“Donnie?” Tony spoke quietly. “Let’s look for your aunt’s will. Would she keep it in this room?”
“It’s not here. I got it from Mr. Jenkins’ office.”
“Yes, I know. You gave it to Frank, along with the knife you stabbed into some papers. But maybe he put it back in the house somewhere.”
Donnie stopped flipping through the magazine.
“Think back to that afternoon, Donnie. After you left, you kept calling her on the phone. How long did you keep that up?”
“How did you know that?”
“I know everything, Donnie.”
Craning his neck, the boy looked up at the lawyer.
Tony continued speaking in a soft, lilting voice. “You’ve really been a very busy boy, haven’t you, Donnie? First you break into Jenkins’ office and steal the will, stab the papers on his desk with the knife, and scatter petals about. My, oh my. Then you kept calling her. Why? To be sure she was dead? You’re right in the middle of it, aren’t you?” Tony smiled down on the boy as he tried to twist around to see. “The police will be very interested. Someone will have to get you out of this scrape.” Quickly, Tony slipped on the gloves.
The lawyer was in front of the window, behind Donnie’s chair. Donnie tried to stand.
Tony’s fingers were cold as they drove into Donnie’s windpipe. The room danced and blackened for Donnie as he heaved backward. The glove smashed against his throat and mouth.
Calm flowed through Tony as he held Donnie fast against the back of the chair. Pleasure spurted throughout his body when he saw the spindly legs thrashing. He heard the screaming women in the distance. Deirdre had shrieked and begged. Linda had pleaded before her last breath. And there was John—the sacrificial lamb that he had spared at the very last moment, at great risk to himself.
Searing pain shot up Tony’s arm, and he howled and jerked backward. His own blood oozed inside the glove. The boy’s teeth had cut right through. Dumbfounded, Tony stared at him. The boy had spirit after all.
Sprawled on the floor, Donnie scrabbled to the door. Before the lawyer could reach him, he had slammed the door behind him. He knew how to jam the lock. Even though McKeown was strong, maybe he could keep him locked up, until he got to the basement.
Gram’s voice rang in his mind as he slid down the back stairs, reminding him that there was toughness and strength in the Deighton line. He dashed to the basement, where Gram kept a tin of gasoline for the lawnmower. Just once, he could do something right.
Gently, Tony peeled off his glove. In the washroom, he held his hand under the cold-water tap, then bound it with a towel. Swiftly crossing the bedroom, he tore at the door handle. It spun uselessly in his grasp.
“Fucking little bastard!” Tony backed away and stared at the knob in his hand. He hunched down and tried to peer out. The kid had jammed the lock. Slamming his fists against the door, he howled in pain. He cradled his bleeding fist against his chest and kicked at the door. The boy was a worthy opponent after all.
***
Harry turned sharply onto Highland Avenue, while Gerry sat slumped in his seat. They were only minutes to Marjorie’s. He remembered McKeown popping a Butterscotch Bit into his mouth while confessing to a passion for sweets. Had he been tantalizing him with possible admissions of heinous crimes? It wasn’t that at all: that would have required awareness and a sense of irony. The man was a jumble of sharp-edged jigsaw pieces from a dozen different puzzles. He had no center; there was nothing connected inside. Monsters had no special added quality. An integral piece was missing. With Tony, all Harry could see was a great yawning void. Stephen was right—the banality and utter chaos of evil.
Halfway down the cellar steps, Donnie heard the crashing from above. The gasoline tin had to be in the cellar. It was dark and cramped downstairs, but he knew the terrain with his eyes closed. He scrambled to the cupboard.
Tony rose from the floor. The bleeding had stopped. He would outsmart the kid. He would tell him the penalties he would face for murder. His story about Frank was not credible. Frank was a businessman with no interest in the Deighton estate. Marjorie’s death would give him no direct benefit in her will. He inserted the knob carefully into the lock and labored steadily.
Donnie pried open the cupboard latch. McKeown was at the center of it all. The door would not hold him back forever. Reaching for the gasoline tin, he felt silky, soft cobwebs surround his hand. Liquid sloshed in the tin as he lifted it onto the floor. There wasn’t a lot, but there was enough.
