From a Dead Sleep Read Free

gun down sideways on a wooden post beside him, one of many of that supported the guardrail.
    The stranger’s eyes drooped from what, up until then, had been direct intent. They now read a much less organized tale.
    It was the same expression Sean himself had witnessed so many times—when looking in the mirror. Sorrow. Regret.
    A hit-man with a conscience? he wondered.
    The man’s shoulders dropped lower, and he took another deep breath. After glancing back out along the river’s path, he suddenly built up enough motivation to stand up straight. The bottom of his long trench coat spilled back to his ankles. He used his right hand to hang onto the guardrail, keeping himself balanced on the edge of the old wooden planking. The injured hand quickly shoved the wallet back into his pocket. It went in much easier than it came out, though the man’s face seemed to twist in pain at the movement. He leaned to his side to retrieve the pistol.
    Sean wondered why the man was making no immediate attempt to climb back over the railing to safety.
    Instead, the stranger remained in an upright position balancing his heels along the edge of the bridge while his calves rested against the guardrail. Then, he held the butt of the gun to his chest with both hands.
    “Hey . . .” Sean instinctively said to himself in a whisper before quickly raising up to his knees. Remaining hidden no longer felt important.
    His focus shifted back and forth from the man’s desperate eyes to the gun he held in front of his body in an awkward grip. It had suddenly become apparent that the series of actions unfolding before Sean were concluding something very different than what he’d originally thought.
    The stranger shuffled the gun in his noticeably trembling hands before holding it in a conventional fashion with his right. He steadily raised his arm back over his shoulder and drew the gun awkwardly to the back side of his head, using his other hand to direct the barrel to the base of his skull.
    The oddity and mystery of what he was witnessing was no longer Sean’s concern. No more questions. No more observation. He was certain the man was about to take his own life, and he wasn’t going to sit by and let it happen.
    “Hey!” Sean heard himself call out in a voice loud and scary enough to gain the attention of anyone . . . unless that person was standing above the loud crashing sound of roaring water rapids.
    The man didn’t flinch or show any indication that he had heard Sean’s call. He continued to hold the barrel in place with the metal tip resting against the back of his skull.
    Sean’s teeth clenched as he quickly scrambled up the short hill and onto the dirt road. His footing slid on the damp grass, but his persistence gave him the traction he needed.
    “Hey!” he screamed out again, projecting his voice even louder than the first time.
    There was still no reaction from the man who stood about forty yards away. The motion of his arms had come to a grizzly halt. His limbs contorted back behind his body with the barrel of the gun glued to its intended target.
    “Stop!” Sean roared, waving his arms frantically back and forth above his head as if he were directing a grounded plane. He prayed his wild movements would catch the man’s peripheral vision, but they received no response.
    Sean engaged in an all-out sprint, something he hadn’t done much of since his high school football days. The loud modulation of crackling gravel was soon replaced by the sharp groaning of wooden boards once he broke the plain of the bridge. Air pressed heavily from his nose and mouth. With a grueling red face, his chest thrust forward with each stride. Despite the great amount of effort he was extending, he felt as if he were running underwater in a dream. His body couldn’t move as fast as his mind.
    About twenty yards away now.
    Sean’s jaw lifted as he prepared to deliver another verbal plea, but before a syllable could leave his mouth, his eyes glared in