Last but not least

Wilbur ran up the hill, holding the rifle close to his body. No one would see him in the dark enclosure of the trees and bushes. What luck that Peter Runyan would be walking down Dallas Street, greeting late-day shoppers on his way to a fundraiser in River Oaks, the most exclusive enclave of wealthy donors – at this time of day, no less.

Wilbur set up his stake-out. Good, a large elm at the top of the hill, only forty feet to the street. He looked down the backside of the hill at his car, keys in the ignition, door slightly ajar. All he had to do was get in two shots – only one if he hit Runyan in the head – and sprint down the hill.

He began the long, slow wait for Runyan to appear, and thought back through the years. Back when Runyan came out of Rice and Wilbur took him in, paid for his law degree at S.M.U. Back to their sex life, first every day, then every other day, then once a week for a few years, then once in a blue moon. And then not at all. Back to the day Runyan won his first election – city commission – and they celebrated in town. Back to when Runyan dumped him and took the house in their settlement – and Wilbur lost his job that year, same year Runyan got elected to Congress. And now he was running for vice-president. Youngest candidate, the only one who’d ever modeled his biceps in People Magazine. The only one who’d ever had biceps, really.

Wilbur saw him walking in the distance. A crowd of people stood around him, but thank God – Peter was tall, with that wide smile and jet-black clean-cut hair of his. Peter’s height would work to Wilbur’s advantage. Peter made his way down the sidewalk, and just as he came into full view, Wilbur lifted the rifle to eye level, took careful aim, and –

“Hold it right there, buddy,” a baritone voice came from behind. Wilbur heard a metallic click and felt the heavy barrel of a revolver behind his ear.

Runyan’s self-satisfied smile was dead center in the rifle’s viewfinder. What the hell, Wilbur thought. He’d come this far. So he first his shot. His last shot.