A gun shot flew over the trunk lid. “The next one won’t be so high,” boomed a voice I recognized.
I reached my right hand past the trunk and waved “Hey there, Frank. It’s just me, don’t shoot.”
My left hand was holding my 9-mill, and shaking like it was ten degrees. Stay calm, I kept telling myself.
Frank slowly approached, his rifle leading the way. “What are you doin’ here, Holliston? Was it you throwin’ up that gravel back there, what’s the hurry?”
“I was nearly black on fuel, Frank,” I yelled back. His finger was on the trigger, still.
“Ain’t nobody supposed to be here, but me and Stanford.”
“C’mon, Frank, I’m tired. Aren’t you tired? Of all this? Remember when we weren’t afraid of our neighbors, man?”
“Step away from the car, Holliston,” he yelled at me. His finger was tensing on the trigger.
“Pull the trigger or don’t, Frank,” I screamed back at him. “Show…” I never got the words out. Fucker pulled the trigger.
I rolled to the ground and fired. I saw the surprised look on his face and then his knees gave out and his eyes rolled back.
“Frank, look at me. Don’t you remember what it was to have mercy for someone else? Compassion? I didn’t want to do this, Frank.”
