He discovered that the simile was apt. Several months after he made the first tapes with Gerry Praidlaw, he walked into the den one Sunday afternoon to find Leona sitting there, her face purple with anger.
"Turn on the television," she told him.
Puzzled, he did. A golf tournament was on CBS.
"Now. You bastard. Turn on the machine."
As soon as she said the words, he knew he had been found out, and his eyes went to the shelf which held his tapes. There was a large gap there, and when he looked down at the VCR he saw them, all five of them—ten hours worth of material—sitting on a pile next to the machine.
"How did you get up there?" he asked quietly.
She laughed. It was cracked and webbed, a laugh long disused. "Paulette. Paulette got them down for me. She doesn't know what they are—I wouldn't tell her. I wouldn't tell anyone." She gestured toward the VCR. "Turn it on, Carlton. Let's watch."
He stopped his hand from shaking long enough to hit the Play button. There, on the screen, Gerry Praidlaw was fellating a man whose name Runnells had forgotten, while he himself was sodomizing Gerry. The lights, though dim, were bright enough so that everyone, and their activities, were easily visible.
Runnells watched, fascinated in spite of the situation, then turned and looked at Leona. Her face, thinned into emaciation by her illness, was puckered like dried leather, and when she turned her eyes away from the screen toward him, she said nothing, only spat in his direction. It was not very successful, launching out in a string that fell onto her chin, which she continued to wipe until her grinding mouth was finally able to produce words. "You disgust me."
Runnells smiled. "What did you think I do, Leona? Hold hands? Talk art and theatre with the boys and then come home at night?"
"I know what you do, though I try not to think about it! I know. But this? Bringing these . . . people here? In this room? And not merely doing those things, but filming them?" She shook her head. "I won't have that. I will not have that here."
It was a fine line Runnells was treading, and although his first reaction was to tell her to go to hell, and storm out of the room, he knew that he had, in the five years in which he'd lived with Leona, become much too dependent on her money to do that. He clenched his teeth and waited until he stopped trembling, hoping she wouldn't see. Then he said, "I'm sorry, Leona. It was wrong of me to do that. I shouldn't have brought anyone here." He simpered and whined, and tried to sound like a little boy who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Yes, he thought bitterly, he'd had his hand in the cookie jar all right—up to the wrist. "I won't do it again. You have my word."
She smiled with half of her face. "No you won't. That's the only true thing you've ever said around here."
"What . . . do you mean?" His stomach was lined with ice.
"I mean," she said, her speech more crisp than it had been in ages, "that we have an agreement. In writing. I can't get rid of you just because I'm tired of you without paying a healthy penalty, enough of one to keep you through the rest of your sordid life. But I can divorce you for due cause, and this, my sweet boy, falls very comfortably under that heading. You won't get a single penny from this estate, Carlton. It'll be back to the furniture store for you."
She pushed a button, and her wheelchair glided over to the VCR where she picked up one of the tapes. "This is all I need, Carlton. Just one of these. And look, why, I've got five of them." She laughed, and droplets of spittle sprayed from her lips. "I'll call Mr. Rinehart in the morning." Rinehart was Leona's attorney, a dour, humorless man. "You may stay the night if you like, but I expect you to pack tomorrow. Take only what's yours."
"Leona," Runnells said in a rush, "think about this, please! I mean, you knew what I was like when you married me, why all this melodrama just because you've finally seen evidence of what you've always known that I do? I'm gay, I admitted that to you—but I thought you understood! What's happened to make things different? I haven't changed!"
"No, Carlton." She looked down stiffly at her twisted body. "But I have."
"Leona . . ."
"I want you out. And take Michael with you. Tomorrow."
Again she pushed a button, and with a dull hum the chair moved, skimming across the carpet and out the door, Leona riding it like a skeletal horse, clutching the videocassette to her chest like reins.
And Runnells knew that he would have to kill her. His mind was stuffed full of the hate that he'd hidden for many months. This was not the kind, older woman he had married, the woman who had promised to take care of him, who had merely smiled and shaken her head like a doting mother at his flirtations. This was someone different, someone hard and cruel and strange who deserved to die and would.
