When Tony silently stepped into the room, a strange sensation passed over him. Was this what Mother spoke of? As if disoriented, he stopped and shook his head. Was this compassion?
Unaware, the caretaker chuckled at some mindless tune on the radio and clumsily tapped his fingers in time. Turning slowly in his chair, John looked over his shoulder.
“It’s you, Mr. McKeown!”
His smile radiated a sweetness Tony had never seen before. He saw the muscles of the huge man flex; John’s damp white shirt was matted to his skin. He saw the thinning but baby-fine hair, neatly combed in place. Suddenly he saw the simple man as more than an obstacle in his path. He thought that life could not have been easy for such an imbecile, or for his mother. He felt a flash of her pain from years of protecting such a simple soul, so easily wounded.
John was a true innocent, incapable of guile or meanness, a child forever. He should be spared. Mother would be proud, Tony decided, despite the great danger to him. It was an act of compassion.
“Am I ever glad to see you, Mr. McKeown.” He clasped Tony’s hand. “I was real scared.” He hesitated and then said, “I ain’t got much, but you want some of my ham sandwich?” He held it out to Tony. “I know how to make coffee too.”
Tony shook his head and backed out the door. Softly, he said, “No, John. Just wanted to remind you about the archbishop.”
“Yes, sir!” John grinned. “I won’t forget.”
Waving good-bye, Tony closed the door gently behind him. Let him be, he thought. The Church has already damaged too many innocents. In a fleeting moment, he had judged this simple soul with true compassion. Confused but elated by the sensation, he strode up Highland Avenue toward the Deighton house.
***
Donnie slid down the back stairs to the kitchen. A draft came at his ankles from the pantry. Maybe the men had come back. The back door was slightly open. Slamming it shut, he drew the bolt. He was so hungry that his stomach hurt. He snapped on the ceiling light and rooted in the cupboard for a tin of beans or soup.
***
After John, Tony had trouble concentrating on his next mission. He sought within himself to catch that fleeting sense of compassion, but it had gone. From outside the window, he watched Donnie. Although the boy’s neck was long and spindly, his fair hair and skin gave him an attractive innocence. There was nothing special about the boy, no strength of spirit to save him. Once again he was lusting for the moment of judgment. It would take all of his concentration to determine Donnie’s fate. Let him have his food in peace, he thought, stepping back toward the bushes.
Donnie ate the beans from the can, without pause. In his mind, he kept seeing Frank and the huge gash in his neck. Someone had gotten him back big time. He imagined Frank at the table, grinning at him.
Gun in hand, he pretended to slip up behind him. “I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch!” Donnie’s voice was a shrill giggle. He pretended to strangle Frank with his arm and hold the pistol to his head. “Beg, you bastard! You poisoned her tea.”
Tony heard Donnie shriek, and saw his convulsed solitary figure through the kitchen window. Perhaps he had underestimated the boy. Caught by the passion that contorted the boy’s features, his admiration grew.
Raising the gun with both hands, Donnie pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. He slumped down in his chair and set the gun on the table. He must not have loaded it right. He lost himself in a study of its parts. The dark kitchen window loomed high above him. The ceiling light flickered. His reflection in the glass was pale and wavering.
From the back porch, Tony watched the boy with interest. He was very thin and deceptively frail. Despite his ineffectual air, Tony suspected he possessed the necessary feral instinct. Perhaps he could unleash the boy’s furious lust for life. But he could still snap that scrawny neck with his bare hands. He would take his time to decide his fate.
After reloading the gun, Donnie made his way to the dining room. The chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow throughout the room. Tony moved from the back porch to just below the bay window of the dining room. He watched the boy set the gun on the glossy surface of the mahogany table.