Tony pitched the knob onto the floor. He hunted for something thinner and finer to pick the lock with, and found a nail file. He stopped for a moment at the dressing table and traced the scratch marks on his face. The boy had done a bit of damage. The memory of twitching arms and legs renewed his pleasure. At the door, he inserted the nail file. Easing it further, he held his breath. There was a scraping sound and then a click. The door swung open.
Adjusting his tie, Tony silently closed the door behind him. He polished the razor with his handkerchief. Soberly, he considered the fate of the boy. His excitement rose at the prospect that Donnie’s life hung in the balance between his own reason and passion. But, was it wrong to kill a child? Should he feel compassion?
He tried to reason. Sculptors discovered innate beauty within a mass of stone. Great symphonies began with a simple tune. Perhaps Donnie was an unformed lump of clay, awaiting the hand of the master to reveal his strength and beauty. Given time and proper guidance, the boy might cultivate that special, powerful animal instinct and mesh it with a superior intellect. But did he possess that necessary intelligence?
The awfulness of the act of judgment nearly overcame him. The child was a miserable disappointment. He had whined like a dull, ordinary being whose life would only be a long string of gray, uninspired days. He struggled to capture that moment of compassion when he had looked upon John, but the sense, the feel of it eluded him.
Suddenly, Tony slumped against the door. Sweat poured down his face. Dark dreams pressed in upon him. He gripped the razor so hard that it cut his flesh. Passion swiftly mounted to blot all reason out. Conscious thoughts slipped from his mind like tiny beads of rain racing down a windowpane. He saw the black figures swirling around his mother’s coffin. “Give her a kiss. One last kiss,” they chorused. He found no compassion within him, only lust for the kill.
***
Harry pulled up in front of Marjorie’s. The house was ablaze with light from top to bottom.
“Thank God he’s in there,” muttered Gerry. “When I get a hold of him, I’ll—”
“Shut up and wait here. Call the police. I can see someone in the upstairs window.” Harry jumped from the car.
***
Donnie listened at the foot of the cellar steps. He cradled the tin of gasoline, the matches, and a small bottle of turpentine against his chest and ran to the main staircase. He would make the lawyer confess. McKeown might be waiting behind the door, which was silhouetted by the bright light of the kitchen. Donnie willed himself upward. Knowing every creaking step, he silently weaved his way to the top.
On the main staircase, he worked quickly and silently, soaking each of the twelve steps in gasoline. The heavy fumes worried him. McKeown might figure it out from the smell. Checking his pocket for the matches, he hid behind the cloakroom curtain at the foot of the stairs.
***
Harry ran up the front steps. The front door swung open easily. Immediately, the stench of gasoline stung his nostrils. “Donnie! Where are you?” he called.
***
Tony strode to the top of the stairs. Blood dripped from his hand. His eyes were glazed. Driven by the visions of dark chanting figures, he had entered another world.
“Donnie?” Tony called softly. “I know you’re still down there. I can hear you even when you’re not breathing. You are a dullard, but no innocent.”
At the top of the stairs, the lawyer stopped and sniffed. He shook his head as if to dismiss his senses.
Overcome with his lust for pleasure, he did not recognize the stench of gasoline. His madness drove him down the first set of stairs to the landing.
“You can’t hide anywhere, Donnie. Not from me.” McKeown removed his jacket as he stood on the landing. “I thought you had spirit. If you had, I might have spared you. But the world will not miss another tawdry, ordinary soul like you.”
Searching for his quarry, the lawyer cocked his head. “A little sniveler, like you, would want to know why I had to kill your precious Gram.” He smiled broadly. “She got in the way.”
Lunging from behind the curtain, the boy screamed, “You goddamned fucking greedy bastard! You killed her just like that? For no reason?”
“Why, Donnie,” the lawyer said, smiling, “you do have spirit. Come here, boy.” He beckoned Donnie with his claw finger. “I’ll tell you more.”
Harry moved carefully toward the banister. “Forget it, Tony. Leave the boy alone. This is between you and me. You’ve done enough.”
