just, put it back.”
I shrug again, tossing the weapon from hand to hand.
“Why don’t you take a walk in the trees over there?” I merely suggest.
Matthew’s hands are up.
“Listen, Nick. I love your sister-” he begins, but I have never hated him so much.
“No, you listen. You have ruined my life by ruining the love of my life. Everything I do, I do for her, so why don’t you start walking.”
My voice has never been stronger, never been steadier.
Matthew Fletcher walks. He steps. He moves.
I can’t see much in this canopy of leaves, but I’m okay with that.
“I don’t see the point of this, we should just go home.”
I feel like I can smell his fear, and even though there is wind, and even though the night is cool, Matthew Fletcher is sweating bullets.
“I can’t go home now. I mean, I’ll stop back to get Birdie, but that’s it.”
“I hate myself for it, Nick! Just put the fucking gun down!” Mattie shouts.
“I hate you more than you’ve ever hated yourself.”
I can see how desperate Mattie is now. Mattie, Mattie. Little Mattie. He’s flailing his limbs, and pacing and looking up at the sky as if God will come down and save him. I smile.
“Matthew, look at me.”
He freezes. Mouth in that little ‘oh’.
I walk closer, so I can stare him right in the eye.
“Yeah?” He whispers, and his voice shakes.
“You’d do it again, you crazy fuck?” I ask, my voice still as strong and steady.
“Yeah,” he whispers again.
Matthew Fletcher was correct.
He was not right in the head.
Matthew Fletcher is sweating bullets.
Blood and bullets, and a not so beating heart.
All I heard was one little crack of a trigger.