Donnie was lost in a study of photograph albums, which he had found in the top drawer of the buffet. Grave faces peered up at him. The pictures were stuck in with dried-up black corners, and some of the brown-and-yellow photographs curled upwards at their edges. He tried to identify them. In one photograph, a bald, bearded man, erect in his chair, stared back at him: Uncle George. To Donnie, he looked like some kind of royalty. He had seen that glint in Gram’s eyes too. Although she was soft, warm, and kind, her anger had a sharp steel edge. He saw toughness and strength in George and Gram. Hadn’t she said that he was like George? It was in the Deighton line, she had always said. As he looked up, he caught his reflection in the window: skinny and weak. He pulled the drapes shut and switched off the dining room light. The silent house scared him. Gun in hand, he returned to the kitchen.
Just as he pulled down the kitchen blind he heard a creaking at the side of the house. His cheeks burned and his breath stabbed sharply into his chest. Paralyzed, he strained to listen for the next sound in the still house. The old gate at the side of the house was being pushed open. Bushes scraped against the brick wall. Someone was moving slowly along the path underneath the dining-room window. There was an odd swishing sound. The gate slapped shut. A low whistling came from the back step.
In three strides, Donnie was at the door to the back stairs. Scrambling upward in the darkness, he reached the door to the upstairs landing. He opened the door a crack and could see down the broad staircase to the front door.
Tony peered in the dining-room window. The boy was gone. He felt for the front-door key in his pocket and leisurely retraced his steps along the path at the side of the house to the front veranda.
Donnie clutched the gun. A tall, bulky figure peered in though the oval glass of the front door. Opening the landing door another inch, he raised the gun. With a click in the lock, the front door swung open.
In the car, Harry tried to form a plan. McKeown was probably in the house by now. He could only hope to get in and talk Tony out of harming Donnie. Gerry broke the silence.
“That kid has been nothing but trouble right from the start…” Gerry Deighton’s voice trailed off in frustration. Red taillights on the cars up ahead illuminated his angry, twisted features. Harry shook his head. What kind of parent would be complaining about his own child in such danger? Still stuck in traffic, Harry cursed. Edging to the side of the road, he squeezed past the line of taillights curving up around Queen’s Park Crescent.
“Thank God Katharine remembered Tony asking about Donnie,” Harry said. “Call Marjorie’s.”
Gerry dialed the number on the cell phone. “Disconnected,” he said dully.
Harry had been right about the drawing. He could see Tony’s broad and easy smile when they had shook hands. The Florist. Harry thought about the African masks. McKeown could slip his mask of sunlight on in a second. Harry made an illegal left turn onto Bloor Street. They still had miles to go to reach the west end, in Friday night traffic.
***
Donnie saw the man switch on the hall light. He touched the trigger, but his hand was shaking so badly that he couldn’t aim the gun.
Squinting in the light, the man looked upward. He called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
Relief nearly made Donnie drop the gun.
“Am I ever glad to see you, Mr. McKeown!” Donnie set the gun on the stairs.
“Hi, Donnie. What are you doing here?” Tony smiled up at him as he removed his leather driving gloves. Leaving the gun behind, Donnie grinned and limped down the staircase toward him.
The words tumbled out of his mouth. “Mr. McKeown, who’d you get the key from? You really scared me, you know. I’ve been here all alone and two guys came banging on the door, but I hid and didn’t let them in.”
Relieved at Donnie’s greeting, McK
eown smiled again. If the boy had any suspicions, they would be easy to allay. “Listen, son, your Aunt Katharine gave me a key and asked me to keep an eye on the house while it’s empty.”
Donnie nodded vigorously. He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop the shaking.
Tony removed his overcoat. As he looked up into Donnie’s face, he felt for the razor in his suit pocket. In the shadows, the boy looked quite ordinary. He was not like John.
Now that Donnie was on the bottom step, Tony could see him more clearly. The kid was better-looking than he had remembered. He hadn’t noticed the fineness in his features before. Benny’s men had scared the boy so much that he was twisting his hands in his pockets.
“Was someone trying to break in?” Tony asked.
“Yeah,” the boy barely whispered. He licked his lips and gulped hard. “Mr. McKeown, I saw something really bad tonight.” Donnie sank down on the steps. Tony waited for him to continue.
“It’s Frank. He’s been murdered.”