Yet he could not do it alone. He had always been, and might continue to be, incapable of the act. Then he thought of Michael Eshleman, and understood the reason he had hired him.
At last it was time for Michael to do that for which he had been hired.
When Runnells visited him in his room, Michael was watching TV. He held a rocks glass in his hand, and a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet stood on the table next to his chair. When he looked at Runnells, his eyes were glassy. Good, thought Runnells, the drunker the better.
He told Michael what had happened, and how they would both have to leave Ravenwood, Runnells back to his furniture store, Michael back to the paper-box factory. "Jesus, Carlton," Michael moaned, "they'll never take me back, not after I told that sonuvabitch foreman off like I did." He threw back the rest of his drink. "Aw Jesus, what are we gonna do?"
Runnells sat down next to Michael, and took a pull from the bottle. "Leona has a very weak heart, Michael. Very weak."
Michael looked at him and frowned.
"In fact, if she were to be shocked any more than she was by seeing my tapes, it could most likely bring on another stroke, and a second one, especially if no one called the doctor right away, would probably be fatal."
Michael frowned more deeply.
"She's in her bedroom now. Paulette helped her into bed, and then came back to this wing. Paulette is probably sleeping now, and Paulette sleeps very well, doesn't she?"
Michael nodded. "I play my stereo pretty fucking loud, and she never says nothing."
"That's right, she doesn't. And the wings are so far apart that even if she were awake, and Leona was screaming, she'd never hear her."
"Screaming . . ." Michael repeated, staring at Runnells in fascination.
"With Leona dead, this place is mine, Michael. All mine. The whole place, and lots of money besides. I think it's worth a little risk. Do you?"
Michael nodded again. There was something crazy in his face that Runnells had expected to see there, but which frightened him nonetheless. "Holy shit," he whispered, and then giggled. "Holy fucking shit."
"Just one thing, Michael." Runnells put his hand on Michael's arm. It was trembling. "You're going to have to do some things that you've never done before. With me. And to Leona. But just remember why you're doing them. It's like you're an actor. Just playing a part."
"Things. You mean like faggot things?"
Runnells nodded. "Faggot things. We've got to shock her, Michael, shock her, and make her sick, and make her hate us both so much that she can't stand it anymore, and there's not a fucking thing she can do about it but die."
Michael rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. "I don't know, Carlton . . ."
"It's a lot to ask, Michael. I know that. But it'll be worth it, you know it will."
"But what if somebody found out? I mean, I mean maybe somebody'd think that I did it. I mean, how do I know you'd stick up for me? Shit, maybe you'd let 'em arrest me, for shit's sake . . ."
Drunk, but not that drunk. "You're saying you don't trust me?"
"Carlton, anybody'd want to save their own ass, you know that."
Then Runnells got another idea. It was, he thought, a wonderful, foolproof, exciting idea. "We'll tape it."
Michael's jaw dr
opped. "Tape . . . tape it?"
"Videotape. You get a copy, I get a copy. If either one of us ever tries to blame the other, the tape proves that we both did it."
"Tape it?" Michael's eyes were wide, and though there was fear in them, Runnells thought they mirrored his own excitement as well. "God damn, Carlton, that's risky. . ."
"In one way, maybe, but it sure as hell makes us trust each other. And who else would ever know?" Runnells smiled seductively. "Besides, what's life without a little risk?"
Michael giggled again. "God! God damn, that's freaky . . . tape it, holy shit . . ." Suddenly sobriety passed over his features. "But what we're gonna do—some things I won't do, Carlton. I don't want anything up my ass, you know?"
Runnells smiled and shook his head. "Nothing up your ass, Michael. Don't worry. Nothing's going to hurt. Who knows, you might even enjoy it."
Michael's mouth became a grim line. "I'll do it, Carlton. And maybe I'll even act like I like it—to fool her, you know. But I ain't gonna like it. And doing it don't make me a queer so don't start thinking I am."
