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I got the Kubiaks shut into the backseat cage. Then: three gunshots, two of them large caliber. In the ensuring silence I stood frozen waiting for a radio call from the sheriff that would not come. Craning my neck to the trees, I spotted Johnny’s old tree fort at the clearing’s edge, twenty-five feet in the air, a four-walled eyesore built of scrap lumber and tin sheeting. Holes had been cut into the walls, no doubt to scan for deer.

I ran to it. The steps were crude pieces of two-by-four nailed to the tree. They creaked under my weight but held, and once I reached the plank floor I discovered Johnny’s presence: military sleeping bag, rucksack, energy drinks. It was clear he had been staying here all along, and that we had surprised him.

I took up a north-facing position and pulled the handset from my shoulder. Just as I was about to make the call, Johnny’s voice came through.

“A medic. Call for a medic.” He kept the mike engaged and chattered something in the background. There was no response. “Correction,” he said. “Make it a hearse.”

I dropped my head and closed my eyes, pressing the mike against my forehead.

“Paul? You still with us?”

I hit the switch and peered into the forest.

“I have your parents in custody,” I told him. “They won’t last three days in jail. Come to me, son. Come to me now.”

*

Not long after the hunting trip our mailbox ended up on our front lawn, dented beyond repair. Nine months later a load of cow manure was dumped on the porch while we were away for the weekend. After the third incident—our beloved black Lab, Zeus, found mutilated—two things had become obvious: Johnny Kubiak had trouble letting go, and the young man needed a consult.

I could have hauled him into the station, broken him down, put him through the system. Perhaps some time in lockup would have set Johnny straight. But the truth was I felt guilty about casting him off. Alex had been his only true friend, and their separation proved fateful: Johnny quit the football team and started hanging with the outcasts, partying and picking fights at will. To his credit, he never told my son about my little castigation and Alex didn’t much question their parting, attributing it to Johnny’s inherent oddness and shifting his attention to a batch of town kids that, frankly, were a better fit for my boy. Kids with an eye on the future. Alex had been accepted to his grandfather’s alma mater in Chicago, after all, and he didn’t need anything jeopardizing his future.

I never let on that I suspected Johnny, allowing Alex to believe it could any number of small-timers I had busted.

Johnny’s last class of the day was auto shop, in the vocational building behind the high school. After the bell rang I caught him walking alone through the parking lot. He was a senior, tall and rangy, and since I had seen him last he had grown into a teenage replica of his father—the same jutting chin and deep-set slate eyes.

“Get in the car, Johnny.”

He looked me over with that tight-lipped smirk and without hesitation dropped into the front seat. Despite the chilly air he rolled down the window and hung his arm out, glaring back at the kids who watched him being carted away in a cop car. We drove through town in silence, Johnny slung down in the seat like a white-trash gangster.

Once we hit the country road, I said, “You’re a walking paradox, son.”

“Explain yourself, Paul.”

I checked my temper. Other kids in his position would have addressed me as Sir or Undersheriff. But not Johnny. More brazen than ever.

“I heard you got baptized and joined the First Baptist. Even doing the usher thing. Yet your transgressions continue, a real Jekyll and Hyde.”

“I’m a foot soldier for the lord, Paul. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Oh? And where do you see that taking you?”

“It’s a simple equation, Paul. When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.”

“And in the meantime?”

He turned and spoke in a voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe I’ll head down to Chicago. Step on a few peasant backs on my way to the top. What do you think, Paul?”

I slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. Leaned over and jammed a forearm into his neck. He grunted as his face smacked the window.

“Listen to me, you little crumb. I have some very compelling video footage of certain activity occurring on my property.” His eyes widened with understanding. “You got it. After the mailbox episode I went with the eye in the sky. And guess what? Torturing and killing a domestic pet will get you a year. I’ll see to that personally.”

The fight went out of Johnny Kubiak at that point, and I moved in for the kill, pressing the business card into his palm.

“Sergeant Reynolds here is a friend of mine. And he’s got a deal for you. Four years of free room and board, a little spending cash, see the world, and in return you get the privilege of serving your country and becoming a man.”

I kept the pressure on his neck, letting the proposal sink in. At some point he had begun to cry.

“So that’s your choice, Johnny. Soldier or convict. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

Less than a year later a group of terrorists toppled the World Trade Center, thrusting Private Kubiak into a war he could never imagine.

*

Johnny high-stepped into the clearing with a rifle strapped over his shoulder and his arms raised in surrender. He squinted at the cruiser, but the sun’s glint made it impossible to see inside. “Mudda?” he called. “Fadda?” He marched on, his movements theatrical, mocking, and at the last instant before he ducked behind the tree I saw the smirk on his face.

Two seconds later he came out blazing. Although I knew it was coming, he still got off the first shot. It tore through the wall close enough to spray my cheek with splinters. I readjusted the sights of my service pistol and matched his second round of fire.

We both hit our mark.

I was spun around and lost my balance, ending up on my belly, part of my shoulder gone. I looked over at the exposed jag of collarbone and felt my gorge rise. Fought the overpowering desire to pass out, not knowing how bad he was hurt. Was he coming for me? I forced myself to sit up, left arm numb and useless, every movement bringing a fresh wave of nausea.

Singing from the distance. When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound … His voice sounded strained—a good sign, but only one way to know. Using the wall for support, I made it to the top of the stairs and started down, keeping the bad arm braced against my chest. I realized the improbability of descending one-armed and resigned myself to a freefall. Releasing my hold, I kept my feet under me, making sure to roll on my right side as I hit.

It didn’t matter. The pain from the impact was like nothing I had experienced, and this time I lost the battle to stay conscious, wavering in and out as his words drifted in - When His chosen ones shall gather to their home beyond the skies … At one point Bernie appeared and sniffed at my wound, but when I looked up again the image was gone. … When all of life is over, and our work on earth is done …

It seemed like hours before the pain subsided enough that I could focus on the fern leaves. I rose and attempted to regain my bearings. The sun had reached the treetops. The cruiser was twenty yards to my left, and from my angle I could see Joe and Stella Kubiak slumped in the backseat. Locking them in the stifling vehicle would prove disastrous, but for the time being I felt compelled to focus on their boy.

Johnny lay face up where he had fallen, the rifle out of reach. Not that it would have done him any good. A pool of blood bubbled on his chest with each shallow breath. His eyes were closed yet his lips continued to move, the hymn now a murmur. I eased down next to him and spoke his name.

His eyes flickered open. As he took me in, he smiled, and his teeth were coated with blood.

“Paul,” he said weakly. “He’s calling roll.”

It was a time for mercy, I suppose, but I had none.

“Something you should know,” I said. “There was never any camera. I sent you away on a hunch.”

Johnny’s gruesome smile didn’t falter. He summoned me closer with a twitch of his finger, unable to produce anything more than a whisper.

“My turn,” he said. “I took a run to Chicago …”

He paused to cough up a stream of bloody spume. I knew where this was going. I touched the cell phone in my pocket.

“Prince Alex,” he said. “A sinner no more. I made sure of that.”

I pulled out the phone and touched speed-dial. It rang and rang. Since Alex had left for Chicago I hadn’t gone two days without talking to him. Today was day six. I tried again, and again, watching Johnny’s chest rise and fall with each attempt. From the distance came the sound of sirens. He would still be alive when they arrived.

“Forgive me,” I said.

I looked to the cruiser. No movement from the cage. Stella Kubiak’s forehead was pressed against the window and her tongue hung from her mouth. Her eyes were open, however, if only for a brief while longer. Which meant she was watching when my fingers closed around the neck of her son.

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