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The Galton Case

Page 23

by Ross Macdonald


  “From punishment for murder.”

  She shook her head solemnly. “It’s too late for that, son. Fredericks has took his punishment. He said he would rather have digger get him than go back behind walls. Fredericks hung himself, and I didn’t try to argue him out of doing it.”

  We found him in a back room on the second floor. He was on an old brass bed, in a half-sitting position. A piece of heavy electrical cord was tied to the head of the bed and wrapped several times around his neck. The free end of the cord was clenched in his right hand. There was no doubt that he had been his own executioner.

  “Get Sheila out of here,” I said to John.

  She stood close to him. “I’m all right. I’m not afraid.”

  Mrs. Fredericks came into the doorway, heavy and panting. She looked at her son with her head up:

  “This is the end of it. I told him it was him or you, and which it was going to be. I couldn’t go on lying for him, and let you get arrested instead of him.”

  He faced her, still the accuser. “Why did you lie for so long? You stayed with him after he killed my father.”

  “You got no call to judge me for doing that. It was to save your life that I married him. I saw him cut off your daddy’s head with an ax, fill it with stones, and chunk it in the sea. He said that if I ever told a living soul, that he would kill you, too. You were just a tiny baby, but that wouldn’t of stopped him. He held up the bloody ax over your crib and made me swear to marry him and keep my lips shut forever. Which I have done until now.”

  “Did you have to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  “That was my choice,” she said. “For sixteen years I stood between you and him. Then you ran away and left me alone with him. I had nobody else left in my life excepting him. Do you understand what it’s like to have nobody at all, son?”

  He tried to speak, to rise to the word, but the gorgon past held him frozen.

  “All I ever wanted in my life,” she said, “was a husband and a family and a place I could call my own.”

  Sheila made an impulsive movement toward her, “You have us.”

  “Aw, no. You don’t want me in your life. We might as well be honest about it. The less you see of me, the better you’ll like it. Too much water flowed under the bridge. I don’t blame my son for hating me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” John said. “I’m sorry for you, Mother. And I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “You and who else is sorry?” she said roughly. “You and who else?”

  He put his arm around her, awkwardly, trying to comfort her. But she was past comforting, perhaps beyond sorrow, too. Whatever she felt was masked by unfeeling layers of flesh. The stiff black silk she was wearing curved over her breast like armor.

  “Don’t bother about me. Just take good care of your girl.”

  Somewhere outside, a single bird raised its voice for a few notes, then fell into abashed silence. I went to the window. The river was white. The trees and buildings on its banks were resuming their colors and shapes. A light went on in one of the other houses. As if at this human signal, the bird raised its voice again.

  Sheila said: “Listen.”

  John turned his head to listen. Even the dead man seemed to be listening.

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  ROSS MACDONALD

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  —The New York Times

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  Available at your local bookstore, or call toll-free to order:

  1-800-793-2665 (credit cards only).

  First Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Edition, December 1996

  Copyright © 1959 by Ross Macdonald

  Copyright renewed 1987 by Margaret Millar

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1959.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:

  Library of Congress catalog card number: 59–6222

  Vintage eISBN: 978-0-307-75967-2

  Random House Web address: http://www.randomhouse.com/

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