Slowly, McKeown slid onto the steps beside him. The boy’s shoulders began to shake, and he sobbed like a little kid.
“They cut him real bad.” Donnie struggled to control his voice. Tony was fascinated by the tears coursing down his face, but he was also disappointed. The boy was a dullard, but not an innocent like John. It would be too easy. He held out a handkerchief.
“Where was this?” Tony asked.
Donnie blew his nose hard. “In his office. He was killed in his office.”
McKeown was alarmed when Donnie broke into a wail. Worse still, he was tilting over, threatening to rest his head on his suit.
“Blood everywhere! They slit his throat. His shirt was soaked.”
Awkwardly, Tony patted the boy’s shoulder. “Listen, Donnie, you didn’t see anyone else? I mean, you didn’t see who did it?”
Donnie’s face was buried in his arms. He nodded vigorously, without looking up. “It was the great big guys who came here,” he whispered. “They were following me, I guess.”
“Did you get a good look at them?”
“No.”
Tony sat back, relieved. He wanted to know what the kid knew. It would be helpful information when he negotiated the cost of the assignment with Benny.
“I thought Frank used me to kill Gram. He poisoned the tea and got me to take it to her.” Donnie looked as if he might burst into tears again.
“Really? Good God!”
Between sniffles, Donnie continued, “But now I’m not so sure. I don’t understand why. I mean, she was probably going to die soon. She’d been pretty sick for a long time. I thought for sure Frank murdered her. But why would those guys kill Frank?”
Donnie looked searchingly up at him. Tony sat back from him on the steps. His hands would easily go around the kid’s neck. He caught his breath as he imagined the sensation. A devoted artist must rise to the challenge, he thought. Unlike John, there was nothing here worth saving. John was a sweet innocent, with no knowledge of his own suffering. Donnie was a dullard who ought to be able to rise above his own ordinariness.
He shrugged. “Who knows? The city’s filled with all kinds of weirdos these days.” He was getting weary of the boy. The surge of power was fading and his head was beginning to throb. “Listen, son, did you report it to the police?”
Donnie shook his head incredulously. “No! Those guys might have been around. I just wanted to get away.” After a long pause, Donnie looked up and brightening, said, “You’re right, Mr. McKeown. I should tell the police. If the cops find out why Frank was killed, maybe they can figure out why Gram was murdered. Maybe it’s all connected.”
As he listened to the boy’s drivel, Tony was transfixed with the pulse beating in the scrawny neck. He could do it right now, but he needed his gloves.
The boy rose swiftly. “You’re right. I’m going to call the cops.” He headed down the hallway for the kitchen. Desperately, Tony dove his hand into his pocket for the razor. The boy reached for the receiver.
Tony struggled for his voice. “You can’t, Donnie.” Donnie stopped and slowly turned around.
“Why not?”
“Because they won’t understand, son.”
Donnie considered this thought and then shook his head.
Tony slumped into the kitchen chair. The pleasure was quickly evaporating. If he had to kill him now, it would be a necessary killing without gratification. The boy possessed no special spirit after all.
“But those guys are going to come back,” Donnie said. Lifting the receiver, he continued, “They must have cut the line.” He held out the phone to the lawyer.
“The phone was probably disconnected after your aunt died.” Tony took the receiver and hung it up.
He turned on the boy. “Don’t you see? The cops will connect you with two murders. First, your great aunt’s because you gave her the tea. And with Frank dead, you can’t prove he had anything to do with her murder. You were at his office. They’ll probably charge you with his murder.”
Donnie shrank back against the wall. “He poisoned the tea,” he insisted, “I didn’t!”
Tony smiled wearily. “Donnie, Donnie. With Frank dead, you’ve got a real problem.” He frowned and wagged his finger. “Statements by a person now deceased are subject to strict evidentiary rules. No judge will allow them.” Sighing, he resumed his seat. “You’re in kind of a mess, Donnie.”
With hopelessness sweeping over him, the boy slumped onto the kitchen chair.
“Besides Donnie,” Tony continued, “You were at the house the afternoon she died.”
