As he came closer to the house, he heard the sound of a neighbor’s dog barking. Insects buzzed in the grass at his feet. The distant muttering roar of a jet airliner came from somewhere in the northern sky. The horizon to the east was lightening. The moon was about to rise.
The screen door to the back porch was open, as he’d expected. In Darlington, proud householders often boasted that, in their town, doors need never be locked.
Gently, he tried the back door. The knob turned; the door swung slowly open.
Uncle Julian would boast no more.
As he stepped across the threshold into the darkened kitchen, he felt his stomach shift. His genitals were tightening. His breath was coming faster. His throat was dry.
Here, in this house he hated, windows were lighted. From somewhere upstairs he could hear the sound of music and voices, followed by tinny laughter. A TV was playing, or a radio. Barbara was upstairs. He could sense her presence.
The house was alive.
And he was alive, too.
For four years, locked away, he’d been dead. But now, advancing down the dark hallway toward his uncle’s dining room, he’d come alive. Finally, fully alive.
The dining room was dark, deserted.
The living room, too, was dark. Ahead, on the right, light came through an archway that opened on a small parlor, across the hallway from the living room. As he moved to the wall beside the archway, he was aware that his right hand had slid into his hip pocket. He held the knife in his hand. He hadn’t heard the click, but he knew the blade had sprung out, locked and ready.
With his back flattened against the hallway’s flocked velvet wallpaper, he was inching toward the archway. He held the knife in his right hand, delicately probing ahead, as deadly as a snake’s tongue. Behind him, the fingertips of his left hand slid lightly over the velvet flocking.
Until, beyond the final inch, he could see into the parlor …
… empty.
Instantly, he turned to face the carved walnut door to his uncle’s study, diagonally across the hallway. The door was closed; the crack beneath the door was dark. Three short, light steps took him to the door. His left hand was on the embossed brass knob, turning it. Soundlessly, the door swung open. He was inside the study, with the door safely closed behind.
Standing in the darkened room, he could clearly hear the remembered echo of his uncle’s voice, furiously lashing him:
“That’s what you are. You’re a bastard.”
He could clearly remember his uncle’s eyes, too. He could clearly see the hatred, and the old, easy contempt. It was the memory of those eyes that had brought him here.
His uncle’s eyes, and all the others. Always, he could see them. Awake or asleep, they would never release him.
His footsteps were noiseless on the thick carpet as he moved around the desk. The only sound was the ticking of the miniature grandfather’s clock. With the knife in his right hand, he trailed the fingers of his left hand gently over the leather desk top, finally to rest on the clock. He lifted the clock, placed it on the floor, placed his right foot lightly on the clock. Then, slowly, he shifted his weight to his right foot until he heard a cracking, and felt the clock flatten under his foot.
Behind the desk now, he felt for the twin knobs of the desk’s center drawer. The drawer was stuck—or locked. With the knife gripped in his teeth, he used both hands to pull at the knobs. Yes, the drawer was locked.
Confirming that, yes, it was here that Uncle Julian kept his valuables.
He placed the knife on the desk top, withdrew the penlight from his pocket and shone the slender beam on the line where the drawer joined the desk. Yes, there was enough room for his prybar. He placed the penlight beside the knife, neatly aligned. His fingers moved to the cord knotted around his belt. He could …
The door was opening.
Dressed in a sheer nightgown, backlit by the light from the parlor across the hallway, Barbara stood in the open doorway.
He was around the desk. His left hand crashed into the base of her throat. As she staggered back, sagging against the wall, he kicked the door closed. She was struggling to keep her footing, trying to push herself away from the wall. In the dim light from the window behind the desk, he could see her eyes, wide with terror. Her mouth was coming open; her throat was convulsing.
“Don’t scream, Barbara,” he said softly, moving forward until the point of the knife touched her chest between the swell of her small, pubescent breasts. “Don’t scream, or I’ll slit you up the front. I promise.”
“James.” Her voice was almost inaudible. Then, in a breathless rush: “James.”
“That’s loud enough, Barbara.” He raised his left hand, pointing to an armchair. It was the same chair his uncle had gestured him to so contemptuously, on Thursday afternoon.
