A Perfect Place to Die, story by Vinnie Hansen, Web Mystery Magazine, Fall 2005

Buford Callahan already had the gun. The Colt .45 semi-automatic had been his father’s in World War II. He had wanted a silencer, too, but had discovered, to his chagrin, that such a request raised eyebrows, even in large, anonymous gun shops.

Buford glided the white Mazda sedan into the place where he and Marcia had parked in their courting days. He set the brake and peered out the windshield, but the lake was gone.

Buford heaved himself out of the car. It wasn’t that he was fat; he was in good shape for fifty, but he felt heavy. As he pushed through the weeds, his meaty hand brushed a slick, sticky blossom from a bush. He looked down and bent closer.

“A condom,” he muttered in disgust. “A used condom.”

How naïve he’d been to think that this pull-off in the sycamores had been “their” spot. He passed a small pile of crushed Budweiser cans.

He tromped down the dusty, gravel road for a quarter of a mile before he reached the lake. The area where they used to swim was beach and the edge of the lake a reedy marsh.

This had been a perfect place—serene and beautiful. Now the damn kids and the sun or silt had ruined it.

He trooped back to his car, slammed the door, and sat vacantly inside. Now that he’d made the decision, cleaned the gun, written the note, and polished his shoes, Buford didn’t want to turn back. But he couldn’t kill himself in a trashy place. It would not do. He extracted the creamy envelope from his battered, brown leather briefcase, ripped it open, and reread the letter.

Composing the note had been the hardest part. Marcia, his wife, had been a loyal companion for twenty-one years. How could he reassure her that it wasn’t her fault? If not exactly exciting, or stimulating, Marcia had been a steadfast and kind partner.

In his letter, he’d done his best to forestall the conclusion his suicide was the result of their childless marriage. The first four or five years, he’d been disappointed, but as his friends’ children developed into gangly and surly adolescents, Buford had gradually grown smug. He and Marcia didn’t have to haul kids to and fro soccer games and school plays. They didn’t have to shell out money for “cool” clothes, cell phones, and MP3’s. They didn’t have to endure blaring music and slamming doors, calls from the principal, or worse, the police. Buford’s best friend, Dan, had a son who was twenty-five that he couldn’t get out of the house, and Bob, the poor slob who sold life insurance for Buford, had a daughter who had gotten pregnant at fourteen.

No, he and Marcia, he’d decided, were lucky.

He tucked the letter into an insurance brochure and started the car. He couldn’t do it here. He wanted a perfect place.

He could imagine Marcia softly mocking, “Type A to the end.”

That evening, after they ate their dinners in front of the news, Palestinians and Israelis killing each other like usual, she asked, “Are you okay, Bu?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You seem down.”

He patted her hand adorned with her wedding band and clear polish with glitter, simple, but maintained. He appreciated that his wife took care of herself. “After work, I drove out to the lake.”

“You did?” she said quizzically with a flicker of a smile. “I haven’t been out there since our camping trip.”

She meant the ill-fated camping trip. Buford acknowledged how dense he’d been. With no children, it had been easy for him and Marcia to travel, but it had taken him many adventures, before he’d realized Marcia didn’t like strange beds or foreign foods. She’d much rather go out for dinner and a movie.

“It’s like a swamp now,” he said.

Marcia picked up their dishes and laughed. “I thought it was a swamp back then.”

The next day, after work, Buford drove to the neighboring town. It had a lovely park with grassy knolls, a playground, and a dirt fire road that ran into the woods. A perfect spot.

Buford had resealed the letter in another creamy envelope. He didn’t consider himself depressed. He just couldn’t see the point of continued existence. His birthday had been last week. The big 5-0. Marcia had wanted to throw him a party, but Buford couldn’t see any call for celebration. Getting old sucked. He thought of his father in the skilled nursing facility. His father, decorated with a Gold Star and a Purple Heart, a man who married, had two children, owned a five and ten store, a house, and the latest model Oldsmobile. A man with friends, a better than average income, and chest-thumping, robust health. What had it all come down to? A single bed in a shared room, a few clothes in a closet, a wheelchair. What was the point?

Watching for pull offs, Buford steered the Mazda carefully up the fire road. He passed up two that weren’t deep enough. He wanted the car to face in, so that he was looking at the woods. The third time was the charm. With the bumper up to a tree trunk, the car just fit.

