You step out from behind the gatepost.
         I’ve waited a long time for this, you say.
         Charles sees the shotgun as you pull it out from under your macintosh. Now, just wait a minute, Paul, he stammers.
         I said I’ve waited too long already, you tell him. Now that the moment has come, how could you ever even begin to explain it? Those first days of suspicion, a subtle difference in Catherine’s demeanor. A new inattention on her part. A few unaccounted-for moments of the day. A new tightness of her cheek when you pecked her. Then, it wasn’t long before the signs became more obvious (strange smells, missing articles of underwear, a sly something on the face of her best friend Monica) and then beyond dispute: A friend who saw them together at a restaurant outside of town; a strange dip in the bank balance; and a damning series of texts that you read after forcing her thumb down onto the cell phone to unlock it.
         You used her phone to arrange this meeting, on the edge of this stinking field, not two hundred meters from the fuck motel that they both know so well. Down in this culvert, on the fag-end of this rain-drenched pasture, no one will see it happen. With the hiss of the highway above and the unending drizzle, perhaps no one will even hear it, and if they do, so what? There are always farmers hunting birds out in these parts.
         He has his hands raised. He may be crying. Where is Catherine? he asks. Have you hurt her?
         Have you hurt her, he asks! You almost laugh.
         Paul, please tell me!
         You tell him. He falls to his knees. You monster! he shouts, and it makes your heart thrill. To end like that, he wails, after all you put her through—
         What I put her through, you snarl, prodding his ear with the barrel of the gun. That bitch! That whore! That… that… you shake your head. That dirty bitch!
         He lowers his head. This is it, this is the moment. You begin to pull the hammer back.
         He leaps, faster than you could have imagined. Before you can cock the shotgun he already has it out of your hands. He swings the butt and breaks your cheekbone. You splash into the mud and dung and rain-drenched grass.
         Now he’s standing over you, trying to call her, but her phone is in your pocket and he hears it ringing. When you try to sit up he clubs you back down again. Paul—shaking the phone at you—for the love of God, where is she? Your pocket goes to voicemail.
         Listen, Charles, you say with difficulty. There are a lot of ways we can both come out of this on top. After all, I have a lot of money.
         Bastard! A snap as he cocks the gun. The phone drops into the mud.
         A few meters away, one of the placid idiotic things looks up, chewing, rain dripping off its stupid lashes, and meets your eyes.
         Moo, says the cow. Moo-hoo-hoo.
         Charles blows your fucking head off.
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