He clutched the railing as he blindly made his way down, still screaming, and I was sitting at the bottom of the steps, panicking, pushing myself back as if I were crewing. His upper body was dense with long pale hair that hung from his arms and swirled over his spine. He fell to his knees, scooping up handfuls of snow and rubbing it into his face and neck again and again as he fought for breath.
He was within reach of me and I imagined him springing up any moment like a monster that wasn’t human. I raised my pistol but couldn’t pull back the slide. I tried and tried, but my fractured elbow and torn tendons wouldn’t let me bend my arm. ‘
I couldn’t get up. I kept slipping. He heard my noise and crawled closer as I scooted back and slipped and then tried to roll. He gasped and then lay facedown in the snow, the way children make angels, as he tried to lessen the pain of his severe chemical burns. He dug up snow like a dog, piling it over his head and holding handfuls against his neck. He reached out a matted arm to me: I couldn’t understand his French, but I believed he was begging me to help him.
He was crying. Shirtless, he was- shivering from the cold. His nails were filthy and ragged, and he wore the boots and pants of a laborer, perhaps someone who worked on a ship. He writhed and screamed, and I almost felt sorry for him. But I wouldn’t get close to him.
Tissue was hemorrhaging into my fractured joint. My arm was swelling and throbbing, and I didn’t hear the car drive up. Then Lucy was running through the snow, almost losing her balance several times as she racked back the slide in the forty-caliber Glock she loved so much, and she fell to her knees close to him, assuming a combat position. She pointed the stainless steel barrel at his head.
“Lucy, don’t!” I said, trying to pull myself up to my knees.
She was breathing hard, her finger on the trigger.
“You goddamn son of a bitch,” she said. “You fucking piece of shit,” she said as he continued to moan and wipe his eyes with snow.
“Lucy, no!” I yelled as she gripped the pistol more tightly in both hands, steadying it.
“I’m going to put you out of your misery, you fucking son of a bitch!”
I crawled toward her as feet and voices sounded and car doors shut.
“Lucy!” I said. “No! For God’s sake no!”
It was as if she didn’t hear me or anyone. She was in some hateful, angry world of her own. She swallowed hard as he writhed and held his hands over his eyes.
“Stop moving!” she yelled at him.
“Lucy,” I moved closer and closer, “put the gun down.”
But he couldn’t stop moving, and she was frozen in her position, and then she wavered just a bit.
“Lucy, you don’t want to do this,” I said. “Please. Put the gun down.”
She wouldn’t. She didn’t answer me or look my way. I became aware of feet all around me, of people in dark battle dress, of rifles and pistols all held in safe positions.
“Lucy, put the gun down,” I heard Marino say.
She didn’t move. The pistol was shaking in her .hands. This wretched man called Loup-Garou struggled for air and moaned. He was inches from her feet and I was inches from her.
“Lucy, look at me;” I said. “Look at me!”
She glanced in my direction and a tear slid down her cheek.
“There’s been enough killing,” I said. “Please. No more.
This is a bad shooting, Lucy. This isn’t self-defense. Jo’s in the car waiting for you. Don’t do this. Don’t do this, please. We love you.”
She swallowed hard. I carefully reached out my hand.
“Give me the gun,” I said. “Please. I love you. Give me the gun,”
She lowered it and tossed it into the snow, where the steel shone like silver. She stayed where she was, her head bent, and then Marino was with her, saying things I couldn’t focus on as my elbow throbbed like drums. Someone lifted me with sure hands.