 I waited. As the old man took his time retrieving a fat manila envelope from a chest of drawers in the living room, I flipped through the wad of bills inside after he handed it to me. He ain't gotta worry, the old man said. It's all there. I traveled a ways down a back country road to get to the farmhouse. Once majestic, the tendrils of decay had grasped hold of the house. Great, big flakes of white paint had peeled off the clapboard sliding, revealing the dead timber underneath it. All things at the end will rot. The money was worth the trip. I charged a higher sum for this job because of its peculiar specifications, 80,000, half before the other half after it was done. I retrieved a polaroid, soon to be burned, that I kept folded in my back pocket. The old man put his hand out. I don't need you to show me. He said, I know you saw it through. I trust your reputation. Not much room for mistakes in your business anyhow. Treacherous as you might be, I can count on you to get a deed done. Treacherous. Old man had a lot of nerve speaking to me that way, given what he'd asked me to do. The old man had wanted the target shot, stabbed through the heart, and dismembered. He'd specifically instructed the target be decapitated and his hands removed. Other than that, the old man had said, Cut him up any which way you like. From there, I was to place the target in a burn barrel and lighted a blaze. To say the old man wanted the target dead was an understatement. He wanted him annihilated, reduced to ash. I wasn't in the habit of asking paying customers why, unless I needed information to get it done. I didn't want to hear it. But this time, I wondered, I'd lured the target to a secluded place I won't identify, though I suppose it doesn't really matter. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was much younger than the old man, mid twenties tops, and that was generous. I couldn't imagine what the kid had done to make the old man so hell bent on killing him. Couldn't have been business. I knew every organized crime figure in the area. And the old man wasn't one of them. Had to be personal, then. I still couldn't fathom what Vendetta the old man had against a kid, decades his junior. But I set the question aside. And I did my job. I couldn't keep the issue out of my mind for long. Inside the farmhouse, I noticed a frayed photo among the dusty picture frames scattered along the mantle. Though he was younger and less wrinkled in the photograph, I recognize the old man. He was picnicking in a field, one arm around a border collie dog, and the other around a brown haired woman. In front of the adults sat two children, a smiling young girl who looked much like her mother and an older boy with a thousand yard stare. His gaze was unsettling. It was almost as if from that still moment in the past, he was sitting in judgment. Despite his age in the photo, I recognized him instantly. It's hard to forget someone you shot point blank. A hint of uncharacteristic compunction formed inside me, most whom at the barrel of my gun were folks as knee deep in the underworld as I was who done bad things to worse people and faced the consequences. This was different. Your own son. I asked. I didn't think you asked questions. The old man said. What was that kid? 25? What could he have done? He's a bit older than he looks. I looked at him for a moment, let him sense my distaste. The old man sighed. I'll show you something if you care to see. I followed the old man out behind the house to a tall sturdy tree. In the shade under the branches was a weather beaten makeshift cross. Daisy, it read, in faded black lettering. She was a good animal. The old man said reminiscing. I've always liked dogs, feel much softer about them than I do people. And if the old man's son had done something to the family dog, well, that was terrible. But I couldn't help feeling it warranted a lesser response than a bullet. We walked back inside through the rear door. Always was something wrong with that boy. The old man muttered. Born bad. So that's it, huh? I said it was about the dog. The old man shook his head. He took his sister a couple years later, broke his mother's heart to pieces. And a few years after that, he took her too. Let me get this straight. You let your son kill your dog, your daughter, and your wife. I tried to stop him. You said all this happened several years apart. You didn't get him some help institutionalize him. It ain't that simple. The old man said calmly. What's complicated about it? That boy ain't normal. The old man handed me two thin items out of the same drawer from which he produced the envelope, laminated memorial cards of the sort handed out at funerals, complete with images of the deceased. One memorialized a young girl, the other an adult woman. Though they both aged a few years, there was no doubt I'd seen them in the photo on the mantle. What I found curious were the dates of death. The girl died in 1980. Her mother in 84. Given the age of the kid whose body I'd burned in a 55 gallon drum. It wasn't possible for him to have killed the two. Matter of fact, it wasn't even possible for him to be the woman's son. I began to think the old man wasn't as sharp as he seemed. It's about sundown, the old man said. You don't want to be out here alone in the dark. Let me see you out. The old farmhouse was situated atop a grassy hill and its grandfront porch overlooked the road below. I was starting down the steps when the old man spoke. Where'd you get rid of the body? I told him. He grunted before shifting a rocking chair on the porch. So it faced the east side of the road. He sat adjusting his veteran ball cap before reaching to his side. For the first time, I noticed a pump shotgun leaned up against the house. I gripped the handle of the pistol I was concealing. No need, the old man said, nestling the pump in his lap. If I had a mind to shoot you, I'd have done it already. If you're such a great shot, I said, why'd you hire me? Shooting ain't my problem, he replied. Done it plenty. First time I put a slug in him was when I seen what he'd done to Daisy. It was the sawing and the burning I needed you for. Don't have a stomach for it myself. In any case, the old man continued, you might should get on your way. If and he comes back, he'll be angry. And despite our efforts, I reckon he will. I drove back east where I came down the road, feeling a bit troubled. This I told myself is why you don't ask questions. I tried to forget about it. And I almost did. Until I passed a solitary figure on the opposite shoulder, just as the sun slipped below the horizon and shadow overtook the two lane road. I didn't need sunlight to know who he was. His face was already imprinted in my memory. He walked steadily with purpose. The walk of a man who was coming home. I didn't stop or turn around. I just kept driving. I'd already done my job. Killing him twice. That wasn't part of the deal.