Apart from intending to murder a man?
Yes.
He shook his head. No.
To kill another man.
Once inside the kitchen he drew the Browning from his jacket pocket. The heft of it in his hand reassured him somewhat. A wide picture window provided a panoramic view of the lake, perfect for keeping track of Wendell’s movements. He thought he could see the exact spot where the boat had been a short while earlier, but there was no trace of it now. Worried, he looked behind the line of trees but saw nothing there, either. Then he heard it: the distant roar of an outboard motor. Wendell was on his way home.
Ted paced back and forth, tapping his forehead with the butt of the gun. How much time did he have? Not much—that was for sure. Though getting it over with quickly was best for him, a series of intense sensations swept through his body as the time of the deed drew near. He felt unsure of himself. What if Wendell wasn’t expecting him? What if, as with the security camera, things weren’t exactly as Lynch had said? He halted and, in a smooth, rapid motion, aimed the gun at a wall calendar. The calendar was illustrated with a photo of a scuba diver exploring a coral reef. He aimed at the number 15 in the center. Come on…Steady…The barrel trembled slightly, even when he held the gun with both hands to steady it.
“Come on,” he muttered.
The rumble from the outboard was getting louder. Wendell would be docking any minute now, and then walking across the deck, from where he’d probably be able to see into the kitchen through the picture window. But Ted needed to calm down. He wouldn’t move until his nerves were still. He had stopped sweating in the air-conditioned house, but now his temples and palms were becoming damp again. He flexed his fingers one at a time and adopted the shooting stance he had so often assumed at the range. He closed his eyes.
Wendell needs this bullet as much as you do.
He opened his eyes and stepped back from the window. He returned to the hallway when he heard the motor choke and fall silent. He’d give Wendell two minutes to get to the front door. Ted checked the gun, made sure the safety was off. Once Wendell closed the door behind him, Ted would leave the kitchen, gun raised, take two or three steps forward to minimize his odds of missing, and fire. If Wendell shouted at him not to do it, he’d stop.
“Come on, Wendell. Open the door,” Ted said under his breath.
More than a minute passed before Ted heard footsteps on the wooden deck.
Come on, Wendell…
The door opened and closed.
Three, two, one.
Ted strode from the kitchen, went halfway around the table, and raised the weapon.
Wendell stood by the doorway, his back to Ted. He turned his head when he heard steps. His expression totally changed, perhaps in his surprise, but he said nothing. A perfect circle appeared on his forehead, and he collapsed.
Ted was so used to wearing hearing protectors on the practice range that he clenched his teeth at the gun blast. He slowly walked to the body. Wendell lay on the rug, arms splayed, a look of surprise frozen on his face. Though he seemed to be taking a pleasant nap, Ted knew that the shot had been perfect and the bullet had ricocheted inside his skull, scrambling his brains almost painlessly.
Ted was about to leave when a cell phone started ringing in Wendell’s coat. Ted’s own phone had the same irritating ringtone, a fact that sort of rattled him. He knelt and removed the iPhone from Wendell’s front coat pocket. The name on the screen was Lolly. Ted nearly cried out in horror. That was the name he had briefly given Holly when their relationship was getting off the ground. The coincidence was too much. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Wendell wasn’t supposed to have a wife or a girlfriend. Lynch had assured him that the guy would be leaving no one behind!
The phone stopped ringing.
Who was Lolly? Why hadn’t Lynch mentioned her?
The answer came as if by magic. Ted felt a single short vibration in the palm of his hand. It was a text from Lolly.
We’re almost there. Time to quit your fishing for the day
“We”?
Ted dropped the phone as if it had given him an electric shock. It landed on Wendell’s chest.
“Who is Lolly? Think. Think. Think.”
Wendell had been about to have a private party, and the guests would be arriving at any moment. Without a second thought, Ted grabbed the phone and replied.
Party canceled. Too busy here. So sorry.
Another message.
Very funny. You know how much I hate to chat while I’m driving. See you in two minutes, love.
Love…
So Wendell did have a girlfriend. Didn’t seem like the sort of detail Lynch could have missed.
The pool of blood on the rug was forming a red halo around Wendell’s head.
“Shit.”
Lolly had texted that she’d be there in two minutes.
Lolly Holly
She might have been speaking figuratively, or…Ted stuck Wendell’s cell phone in his own jacket, and then the Browning. Either way, he’d have to hurry. He needed to hide the body, giving him a head start before the woman notified the police, and then clear out of there as fast as he could. If he could manage this part, the situation would be basically unchanged as far as he was concerned. He was angry that he hadn’t been told about the girlfriend, though perhaps this was exactly why Lynch had kept her a secret. He must not lose sight of the fact that Wendell himself had wanted to die, just as he did. Wendell certainly must have given a lot of thought to how it would affect his loved ones, just as Ted had thought about how his own absence would affect…
Lolly Holly
Stop it! He had to concentrate on the question of where to dump the body. Inside or out? It was hard to decide without knowing how much time he had to work with. He glanced around, looking for an answer in the air. Then he stopped in his tracks as if someone had prodded him with the muzzle of a gun, though of course no one was behind him.
