Eight Perfect Murders(66)
I considered staying in the kitchen, just standing there with my view on both the swinging side door and the large cutout that led to the dining and living room area. I could stand here all night, waiting for Charlie to make a move first. But I was also worried about Tess. Whatever was in her system might be enough to kill her. In what I hoped was my normal voice, I said, “I know you’re here,” out loud to the empty kitchen.
Nothing.
I waited for what felt like another five minutes and began to wonder if I was just being paranoid. Maybe Tess had just kept drinking after I’d left, and she was simply drunk. And maybe Charlie had been playing with me at this point, trying to manipulate me into rushing over here for nothing. I walked slowly back through into the living area. Tess hadn’t moved; she was still curled up on the couch, a hand under her face. I crouched down and could hear her steady breathing. I turned left toward the hallway, aware that the old floor was creaking under every step. After I walked past the stairway, I pushed open the door to the bathroom. There was enough light from a lamp in the hallway for me to see that it was empty.
Then I heard the sound of steps behind me, and I froze.
The steps stopped coming, but I could hear heavy breathing. I turned, tightening my grip on the rolling pin. Humphrey the hound dog stood looking at me quizzically. I put my free hand out, and he came forward, sniffing at it, then losing interest and turning back toward the living room.
I turned again, deciding that I needed to look in on Brian, asleep in the guest room, and to make sure he was alone. Then maybe I could just leave the house? Maybe I didn’t need to be here.
“What’s the dog’s name?”
The voice came from behind me. I recognized it, of course, and turned to see him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, the foyer light behind him so that his face was in shadow.
He held a gun at his side, casually, but when I took a step toward him, toward Marty Kingship, he lifted it and pointed it at my chest.
Chapter 28
“Humphrey,” I said.
“Huh,” he said. “Like the actor?”
“I guess so. I don’t know.”
“Some guard dog.”
“Yeah,” I said. There was something in Marty’s other hand, and it took me a moment to realize it was a cell phone. It looked out of place on Marty. I’d had drinks with him many times, seen him at readings at my store, but somehow, I couldn’t recall ever seeing him look at a cell phone. I’d never seen him with a gun, either, but the cell phone looked more foreign on him than the gun.
“How long have you been here?” I said. “Were you typing on that thing? On the Duckburg site?” I jerked my head to indicate the phone.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not bad, right? With my sausage fingers. Hey, look, let’s go sit down.” He gestured with the gun. “Maybe around the table. You can put down whatever it is you’re holding in your hand, and I won’t have to point this at you. Then we can have a nice chat.”
“Okay,” I said.
He turned and walked toward the table. I pictured myself sprinting and lunging, hitting him just as he turned with the gun, knocking him down on the ground. But all I did was follow him, and together we both sat at the table, in the same seats that Tess and I had been sitting in a few hours earlier. Marty pushed his back a few feet, then rested the gun on his thigh.
“What is that you’re holding?”
“It’s a rolling pin,” I said, setting it down on the table.
“You pick it up here, or bring it with you?”
“No, I picked it up here.”
There was a hanging ceiling light above the table that was still on, and I could see Marty’s face much better in its light. He looked the way he always looked, sallow skin, disheveled, and like he’d forgotten to get any sleep lately, but there was something a little different about his eyes. I want to say they were more intense, more alive, but that wasn’t quite it. It was more that they were happy. He might not be smiling but his eyes were.
“Thought you might come here with more firepower,” he said. “Although I realize that’s probably not your thing. Did you call the police?”
“Yes,” I quickly said. “They’ll be on their way right now.”
He frowned. “Let’s not lie to each other. Let’s tell the truth, and then, together, we can figure out where to go next. I know you’re thinking that your only chance here is to get the jump on me, but it’s not. I’m going to be reasonable. And, honestly, I’m not young, but what is that word they condescendingly use for old people when they can get around on their own two feet?”
“Spry,” I said.
“Right, spry. That’s what I am. And if you decide to suddenly lunge at me, I’ll put a fucking bullet right through your face.”
He smiled.
“Okay,” I said.
“Just warning you in advance. I don’t want you to get any silly ideas.”
I held up both my hands. “I’ll stay right here,” I said.
“Good. I trust you. Now we can talk. I keep thinking about the thing you just wrote me about fiction and reality. How your list of murders was fiction, and that there’s some difference. I think you’re right about that, Mal, but I think you’re seeing it the wrong way. Fiction is so much better than reality. I know. I’ve been alive a long time. And you know where I learned that from, about fiction? I learned it from you. You got me into reading, and you got me into murder. It changed my life for the better. Hey, do you think they have beer here? I wouldn’t mind a cold beer while we talk.”