“Why, Harry, old man! How good to see you.” McKeown’s smile was broad, but his eyes gleamed brightly with the madness of another world. He brandished the razor. “I know every thought in your head, Harry. I know your weakness intimately.”
“Maybe so, Tony. But leave the boy alone.” Harry moved closer to the staircase.
Donnie wished he had the gun. He had to know what happened to Gram. Jenkins wasn’t going to stop him. He shouted, “Okay, McKeown! Why did you kill her? I’m listening!”
Tony smiled, “It’s really so simple. She stood in the way.” His voice rose in swift anger. “She was a stupid, arrogant old lady who refused to listen.” He paused, then said, “Donnie, you are just as thick-skulled and obtuse as she was.” McKeown shook his head sadly. “Ah, Donnie! Had you not disappointed me, you might have lived.” Tony folded his jacket neatly over the banister, then sat down on the top step. Blood seeped onto his cuff. “Your wonderful aunt wouldn’t sell at any price. She stood in the way of progress. Just like the whole lot of her class—stupid and pigheaded right to the end. Just like you.”
McKeown continued conversationally, “Frank tried to reason with her. That was pointless. But then again, he was just a pawn. Too stupid himself to be effective.”
He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus! Marjorie Deighton! You know the type. Head like granite. So sure she was right. With her moronic stubbornness, she threatened to screw up the whole scheme. Just a dull, ordinary, but necessary killing.” McKeown shrugged. “Frank was too dim to poison the tea. I was at the house. I did it. But it was terribly disappointing. Poison is so boring.”
Harry had to protect the boy. He said, “Tony? Why not put the razor away? Come on down and we can talk it over.” When Harry tried to lead Donnie to the door, the boy wrenched away.
Harry sought to engage McKeown in conversation. “I know what you mean about the old lady. Damned stubborn.” Harry chuckled. “Head like granite.”
McKeown’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you interrupt me, Jenkins!” he shouted. Then, as if caught up in a dream, he continued more quietly, “That housekeeper. Beautiful woman. Such lovely, soft skin. And Deirdre and Linda, so pretty. They were getting suspicious about the scheme. Too smart for their own good. They were going to go to the police. I had to put a stop to them.” Suddenly, he laughed. “And you, Donnie—you and Frank were perfect. The two of you made it all happen.”
McKeown stopped. His tone became cold. “First time you ever did anything right, kid!” Tony stood up and stroked the razor in his palm. “And now, Donnie, you know you’re going to die.” After a silent moment, McKeown’s laughter rang out. Harry held out his hand. “Come on, Tony. He’s just a kid. Let him alone.” He doubted he could stop McKeown, but he edged closer.
Tony smiled. “Harry, old man, you just don’t understand. Have you ever experienced that spurt of life at the very last? The thrashing? The pleading? Stuck in your tedious little life, Harry, when did you ever experience the real thrill of a life in your hands?”
Donnie was furious, determined for revenge, and Jenkins was not going to stop him. He reached into his pocket for the rag and matches.
McKeown looked downward through the darkness. Below, he saw the boy. “Are you ready, Donnie?”
Donnie spoke quietly at first. “Her death wasn’t useless. Not if it stopped you.” His voice rose. “She was good. She stood for all the things that matter. You pollute everything you touch with your filth. All your fancy buildings and designs. What good are they, except to make money? You greedy bastard! You just bulldoze anything good out of the way.”
McKeown took two more steps downward. The razor lay open in his bloodied palm, its gleaming blade exposed. “You know you’re going to die, boy. Soon that scrawny neck will be slit open, just like Frank’s.”
Donnie lit the rag. The single flame glowed and caught the lawyer’s patient smile, which became a look of confusion. McKeown grasped the banister. Donnie crouched. Desperately, Harry grabbed the boy’s arm, but he had already touched the flaming rag to the carpet.
Searing heat flashed upward. Donnie dove across the floor. The explosion knocked Harry down. Flames danced red, blue, and yellow up each step. The banister crackled and sparked in the heat. Curtains, engulfed in flame, funneled black smoke up the staircase.
Through the conflagration strode the lawyer’s blackened, blazing form. His laughter rang out as he reached the bottom step. With the razor flashing, he cried out, “You’re going to die, boy!”
