Paul Robertson - The Heir

I held it. It was familiar. It was probably mine. I didn’t really remember what mine had looked like.

I looked back at her and I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. It was just Katie, cold and quiet, terrible. I knew she wouldn’t speak to me, or move, but that was all I could comprehend.

Finally, sound! Harsh, abrupt; I’d been holding the gun too tight. Now there was a bullet in the ceiling, too.

The echoes circled and died away, and we were back to silence and not moving. Forever not moving.

Then there was screaming. I turned to the door. Rosita was the one screaming. Her hands were on her cheeks, her mouth open in a circle. I held up the gun to show her what had made the sound, and she left. I heard her running, down the hall, down the stairs, screaming, screaming.

In the jumble and ruin of my thoughts, something stirred. I was still just looking at her face. I would have straightened her up in the chair, but I couldn’t bear to touch her again. I heard Rosita’s screams from outside the window. She was running down the driveway.

The thought pushed up from under the debris and formed itself. I had to get away.

It was not from rational process. It was instinct, and only that growing primal urgency uprooted my feet from the floor and made them carry me to my desk and open the drawer and reach for the thick envelope in the back.

The first thing that came out in my hand was the picture from Melvin’s bedroom. I set it back in the drawer and tried again and found what I was looking for, the cash envelope I kept for whatever reason I might need it. I hadn’t known why I might need it.

I dropped it. Twenty- and hundred-dollar bills scattered across the carpet. Suddenly I was moving fast. Fear and survival instinct were pushing me. I collected as much as I could find. I had to reach under her legs, and my hand brushed her ankle. I pulled my hand back and left those bills where they were.

I had to get away. I turned to leave. Should I look at her one more time?

But I couldn’t. I sprinted down the hall, took the stairs two at a time. The front door was still open from Rosita. I dashed through it to the drive, where I’d parked. I had to get away.

But my car was gone, and someone else was parked in front. Had someone heard the screams and already come? Or had this car already been there? I couldn’t remember if it had.

The gun. It was in my pocket. I’d put it there when I dropped the envelope. If someone else was close by, I’d need it to defend myself.

Then I remembered that this was the rental car. My car was back at the marina. I got myself in and turned the key and the tires screamed as I escaped.

The rain was heavy. Ahead, I saw signs for the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was well after midnight.

The adrenaline had finally drained and I could think. It had been seeing her, and Rosita screaming-I’d panicked and run. Now I knew why: Rosita had heard the shot, she’d seen the gun in my hand. She thought I’d killed…

Everyone would think so. The police would. It would be obvious I was the… the person who had…

Who had killed her. Katie. She was dead.

It must have been a dream, it couldn’t be true. How could she not be alive?

Even if I hadn’t been there, they’d still be chasing me. It was so obvious I was the one. It had even been my gun.

It couldn’t be true. I’d go back. It wouldn’t be true.

I kept going. I didn’t get on the turnpike; it was watched too closely.

What was I doing? The more I thought, the more I had to get away. Melvin, Angela, Grainger. They’d accuse me of all of the murders. What could I do? Fred and DeAngelo, they’d make sure I was convicted. Being innocent didn’t matter. Fred always said that.

Every way I thought of it, it was worse. The first murders had left no trace, but this one used my gun, my house, my…

Oh, Katie. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road until the shaking stopped. Katie was dead.

Where was I? My car was at the marina-the boat was on Cape Cod. I’d rented this car with my Jeff Benson driver’s license. It was as if I’d planned to make myself hard to trace. Eventually the police would figure it all out, and it would be more proof against me. For now, it would help me get away.

I needed to get far away. The police would have been at the house by now and would be looking for me everywhere. There was a New England map in the glove box. I picked a road to Keene, in New Hampshire. I’d stay off highways.

The rain finally stopped about two. I’d bought gas in Keene, and I was crossing the bottom edge of Vermont. Francine would know by now that her daughter was dead. Eric would know, too. They’d have searched his place and questioned him. He’d tell them about me pulling out the gun in Fred’s office. Fred would know, of course. He’d have already talked to DeAngelo, the police commissioner.

The gun! Fred had kept it. How had it gotten to my house? Wasn’t it the same gun?

It all made sense. It had to be Fred. He was the only one. The last person to see Melvin; he was in the right place to kill Grainger. He was obviously someone Angela would let into the parlor.

There would have been no problem getting to Katie.

Why? I didn’t know. Katie had changed her mind? I could guess a hundred reasons-I’d have to know everything Fred knew to guess which one. It would have to do with money and power, of course. He’d do anything.

One small sign beside the road and I was out of Vermont. It was so quiet. “We’re in New York,” I said. She must be asleep.

No. She wasn’t there.

It was three thirty and pitch black on the two-lane road. A long time since I’d pulled myself off the couch in the office and eaten Pamela’s bagels.

Albany was ahead. I pulled into a shopping center so bright I couldn’t see. Behind the all-night grocery store I found the employees’ cars.

It only took two minutes to unscrew the license plates from a red pickup and another three minutes to put them on my car. My brain was spinning and throwing out thoughts, but my actions were still just reflex.

My old plates I put in my trunk. That was enough adrenaline to get me through Albany wide awake.

Then I had to stop. I parked in a hospital lot filled with cars and leaned the seat back.

It wasn’t sleep, just a vehicle for hallucinations. Inside my skull she was alive. She was a rainbow, her dress every color in turn, her pearls a long shoreline of lights in the dark, and I was on the black waves looking for her. I woke in dread of all the nights ahead of me.

It was seven thirty, the sun in my eyes.

I bought a razor and a toothbrush. The clothes I had on were the same I’d sailed in last night, and they stank and were stiff with salt. I used the razor to scrape the rental stickers off the car windows. I didn’t use it on myself.

The newspaper headlines were Harry Bright and Boyer divorce. Nothing about Boyer murder. Maybe it hadn’t happened.

The New York Times had a picture of Henry Malden taking his oath of office. With his hand up, he looked like the stone statue in the church. I thought about Katie’s funeral. First I thought how terrible it would be, looking at her casket. Then I remembered I wouldn’t be there. Francine had always known I’d kill her daughter.

I forced myself to turn on the radio. It was loud static; I was far from the station I’d listened to the night before, driving back from Cape Cod. I searched channels.

Classical music, country music, traffic and weather. Maybe nothing had happened. I’d wake up next to her, and Rosita would have breakfast going. I was hungry. I pulled onto the interstate toward Binghamton. Top forty, classic rock. News.

“… a massive hunt for the billionaire and apparent murderer. Early this morning the Coast Guard was added to the list of law enforcement agencies seeking Boyer after his car was found at his marina and his personal sailboat was missing from its berth. Authorities now believe Boyer may have been involved in three other murders that have rocked the state, including his father, his stepmother, and a political rival. State Police Commissioner Miguel DeAngelo has personally taken charge of the investigation and search. In a statement earlier, he said that the victim, Katherine Boyer-”