The Hatmaker Cycle - Part III: Retribution

THE HATMAKER CYCLE
A Tale of Intrigue, Headwear, and Justice
Dominic E. Lacasse

Part III: Retribution

   The bastard. The dirty bastard.

   Michael pulled the chamber open and snapped it closed. It was a good gun. Well, he assumed it was a good gun. He didn’t know a whole lot about guns but the guy who had sold this gun to him told him it was a good gun, and judging by the gigantic white van full of guns that the guy drove around, it probably wasn’t unrealistic to assume the guy knew a thing or two about guns.

   In any case, it would do the job. Michael was angry- Shakespeare-style murdering-angry- he was angry, but he wasn’t stupid. And when that son of a bitch got what was coming to him, Michael wouldn’t be anywhere near the place. Peering through the massive scope, Michael would strike from a distance. He would forego the intense pleasure of seeing the bastard die, up close and personal, because he had no desire to spend the rest of his life in a Mexican jail for shooting a hatmaker.

   He sat back on his haunches, careful not to topple off the side of the wall and into the stream rushing along nearby. It was a good spot- it was out of the way with zero witnesses, it gave him a good view of the bastard’s shop and would allow for immediate disposal of the murder weapon, but if you had to pick any spot to sit your ass for hours on end, the top of an old granite wall would probably be pretty far down on your list. He hoisted the rifle again, feeling the ache in his arm as he did so. You better hurry your ass up and stand by your window for a good minute or so, you old son of a bitch.

   Michael had given the situation a lot of thought in recent days. He was queasy about killing someone. Hell, to tell the truth and save a lie he was downright terrified. But it had to be done. He was sure of that. The dirty bastard had ruined his father’s life, and a son has to honor his father. It says so right in the Bible. He wished he could have been the one to find them, not his father, his father who of course had simply left. Michael would have given the son of a bitch his reward right then, with his bare hands if it came to that.

   This hatmaker had seduced his father’s wife. Not his mother, thankfully- she had died years ago- but there was no doubt in Michael’s mind that his father had loved this woman, that her betrayal had scarred him deeply. It had driven him to that harlot, hadn’t it? And that had resulted in his almost complete financial destruction. And that, on top of everything else, had resulted in his suicide. Michael had been the one to stumble upon that scene, his father swaying gently under the tree out back, his face blue. Killed, in essence, by a dirty fucking hatmaker. Well, terrified as he was of the prospect, Michael was going to settle the score today.

   He was going to settle the score right now, he realized, as he snapped back to reality. The hatmaker had finished whatever he was working on and leaned back in his chair, just barely exposing his head to Michael’s scope through the plate glass window. Michael would have preferred to have the bastard standing in plain view but after two hours sitting on a granite wall he was ready to take what he could get. He aimed carefully. He could make the shot, he thought. He had been practicing for the last couple days and as it turned out he had something of a knack for sniping. Something he probably would have never learned if not for this ridiculous turn of events.

   Michael held his breath. He willed his hand to steadiness, squeezed the trigger slightly with a sweaty fingertip. He said a hail Mary and prepared to take his shot. Now or never, Michael.

   A flash of green.
   He pulled the trigger and felt the recoil.

   His heart thumped painfully in his chest. It had happened so fast and he had not been able to stop himself in time. Good lord, what had happened? What had he done?

   Almost against his will, he put his eye to the scope, hoping to God that it had been a trick of his eye, that the hatmaker and only the hatmaker was now lying dead.

   Oh God. A green dress. Long, blonde hair.

   Michael lost all ability to reason. He didn’t care, anymore, even if he was caught. He had the presence of mind to toss the rifle into the brook rushing by the wall, and he dropped to the ground and set off at a run for the hatmaker’s shop.

   There were screams as he reached the square. While the onlookers could only stand by and stare with horrified expressions at the dying woman, Michael could not help but run up to the angel he had inadvertently destroyed.

   The harlot. Good God.

   In a blinding flash Michael saw it all. This was not an accident. This was the work of God. There was no other explanation. He had been angry. He had been Shakespeare-style murdering-angry. But he had been angry at the wrong person. Who was this hatmaker? An honest man, a man who took pride in a simple trade. An honest man who had done wrong, there was no doubt about that, but everyone does wrong. This man’s crime was loving another man’s wife. The harlot had been the one who destroyed his father’s life, taking him in his moment of greatest weakness, pretending to love him. Michael had been right to buy the gun but he had aimed it at the wrong person. And, in the very last second, in His great wisdom, God had put the right person between his crosshairs.

   The door jerked open. “Ay dios mio!” came the cry from his one-time enemy. Michael spoke in a daze. “We need to call the police.” Perhaps he would turn himself in, perhaps he would not. He thought not. If God desired him to be caught, he would be caught. His eyes traveled up the harlot’s body and moved to meet Juan’s eye but they stopped at his chest, where a perfect hat rested atop a heaving breast. It was the most beautiful hat he had ever seen.