The place was quiet, secluded, and peaceful. Buford sat for several moments and listened to the birds. Then he extracted the old Colt from the briefcase, an heirloom from his father. His hands trembled. He took a deep breath. His father would not even know he was gone. Buford and his brother had never gotten along. Marcia. Marcia would be shocked. Stunned. But he didn’t know if she’d actually be sad. She’d have the house and the investments.

Kaaaaa—thump! Bang!

Startled, Buford threw back his head in time to see a leg in blue jeans and a huge Nike sneaker.

Wham! The shoes hit the roof of the car.

Ka-thud on to the trunk. Buford whirled to see a fleeing boy. He sprinted across the fire road and into the trees.

Buford’s heart raced. He stashed the gun below the seat.

A huffing police woman appeared at his window.

He stared at her.

She made a motion for him to roll down his window.

Buford felt hot all over. Perspiration filmed his forehead.

“Did you see a tall boy, blond dreadlocks, run by here?”

Buford pointed numbly. “He ran over my car.”

The woman looked at the hood of the Mazda. “Cool,” she said. “I may not be able to keep up with teenaged punks, but I’m great at lifting shoe prints.”

She walked to the edge of the woods and used her walkie-talkie. She was a short woman, compact and solid, but she strode back to the vehicle with an air of authority. She pulled out a notepad.

“What’s your name, sir?”

Buford found himself unable to speak. “Nikes,” he sputtered.

“Nike is your name?” she asked.

“His shoes,” Buford said.

“Good, good,” the woman cheered. “Don’t be alarmed,” she reassured him. “The kid is only a purse snatcher, probably not dangerous.”

She went on to ask his address and what he’d seen. Buford stammered his responses, grateful that she didn’t ask what he was doing in the park.

Even as the woman sprinkled his car with black powder, Buford watched mutely through the glass. With concentration, the officer pressed strips of tape on to the hood.

Buford glanced at his Rolex. His father’s watch. He’d donned it for the occasion. Marcia wouldn’t be worried yet, but she’d be starting to wonder.

The officer peeled up the strips with a look of deep satisfaction. “Perfect,” she said. “Sorry about the mess.”

When Buford pulled into his driveway, Marcia was dumping the day’s news in the recycle. Buford had wanted that moment between killing the engine and opening the door to reexamine himself in the mirror, make sure he looked normal. He had hoped to enter the house anonymously and spirit away his briefcase to a secret spot.

Instead, Marcia descended on him.

She glanced at the hood of the car. Her smooth forehead drew into a frown and her sandy eyebrows arched into question marks.

He felt pinned to the seat like a bug on display—homo insectus. He had thought about going to a carwash, but he was already two hours late getting home. And unable to bear the thought of his cell phone ringing beside his dead body, or worse yet, as he was about to pull the trigger, he’d purposely left the damn thing at his office.

Marcia’s neck lengthened and Buford knew he must move before she became alarmed.

Gripping the briefcase and marshalling all his will, Buford heaved himself from the car.

“I’m sure there’s a story here,” Marcia greeted him.

He looked at his wife. From her gold hair and rosy skin to her sparkly toenails, she exuded optimism.

From years of selling, he knew the best way to lie was to tell the truth, just not all of it.

He heaved a deep sigh. “After work I drove out to Dixon Park.”

“Why?” she asked, moving toward the house.

He shrugged and told her the rest of the story as she warmed their dinner in the microwave.

“What a bizarre event!”

Marcia had taped the evening news for him, and when they were seated before the television, watching the Palestinians and Israelis killing one another, she said, “Maybe we should go on a camping trip.”

Buford’s forkful of salmon fillet stopped midair. “You hate camping.”

She tilted her head and oscillated one hand. “It’s not my favorite thing, but I miss that time with you—the adventure. Then I can come home and fully appreciate my mattress.”

Buford laid down his fork and muted the television. His heart fluttered with panic. She knew. Those blue x-ray eyes had seen right through the leather of his briefcase. Had seen the gun. Read the letter. She was proposing this to cheer him up.

“You don’t want to sleep on the ground,” he insisted.

“Maybe we could try a rustic cabin,” she suggested. “They have a few of them out at the lake.”

“The swamp, you mean?”

“Ahhh,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “No place is perfect.”

Vinnie Hansen's books are available at Amazon.com or other online outlets.

	A high-school English teacher for twenty-one years, Vinnie Hansen lives in Santa Cruz, California with her husband, artist Daniel S. Friedman, and their very spoiled cat Lola. Visit the author's website. Direct correspondence to Vinnie Hansen or to Editor.
	A Perfect Place to Die