"I certainly hope not, but as I explained to you, I have no way—"
"Mrs. Kinnington," I interrupted, "I'll cut the sarcasm if you'll cut the bullshit. That 'relationship' was something out of Miss Pitts's imagination that you fanned."
"I've no time to listen to raving." She reached for her braces. I got them first and flung them into the corner. My left shoulder seared, then simply throbbed as they clattered against the wall.
"You unspeakable bastard!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kinnington, but I'm not finished yet. Stephen is a very sick boy in a whole lot of trouble."
"If you mean that pack of nonsense that Brower man . . ."
"It is no nonsense, Mrs. Kinnington," I said. I found I had to keep my eyes closed. "Your grandson has by my unofficial count violently killed three people, two in my presence. The third was his mother after she drunkenly provoked him by telling him he was illegitimate. Your grandson may be an intellectual prodigy, Mrs. Kinnington, but he desperately needs professional help. For his mind. And not just Willow Wood and arts and crafts and canoeing." Mrs. Kinnington did not answer for a moment. I kept my eyes closed. She broke first.
"Stephen has told us that you killed Blakey. Stephen has told us that the judge killed his mother. Stephen has also told us that the judge was reaching for the gun in the desk drawer. That's why you shot him."
"Mrs. Kinnington, the DA doesn't believe that and neither do you. Stephen does not know right from wrong. He doesn't understand what lying is, and he doesn't understand that most killing is wrong. Just like his father."
"I won't have that kind of talk about Stephen or my son."
"Which son do you mean?"
"I don't intend to listen—"
"Mrs. Kinnington, you damn well will listen. While I was lying here, thinking this through, something finally hit me. Stephen had planned to go to that ranger station. Hell, he had photocopied the article after he found the gun, but before Miss Pitts saw Blakey chasing him. It took me a while to figure that out, but you should be able to see where it leads. Stephen planned to take off; maybe hoping the judge himself would follow to somewhere that Stephen could control the action. Blakey's chase was just the immediate trigger for Stephen's leaving."
"I refuse—"
"Look," I interrupted again. "When I found him at the ranger station, your grandson couldn't chance believing that I was working for you. He figured that I might have had a partner with me, so he checked around the ranger station and eventually must have spotted Blakey. Your grandson then left me tied up to lure my 'partner' Blakey. Then Stephen 'happened' to get back in time to see us fighting and drill about six well-placed holes in the back of Blakey's neck and wrap my hand around the gun. Stephen would have killed me then too, if he hadn't needed me to—"
"I will not—"
"Shut up or I will shut you up. Stephen figured I was busted up enough so that he could take me back at your house after using me as the fall guy for killing the judge. With my own gun. But I was able to knock Stephen cold before he could properly arrange the frame and before he could finish me off in his 'struggle' with me after I allegedly shot the judge before his horrified, sheltered, fourteen-year-old eyes. And because he couldn't arrange the frame properly, there are half a dozen facts that he can't change, facts that point to him as damningly as holding the proverbial smoking gun."
"The judge persecuted Stephen because he was afraid of him. My grandson will never go to trial." She was yelling now.
"Mrs. Kinnington," I said softly, "your grandson will go to trial, unless the DA's psychiatric experts testify that he is unable to stand trial by reason of insanity."
Somebody started tugging down on my eyelids.
Mrs. Kinnington glared back at me but with tears in her eyes. She was trying to stand up.
"I think I know what's best for my grandson."
"So did the judge," I mumbled, at which point I sensed the polar bears come bustling back into the room.
THIRTIETH
-♦-
The summer rain in Boston is somehow dry. It's made of water and falls from the sky in the usual way, but it never soaks you through. It's more like a refreshing breeze that clears the mugginess from the air.
"Funny, they take the carnations but leave the roses." I lifted the withered, crackly flowers and replaced them with fresh roses, yellow this time. I had to work with only one hand and slowly; my left arm was still in a tight sling, and the rib wouldn't hear of quick movements. I'd dragged a light folding beach chair down the path with me. I set it up with the help of my right foot. I eased into it, the light rain blowing on my face.
"Yep," I said, imitating an old man's voice. "Sure is good to rest the weary bones." Off to the left I noticed the elderly man again. He still wore the old gray suit, no raincoat, and held the Homburg. He was straightening back up with difficulty after laying some flowers near his headstone. I dropped the imitation from my voice.
"Suicide, Beth," I said, a little thickly. "Remember how we would talk around it, the last few weeks? When I wouldn't leave you alone. Well, they left him alone. Two days after Brower's—he's the DA—two days after his third psychiatrist agreed that Stephen couldn't stand trial, the kid tore open a pillow and shoved the stuffing down his throat. Kept shoving it till he choked. Mrs. Kinnington had just arrived at the hospital to visit him, special arrangements and all despite his, ah, status. The DA told me she saw him being rushed to a resuscitator. She had another stroke. The DA said he doubts she'll last the week."
The tissue paper around the roses was beginning to flatten here and bulge there from the rain. We watched the power launches and a few maverick sailboats slap against the light storm chop in the harbor below. And we talked. It was my first day back in quite a while, so we had a lot to catch up on.
After a time, I found myself watching the elderly man. He was still standing over his place, the Homburg clenched in his hands and his head bowed. His shoulders were shaking now, though, and every once in a while his torso would heave up, and he'd rock forward a little.
I decided it was time to go, before the weather started getting to me, too.
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