He realized what was out of place. He’d overlooked a detail that didn’t square with what he knew about the man who lay dead at his feet. The fireplace chimney in the vast great room was covered with photos. He ran across the room, swerving around chairs and jumping down the steps that separated the room into different levels. He stopped a dozen feet from the fireplace: he didn’t want to see the pictures close-up. What he could see from here was enough: Wendell with a woman, in each other’s arms, on a boat; Wendell on horseback (Ted felt the horseshoe he had slipped into his pocket); in other pictures two girls, about the same age as his own. Ted felt dizzy. He grabbed a column to steady himself. The room was spinning.
We’re almost there.
Wendell had daughters? Lynch had lied to him!
That’s when he heard the car. For some ten seconds he looked from the photos to the body, from the body to the front door. He stood, paralyzed, unable to process what was happening to him. Finally he returned to the foyer, quietly drew the curtains, and peeked out. A minivan drove slowly up the dirt driveway and parked behind the Lamborghini. Everything was happening too fast. Move! But Ted couldn’t move. Three minivan doors opened simultaneously. Lolly stepped from the driver’s side. On the passenger side, two little girls wearing floral dresses and carrying pink backpacks jumped out. The girls ran at top speed for the front door. Daddy! We’re home!
Ted rubbed his eyes. His mind must have been playing tricks on him.
8
When Ted made the decision to take his own life—an idea that took hold of him with chilling speed—he knew he’d have to turn to someone he could trust to put certain matters in order. Someone who would keep things confidential. Someone who wasn’t part of his everyday circle of friends. Arthur Robichaud’s name came to mind immediately.
Ted hadn’t seen Robichaud in years, and though they had spent three years at the same high school they’d had hardly any contact since graduation. It was perfect. Besides, Ted knew that the lawyers in Robichaud’s practice were the best in the city. Once T
ed went to see him, moreover, he realized that they had an even closer bond than the confidentiality agreement between lawyer and client. Perhaps there was some involuntary urge in a guy like Robichaud, who had made his way through public school almost unnoticed, ignored by the popular girls and boys, begging for a spot at a lunchroom table with tiny groups of two or three kids, or sitting off on his own sometimes, convincing himself that he’d be able to make it through a painful time of pranks and marginalization. No matter how things turned out in later life, no matter how his career flourished or how many hours he spent at the gym tuning his flabby body, nothing changed the crucial fact that a loser like Robichaud would always have a primitive instinct to act submissive before the Ted McKays of the world. A need to be noticed, to be accepted by the group, would always lurk in the Arthur Robichauds like a latent virus from the days when they groveled in the school yard for one second of attention.
Ted showed up at his home to see him again after the unpleasant incident at Wendell’s place.
Robichaud himself greeted Ted at the door. He wore an elegant polo shirt and held a martini.
“Ted, you came!”
Farther back in the room, several people turned to gaze at the newcomer. The guests were scattered around the living room, some at a bar, others in armchairs. Most were couples. Ted had completely forgotten it was Robichaud’s birthday party, though the lawyer had mentioned it to him at least a dozen times over the past few weeks. Why waste time thinking about something that will happen after you’re dead?
“I need to talk with you, Arthur. Alone. It’s important.”
There was no need to add that he hadn’t come to celebrate. His face was eloquent enough.
“Sure, come on in.”
Ted hesitated a moment. The guests had already guessed that he wasn’t there to party and had fallen silent, hanging on any detail that might reveal why he had come. Well dressed, each with a glass in hand, they could have been straight out of a liquor ad. They reeked of privilege. And Ted detested them. When he got a better look at them, he was surprised to recognize many of his old high school classmates. Jesus, it was practically a class reunion!
He walked in and did his best to smile. Robichaud escorted him through the room, unable to hide his childish pride. Today he turned thirty-seven, the same age as Ted. His head had long since seen the last of his hair, he was still pudgy, and he hid his weak chin behind a goatee that made him look like Wooly Willy. He had dropped the Coke-bottle glasses he’d worn in high school, but it made no difference now, because he had apparently reverted to his schoolboy persona, watching Ted with the almost worshipful admiration of those years. Ted McKay himself, here on his birthday!
After some general words of welcome, they went to an office at the other end of the house. Along the way Robichaud introduced Ted to his wife, who had apparently heard his name before, judging from her nervous smile. Ted shook her hand distractedly, forgetting her name the moment he heard it.
“What’s up, Ted? You look worried,” the lawyer said.
They sat in two leather chairs by a wall of packed bookshelves. The office wasn’t very large, but it was tastefully, even sumptuously, decorated. Ted kept his eyes fixed on the window behind his old schoolmate, which offered a partial view of a backyard and kids running around in it. Closer to the house stood a tree with a tire swing. Doesn’t match the interior decor, Arthur.
“Ted? You okay?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off the tire swing. Because it looked out of place?
“I’m fine. I need your help.”
The lawyer shifted in his seat. For an instant his primitive instinct for submission reappeared.
“Whatever you need, Ted.”