"Not queer, Michael . . ."
"I know," Michael interrupted. "Gay. Well, maybe you're gay, Carlton, but if I was to do that stuff and like it, well then I'd be nothing but a fucking queer."
They looked at each other for a long time. Finally Runnells handed the bottle to Michael. "Have a drink, Michael. You have a few, and I'll have a few, and maybe, after a while, you can pretend that I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. And then, then we'll go and we'll visit Leona."
Michael took the bottle and drank. "And do a little show for her," he grinned.
"And do a little show," Runnells agreed, taking the bottle.
"And maybe she'll want to play too."
"Maybe so. But whether she wants to or not . . ." Runnells took a long pull of the scotch ". . . she will."
McKain III
A significant property of malignant cells, as opposed to temporarily malfunctioning cells that can repair and restore themselves, is that they have accepted, and perpetuate, their deviant orders and activities.
—Cynthia P. Margolies and
Kenneth B. McCredie, M.D.,
Understanding Leukemia
Chapter 12
"So you killed her."
"Yes, I did. Michael and I."
"And you videotaped it."
"In living color," he smirked. "Dying color? Sorry. Not very good."
"She had a heart attack?"
"Oh yes. Oh my yes, did she ever. In a surprisingly short time. She was awfully angry at us invading her boudoir, tried to grab the phone and everything, but Michael took it away from her. I hadn't realized just how much Michael hated Leona till then. I think he used words she'd never even heard before. But she understood them all right." Runnells grinned as he took a cigarette from a lacquer box. "He illustrated them, you see."
I felt sick, but it was Runnells that made me that way, and not the disease lying in wait. "There weren't any signs? The coroner couldn't find anything suspicious?"
He lit his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. "To tell you the truth, he wasn't looking. And there was no blood. Other things, yes. But they wiped off with a little soap and water. Hell, everyone knew about her heart, so it was no surprise. Except maybe to Leona. But it worked." He gestured, his hand taking in the room around him and implying far more. "I've got it, don't I?"
"Townes," I said.
"Townes?"
"Why did you kill him?"
"You're a detective. Haven't you figured it out?"
I thought I had. "He saw the tape."
Runnells put his cigarette into his mouth and clapped his hands as he chuckled. "Very good, McKain, very good."
"You show tapes of your murders to all your lovers? Or did he find it by accident?"
"No, no, I showed it to him. It was stupid, yes. Bravado, you know? I was very high that night, stoned like a quarry."
"This was after your New Year's party?"
He nodded. "After everyone left Chris and I did poppers on top of the coke we had during, and we'd had a lot to drink. It all made for a bizarre state of mind. Not very lucid, to say the least. Well, we're lying in bed, wasted and drained, and Chris starts babbling about Ben."
"Arkassian."
"Yes. Ben handles all the dope for Chris's parties. That's another reason they're so popular. And Chris is going on and on and on about how tough Ben is, and all about his connections, and . . ."
"What connections?" I interrupted.
Runnells shrugged. "Mob connections. Where else are you going to get dope, the IGA? So after a while I got sick of hearing all this shit, and I asked him if his rough tough Ben had ever killed anyone. He said he didn't know, but he thought so, and then made some bitchy little remark about Ben killing me if he found out about us balling. So I thought fuck you, my dear, and told him that I was a killer too. Bullshit, he said, and I told him, just came out and told him, that I'd killed Leona. He still said bullshit, that I wasn't the type, and of course stoned-out me told him that I could prove it. I opened the safe in my bedroom, not so stoned that I couldn't remember the combination, took out the tape, and put it in the VCR—I have one in my bedroom now too. Needless to say, Chris was impressed. Me, I almost fell asleep, I've seen the damn thing so often . . ."
