JEAN MCLENNAN
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He couldn't believe he'd done it.   His hands, clutching the steering wheel, as if it was a lifeline, were shaking as violently as if he was holding a pneumatic drill.  The weight of the lump of lead in his belly should have held the car stationary.   On he drove, fast, for ten minutes, keen to put distance between himself and the scene.   He pulled over into a lay-by and slumped over the wheel.
    His head swam till dizziness finally tipped him over into nausea and he scrambled out of the car, clung to a fence post, and threw up over and over again till there was nothing left.   The stillness of the night was only broken by the perpetual hum of traffic in the city a couple of miles away.   The blackness around him was complete.
    He'd had to be sure, before…   So he asked the questions that had burned in his mind, and got the confirmation he wanted, needed.   If there had been any sign of repentance things could have been different, but all he heard was cocky, self assurance, arrogance, and all he saw was the smirk daring him to do as he threatened. Then his other questions were stonewalled.  Even when he struck out, drew blood, there was still that insolent grin.
    It was the last straw.  He'd felt a surge of fury, as inescapable as a tsunami and had forced the barrel of the gun into his victim's mouth and pulled the trigger.   There was a strange kind of justice in ending it that way.
    Now he just had to find the others.

BIOGRAPHY
Conspiracy of Silence