PART 12

Instinct: an inborn pattern of activity or tendency to action common to a given biological species. A natural or innate impulse, inclination, or tendency. A natural aptitude or gift. A natural intuitive power. Basically, an inborn pattern of behavior that is characteristic of a species and is often a response to specific environmental stimuli: a powerful motivation or impulse.

Memento: an object or item that serves to remind one of a person, past event; keepsake; souvenir. Anything serving as a reminder or warning. A hint, suggestion, token, or memorial, to awaken memory; that which reminds or recalls to memory.

Day 64 after the accident – 2.38 a.m.

“Shane, put it down”.
“…”.
“Shane, please… Put it down, I know you don’t want to do that”.
“You’re wrong. I really want to do that”.
I glance at Marshall. His breath is heavy, his big belly moves fast at the rhythm of the impossible tension.
“Shane. He is OD’ing. Come over here and let me take care of him”. His voice sounds calm, but I can see how nervous and worried he is.
Shane’s knuckles are becoming white around the pistol grip. And her eyes.
My God.
Her eyes show nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
She has her lips slightly parted, her eyebrows are furrowed, her hand is firm.
Looks like she’s handling several different opportunities in her head, like she would handle a ball.
John James Sanders sits on the dirty floor of this old shed. His jeans are stained with mud and God knows what else. His head is bent, chin resting on his chest.
He is frothing at the mouth and the needle is right beside him, on the floor.
John James Sanders is completely unconscious.
John James Sanders is OD’ing.
John James Sanders doesn’t even fucking know what’s going on around him.
John James Sanders is dying and Shane looks motionless, a Sig Sauer P226ST 9mm Parabellum in her right hand and that killer look in her eyes.
“Dante”, Marshall DeNardo whispers, “Dante, say something. Do something!”. He has his teeth clenched.
“Holy shit, you let her take your gun!” I whisper back to him, nodding in her direction.
“She’s been quick. I’m getting old for these bullshits”.
“Cazzo…” I murmur, in Italian.
I move a couple of steps towards Shane McCutcheon – an intelligent, smart, cool, sensitive girl who has suddenly decided to flush her life down the bog.
My heavy boots make a screeching noise on the floor and, suddenly, she turns her head and stares at me in the eyes.
I show her the naked palms of my hands.
“Hey buddy” I say with a cautious smile, as I feel a small stream of sweat roll down my jaw. “Buddy… Why don’t you give me that gun?”.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Dante…” she answers lucidly.
“I’m not. I am your friend”.
“I don’t even know who you are”.
“Well, if you shoot him, you’ll never know”.
She winces.
“Who cares”.
She’s right.
Who the fuck am I, in the end? Just a nosey, bearded, former Italian policeman. But I really like this girl and this is so fucked up. I don’t want it to happen.
I sigh and lick my dry lips.
“You’re right. But what about Carmen? What about your friends, your family?”.