“I need your services again, but this time it’s not about drawing up a will. It’s more complicated. From this moment on, you’re my lawyer, and anything I tell you falls under attorney-client privilege.”
Robichaud didn’t flinch, Ted was glad to see. Better to deal with the grown lawyer than the nervous schoolkid.
“I’m listening.”
“I just killed a man.”
For a few seconds, the only sound audible was the chatter of guests in the living room, which was muffled by the closed office door. Robichaud made an involuntary gesture with his index finger along the bridge of his nose. But he had no glasses to adjust.
“You were in an accident, Ted?”
“Not exactly. Look, Arthur, I don’t intend to explain every detail of what happened to you—not now. All I can say is, forty-eight hours from now, everything will become clear.”
Robichaud wrinkled his forehead.
Ted was losing him. The lawyer was looking at him as if he were insane. Ted leaned over and put a hand on Robichaud’s knee. Robichaud stared at it with the same expression of incredulity.
“Arthur,” Ted said, “I know it sounds crazy. You have to trust me.”
“Ted, I can’t advise you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
Ted shook his head. He’d come here planning to let out as little information as possible, but now he realized he wouldn’t be able to get Robichaud’s help unless he told him something solid. How far could he trust him? He hadn’t had time to gauge the risks properly. He hadn’t had time to do anything, really. Since he fled headlong from Wendell’s house, his thoughts had all been a jumble. He couldn’t stop thinking about the guy’s daughters, watching them skip happily up to the door with their pink backpacks and their blond ponytails. Though Ted had run out a side door before witnessing the girls’ discovery of their father’s corpse on the carpet in the reception hall, he had taken it upon himself to re-create the scene in his mind over and over again, like a film on an endless loop. Later, when he was running through the woods as if pursued by bloodhounds, the show in his head had morphed slightly. It was no longer Wendell’s girls finding the body with the perfect round hole between the eyebrows, but Cindy and Nadine, his own daughters. And the face wasn’t Wendell’s but his own. Was he going to make his daughters confront that sort of horror? Had it taken killing a man to make him realize how much it would harm them?
“You okay, Ted?”
It was the second time he’d asked the question in less than a minute.
Ted was holding his head in his hands and staring down at the floor. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in that position. Robichaud was watching him from the other chair with genuine worry.
“I’m fine, Arthur. I need to ask you for something.”
“Tell me.”
“I need to find a man. His name is Justin Lynch. He’s about twentysomething, and he’s probably a lawyer or something of the sort.”
“Is this man connected with the incident, or…”
“He’s connected, but I can’t tell you how.”
“Have you tried searching online? It sounds dumb, but you can find more things on the Internet than you might expect.”
“I couldn’t find anything,” Ted lied. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. I’m sure you can get your hands on some investigators who can help.”
“Of course. Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll get my team to work on it.”
Ted sat still for a moment.
“I need you to do it now, Arthur.”
He said it with authority. Deliberately. He was aware that his tone would set some deep mechanisms in motion and make Arthur try to please him. The lawyer attempted a halfhearted defense, pointing out the obvious: it was his birthday, his house was full of guests planning to spend the afternoon with him. But Ted didn’t even have to insist. Arthur himself declared that he’d make a few phone calls on the spot, call in some favors, and try to find something about Lynch. If Lynch was a young lawyer or detective, Arthur would soon track him down.
“You don’t know how grateful I am,” Ted said. Again he placed his hand on his old schoolmate’s knee.
“Don’t worry about it.”
The office door opened.
“Are you going to be m
uch longer?” Robichaud’s wife asked. In the middle of the question she shot Ted a withering look.
“No, dear, just a few more minutes.”
Her face disappeared and the door closed. The reproachful expression never left.
“Norma’s a good woman,” Robichaud said apologetically.
Ted waved it off.
“Let’s do something,” Robichaud said. “I’ll make some calls now. If this Justin Lynch is a lawyer with any local ties, I’ll soon find out. I’ll also consult some private investigators and my own partners; some of them are here at the party. Do you know if that’s his real name?”
“No.”
“You’re not making this easy for me, Ted.”
“I know.”
Robichaud scratched his head.
“Tomorrow you’ll have to be a little more forthcoming with me. Was it self-defense? At least tell me that much.”
“Sorry. I promise, tomorrow I’ll explain everything.”
Robichaud nodded.
“Go out there, have a drink with everybody else,” Robichaud said. “I’ll take care of the calls—and of Norma. She’ll be back soon to lecture me.” He quickly added, “But don’t worry. I can manage her.”
Ted didn’t like the idea of leaving the office. He wasn’t in a mood to socialize, and he would rather be there when Arthur made the calls. But he understood that the man needed a little privacy, and Ted decided not to pressure him.
9
Ted’s initial intention was to retreat into the farthest corner of the Robichauds’ living room and kill time by pretending to look out the window. But his plan fell apart as soon as he left Arthur’s office. Norma came up, offered him a cold beer with a forced smile, and escorted him over to two couples in conversation around a coffee table. Fortunately, they were sitting far from the people Ted recognized. He vaguely wondered why she had picked these people in particular.
Kill the Next One Page 5