Doctor Martin Connors pulled his wife's car over to the side of the street, checked the mirrors to make sure no one was around and pulled the gun out of his pocket. It was an old snub nosed revolver acquired from a friend of a friend. After the whole McIntosh debacle he had felt the need for some personal protection. He knew bullets probably wouldn't be much use against the child, but he hasn't been seen since Kolinsky' had unleashed his mad dog.
That was all a bloody mess; he had thought that a hitman would have been quick, clean and quiet. The imbecile that Kolinsky had deemed fit for the job had pulled up outside the house and just peppered it with bullets. He hadn't felt comfortable with the potential death of a child; no matter how infuriating, but now two people were dead and another missing. It was time to wipe the slate clean.
After he had seen the carnage on the news accompanied by an appeal for Kevin to come home he had made an anonymous phone call to the police, implicating Kolinsky. He knew Kolinsky wouldn't give the police his name. He knew Kolinsky would much rather deal with him personally.
It was this thought that lead to him getting the gun. He didn't know if he had it in him to shoot someone in cold blood but reasoned with himself that if it came down to him of someone else dying it really wasn't that much of a choice.
He checked the gun was still loaded and stuffed it back into his pocket. Checking the mirrors again and avoiding making eye contact with himself. He got out of the car and started the long trudge up the hill towards Bellevue.
His mind raced and wandered on the mile long journey. He cursed his lousy luck; he regretted accepting the job and ending up here. He debated, again, if the writer was really real. On one hand it flew in the face of everything he had ever believed. On the other he had been turned into a penguin not so long ago.
It was a disturbing thought really, some old hack locked up in a room controlling your destiny. More than once he had caught himself second guessing his every thought, pondering if he had really thought that or if it had been penned for him. It was enough to drive you insane.
He chuckled at the irony of a doctor of his standing questioning his own mental state, caressed the gun through the material of his coat and kept on walking.