No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  He’d never raised his hand in anger at James—or even his voice. Ever. Nor had they ever argued. As far as Philip knew, they agreed on practically everything.

  The truth, it seemed, was that he’d known an airbrushed version of James, free of flaws and human defects. He knew more about George Walker than he’d ever known about James. At least George had never lied to him. Not that he knew, anyway. He dismissed the thought. George had never been anything but honest, with Philip and anyone else he encountered.

  Terrence emerged from the bathroom reeking of Old Spice, with a light blue towel knotted at his hip. He wrapped his hair in another towel—this one white—that he twirled into a monstrous turban.

  “Feel better?” Philip asked.

  The enormous terrycloth headdress bobbed forward and threatened to topple. “Much.” Terrence seized the robe from the door, and, with a dramatic swirl, draped it over his shoulders and pulled it around him. Then he grabbed a bottle of lotion and joined him in the kitchen.

  Philip stood before the open refrigerator. “Hungry?”

  Terrence placed the lotion on the table, dropped into a chair, and crossed legs Philip noticed had been shaved. Recently. He hoped Terrence had rinsed out the tub. “Starving.”

  “Hmm.” Philip leaned over and peered into the refrigerator. “How does breakfast sound for dinner?”

  “Well, that depends.” Terrence righted the tilting turban to keep it from falling. “Are we talking about toast and oatmeal, bacon and eggs, or pancakes and sausage?”

  “I haven’t made pancakes for a long time. How about bacon, eggs, and pancakes?”

  “Yes, please, that would be great.” Terrence raised both hands to his head to steady the lurching terrycloth headdress. “Make my eggs over-medium—three would be nice, I haven’t eaten for hours—with a stack of pancakes. Make them little so I can keep my egg yolk from mixing with the maple syrup.” He unwound the towel and gave his head a vigorous shake. “You do have maple syrup, don’t you?”

  “Well, since you said please.” Philip set the syrup on the table as he retrieved the necessary items from the refrigerator and cupboards. He measured all the ingredients and began cooking in stages so everything would be ready at the same time.

  Terrence sat at the table, fluffing his hair with his fingers while Philip fried bacon and mixed up pancake batter. Then Terrence filled his palm with lotion and slathered it on his leg, rubbing it in slowly. “So they’ve arrested our killer?”

  “Yes.” Philip nodded, flipping strips of bacon with a fork. “In fact, I was on the phone with him when the police came to arrest him.”

  Terrence froze. The lotion bottle in his hands clattered to the floor. “On the phone with him?”

  “Yes,” Philip said as he rapped an egg against the edge of the skillet and released the contents into a pool of sizzling butter. He didn’t understand why Terrence was so upset.

  “Why were you on the phone with Tripp Clarkson?”

  Philip poured pancake batter onto the griddle and shook his head. “No, I was talking with Beau Carter when the police came for him.”

  “Mr. Carter?” Terrence said, horrified.

  “Yes, what’s wrong?” He removed the bacon from the frying pan and placed it on a napkin for the grease to drain, turned Terrence’s eggs over, and flipped four little pancakes, one at a time.

  Terrence paled. “Mr. Carter can’t be the killer.” He raised his hand as if taking an oath. “I swear. He couldn’t have done it.”

  Philip slid three fried eggs onto a plate, added the pancakes and several strips of bacon, and set it down on the table in front of Terrence. “What makes you so sure?”

  Terrence poured syrup over his pancakes. “He faints at the sight of blood.”

  “Are you serious?” Philip sat. “How do you know?”

  “One day,” Terrence said as he chewed a strip of bacon, “two guys got into a fight right outside Mr. Carter’s classroom. They bloodied each other up pretty good.” He speared a pancake, wiped it through the syrup pooled on his plate, and stuffed it into his mouth. “Mr. Carter poked his head out, stepped in to break it up, then went white as a sheet and passed out cold.” He speared another pancake and swathed it through the syrup. “He came to, but the boys who’d been fighting were leaning over him, and when he opened his eyes, he passed out again. Happened three more times before somebody figured out the blood was making him faint.”

  Philip tried to think through whether a person who faints at the sight of blood could shoot someone in the head. Success seemed highly unlikely. Never mind disposing of the body.

  Terrence continued. “Last night I went to Clarkson’s house. I was only going to look around, but I couldn’t help myself. I ended up knocking on the door. Clarkson answered, and without even thinking, I grabbed his balls and asked him why he killed Anthony.”

  Although he was horrified Terrence had gone to Clarkson’s house, the idea of him holding Tripp by the balls amused him. “Did he confess?”

  “No,” Terrence said, shaking his head. “But I saw it in his eyes. He killed Anthony and Daniel and those other boys. I’m sure of it.”

  Terrence was clearly convinced, but Philip wasn’t so sure. “If Tripp Clarkson is the killer, how did he find out my name and where I live? Only Beau could have taken those items from my apartment and planted them at the scene.”

  “I have no idea how he found you,” Terrence admitted, “but he did—it was written all over his face. Mr. Carter is a little uptight, but he’s not a killer. He doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

  Philip pondered his words. If Terrence was right and Beau wasn’t the killer, then it had to be Tripp Clarkson. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” Terrence asked.

