“What’s wrong with her, with Tess?” I said, glancing toward where she was still sleeping curled up on the sofa. She hadn’t moved.
“I slipped some of that benzodiazepine into the coffee she was drinking. Put it in her port, as well, and I think she had some of that. There’s a good chance she took enough to put her over, but if not, I don’t think it’ll be a problem finishing her off. Something gentle like a plastic bag over the head should do it.”
I think we’d both gotten used to hearing the steady snoring coming from Brian in the downstairs bedroom, but suddenly we both heard a loud grunting snore, so violent that we both looked at each other. Marty picked the gun up off his thigh and turned his attention in that direction. “Sleep apnea,” he said. “I doubt he’ll wake himself up, but let’s go have a look.”
He stood up and I could hear his knees pop. “You, too,” he said, pointing the gun toward me. I stood, as well.
Together we walked to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, me first, with Marty behind me. The door had been left open a crack, and I pushed through. It was dark inside, but a small amount of light came through a window so that I could see Brian, lying on his back above the sheets of the bed. Tess had left his clothes on, but his pants were unbuttoned, his belt hanging loose. I watched as his chest fluttered a little, rising and falling fast, then he let out another explosive snore. I didn’t know how it hadn’t woken him.
“Jesus,” Marty said from behind me. “Let’s put the motherfucker out of his misery.”
I turned, just as Marty flicked the wall switch, and the bedroom was suddenly flooded with light from a floor lamp. Above the bed that Brian was sleeping on was a large abstract painting, chunky blocks of red and black.
“You can quit right now, Marty,” I said.
“And do what?”
“Turn yourself in. We’ll both do it. We’ll go together.” I knew it was a long shot, but Marty seemed tired, and it occurred to me that he was at the end of this particular game. Maybe, down deep, he wanted to get caught.
He shook his head. “It sounds exhausting, having to talk to all those cops, and then the lawyers and the psychiatrists. It’s easier to keep going. We’re almost done here. Eight perfect murders. Your favorite murders, Mal.”
“They were my favorites in books, not in real life.”
Marty was quiet for a moment, and I thought that he was maybe breathing a little heavy. For a moment, I fantasized that he might just keel over dead from a sudden heart attack. He looked up, though, and said, “I’ll admit that the thought of it all being over is not unpleasant. I tell you what I will do for you. I’ll let you have this one—have Brian—because, frankly, I’ve been doing all the heavy lifting since you took care of Norman Chaney. I’ll give you this gun, and all you have to do is go put a pillow over his face and fire the gun into it. I don’t think the neighbors will hear it, and if they do, they’ll just figure they heard something else. A car backfiring, or something.”
“Sure,” I said and held out my hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mal. If I give you the gun, then you can keep me at gunpoint and call the cops, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll come after you and you’ll have to shoot me. So, either way, you’re going to have to shoot someone. It’s either Brian, here, or me. I’m giving you that choice. And if it’s me, that’s okay. I’ve got a prostate the size of a whiffle ball. I’ve had my go-around. I think these last few years, getting to know you, and playing this little game, it’s all been gravy.”
“Not for everyone.”
“Ha. I suppose so. But, down deep, like me, you know none of this really matters much. If I hand you this gun and you put a bullet through Brian’s brain, you’ll be doing him a favor, most likely. You just might like it, too. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said, extending my hand farther toward him.
He smiled. Whatever I’d seen in his eyes earlier, that happiness, was gone now. I saw what I always used to see in his eyes. I always thought it was kindness.
He put the gun in my hand. It was a revolver, and I pulled the hammer back.
“It’s a double action revolver,” Marty said. “You don’t actually need to cock the hammer.”
I looked at Brian Murray, prostrate on the bed, and then I turned back to Marty and shot him in the chest.
Chapter 30
The penultimate chapter of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is called “The Whole Truth.” It’s when the narrator, the country doctor who is secretly the murderer, reveals to the readers exactly what he’s done.
I haven’t given any of my chapters in this narrative a title. It’s an old-fashioned convention, I guess, and it seems a little corny. What would I have called that last chapter? Maybe something like “Charlie Shows His Face.” See what I mean? Corny. But if I had done it, if I had given these chapters a name, then this chapter would definitely have been called “The Whole Truth.”
The night my wife died I’d followed her in my car out to Southwell, to Eric Atwell’s place. It wasn’t the first time I’d been there. After figuring out that Claire had gotten back into drugs, and that she was most likely involved with someone at Black Barn Enterprises, I’d driven past the restored farmhouse a few times. I’d even seen Atwell once, at least I thought it was him. He was jogging along the sidewalk not far from his house, wearing a maroon jogging outfit. As he ran, he performed little boxing moves, punching like he was Rocky Balboa.