“Sit down.” As he said it, he gestured with the knife toward the chair. It was a delicate, elegant gesture, just right. Her eyes were fixed on the knife. She was fascinated, helpless. “Sit down, Barbara,” he repeated softly.
“James. Please. I …”
“Sit down, Barbara. Or you’ll bleed. I promise you, you’ll bleed.”
With a sudden desperate, awkward rush of arms and legs akimbo, she lurched into the chair. The skirt of her nightgown drew taut across slim white thighs. Small breasts strained against the flimsy fabric of the nightgown. Standing over her now, he leaned forward to reach across her shoulder for the penlight, still on the desk. The movement brought his genitals into contact with her shoulder. Instantly, the warm rush of sensation leaped up from his groin to his solar plexus, then to his throat, tight and dry. It was almost a physical pain, leaving him momentarily helpless. He felt her shrink away from him. He turned the penlight on her face, and pressed the switch. Yes, her eyes were wild, fixed on his face. She was terrified, visibly trembling.
So it was beginning. In this small room, where her father had called him a bastard, their game was beginning.
But slowly—slowly.
The small, round spot of white light was moving, beginning its delicate dance. First, playfully, the circle moved down to her throat, where he saw a small droplet of blood. Smiling, he placed the knife on the desk, out of her reach. With his right forefinger, he touched the spot of blood. He held the finger in front of her eyes, for her to see. Then, still smiling, he lifted the finger to his lips, licking the fingertip. From deep in her throat, he heard a retching sound.
Yes, the game had begun. Soon he must unbuckle his belt, unfasten his pants. He must—
From behind him came a metal-on-metal sound, followed by a faint stirring of air.
“Daddy. Help me.”
The door was flung wide, crashing back against a wall. Light from the hallway flooded the study. Head down, shouting a garbled obscenity, Julian was charging toward the far wall, lined with books. Suddenly the small room was filled with shouting, dangerously loud. As he sprang toward his uncle, knife ready, he felt his foot strike something solid. He was tripping, falling. It was her legs, tangled between his. Rolling free, up on his knees now, he saw his uncle clawing wildly behind a row of books, sending books crashing to the floor. Now his feet were under him, braced. With the knife held low, he lunged again toward the stocky figure of his uncle, still tearing at the bookcase. One slash, one thrust, and Julian would fall.
But, as he rounded the desk, his uncle was pivoting to face him. A gun gleamed in his uncle’s pudgy hand. He saw the barrel come up, aimed squarely at his chest. He saw a forefinger tightening on the trigger …
… felt himself falter in midstride, heard himself screaming, begging …
… saw the finger fully tightened on the trigger, knuckle-whitened. The finger clamped again on the trigger—unclamped—clamped. Now his uncle lifted the pistol, staring at it with round, outraged eyes. It was a .45 automatic, army style. The hammer was sunk into the receiver, uncocked.
As he stepped forward, he realized that he was wildly laughing. Uncle Julian was still
staring at the pistol, furious—impotent.
He balanced himself, swung his right leg, crashed his right foot deep into his uncle’s crotch. Still holding the pistol, his uncle sunk suddenly to his knees, gently exhaling, sorrowfully shaking his head.
Carson slipped the penlight into his left pocket, slipped the knife into his right pocket, reached down with both hands to contemptuously wrench the automatic free.
“You forgot to cock it, Uncle Julian,” he whispered. “You have to cock it. Like this.” Two small metallic clicks, deliberately spaced, filled the room. Except for the clicking of the hammer and the harsh, uneven sound of their breathing, the room was quiet.
Still on his knees, holding his crotch, head hanging helplessly, his uncle spoke thickly, indistinctly:
“You’ll pay for this.”
“No, Uncle Julian. I won’t pay. You’ll pay. You and Barbara. You’ll both pay.”
With great effort, Julian raised his head. Gasping: “You’ll go back to prison. I promise.”
Finger on the trigger of the automatic, he aimed the gun at his uncle’s forehead. “If I go to prison,” he said softly, “it might as well be for murder, Uncle Julian.”