  “Sergeant White,” Philip said. “I need to let her know she’s arrested the wrong man.” The phone rang and rang. After no one answered, he called George and explained why Beau couldn’t be the killer.

  He hung up the phone, grateful to have George to call on, and returned to the table where Terrence was fast asleep, his head beside his empty plate. Philip touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Terrence.”

  He raised his head and squinted at him.

  “Why don’t you go lay down back in the spare bedroom?”

  Terrence got up and, without saying a word, headed to the bedroom and climbed into bed.

  Philip tidied up the kitchen and, no longer tired, picked up Winston S. Churchill before making himself comfortable on the sofa. Part of him was disappointed Beau wasn’t the killer. Never seeing him again would have been so much easier. He just hoped they arrested Clarkson before any more lives were lost.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “HURRY UP, dammit!” Tripp had stopped trying to be nice. The gig was up. His perfect life—gone, like it had never existed. His family stood before him, staring blankly like a doe and her fawns caught in headlights. They didn’t seem to understand the situation was urgent. “We’re running out of time.” He glared at a tear-stained Harold and wanted to hit him. “Quit crying and get a move on, you little sissy.”

  Harold sobbed. “I don’t want to go. Why do I have to leave without even saying good-bye to Abigail?” He shouted at Tripp, “God wants me to stay in Maryland.”

  Tripp’s arm shot out, his fist knocking Harold to the kitchen floor.

  Harriet screamed and dropped to her knees beside him. She grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped at the blood that streamed from Harold’s nose and a busted lip, unleashing her anger with hurled invectives.

  Tripp reached to silence her, but Ivy stepped between them, a carving knife in his hand.

  “Lay a hand on my mother or my brother and I’ll kill you.”

  Ivy held his gaze, brandishing the knife with a confidence that Tripp had never seen before. He recognized a challenge in his son’s eyes that he couldn’t ignore.

  “Drop the knife, Ivy.”

  “Stop calling me Ivy. My name is Pete.”


  The clock was ticking. Time was running out. If it came to blows, Ivy would have the upper hand. Ivy’s eyes said he’d reached the same conclusion.

  Tripp didn’t have time for this. Not now. He pulled the Walther from his coat pocket and pointed it at Ivy. “I said, drop the knife.”

  The horrified and angry stares from his wife and sons saddened him. Prayer and his desire to be a good husband and father had kept the demon at bay for years—so long, in fact, that he’d believed praying had saved him from the hell that tortured him.

  But he’d been wrong. Again.

  And like the times before, the demon had returned more powerful than ever. Tripp was an innocent victim. As he’d always feared, the evil beast inside him had destroyed his life. The demon had turned his wife and kids against him—demolished everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.

  He blamed Ivy. The demon wouldn’t have reared its ugly head had he not grown into such a masculine and virile young man. He leered at his handsome namesake, giving in to the force that compelled him. His gaze lingered on the muscular forearms. Tripp couldn’t understand how he’d come to lust after the child whose diapers he’d changed such a short time ago. The more he tried not to think about his growing desire, the worse it got.

  His wife and two sons hated him, and it was too late to do anything about it. Words couldn’t be unsaid or deeds undone. The demon couldn’t be contained. Their icy disregard told him everything he needed to know. They thought he was some kind of monster. Something to be feared. A demon.

  Even God couldn’t help him now.

  Harriet studied him, darting glances from the gun to his eyes and back again. Tripp saw her change. Anger replaced her fear. “What’s wrong with you?” Her hands went to her hips. “Who was at the door last night?”

  The accusation in her voice unsettled him and put him on the defensive. “I told you, someone had the wrong address. They were lost.” He could tell she didn’t believe him.

  “What’s really going on, Tripp?”

  An unfamiliar note in her voice worried him. The loving woman who’d married him and raised his children was gone. In her place stood a blazing pillar of righteous anger and indignation he didn’t recognize. She glared at him, waiting for an answer.

  “I told you. God told me to go to San Francisco.”

  Hate-filled eyes met his. “Horseshit.”

  Tripp took a step back, his mouth open in shock.

  Harriet moved toward him. “This isn’t about any goddamn calling.”

  Her words hit him like a slap to the face, and he retreated another step.

  “Yeah,” she said, her tone mocking. “I didn’t buy that crap when we left Alabama to come here, but I kept my mouth shut and went along because that’s what a good wife does.”

  That’s more like it, Tripp thought. Maybe once she said her piece, she’d come around.

  “But I swore to myself that would be the last time.” She fixed her gaze on him. “I knew then you were fucking nuts, but you were a good father to the boys and a good provider. The rest didn’t bother me, especially after I got my personal massager.”

  Her tone shocked him as much as her language. In all the years they’d been married, she’d never talked to him like that.

  “I made sacrifices to stay with you, but it was worth it to be here for the boys. I’m not going to let your crazy thing about homosexuals destroy this family without a fight.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, Harriet. We need to go. Now.” He pointed with the pistol toward the door to the Continental outside.