On New Year’s Eve that year Claire and I had decided to stay home. She told me that there was a small party out at Black Barn but now that she’d stopped taking drugs (at least that’s what she’d told me), there was no reason for her to go. We roasted a chicken together that night. I made some mashed potatoes, and she steamed some brussels sprouts. We drank a bottle of Vermentino while we ate, then opened a second bottle after we’d cleaned up. We were settling in to watch a movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, one of Claire’s favorites. I liked it, too. At least I did back then. Now, the very thought of it makes me nauseated.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up the film was over, the screen showing the menu options of the DVD. On the coffee table was a note from Claire.
I’ll be back soon. I promise, and I’m sorry. Love, C
I knew where she’d gone, of course. Outside, her Subaru was no longer parked on our street. I got into my Chevy Impala and drove out to Southwell.
There was some kind of small party going on at Atwell’s house when I got there. Five cars were in the driveway and two more along the street, including Claire’s. I parked about two hundred yards away, just pulling my car tight against the side of the road. This part of Southwell was sparsely populated. It was mostly gently rolling old farmland, crisscrossed by stone walls and dotted here and there by million-dollar homes.
I left my car, stepping out into the cold, clear night. I’d departed my house so suddenly that I wasn’t properly dressed, just wearing an old jean jacket over a sweater and jeans. I buttoned the jacket up to my throat, tucked my hands into my pockets, and walked along the road to Atwell’s place. A small, discreet sign with the words black barn enterprises was posted next to the mailbox. I stood there for a moment, studying the house from a distance. There was the farmhouse, painted white, and looming beside it was an enormous barn. I’d seen it in the daytime, of course, and it wasn’t even painted black. It was more of a dark gray, but it had been modernized into a stylized workspace, its front doors replaced by solid glass, and the inside converted into an open-concept work studio, with modular desks and Ping-Pong tables.
Skirting along the edge of the property, I got close enough to the barn to see that even though it was lit by hanging industrial light fixtures, no one was inside. The party was happening inside the house. I went around the back of the barn to approach the house from the rear, and I was stunned for a moment by the view. It was close to a full moon and there were no clouds in the sky. Atwell’s property was on a slight ridge, and from wh
ere I stood, I could see across the sloping fields, all the way to a line of dark trees, all bathed in silver moonlight. I stared at it for a few moments, shivering in my thin jacket, until suddenly I could hear laughter and could smell cigarette smoke in the air. At the rear corner of the barn I could see the back deck, clearly an add-on to the farmhouse. A couple I didn’t recognize smoked cigarettes and laughed uproariously, the specifics of their conversation getting carried away by the bitter wind. I watched them finish their cigarettes then go back inside the house. After approaching the nearest window, I peered inside.
There are many things I’ll never forget about the night, but the image that I saw through the window is certainly one of them. About twenty people were milling about a large, well-furnished living room. At its center was an overstuffed leather couch, and that’s where I could see Claire, dressed in a short green corduroy skirt and a cream silk blouse I felt as though I’d never seen before. She was next to Atwell, their shoulders touching, and she held a champagne glass in her hand. The room was dimly lit but I could see that there was a small mound of white powder on the glass-topped coffee table, and one of the guests was kneeling on the carpeted floor cutting himself a line. Techno music, the kind you’d hear in a club, pounded from the house, and behind the couch three of the guests were dancing. But what I’ll never really forget was how Claire looked—not her clothes, and not even the way she was pressed up against Atwell, one of his hands touching her naked thigh, but the glow of her face. It was the drugs, but it was also something else, a gleam of pure animal joy. She kept laughing, her mouth opened wide in a way that seemed unnatural, her lips wet.
I walked back to my car, turned on the engine, and cranked the heat all the way up. I was shivering but I was also crying. And then I got angry, punching my fist repeatedly against the roof of the car. I was angry at Claire, of course, and Atwell, but I think I was angry at myself most of all. At least right then. Because what I planned on doing was driving back to Somerville and waiting for my wife, hoping she’d return safe and sound, and hoping one day she would return to just me.
The car warmed up, and I calmed down. From where I was parked, I could see Claire’s Subaru along the road, and I decided to wait. I knew from past experience that she would not spend the night, that she’d be back before morning came, even though it might be late. And I knew that I would forgive her, that I would do what my mother always did with my father. I’d wait for her to return to me. But the longer I sat in my car, the engine purring, heat pumping from the vents, the more I found myself growing livid at Claire. I knew she was a drug addict, and that on some level she could not help herself, but she’d also looked so happy in Atwell’s living room, so alive.
It was two thirty in the morning when I saw the two figures appear next to Claire’s car. In the moonlight I saw them come together, and kiss, then Claire opened the door—I could make out the hooded winter coat above the bare legs—and stepped inside while Atwell jogged back to his house. The brake lights came on, then she made a U-turn. Her headlights must have picked up my car in the shadow of a cluster of pine trees, but she must not have paid attention. She sped away down the street toward Route 2.
