A Simple Plan by Scott Smith Page B

Pederson fell sideways, his body collapsing onto the edge of the road, absolutely lifeless, his left leg still draped partway over the seat, his rifle slipping from his shoulder. Jacob lost his footing on the follow-through, tumbled over the back of the snowmobile, and landed directly on top of the old man.
    Mary Beth started to bark.
    Jacob struggled to raise himself off Pederson’s body. His gloves slipped in the snow; he couldn’t seem to regain his feet. He’d lost his glasses when he fell, and, still lying there, he patted his hands around him in the snow until he found them. Then he put them on and started struggling upward again. When he finally made it to his knees, he paused, resting for a moment before, with what looked like a superhuman effort, he rose to his feet.
    The snowmobile’s engine continued to idle, a deep, steady rumble. The dog cautiously approached Jacob from the center of the road. He gave his tail a slow, hesitant wag.
    Jacob stood there, motionless. He touched his face with his glove, took his hand away to stare at it, then put it back.
    All this time, I hadn’t moved. I’d stood there frozen, watching in horror. Even now I only partly shook myself free. I took a single step toward the road.
    Jacob leaned back and kicked the old man. He kicked him twice, with all his strength, once in the chest and once in the head. After that he stopped. He put his hand up to his face and turned to look toward me.
    Mary Beth started to bark again.
    “Oh, Jacob,” I said, very quietly, as though speaking to myself. Then I began to run, moving quickly through the snow toward my brother.

    J ACOB stood there, his glove covering his mouth and nose, watching me approach.
    The snowmobile’s engine was making a coughing sound, threatening to stall, and the first thing I did when I reached the road was bend down and turn it off.
    Jacob was crying. This was something I hadn’t seen since we were children, and it took me a second to accept that it was actually happening. He wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t weeping, there was nothing violent or dramatic about it, he was simply seeping tears; they moved slowly down his cheeks, his breath coming a little more quickly than usual, coming with a certain shakiness to it, a trembling and hesitation. His nose was bleeding—he’d banged it falling on top of Pederson—and now he was pinching his nostrils shut between two of his fingers.
    I glanced down at the old man. He was lying on his side, his left leg still propped up on the snowmobile’s seat. He was dressed in jeans and black rubber boots. His orange jacket was hitched up around his waist; I could see his belt, thick and dark brown, and above it an inch of thermal underwear. Jacob had knocked off his hat when he hit him, revealing a sparse head of long, gray hair, dirty looking, oily. An orange wool scarf covered most of his face. I could see where Jacob had kicked him, right above the left ear. There was a dull red scrape there, around which his skin was already beginning to darken into a bruise.
    Mary Beth stopped barking finally. He came up and sniffed at Jacob’s boots for a second, then moved off into the center of the road.
    I crouched over Pederson’s body. I took off my glove and held my hand against his mouth. He didn’t seem to be breathing. I put my glove back on and stood up.
    “He’s dead, Jacob,” I said. “You’ve killed him.”
    “He was tracking the fox,” Jacob said, stuttering a bit. “It’s been stealing his chickens.”
    I rubbed my face with my hand. I wasn’t sure what I ought to do. “Jesus, Jacob. How could you do this?”
    “He would’ve gone right by the plane. He would’ve found it.”
    “It’s all over now,” I said, feeling my chest begin to tighten in anger. “You’ve ruined it for us.”
    We both stared down at Pederson.
    “They’re going to send you to jail for this,” I said.
    He gave me a panicked look. His glasses were wet from the snow. “I had to do it.” He