Donnie scrambled to his knees. Shirt aflame, McKeown towered over him. His eyes glowed with madness, as he sang softly, “Time to die, boy. Just like all the others.”
Suddenly, Tony staggered in confusion. Pounding his chest to kill the flames, he dropped to the floor.
Donnie rolled away. McKeown’s hand shot out and clutched the boy’s leg. A foot kicked Harry on the side of the head.
The lawyer’s smouldering form rose up. He was on top of Donnie. One hand ripped back the boy’s neck and fixed his chin. The other held the razor high. Harry struggled to catch his arm, but fell back choking in the smoke.
Donnie grasped the small bottle of turpentine. Fingers dug into his neck. He was fading. Soon he would be unconscious.
Tony brandished the razor. His hand swooped down, but Harry caught his wrist.
Tearing one arm free, Donnie thrust the turpentine bottle high and doused the lawyer’s hair, which caught on fire. Harry pulled him off the boy.
A piercing scream was followed by low keening. “What a great artist the world has lost!” he gasped.
Tony’s body ignited, stiffening straight upward. With his hands clutching his head, his body wavered for a moment in the flame. The acrid smell of blazing hair filled the house.
The lawyer’s eyes rolled upward. His body shuddered, then slumped to the floor. Harry threw his jacket on him.
Donnie struggled to his feet. The blackened body convulsed and twitched as the fire burned upward. The lawyer’s shrieks rose above the crackling blaze. The razor dropped from his hand and his eyes grew flat and cold.
Donnie sagged to the floor. Everywhere, he saw black. Unable to breathe, he clawed at the air.
Gerry threw open the door, with the police behind him.
Struggling for air, Harry dragged Donnie outside onto the veranda, where he lay gasping in the cool night air. In the billows of black smoke, he saw his father. Before the blackness of the oxygen mask, Donnie knew he was safe.
CHAPTER 40
Harry stood on the front porch of the Deighton house. The street was jammed with fire trucks, an ambulance, and police cars. The blaze up the main staircase had been easily contained and doused. Severely burned, McKeown was loaded into the ambulance by the paramedics and rushed to the emergency ward. Donnie was also taken by ambulance to the hospital with his father. The fire trucks shut down their slowly twirling amber lights and started up their engines.
After giving the police his statement, Harry locked up the house. Overc
ome with weariness, he carefully lowered himself to the front steps of the porch. His shirt was torn and blackened; his pants were badly singed. McKeown had been at the center of the maelstrom all along. Harry’s thoughts were a jumble.
McKeown had murdered Marjorie, Rosie, and the paralegals—and God knew who else. The man was untouched by any kind of restriction devised by law or the soul. Some puzzles could never be pieced together.
Nothing to go home to, he thought bleakly. With Laura gone, he felt utterly drained and empty. So shattered was he that he scarcely knew what to do next. For several moments, a cool spring breeze caressed his face. Slowly, he felt his spirits begin to rise and his energy return.
Glancing at the house, he thought of Natasha, and the day they had met for the appraisal. Too much restriction had deadened his soul. Without any particular plan, he headed down the sidewalk to a phone booth at the corner. He fished a couple of quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the slot. She had said to call anytime. He dialed. It rang twice and was answered.
“Natasha?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Harry. Harry Jenkins.” He felt lightheaded.
“Harry?” Her voice was full of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” He paused. A streetcar screeched by on its track, making it hard to hear, hard to think. “May I see you?”
“Now?”
He caught his breath, then said, “Well, yes.”
“Certainly, Harry. I’m not really dressed, but please come.”
He scribbled down her address. The trip from the phone booth to her apartment door took him less than fifteen minutes.
“My God, Harry! What happened to you?” She touched his cheek. For a second, he held her fingertips in his hand. Ushering him into her apartment, she took his jacket. He followed her into the living room.
Natasha was concerned. Harry looked pale and worn, and filthy. “Harry, are you hurt?”
With great effort, he produced a wan smile. He shook his head. “No. Really, I’m fine. I just wanted to see you.” There, he’d said it. She smiled gently. “I’ll tell you in a bit about my evening.”
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