I lost his words for a moment as I realized what his admission implied. To do it was one thing, to tape it another. But the thought of Runnells sitting in that huge house alone watching, over and over again, images of himself and another man doing things that drove a woman to her death was more than I could fathom. That he was gay had never affected me, but the other thing that he was made me hate and fear him because of its alienness. I disassociated myself from Runnells in the same way that I disassociate myself when reading about people who murder their own children, or who kill other people's children for sexual gratification. It's unthinkable. I can't begin to understand the evil and the sickness of it, so I turn the pages of the newspaper, not wishing to imagine that these creatures and I belong to the same species. I've hated and lusted, and had my share of rape and murder fantasies. But thinking and doing are different things, and there are things I cannot even think about doing and retain my humanity. To me, Runnells was subhuman.
". . . remember turning it off," I heard him saying. "And when I woke up, Chris was gone. The tape was still there, thank God, but I started to worry when I realized how . . . indiscreet I'd been. I waited to hear from Chris, to see if he'd react in some unpleasant way, but after a week without hearing anything I thought perhaps I would hear nothing. If he went to the police, what could he say? I hardly think they'd believe a story as outrageous as that. And, too, if he told on me, I could tell on him. Drug peddling is still illegal."
"And what about this great love?" I asked. "That was bullshit too?"
"Sure. McKain, Chris Townes wasn't any more to me than another piece of ass, all right? I'm no romantic."
"No romantic. I never would've guessed."
Runnells laughed, and I felt cold inside.
"So what happened? What screwed up? Townes got greedy?"
"Yes. A couple months go by, and I've almost forgotten about it. And then one day I get a letter. Typed. No signature. It said, 'Congratulations on your sterling television performance. You should have an agent to talk about you to other people. Ten percent is the standard commission. How much are you worth?' and it was signed, 'A Designing Friend.' Now some people might call that blackmail. I found it very annoying, but not devastating. His story wouldn't stick. It was his word against mine unless he had the tape, which he didn't."
"But if he intended to blackmail you," I asked Runnells, "why didn't he take it when he left?"
"I don't know. Chris was not bright. Maybe the thought didn't occur to him until later. At any rate, I was annoyed enough to do something about it. It was a long shot that he would go to the police, and if he did it was still longer that anything would come of it. Still
, there was a chance, and a chance that Michael would break down under questioning. So I had to tell him."
"I'm sure he took it well."
He gave me an appreciative glance. "He was livid. I was afraid for a minute that he was going to kill me. I think he was more upset about someone having seen me suck his cock than he was about being arrested for murder or manslaughter or whatever it was."
"He should have killed you," I told Runnells. "It would have made things a lot easier."
"You don't like me very much, do you?"
"No. I think you're the worst sort of scum. You're shit." I wasn't feeling very diplomatic.
"It really doesn't matter," Runnells smiled. "Shall I go on?"
I nodded sharply. I wanted to hear everything.
"Michael insisted we burn the tapes. I told him that erasing them would be just as efficient, and he agreed. So he got his copy, I got mine, and we erased them with my bulk eraser."
"Are you sure he gave you the right tape?"
"Don't get any ideas, McKain. They're gone. We looked at them first—just the beginning. Michael didn't want to see any more. He was greatly relieved after that, almost like a puppy again. My good dog. He was very worried, though, about Chris. So I told him to go up to New York and throw a scare into him. Nothing major, just something to let him know we wouldn't put up with his shit. Well, after I told him about Arkassian's connection with the mob, just to let him know that we had as much on Chris as he had on us, good old cautious Michael takes a pistol along unbeknownst to me. He decides—on his own—that he doesn't want to confront Chris face-to-face just in case he's being 'protected,' whatever the hell that means. Michael believes the Mafia owns Pizza Hut. He's very paranoid about things like that. So he parks in front of Chris's building, and when Chris comes out he takes a fucking shot at him. Nothing if not subtle, right? At least he tried to miss him, so he claims. Then he pulls away from the curb like some thirties gangster, giving Chris a good look at the PA plates. He said he did that on purpose so he'd know who it was. As if the poor little queen gets shot at every day, and this way he can say, 'Oh, the Pennsylvania assassin.'
McKain's Dilemma Page 13