. . . . exiting his car . . . the first bullet whizzes by his ear . . . another shatters his window . . . heart racing . . . gasping for air . . . crawling through the mud behind Trudy’s Toyota . . . drawing his Smith & Wesson semi-automatic 9-millimeter . . . Lyle’s standing on his porch, a silhouette under the light, aiming his rifle to shoot . . . he’s aiming his Smith & Wesson . . . wiping the blood streaming into his eye; steadying his hand on the cold, wet hood of the car.

“It’s Will, Lyle! Put the gun down! Put your hands where I can see ’em!”

Lyle answers with two more shots . . . he returns fire – but can’t . . . his gun won’t fire . . . Lyle’s running toward him now, shooting . . . a sledgehammer burns into his shoulder above his vest . . . another slices his neck . . . he’s down on the ground on his back . . . numb with pain . . . his gun won’t fire . . . Lyle standing over him now in the rain . . . Billy and Daisy . . . with Lyle . . . looking down upon him bleeding in the mud and rain . . .

“I told you, Will, I got no beef with you. I warned you that this is between man and wife. . . I told you to stay out of my way, Will . . .”

Lyle aims the rifle at his head and everything goes black . . .

In the days and nights after the incident Fortin was tormented by nightmare after nightmare. In some he died. In others he replayed his actions of that night again and again with his subconscious slowing everything down to a near stop, hearing and feeling every pulse beat, every heartbeat second-guessing every action, every judgment.

During his waking hours Fortin was gripped by new, sobering fears.

The investigation. Public scrutiny.

And the piercing wound of his overwhelming guilt.

-Chapter 11-

Southern Alberta

A week after the shootings, Fortin went to his closet and looked at his darkest suit. It was a black herringbone jacket and pants that he hadn't put on since he’d taken Cathy to Banff for a weekend to celebrate their anniversary almost a year ago.

Or maybe I wore it at a court appearance. I can’t remember.

He lifted the suit off the rack and dressed, concentrating on making sure his collar and tie were aligned, saying little to Cathy as she got ready.

The funeral for Trudy Dolan and her children, Billy and Daisy, was to be held in the afternoon in Medicine Hat.

The day after the tragedy, the force had put out a news release on the incident at the Dolan residence. Without offering details, it had outlined how Lyle had opened fire at the responding officer, who returned fire without knowledge or sight of the two children.

In the days that followed, the medical examiner’s initial autopsy reports were completed but not released to the public because the investigation was ongoing. The autopsies confirmed that the rounds Fortin had fired at Lyle Dolan had killed the children. Fortin’s bullets were the only ones recovered from the bodies.