Still huddled in the armchair, clutching herself with desperate hands locked around thin forearms, Barbara suddenly began sobbing. He moved the pistol until the muzzle was centered on her chest.
“Be quiet, Barbara. Or I’ll kill you. I swear to God. I’ll kill you.”
The desperate hands darted to her mouth. But her chest heaved convulsively, forcing the sound of dry, racking sobs between her fingers. Suddenly she closed her eyes, as if in prayer. Relaxing the pressure of his finger on the trigger, he touched one of her breasts with the muzzle of the gun. She started, pulled back. Then, eyes still closed, she began to shake her head. Slowly. Hopelessly.
Whatever he wanted to do, he could do.
Caressing the small, firm breast a second time with the gun barrel, he felt the warm, urgent warmth suddenly return, suffusing his genitals.
“Stop it, you goddamn pervert.” His uncle’s voice was stronger now, suddenly furious. So, slowly, he turned the gun again on his uncle. Julian was crouched on his knees: a lineman ready to spring forward, punishing the opponents. His small eyes were watchful and alert, clear of pain. Dangerous.
“Sit back, Uncle,” he said. “Sit back on the floor, flat on your ass.”
“You goddamn—”
He stepped forward, swung his arm, felt the heavy gun barrel strike bone, high on his uncle’s temple. Behind him, Barbara screamed. His uncle’s hand came up to his temple. Blood smeared the white, sausage-thick fingers. Blood stained the expensive doubleknit jacket, the gleaming white shirt, the impeccable tie.
“Oh—ah.” Still holding his head, Julian suddenly sat flat on the floor beside the desk, legs splayed wide, eyes round and shocked, curiously innocent. He could have been an oversized child, injured in a playground game.
One blow, and Uncle Julian had collapsed, no longer angry—no longer dangerous.
Drawing back the gun for another blow, he turned toward the girl. “You want one, too, Barbara? Is that the only way I can stop your fucking noise?”
With her hands still tight around her mouth, staring at him over white-knuckled fingers, she helplessly shook her head, choking on dry, racking sobs.
“Then shut up, Barbara,” he said, his head bent close to hers. “Shut your fucking mouth.” He spoke softly, intimately. With their heads so close together, they could have been lovers.
A final gasp, then a tremulous silence. Her terrified eyes were on the gun, helplessly fascinated.
“Please, James.” It was his uncle’s voice, brokenly pleading. “Please. Not her.”
Turning, he smiled as he looked down at his uncle. Sitting shoulder-hunched, eyes vague and sick with pain and shock, his uncle’s bluster had turned to blubbering, bleating terror.
So—finally—his time had come:
“Take out your wallet, Uncle Julian. Toss it over.”
“Yes. All right. Yes.”
Fumbling in his haste to please—still pressing one hand to his bloody head—Uncle Julian reached with his free hand awkwardly in his hip pocket, withdrawing the wallet. It was the alligator wallet, thick and promising. He reached forward and took the wallet, nodding his mocking thanks. Holding the gun with his right hand, still aimed at his uncle, he used his left hand to open the wallet. It was an elaborate wallet, with separate sections for money, and papers, and credit cards. The money compartment bulged with tens and twenties. A plastic accordion-style file held a dozen credit cards: gas cards, bank cards, an American Express card, department-store cards. He folded the wallet, thrust it in his pocket.
“Now the car keys, Uncle Julian. Hand them over, please. Slow and easy.”
Another fumbling search yielded a jingling keyring. Nodding again, he pocketed the keys, saying:
“Where’s the rest of your money, Uncle Julian? Where do you keep it?”
“There’s no more. Honest to God, that’s all there is—just what you see, in the wallet. Take it, for God’s sake. Take it, and go. Take the car, too. Anything.”
“I will, Uncle Julian. I certainly will. But before I do, I’m going to tell you my plans. Would you like to hear my plans?”
“I could have a skull fracture. Just go. Get out of here, for God’s sake. Go.”
“So you can call the police, as soon as I’m gone. Is that it, Uncle Julian?”
Holding his bloody head in both hands now, his uncle silently shook his head.
