Nine Lives(65)

He carefully aimed the barrel of the rifle at the back of her skull and pulled the trigger.





ONE





1





TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 3:45 P.M.


Instead of flying from St. George’s Airport in Bermuda to Portland, Maine, as he’d planned, Jack Radebaugh had changed his ticket and was now descending in a half-filled Airbus A320 toward Bradley International Airport. He knew it was a potentially disastrous mistake, especially when he was so near to the end, but suddenly he didn’t care. He had decided to return to West Hartford for one hour, two at the most, then head to Maine. At least this way, he’d be able to take his own car.

Jack’s mind these days was like a slideshow he had no control over. Images and thoughts and fixations ran rampant, but he’d learned to live with it, to control it for the most part. It also helped knowing that soon he’d be snuffing out those thoughts like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake.

A taxi took him from the airport to West Hartford. He moved rapidly through his house, changing his clothes so that he was wearing something more appropriate for the cold, blustery weather. He pulled a few items from his travel bag that had come with him from Bermuda, and went downstairs to the basement, where he added a few more items that would help him deal with his next-door neighbor. That was the real reason he had come back to West Hartford. Since having dinner over a month ago with his lovely neighbor Margaret and her smug, son-of-a-bitch husband Eric, he’d kept thinking about them, kept fantasizing about what he wanted to do to Eric. Maybe it was simply that Margaret, with her long hair and slender neck, and her timid wit, reminded him of his sister. Or maybe it was that she was simply a good person, and Eric wasn’t. And maybe since he was now so close to completing his life’s work, he thought that he might as well do one last favor for Margaret. Did he even know her last name? He couldn’t remember ever hearing it. He did, however, remember talking with her about her part-time job at the library. “I work evenings Monday through Wednesday,” she’d said, “and then all day on Saturday. Just about the worst schedule.” Maybe he’d remembered her schedule because he’d been planning this all along.

After locking up his childhood home for the final time, Jack crossed to his neighbor’s house, and rang the doorbell. What would he do if Margaret answered the door? He supposed that he would simply let her know that he was going away for a while and he’d come to say goodbye. And then he’d be off. It would look strange, but what did that matter in the big scheme of things?

As it was, Eric answered the door. He was dressed in loose shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. His skin glistened with sweat, like he’d been working out, but he was also holding a can of beer.

“Sorry to bother you, Eric, but is Margaret home?”

Eric blinked several times and Jack surmised that Eric was trying to remember his name. Then, apparently remembering, he quickly said, “Sorry, Jack, she’s at work, at the library.”

“Oh, never mind,” Jack said. “I just had a question for her, but …” He paused, then said, “Maybe you can answer it for me. Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

Eric hesitated, and Jack waited, not changing his expression or his position on the front stoop, not offering up an apology, and Eric finally said, “Come on in, man. Can I get you a beer?”

Stepping into the foyer Jack said, “No, thank you. As I said, five minutes of your time is all I need.”

Eric led Jack to the living room and indicated a chair. Jack sat, rearranging his jacket so that he had access to the right-hand pocket. After putting his can of beer on the coffee table between them, Eric sat too, an odd expression on his face. It took Jack a moment to figure out what the expression meant, but then he had it. It was that Eric didn’t know how to feel about his neighbor yet. Was Jack a washed-up old man, or was he still someone influential, a best-selling author, a man who still had connections? Eric was trying to categorize him, so that he could know how to act with him.

“I’ll come right to the point, Eric,” Jack said. “I don’t want to waste your time, and I don’t know when Margaret will be coming back.”

“Not for a while,” Eric said.

“So here is the question I was going to ask her, but I will ask you instead. How is it that a decent, kind person like Margaret ended up with a fucking asshole like you?”

An awkward, slowly forming grin creased Eric’s face, as he tried to absorb the question. “Are you serious?” he said, at last.

“Am I serious? Yes. I want to know. I mean, my guess is that she reminds you of your mother, who was probably bullied by your father, and vice versa maybe, or else I don’t see why she puts up with your shit.”

A deep flush of color was rising from Eric’s neck up toward his face. “Hey, Jack,” he said. “I thought you might have some sort of pathetic crush on my wife, and now I know for sure. Why don’t you get the fuck out of my house, before I throw you out myself.”

Jack smiled. He reached into the pocket of his goose-down parka and pulled out his Taurus .44 magnum revolver, the same gun he’d used to kill Matthew Beaumont what felt like years ago in a suburban town outside of Boston. He pointed the barrel of the gun at Eric’s chest.

“What’s your last name, Eric? I don’t think I know it.”