Страница 62 из 64
“Yes, I killed the sonofabitch,” Bo nearly shouted. “He played me along for all of my life; he never told me. If he’d told me, not when I was kid, but even as late as when I came back from Korea, then I could have married Joyce. I wasn’t tainted, but I didn’t know that. None of this would have ever happened if he’d only told me, can’t you see? It wasn’t until I figured it out on my own, when I found out he’d been having my mother’s grave tended all these years, that he admitted it. Then he tried to buy me off, showed me his will and how everything was left to me; that’s when I killed him.”
“He didn’t tell you just like you didn’t tell Scotty,” Howell said.
“Hardly,” Scotty chimed in.
“Everything would have been all right if you hadn’t been at the airport tonight, don’t you see? With Sutherland’s money, I could have taken care of Scotty for the rest of her life. Hell, I was already pla
“It’s got nothing to do with our being at the airport, Bo,” Howell fired back. “It’s got to do with you, and the way you always try to overcome your own weakness by killing somebody. You were weak enough to let yourself be seduced by a twelve-year-old girl, then you killed your way out of it; you were weak enough to let Eric Sutherland pave the way for you and run your life, and you killed your way out of that; then, with all you had going for you here, you were weak enough to take drug money, and now you’re going to kill your way out of that, too?”
Bo turned a violent red, and Howell knew he had gone too far. “You stupid bastard,” Bo shouted, “I own this town, now, I own this lake; I own everything Eric Sutherland owned! Do you think I’m going to let you walk out of here and take that away from me?” He swung the shotgun toward Scotty. “You’re goddamned right, I’m going to kill my way out of it, and right now!” He pumped the shotgun and started to bring it to his shoulder.
Howell was struggling past his inflamed ribs, trying to get to his feet before the gun went off, but instead of a shotgun, what he heard was a loud click from across the room. Bo swung the shotgun in that direction and froze. The player piano was starting to play.
“I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” rolled from the machine at a loud volume.
Bo stared open-mouthed at the piano, then, an animal noise rising in his throat, he fired at the instrument. Bits of wood flew everywhere, but the instrument played madly on. Bo fired again; then he stopped and spun to his left. Howell turned to follow his stare.
She looked different, more womanly. The childish overalls were gone, and she wore a simple, virginal, white dress, tied at her small waist with a narrow sash. Her dark hair fell in long waves around her shoulders, and there was a suggestion of lipstick, stark against her white skin. Two buttons undone revealed the swell of her full breasts, straining against the tight fabric. Her huge, dark eyes were fixed on Bo Scully; a little smile played about her lips. Then, she turned and looked at Scotty for the first time, frankly, with curiosity; then, it seemed, with something like approval.
Scotty stood, transfixed by her first sight of her true mother. Howell remembered a photograph he had seen at the Kellys, a family group on a front porch, a little girl of four or five. Now he knew why the child had looked familiar; she had looked like Scotty. Now the resemblance was less strong, but it was there. They were mother and daughter, Kathleen and Scotty.
Bo pumped the shotgun again. He was now emitting a continuous noise made up of a growl and a scream. He raised the gun, took aim and, to Howell’s helpless horror, fired at the girl. He was astonished when she seemed unaffected, her expression never changing, but a large section of the French doors behind her exploded into fragments.
Three shots, Howell managed to count to himself, in spite of what was happening; five more to go.
Kathleen O’Coineen stood, smiling indulgently, as Bo emptied the shotgun at her, affecting only what lay behind her.
Howell hurled himself across the room toward the desk, clawed the drawer open and found Scotty’s pistol, its shells lying next to it. Frantically, he began loading the gun. He had two shells into the chambers when Kathleen, ignoring him and Scotty, turned gracefully, glanced beckoningly at Bo, and walked out of the house, onto the deck. Bo threw the shotgun through what was left of the French doors and ran after her. Howell saw him stop on the deck, staring out at the lake. Howell finished loading the pistol and went after him, then stopped as he reached the door. Scotty was right behind him, dragging the chair to which she was handcuffed.
Bo gazed, wide-eyed, out over the valley. Howell gazed with him. It was just as in the dream, the house ablaze with light, the fog on the rising lake, and all of it lit by a large moon.
Bo said something, not quite a word, and started moving down the stairs from the deck.
“Wait a minute, Bo!” Howell said, and pointed the gun at the sheriff. Bo glanced at him, then continued down the stairs. “Stop, Bo!” Howell said, louder this time. Bo had reached the bottom of the steps and was moving toward the road to the valley. Howell lowered the gun and screamed as loudly as he could. “Bo, don’t go down there! For Christ’s sake, come back!”
Howell moved to follow him, but Scotty had squeezed her chair through the door and grabbed at him, getting hold of his belt. “No, no, Joh
Howell struggled on down the stairs, dragging Scotty after him, she dragging the chair. They made the bottom and moved a few steps toward the road before Scotty was able to stop him.
“You can’t follow him, you can’t!”
Suddenly, Howell realized she was right and stopped. They stood in front of the cabin and watched Bo run down the road and toward the house, as fast as his legs could move him. Occasionally, he shouted something, but they couldn’t make it out. Finally, they saw him reach the house and run through the front door.
Suddenly the valley was gone, and the lake was back at their feet. They stood, silently, unable to react. Then, as they watched, a soundless explosion of light came from under the lake, rising to a brightness that hurt their eyes, then, pulsating erratically, faded slowly into darkness, until they were left, staring once again at dark and peaceful waters. There was no moon. The crickets began to chirp again.
A touch of dawn had begun to light the sky. Howell turned to lead Scotty back into the cabin and stumbled over Denham White’s double-barreled shotgun, lying at the lake’s edge.
“Where did that come from?” Scotty asked.
Howell picked up the weapon and broke it to inspect the empty chambers. “It’s something I misplaced,” he said.
39
“Tell me again how this tape recorder works?” The Georgia State Patrol captain’s voice came down somewhere between skepticism and outright incredulity.
“It’s voice-activated,” Howell explained again. “Once it’s turned on, it only records when it hears something, and it automatically controls the recording level. Miss MacDonald managed to turn it on when I arrived at the cabin, when Scully was occupied with me.”
“Okay, I’ll take your word for that,” the captain said. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off his collar insignia. “And you say that right after this shooting on the tape, Sheriff Scully threw down the shotgun, ran out onto the deck, ran down the steps out there, and jumped in the lake.”
“Jumped in and started swimming away,” Howell said. “I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me; he just kept going.”
“We found his body nearly a mile along the lake,” the captain said, shaking his head. “I expect we’ll get a suicide-by-drowning verdict from the coroner. Wasn’t a mark on him.”