  “Go ahead and shoot me. I’m not moving until you tell me.” She stared daggers at him. “What have you done?”

  Her confidence amazed him. She really was something.

  Ivy had helped Harold to his feet. His sons stood behind her, united in opposition to his orders.

  “Tell me, Tripp. What is it? What did you do?”

  He couldn’t tell her. She could never find out. Let her think what she would. Nothing she thought could be as bad as the truth.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE SHRILL ringing of the telephone woke Philip from a sound sleep. He got up from the sofa, his book falling to the floor, and made his way to the black telephone mounted on the wall beside the refrigerator. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Potter—Shirley White, DCPD. I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but I only got the message a moment ago and your attorney said it was important.”

  He wiped the sleep from his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Almost one o’clock. I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve cleared Beau Carter, and unless you’ve got information pointing someplace else, that leaves you as my primary suspect.”

  She didn’t sound like the same woman. He could have sweetened his coffee with the sugar dripping from her voice. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go through my attorney. You heard him. As long as I’m a suspect, I can’t answer any of your questions.”

  “Actually,” she said with that unfamiliar saccharine tone, “that’s what I’d like to talk with you about.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “Do you own a car, Mr. Potter?”

  “That sounds like a question, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Circumstantial evidence aside, assuming these murders are connected, except for the last one, whoever is responsible needed a car.”

  “Do you have a point, Sergeant?” Philip couldn’t believe how much fun he was having giving her a hard time. “I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Okay.” She let out a heavy sigh. “You’re not a suspect. I know you don’t have a car. If it makes you feel any better, I never thought you were the killer anyway.”

  He told her about Terrence’s visit to Tripp Clarkson’s and his belief that Tripp was the killer.

  “So, it’s Clarkson after all. You know where to find this Terrence kid?”

  Philip glanced into the spare bedroom and saw those unmistakable curls resting on the pillow. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Bring him down to the station when you can so I can take his statement. In the meantime, as soon as I can find a judge to sign the paperwork, we’re going to arrest Clarkson and search his house.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  IN THE bedroom he’d shared with Harriet for the last thirteen years, Tripp lit a purple taper, left over from Harriet’s Advent wreaths, and placed it in a crystal candleholder on the bedside table. The light flickered over a picture of the two of them, much younger, smiling for the camera as they fed each other wedding cake. Pictures of his sons at various ages were on the bedside table, the dresser, and on the walls in the long hallway. A sob caught in his throat.

  Getting the family ready to go had been harder than he’d expected and taken longer than he’d planned. A lot longer.

  Splashing gasoline as he walked, Tripp made his way back to the kitchen. So much for donating everything to the poor. Time had run out, and he hoped the plan he’d come up with would buy them a little. He extinguished the pilot light on the gas stove and then dialed the gas up high on all four burners.

  The smell of gas surrounded him as he gazed around the kitchen where his family had eaten breakfast and dinner every day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. His way was best. He couldn’t stand the thought of another family sitting around that table.

  He closed the door behind him, making sure it was locked, realizing as he walked to the Continental that it didn’t matter.

  Instead of helping, his wife and sons had hindered progress, moving in slow motion and doing whatever they could to delay their departure.

  He’d played along for a while. He needed them to love him. They needed to know that he had their best interests in mind and that he was merely following God’s plan for them.

  The ends justify the means. They couldn’t u
nderstand. He was focused on a greater good—something they couldn’t see because they lacked his faith. He was saving them, really, from a nightmare more horrifying than anything they could ever imagine.

  Tripp took his place behind the wheel and started the engine. As he backed down the driveway, the sight of his family, bound and gagged in the backseat, upset him. The looks Harriet had given him while he held the gun to Harold’s head as she taped up Ivy had broken his heart. But it couldn’t be helped. He was running out of options.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  SERGEANT SHIRLEY White typed up an arrest warrant for Simon Peter Clarkson III and a search warrant for 971 Hampton Avenue in Chevy Chase.

  She went to Judge Overly’s home for a signature so they could move forward. His bovine, blue-haired wife was prepared to swear on a mountain of Bibles that His Honor was having medical treatments somewhere out of town.

  An hour later, the judge’s secretary had disagreed with Mrs. Overly, but was reluctant to provide information about his whereabouts. Shirley persuaded her to cooperate, and hoped the loyal secretary wouldn’t tell the judge she’d been threatened with obstruction of justice charges.

  Two hours later and after considerable knocking, Shirley found him wide-awake in a suite at the Mayflower Hotel. She’d interrupted his session with a pair of hookers dressed in the kind of uniforms nurses would wear to work in a hospital run by Hugh Hefner.

  Judge Overly signed the warrant in his underwear—pale blue boxers and a stretched-out gray T-shirt that had been born white—mentioning when he handed the search warrant back to her that he’d appreciate her silence about his unique medical treatments.

  “Certainly, Your Honor, and I’ll pray every day for your speedy recovery,” she’d said. Behind him, the nurses were making out in the bed, unable or unwilling to wait for his return.