Paul Robertson: The Heir

I didn’t know the time. My watch was gone. I felt my pockets. No wallet. All the money was gone. I still had my keys. And something else…

It was my gun. Cursed thing, the one time I really should have used it, I hadn’t even thought of it.

There was a back door by the Dumpsters where they’d brought out the trash. It was unlocked. Inside the train station was an empty, grimy hall. It was too bright. A clock said it was nine twenty. Sunday night? It must be. There was a men’s room close.

What I saw in the mirror was hideous. One eye was bruised and swollen and the lip was split, and the face lacerated and torn-the bleached yellow hair was a scar itself. The shirt was matted with dried blood. It wasn’t even human.

I couldn’t stay. I stumbled back out into the night. The bus was impossible. I couldn’t be seen like this; I didn’t have money anyway.

I had to get to Eric.

Fifteen blocks.

I had to keep myself hidden. I had to keep moving. My jaw was the most painful now-I had to hold it with my hand. The jarring of each step made the pain still worse.

I don’t know how long it took to go that mile. I was half delirious. People who did see me stayed far away. I didn’t stop at the cross streets, and once a car squealed and swerved around me.

His street was mostly empty. I got across it, to his building. It was after eleven, but the fifth-floor lights were on.

The front door was locked. It took a few tries to get the key right, but then I was in. I got in the elevator. I’d forgotten to look for police. I’d just hope they weren’t close.

I had to prop myself against the elevator wall and it jerked my jaw when it stopped. I crossed Eric’s lobby to his door.

I didn’t know whether to knock or just go in. It would be better if he didn’t have a chance to call anyone. I put the key in the door and turned.

He was startled. He was watching television, still dressed, in jeans and a clean white pullover. He looked just like he always had.

“Who are you?” He’d stood when he heard the door opening, his reaction surprise and revulsion. He stared at me. His mouth pinched closed and his nose wrinkled. “What do you want?” he said. He really didn’t know who I was.

“Eric.”

He kept staring, and the reaction slowly changed into simple hate.

“Jason.”

I closed the door. “Help me.”

He stood aside, shrinking from me. Now he was frightened, too. I staggered into the room and stood for a moment with my back to him, looking at the clean, comfortable furniture, the wall of televisions. He walked around me, keeping his distance. “Jason?” he said again. I nodded. I was about to collapse.

I reached a chair in time, just by the door, and fell into it.

“What happened to you?” And then, “Where have you been?” And then, harder, with anger, “Why?”

“I didn’t kill her.” It took all my strength to speak.

“I don’t believe you.”

That hurt worse than anything, or it would have if I could have felt any more pain.

“I need water.” I hadn’t eaten in almost two days, but even more, I was thirsty. He didn’t move. “Please.”

He filled a glass and held it out to me; he didn’t want to get close. I tried to drink but I couldn’t get my jaw to open enough, and most of it poured down my chin.

“Straw,” I said.

He found one. It was still difficult but I filled my mouth with the water. Swallowing, I gagged, and lost it again.

He was disgusted. “Drink it slow if it’s so hard.”

I forced it down my throat. “More.”

“Here.”

The water helped so much. Now I was desperately hungry but I wouldn’t be able to chew.

“I need help,” I said again.

“You stink.” He backed farther away. “What happened to you? You tried to kill somebody who could fight back?”

“I didn’t kill her!” I screamed it at him but it was a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t kill her!” I tried to stand up but I couldn’t.

“I still don’t believe you.” He said it quietly. He was in pain, too. I could see what this week had done to him.

“It was Fred.”

“No! You’re lying.” That made it worse. I should have known how he would react. “You hate him!” he shouted.

“It had to be. He had the gun.”

“You had the gun.”

“No. I dropped it.”

“No you didn’t! You walked out with it. I saw you.”

It was too hard to understand. “What?”

“You walked out of Fred’s office with the gun in your hand,” Eric said. “We all saw you.”

“But Fred-”

“Shut up, Jason!”

I was too confused, and there was too much pain. “But it had to be him.”

“No. Everybody knows you killed her, and you killed Angela, and. ..” He couldn’t say it.

“I didn’t.” I had no more strength. “I didn’t kill her, Eric.” It wasn’t Fred? It had to be Fred. “I didn’t kill anyone.” Then who killed Katie? Now the pain of her loss came back stronger than any of the other pains, and I started crying, and then I leaned back into the chair and I was sobbing, my head in my hands, the world more black and terrible than it had ever been.

“I’m calling the police.”

I looked up to him. “No.” This was even worse. How could I stop him? “Please.”

“I have to.” He picked up the telephone.

“If they find me I’ll never… I’ll never…” I’d never what? I couldn’t remember. He pushed three buttons, 9-1-1. I had to do something.

“I need the police,” he said.

“No.” It would be over. How could he be such an idiot? I couldn’t stop him and I couldn’t get away. I thought about what I had in my pocket.

He spoke into the phone, standing by the big coffee table, his eyes on me. “My name is Eric Boyer.” Should I even stop him? The police would come and it would finally be over. They’d put me in a hospital and the pain would stop, and the running.

No. I had to make him stop. I put my hand around the handle.

“My brother, Jason Boyer, is in my apartment.”

His eyes were locked into mine. My finger was on the trigger. I had to stop him. Why had he always been such an idiot?

“Yes, ma’am,” he was saying. “Detective Wilcox told me…”

I pulled the trigger.

The gun wasn’t as loud as the shattering of the huge television screen. Eric’s head jerked toward the glass explosion, his mouth hanging open. For the moment, he was stunned. I had to move fast. With every ounce of energy I had and more, I launched myself out of the chair at him. I didn’t know what I was doing besides stopping him.

I slammed right into his chest and he fell backward with me on top of him. There was a crack as his head hit the slate table, and I felt his body jerk and then go limp.

“Hello? Hello? Mr. Boyer? Are you there?” The little voice piped from the phone. “We’re sending help. Are you there?”

I was still on him and I could hardly move. Something had hit my jaw, the pain was white-hot. I rolled off and sat next to him. It seemed like he was breathing, but he didn’t move.

What could I do? There was nothing I could do. I took hold of a chair and pulled myself up until I was standing. The only sound was the telephone. “Mr. Boyer, the police are coming. They’ll be there in two minutes. Mr. Boyer, can you hear me?”

It was the same as before, in my office, with Rosita screaming. I had to get away. I threw the gun as hard as I could through another television.

If there was anything I could have done, I would have stayed. But there was nothing I could do.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Again, I fled.

I stumbled out to the elevator and rode it down to the garage. I should have taken his car keys but I didn’t think of it. There were all his beautiful automobiles filling a whole wall of the garage-his life.