The air felt twenty degrees cooler. Occasional drops of water trickled off the leaves of the trees down to black pools of standing water.
“I have more news,” Ian said sheepishly.
Turner waited.
“I had a little chat with Rusty this afternoon. It seemed odd to me that rumor about as prominent a person as Donald Mucklewrath wouldn’t be more current in the community. Certainly I should have heard something. There’s always rumors about famous actors, actresses, sports heroes, major public personalities, but I hadn’t heard a thing about Mucklewrath. I came here from Rusty’s. I thought you might be here to see Jeff. I wasn’t able to get you on the phone.”
“So what did the kid say?”
“I brought him a picture of Donald Mucklewrath. The man was at the party Rusty attended, but Donald wasn’t the guy who propositioned Rusty. The reverend’s picture is plastered over everything, but not his kid’s. Who would really know? When Rusty saw the picture, he had no idea who it was.”
Turner summed up. “Donald isn’t gay. Rusty in his ignorance and eagerness screwed up.”
“Along with a buddy who wasn’t too bright, at the same party.” Ian sighed. “This was a major fuckup. No Johnny, Oprah, Phil, Sally, or Joan.” He uttered a soft moan. “There’s more.”
“You know who killed Mucklewrath’s daughter?”
“No, but the fire is Kankakee? The legislator? Her opponent was on the news at four accusing her of setting it herself for the insurance money. Claimed he had proof. Said the ‘Sorry now’ painted on the driveway was her attempt to convince people it was a conspiracy led by her enemies.”
Turner comforted his friend as best he could and got ready to leave. He opened his car door and said, “I’m tired. I want to get home.”
When he got there, the house was empty. He strolled over to Mrs. Talucci’s, noting the cop car out front. He entered and the door slammed behind him. He stared down the muzzle of a police .38. Beyond it was Donald Mucklewrath.
Donald led him into the living room. Mrs. Talucci sat in her rocker, glaring viciously at the reverend’s son. From his place in the middle of the couch, Brian eyed his dad mutely out of one eye. The other was bruised, blackened, and so puffed it was nearly closed. A red welt trailed down the right side of his face.
“I tried to get his gun, dad.”
Paul started to go to him.
“No, you don’t, faggot.” Donald ordered Turner to throw his gun on the floor, then motioned him to a chair on the far side of the room.
“How’d you get in here?” Turner asked.
Donald grinned, pleased with himself. “Through the back door. I tiptoed through the rain drops. All the goddamn nosy neighbors weren’t looking out tonight.”
“What do you want, Donald?” Turner asked.
“I’m going to shut all of you up permanently. I was only going to hurt your kid, but this goddamn busybody showed up and stuck her two cents in. Now I’ve got to kill you all.”
To keep his eye on Paul and Brian, Donald moved closer to Mrs. Talucci. Turner hoped she didn’t try anything foolish.
“I’ll figure some way to stick this to the gay conspiracy. Enough saps in the world believe that shit to make it work.”
“There’s no gay conspiracy, or not much of one,” Turner said. To stall for time he told Donald what he’d learned that night.
“That’s all it was?” Donald laughed. “They’re going to have to learn to be more vicious, if they want to succeed. Violence works.”
“Why did you kill your sister?” Turner asked.
Donald laughed again.
From the sound of it Turner guessed the reverend’s son was near the edge of a breakdown.
Donald waved the gun in the air. “I’m over thirty years old and I’m a security guard. My father makes millions, owns corporations and a university, and I’m a goddamn flunky, a nothing. They like to keep me out of the way, and now they’re going to promote my goddamn stepsister to a prominent place in the campaign. They talked about making her a spokesperson, of her taking over parts of the operation when she graduated from college.”
He walked over to Brian and held the gun an inch from his head. Paul and Mrs. Talucci were halfway out of their seats, but Donald swung the gun on them. “Stay there,” he ordered. They subsided. He returned the gun to Brian’s temple. “You got a nice kid here. How’d that happen, since you’re a faggot? Did you know that, kid? That your dad screws guys?”
“Fuck you,” Brian said.
That got him a smash across the other cheek that sent him sprawling. Brian didn’t cry out. Moments later he sat up.
Donald returned to his original position nearer to Mrs. Talucci. He said, “I’m a nothing and going nowhere, but I knew she wasn’t going to replace me. I found two of the guys I recruited to the reverend’s service. I knew I could trust them. I saw my chance that morning. We gave it a try. No witnesses, or so we thought. That goddamn bum saw us. He slept in Lincoln Park that night, was walking across the pedestrian bridge near North Avenue, and saw us. He came to Soldier Field that night and got close to me somehow. He said he had information for me. He claimed he’d tell my father if I didn’t confess. Said he tried to talk to you, but you turned him down. I knew he had to die. Knew I had to check out his buddies, see if he told them anything. It wasn’t hard really. He was a drunk and a fool, and now”—he pointed the gun at Turner—“you have to die.”
Brian lurched forward. Mucklewrath swung the gun toward him and fired. The shot never came close because Mrs. Talucci flew out of her chair the instant Mucklewrath turned toward Brian. She threw her hundred and ten pounds into a blow against the arm with the gun. The shot smashed into the ceiling. Turner moved right behind Mrs. Talucci, tackling Donald. The gun flew and Brian picked it up.
Hours later, with Donald safely arrested, Mrs. Talucci insisted they take her cure for shattered nerves. They ate ice cream and chocolate cake at her kitchen table. Brian had difficulty eating with an ice pack held to his face. Manfully he devoured three slices.
At home Paul examined his son’s face in the upstairs bathroom. “Going to be a hell of an ugly face for a while,” Paul said.
“The girls will think I’m real tough,” Brian said.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” Paul said. He put his arm on his son’s shoulder for their usual show of affection, suddenly found himself hugged fiercely. He returned his son’s embrace.
Also by Mark Richard Zubro:
A SIMPLE SUBURBAN MURDER
WHY ISN’T BECKY TWITCHELL DEAD?
THE ONLY GOOD PRIEST
SORRY NOW? Copyright © 1991 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
DESIGN BY JUDITH A. STAGNITTO
eISBN 9781429940481
First eBook Edition : May 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Zubro, Mark Richard.
Sorry now? / Mark Richard Zubro.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-06470-5
I. Title.
PS3576.U225S67 1991
813’.54—dc20
91-3098
CIP
First Edition: September 1991
Sorry Now? Page 19