I followed her. She drove fast on the back roads, but once she was on the highway heading back toward Boston, she slowed down to the exact speed limit. It was New Year’s Eve, still, and police were probably out in force looking for drunk drivers. Something about that fact irked me, that despite whatever she’d ingested that night, and whatever she’d done, she was careful enough to avoid getting pulled over. In the same way I knew that when she got back to our shared apartment she’d quietly sneak in the door, not wanting to wake me. And that when we talked about what happened the following morning, she’d cry and say she was a terrible person and beg forgiveness. She wanted the double life, but she didn’t want the confrontation. It was the way she was. I remember thinking that I’d have more respect for her if she just left me, if she gave in to the fact that she’d rather be with Eric Atwell, that she’d rather be an addict. Then at least we could have it out.
There were a few other cars along the two-lane highway but not many. I stayed close behind her, not really worried that she’d notice. She hadn’t noticed me on the side of the street outside of Atwell’s house and she probably wouldn’t notice me now. I’d driven this route many times, and we were approaching an overpass. There was only a low guardrail along the edge. Suddenly I imagined Claire losing control of her car, plunging off the edge, and landing on the road below. Without thinking too much about it, I sped up, overtaking Claire in the passing lane. For a moment we were side by side, and I looked over at her, but all I could see was her profile in darkness. She might have turned toward me, but it was hard to tell. What would she have seen? My face in darkness, as well. Would she have recognized me?
I overtook her but stayed in my lane. The overpass was coming up fast and I was imagining scenarios. What if I nudged her, edging my own car into her lane? Would she let us collide, spin out together, and go over the edge? Down deep, I knew that she wouldn’t. My wife avoided collisions. That didn’t stop her from wrecking her own life, but I knew that if I pulled into her lane, she’d swerve to avoid me.
I did it. I cut diagonally across in front of her when we were barreling along the overpass, and she did exactly what I thought she’d do. She drove right off the edge.
Back at home, I waited for the police to arrive. They showed up at eight in the morning to tell me that my wife was dead. It was a relief, of course. I’d been worried that maybe I’d injured her in some horrible way. I’d also been worried that maybe she’d killed someone else when her car had landed on the road below. But she hadn’t, and for that I was also grateful.
It’s a funny thing grieving for someone you’ve murdered. In the beginning my sadness was coupled with an enormous guilt. I kept wondering if I’d simply let Claire drive home that night what would have happened next. Maybe she’d have asked me to check her into a rehabilitation center, said that she’d hit bottom, and wanted to get better. Or maybe she’d have kept returning to Atwell for drugs, and I’d have let her do it. Just waiting around, hoping she might change.
Reading her diary helped. There was such a clear villain in the story of Claire and me, and that villain was Eric Atwell. Finding a way to kill him got me through the worst of my grief, and then time did its trick. I haven’t gotten over it, but it did get easier. I bought the store and immersed myself in work. Even though I stopped reading crime novels myself—violent death loomed too large in them—I knew enough to help my customers. I was a bookseller, and I was good at it. That was enough.
Chapter 31
The phone rang, and then switched over to voice mail. I hit end on my cell phone and was about to destroy the phone when it buzzed. Gwen Mulvey was calling back.
“Hey.”
“What’s going on?” she said.
“Have you heard anything?”
“Anything about what?”
“There’s a dead man in Boston. His name is Marty Kingship, and he’s Charlie. He’s our Charlie. He killed Robin Callahan, Ethan Byrd, and Jay Bradshaw. And he killed Bill Manso and Elaine Johnson, and one night ago he killed Nicholas Pruitt in New Essex, Massachusetts.”
“Slow down,” she said. “Where is he now? You said he’s dead?”
“I just called 911 and gave them the address. They should be on the way.”
“Who killed him?”
“I did. I shot him late last night. More like this morning. He was going to kill Brian and Tess Murray and make it look like the murder from The Red House Mystery.”
“Who was he?”
“He’d been a police officer in Smithfield, Massachusetts. He’d retired and was living in Boston. He also killed Eric Atwell. He did it for me. I asked him to. That’s how this whole thing started. It’s my fault, really. I started it. Marty was insane, but I started it.”
“You’re going to need to slow down, Mal. Where are you right now
? Can I come to you?”
For one brief moment I thought about it. Thought about seeing Gwen again just one more time. But I also knew that there was no way to do that without ending up in a holding cell, and I had decided a long time ago that I would never willingly allow that to happen.
I said, “Sorry, no. And I can’t talk long. As soon as we’re done here, I’m getting rid of this cell phone. I have five minutes. What do you want to know?”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Are you hurt?” she said.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Did you know it was him all along?”
“Marty? No, I didn’t. We planned it all online, and never gave each other our identities. He figured out who I was, then found my list, and started using it. I only figured out who he was last night. If I’d known earlier, I would have told you.”
“You said Nicholas Pruitt is dead. That’s the name you gave me, right? Last time we talked?”
“I thought that Pruitt might have been Charlie, but he wasn’t. He died from an overdose of alcohol and some kind of drug. Check the house for Kingship’s prints. They’ll probably be there.”
“Good lord.”
“Look, when you talk with the investigators on this case, just tell them that I called you with this information. You don’t need to say that you came and found me in Boston. I want you to get your job back.”
“I’m not sure that’ll happen.”
Eight Perfect Murders Page 22
