Once Upon a River Page 0,60

Think before you act, and so she was thinking, but then Paul stabbed Michael’s chest with his finger. “Next time you’re in the sack with her, ask if she remembers—”

“Leave him alone!” Margo shouted. Her voice echoed down the river. She crouched again behind some red osier dogwood.

“Is that you, Maggie? Why don’t you come over and talk to me, sweetheart?” Paul said. His voice sounded strangely intense. He was high.

Margo didn’t move.

“No, Margaret Louise,” Michael yelled. “Don’t do anything.”

“Oh, it’s Margaret now? Margaret Louise. Very nice. Why don’t you come on out and talk with us. I’ll tell you how you ruined my brother’s life.”

She could run to the house, grab her backpack, and head out, leaving Michael and Paul to work this out themselves. But she could too easily imagine Paul knocking Michael out and throwing him into the water.

As if reading her thoughts, Paul grabbed Michael’s collar and pulled him closer. Then he pushed him away, and this time Michael fell backward onto the float. His head clunked the wood and made a hollow sound.

“What do you want with that little slut, anyhow?” Paul asked Michael and put his boot on Michael’s chest. “You seem like a respectable guy here. Nice house. You wear a goddamned tie to work.” The toe of Paul’s work boot pressed Michael’s tie now, and Michael was no longer fighting.

Michael coughed.

“Let him go,” Margo shouted and approached until she was only about twenty feet away.

Michael shouted, “No, Margaret! Go into the house, call the cops.”

“You know you’ll talk to me eventually, Maggie. And your boyfriend’s got to go to work sometime and leave you alone.”

“Please leave now.” Margo raised the barrel of the shotgun to point at Paul’s knees, his groin, his stomach, his heart and lungs like a buck’s.

“Give that shotgun to me, Princess. You’re not going to shoot anybody.”

Paul pushed his toe into Michael’s neck. Margo knew its delicate bones and sharp Adam’s apple. With those heavy work boots, Paul could crush his throat.

“Let me go, man,” Michael spat.

“You’re really not in a position to tell me what to do.” He moved his foot and Michael gagged. Margo remembered that feeling of being crushed, unable to breathe, with the heat of Paul’s breath on her. She adjusted the butt of the shotgun in her shoulder, got her sight bead on Paul’s good eye.

“You’re hurting me!” yelled Michael.

“I’m going to hurt you more,” Paul said. “And her, too.”

Margo pulled the trigger.

At twenty feet, the twelve-gauge sprayed a tight pattern of buckshot into Paul’s face, hitting him seemingly even before she had finished pulling the trigger. Margo was so solidly planted, she hardly even felt the shotgun’s recoil. Paul flew backward, slammed into the side of his boat, which bobbed wildly under the impact, as did the oil-barrel float once his weight had left it. Paul’s feet were barely touching the float, while his shoulders and arms leaned backward over the siderail of the Playbuoy. His back was bent the wrong way. The blood from his face poured down his body, onto the portside pontoon and became a red river flowing into the Stark. Margo wondered how so much blood could be in him. Michael had not managed to stand, though he was apparently unharmed. He gripped the planks beneath him.

Margo pointed the shotgun barrel down and walked toward Michael. She studied Paul’s body, frozen in a position with his head thrown back, his chest tipped upward. Paul’s body looked as unnatural as her body had felt beneath his. She heard a jet overhead, slowly crossing the sky.

“Margaret, what’s happened?” Michael asked. He attempted to stand again, but sat back down. “Call an ambulance. He’s bleeding bad.”

A seagull screeched somewhere; a second gull answered. Margo tried to get her bearings.

“I’ll call. I’ll tell them to hurry.” Michael stood up at last. He looked at the body. His hand reached toward Margo and retracted. “He’s not dead, is he?” Michael said.

“I had to protect you,” Margo said.

“What the hell? Oh, my God. He’s dead?”

“He was going to kill you,” she said. “He had his foot on your throat. You have a mark there from his boot.”

“Margaret, please put the gun down.” Michael sounded scared. “I wish you’d gone into the house and called the police.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone with him. He was stoned. Did you see his eyes?”

“Let’s call the police right now. We’ll go together.”

“He raped me,” she blurted.

“Oh, God. I should have known. I wish you’d’ve told me. We could