by Sue Grafton
“Times change, Jon. I’ve changed.”
“But I haven’t.” He held his hand out. “Look at this. Steady as she goes. No wavering on my part. No ambivalence, no getting all weepy-minded. You’re the fly in the ointment, if you’ll excuse the cliché.”
Walker recoiled in mock horror. “So what are you going to do, rub me out?”
“Pretty much.”
Walker offered up a flickering smile. “You can’t be serious. You think silencing me will protect you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“What about Sutton?”
Jon stared at him.
Walker blanched. “Oh, shit, what did you do?”
“Shot him,” I said, raising my voice. I’d reached the top of the hill, which was utterly without cover. They couldn’t fail to notice my arrival so I figured I might as well speak up. In a heartbeat, Walker realized who I was. Jon was slower on the uptake. He looked at Walker. “Who’s this?”
I crossed the grass. “Kinsey Millhone. I’m an old high school classmate. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you.”
I had my gun in hand. I wasn’t pointing it at anybody, but I thought it would be effective nonetheless.
Jon said, “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes, it does. Michael Sutton was a friend of mine.”
He noticed my gun for the first time and nodded. “Is that thing loaded?”
“Well, I could end up looking foolish if it weren’t.”
Casually, he removed a gun from his windbreaker pocket and pointed it at me. “I’m telling you to get the fuck off this hill before I shoot you.”
I made a face I hoped conveyed humility and regret. “Sorry to make a fuss about it, but here’s my view. I’ll bet Sutton was the one and only guy you ever killed in cold blood. I, on the other hand, have killed more than once. I can’t give you the count. I try not to keep track because it makes me look like a vigilante, which I’m not.”
“Up yours.”
“I don’t want to sound racist about this, but what we have here is what’s called a Mexican standoff.”
He smiled. “Right, the question being which of us will fire first.”
“Exactly.” I fired a shot, hitting his right hand. The gun popped up and landed in the grass. Walker jumped while Jon yelped in pain and dropped where he stood. I must have looked like a sharpshooter, but in truth he was fewer than fifteen feet away so it didn’t require any tricks. Point and pull the trigger, easy does it.
“Jesus Christ,” Walker said. “You fuckin’ shot the guy!”
“He’s the one who talked about firing first,” I said.
I removed a hankie from my shoulder bag and bent down to retrieve Jon’s gun, wrapping it daintily to preserve his fingerprints. Jon had rolled over and risen to his knees. He leaned forward, head almost touching the ground as he gripped his shattered right hand in his left. He watched himself bleed, his face ashen, his breathing ragged.
“You’re fine,” I said to him, and then turned to Walker. “Give me your tie and I’ll make a tourniquet.”
Walker was so rattled his hands shook as he pulled the knot on his tie and passed it to me. Except for the whimpering, Jon offered no resistance as I made a slipknot and secured the tie around his forearm. It’s only in the movies the bad guys keep firing. In real life, they sit down and behave.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Walker said, distressed.
“Neither can he.”
“We can’t just leave him here without help.”
“Of course not.” I handed him my car keys. “My Mustang’s parked down below. Take it to the nearest service station, call the cops, and tell ’em where we are. You better ask for an ambulance while you’re at it. I’ll wait here with your pal until you get back.”
He took the keys, pausing to stare at me. “Did you just save my life?”
“More or less,” I said. “So how’s it going down with the clean-and-sober shit? That’s a tough one. You gonna make it?”
Disconcerted, he said, “Good. It’s great. I got a lock on it. Ten days.”
I reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. “Good for you!”
EPILOGUE
As of the writing of this report, Jon Corso’s hired a criminal attorney with a five-star reputation who’s busy preparing his case, filing motions left and right, trumpeting to the press his client’s eagerness to lay the facts before the court in the interest of clearing his name. Fat chance. When the case comes to trial, he’ll doubtless accuse Walker of being the mastermind, claiming he offered to testify purely to save his own ass. The case will drag on for years. The trial will take weeks and cost the taxpayers a bundle. And who knows, maybe subjected to sufficient obfuscation and sleight of hand, the jury will find for the defense. Happens all the time.
As for Walker, the fingerprint on the ransom note was his. Herschel Rhodes is working on a deal whereby he’ll plead guilty to kidnapping for ransom and second-degree murder, with assorted other charges tacked on. In exchange for his testimony, the death-penalty allegation will likely be dropped. Still, once you factor in his guilty plea for felony vehicular manslaughter, drunken driving, and leaving the scene of an accident in the death of the coed, Julie Riordan, the terms of his sentence are bound to be stiff—twenty-five years to life, but with the possibility of parole … perhaps.
Walker said he never knew where Jon had buried Mary Claire, and Jon, of course, refused to admit to anything. Three weeks after the incident in the park, a judge issued a search warrant. Sergeant Pettigrew, the K-9 officer, took his dog, Belle, to Jon’s property. Nose to the ground, she sniffed her way back and forth across the grass, up and around the house, finally settling near the water heater at the back of the garage. The heater was mounted on a concrete pad, surrounded by a weathered trellis with a hinged door. A sticker on the side of the heater bore the name of the plumber and the date the appliance was installed. July 23, 1967. When officers jackhammered up the concrete pad and dug under it, they found Mary Claire’s body five feet down, curled in her final sleep. With her, Jon had buried the fifteen thousand dollars in marked bills, still in the gym bag. Over the years, moisture in the soil had reduced the money to pulp.
Half of the Santa Teresa townsfolk turned out for Mary Claire’s funeral, including Henry and me.
As for the Kinsey family gathering Memorial Day, I attended that, too, keeping Henry at my side for moral support. Grand was in a wheelchair at the head of the receiving line. Even from a distance I could see how frail she was. She was old, not in the way Henry and his siblings were old, but feeble and shrunken, as light and bony as an old cat.
I waited my turn, and when I reached her, her rheumy blue eyes widened with surprise and her mouth formed a perfect O and then turned up in a smile. She gestured impatiently, and my cousins, Tasha and Liza, helped her out of her wheelchair. She stood shakily and took in the sight of me, tears filling her eyes. She stretched a tentative hand and patted my cheek. “Oh Rita, dear angel, thank you for being here. I’ve been waiting all these years, praying you’d come back. I was so frightened I’d die without ever laying eyes on you again.”
She touched my hair. “Look at you, just as beautiful as ever, but what have you done to your lovely hair?”
I smiled. “It was a nuisance so I cut it off.”
She patted my hand. “Well, it’s becoming and I’m glad you did. You wanted to cut it for your coming-out party and oh what a fight we had. Do you remember that?”
I shook my head. “Not a bit of it.”
“Doesn’t matter now. You’re perfect as you are.”
She held on to me as she searched, confused, among the guests nearby. “I don’t see your little girl. What happened to her?”
“Kinsey? She’s all grown up now,” I said.
“I imagine so. What a little slip of a thing she was. I’ve saved some trinkets of yours I want her to have. Do you think she’d ever come visit me? It would make me so ha
ppy.”
I put my hand over hers. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she did.”