Donnie sat up straighter. “How did you know that?” he whispered.
The lawyer shrugged. “Frank told me.”
But with him dead, there’s no way proving the tea was poisoned by him.” He smiled. “The police will say you poisoned her.”
Cold seeped into the pit of Donnie’s stomach. He’d never thought he could be accused of murdering Gram.
Gauging the effect of his words, Tony continued, “Believe me, Donnie, I know cops. They’re always desperate to pin murder on someone.” Tony leaned back in his chair, appraising the boy. He knew weakness intimately. “You’d make an easy mark.”
The lawyer’s corrosive words dripped like acid on the boy slumped in the chair. The cops would charge him with two murders, he thought.
“What do I do now?” Donnie’s voice was bleak. McKeown extracted a thin cigar from his breast pocket, crumpled the cellophane and lit it. Fascinated, Donnie watched. He had never noticed the lawyer’s baby finger on his left hand. He wiped his upper lip with his sleeve. The tiny double finger revolted him. Distracted, Donnie missed the calculating eyes fixed on him.
“Trust me,” Tony said simply.
The boy’s eyes lowered. Tony eased himself forward, quickly gaining a confident tone. “We have to find some proof that Frank did kill her.”
“There isn’t any.” Donnie had never felt so alone and hopeless. The silence stretched out.
“Come upstairs with me to your aunt’s bedroom, and we’ll have a look.” Tony reached across the table and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The kid was grossly stupid, with no spine. John was an innocent. Once he got Donnie into the bedroom, he could easily do it.
McKeown was almost gentle as he guided Donnie into the hallway. “You never know, son. The police aren’t always so careful in their investigations.” He was disappointed with the scrawniness of Donnie’s arm.
***
Harry sped past dark, scabby buildings on Bloor Street and stopped in traffic at the intersection of Dufferin Street. Low, squat structures created a desolate scene. He visualized the rose petals. Such exquisite design and execution suggested a master who derived very special pleasure from the act. His final touch was like the signature of an artist. All the victims had been women, and the petals had a feminine flair. In some murky depth, McKeown must obtain intense gratification from his artistry. Had he ever marked a man or boy in such a fashion?
***
McKeown and the boy climbed the stairs into the darkness. In the upstairs hallway, Donnie leaned heavily against him. Fumbling for the light, Tony felt a rasping in his chest. His excitement began to mount. There was no point in saving such a dull child. He would make no great contribution to the world.
The lamps in the bedroom flickered on. As Tony guided Donnie through the doorway, the cool mustiness of the room crept around him. The familiarity of the scene rapidly became depressing. Just like Mother’s room, before she died. The high, finely scrolled mahogany headboard dominated the room. Scatter rugs lay in oval pools about the burnished floor. Two small cut-glass lamps illuminated the dressing table with a rosy glow. The mirror above it reflected Donnie’s slouching figure.
“Has anyone been through your aunt’s papers yet, Donnie?”
“I don’t know.” Donnie sank on the bed. “Why?”
“Maybe there’s some evidence implicating Frank in the murder.”
“He must have wanted her dead to get her money.”
Tony shrugged. The boy was becoming annoying. “That’s not good enough.” He sat heavily on the bench before the dressing table. “Presumably, Frank wouldn’t inherit anything directly from her.” Tony stroked his double finger. He saw attraction and repulsion warring within the boy.
Donnie slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” Absently, he scratched his arms. His head hurt. If only Gram could tell him what to do. He had to trust the lawyer. There was no one else. He vividly imagined a life in jail for crimes he did not commit.
He looked up from the bed. The lawyer was looking at him strangely. Donnie licked his lips. His throat was dry. Rising quickly, he picked up a magazine from the table and sat on the edge of the chair in front of the window.
Tony watched the boy move. His form was not unpleasing—lithe and long, like a swimmer’s. With Donnie seated on the chair, he would be able to get behind him. Tony moved to the window. The lamp bathed Donnie’s neck and face in soft light. He reached into his pocket for the gloves.
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