“Look at me, when I talk to you, Uncle Julian.” He was satisfied with his voice: deadly soft, silkily menacing. In all his life, except for the girls, he’d never spoken to his victim. To the men with the money or the women with the jewels, asleep in their darkened houses, he’d always been faceless, without substance. They’d never known his name. Not until now—here.
“I said, look at me, Uncle Julian.” Still soft. Still silky. Just right. Finally, just right.
Obediently, Uncle Julian raised his head, letting his bloodsmeared hands fall helplessly to the floor beside him. Beaten. Finally, totally beaten.
“I’m going to take your credit cards and your car,” he said, “and I’m going out to California.” He paused, watching for some response: some small twitch of the facial muscles, some flicker of the eye, signifying recognition.
And—yes—he saw it: the pig eyes blinked, faltering. The blood-clotted lips tightened, weakly protesting.
“I’m going to find my father.”
Helplessly, his uncle could only stare, hopelessly shaking his head.
“I’m going to find him, and I’m going to get what’s coming to me. Every dollar, for every minute of my life. And then, Uncle Julian, I’ll send back your credit cards. Maybe I’ll even send your money back, too, if you’re good, and don’t call the police.”
“I won’t call the police.”
“I hope you won’t, Uncle Julian. Because—now—I won’t hurt you anymore. And I won’t hurt Barbara, either. Not now. Not this time. But I swear to God, Uncle, that if you call the police and get me put back inside, I’ll kill you when I get out. I’ll kill both of you. I’ll torture you, and then I’ll kill you.”
Dumbly, the splay-legged man could only nod.
“If they put me back inside, it won’t be for more than five or six years. That’s all the time you’ll have to live, either of you. And then I’ll come back here, to Darlington. I know you’ll be here. You’re too rich to move, Uncle. So I’ll find you, when I get out. And I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
A slow, heavy nod of the blood-matted head.
“Do you believe me?”
Another nod.
“All right. Good. Then I guess I’ll leave.” He turned, walked to the door, then turned back. “Just to make sure, Uncle Julian—just to double-check—tell me his name. Tell me my father’s name.”
The bloody lips parted. Then, croaking: “Austin Holl
oway.”
“Austin Holloway. Yes.” He smiled, nodded, and left the room, softly closing the door as he went.
Eleven
HOLLOWAY WATCHED FLOURNOY SLOWLY, regretfully shake his head as he used a manicured forefinger to push the contract away from him, toward the center of the long walnut conference table.
“I’m sorry, Austin. I wish I could say I’m enthusiastic about this. But the fact is that you’re giving away everything. You’ve got no leverage at all, according to that contract. You can’t even see the video tape before the show airs, much less edit it.”
Seated across the table, Clifton Reynolds frowned. “The reason for that,” Reynolds said, “is that Sixty Minutes has more clout than it had the last time they interviewed Austin. A lot more clout. So, naturally, they want more control. When we first did the show, they needed us as much as we needed them. Maybe more. Now it’s different. I’d venture to say they get a thousand requests a week for interviews.”
“That’s not the point,” Flournoy retorted. “The point is—the only point is—are they going to help us, or hurt us? Apparently you’re convinced they’re going to help us. But I’m not so sure.”
Reynolds shrugged. “There’s no guarantee, with Sixty Minutes. I thought you understood that.” As he spoke, he looked toward Holloway, subtly appealing the point.
“What Clifton means,” Holloway said, speaking to Flournoy, “is that it’s up to me. It’s a contract, one man pitted against the other, may the best man win. It’ll be a debate, Howard. A great debate.”
Flournoy sat silently for a moment, his severely drawn face typically unreadable as he considered his response. Then, speaking with slow, measured emphasis, he warned: “It’s not a debate, though. It’s an inquisition.”
“You’re wrong, Howard,” Holloway answered. “It isn’t an inquisition. It’s a gamble. A high-stakes gamble.”
Ruefully snorting, Flournoy flicked at the contract with an impatient finger. “On that,” he said heavily, “we can agree. The question is whether it’s a gamble worth taking.”
“And you say no. That’s your vote.” Holloway spoke in a calm, measured voice. Preparing to veto Flournoy’s objections, he must be judicious, tolerantly benign. So, as he spoke, he smiled.
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