Eight Perfect Murders(70)
I turned, just as Marty flicked the wall switch, and the bedroom was suddenly flooded with light from a floor lamp. Above the bed that Brian was sleeping on was a large abstract painting, chunky blocks of red and black.
“You can quit right now, Marty,” I said.
“And do what?”
“Turn yourself in. We’ll both do it. We’ll go together.” I knew it was a long shot, but Marty seemed tired, and it occurred to me that he was at the end of this particular game. Maybe, down deep, he wanted to get caught.
He shook his head. “It sounds exhausting, having to talk to all those cops, and then the lawyers and the psychiatrists. It’s easier to keep going. We’re almost done here. Eight perfect murders. Your favorite murders, Mal.”
“They were my favorites in books, not in real life.”
Marty was quiet for a moment, and I thought that he was maybe breathing a little heavy. For a moment, I fantasized that he might just keel over dead from a sudden heart attack. He looked up, though, and said, “I’ll admit that the thought of it all being over is not unpleasant. I tell you what I will do for you. I’ll let you have this one—have Brian—because, frankly, I’ve been doing all the heavy lifting since you took care of Norman Chaney. I’ll give you this gun, and all you have to do is go put a pillow over his face and fire the gun into it. I don’t think the neighbors will hear it, and if they do, they’ll just figure they heard something else. A car backfiring, or something.”
“Sure,” I said and held out my hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mal. If I give you the gun, then you can keep me at gunpoint and call the cops, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll come after you and you’ll have to shoot me. So, either way, you’re going to have to shoot someone. It’s either Brian, here, or me. I’m giving you that choice. And if it’s me, that’s okay. I’ve got a prostate the size of a whiffle ball. I’ve had my go-around. I think these last few years, getting to know you, and playing this little game, it’s all been gravy.”
“Not for everyone.”
“Ha. I suppose so. But, down deep, like me, you know none of this really matters much. If I hand you this gun and you put a bullet through Brian’s brain, you’ll be doing him a favor, most likely. You just might like it, too. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said, extending my hand farther toward him.
He smiled. Whatever I’d seen in his eyes earlier, that happiness, was gone now. I saw what I always used to see in his eyes. I always thought it was kindness.
He put the gun in my hand. It was a revolver, and I pulled the hammer back.
“It’s a double action revolver,” Marty said. “You don’t actually need to cock the hammer.”
I looked at Brian Murray, prostrate on the bed, and then I turned back to Marty and shot him in the chest.
Chapter 30
The penultimate chapter of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is called “The Whole Truth.” It’s when the narrator, the country doctor who is secretly the murderer, reveals to the readers exactly what he’s done.
I haven’t given any of my chapters in this narrative a title. It’s an old-fashioned convention, I guess, and it seems a little corny. What would I have called that last chapter? Maybe something like “Charlie Shows His Face.” See what I mean? Corny. But if I had done it, if I had given these chapters a name, then this chapter would definitely have been called “The Whole Truth.”
The night my wife died I’d followed her in my car out to Southwell, to Eric Atwell’s place. It wasn’t the first time I’d been there. After figuring out that Claire had gotten back into drugs, and that she was most likely involved with someone at Black Barn Enterprises, I’d driven past the restored farmhouse a few times. I’d even seen Atwell once, at least I thought it was him. He was jogging along the sidewalk not far from his house, wearing a maroon jogging outfit. As he ran, he performed little boxing moves, punching like he was Rocky Balboa.
On New Year’s Eve that year Claire and I had decided to stay home. She told me that there was a small party out at Black Barn but now that she’d stopped taking drugs (at least that’s what she’d told me), there was no reason for her to go. We roasted a chicken together that night. I made some mashed potatoes, and she steamed some brussels sprouts. We drank a bottle of Vermentino while we ate, then opened a second bottle after we’d cleaned up. We were settling in to watch a movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, one of Claire’s favorites. I liked it, too. At least I did back then. Now, the very thought of it makes me nauseated.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up the film was over, the screen showing the menu options of the DVD. On the coffee table was a note from Claire.
I’ll be back soon. I promise, and I’m sorry. Love, C
I knew where she’d gone, of course. Outside, her Subaru was no longer parked on our street. I got into my Chevy Impala and drove out to Southwell.
There was some kind of small party going on at Atwell’s house when I got there. Five cars were in the driveway and two more along the street, including Claire’s. I parked about two hundred yards away, just pulling my car tight against the side of the road. This part of Southwell was sparsely populated. It was mostly gently rolling old farmland, crisscrossed by stone walls and dotted here and there by million-dollar homes.