John Lutz: Burn

“You were jealous of him,” Carver said.

“Oh, I was more than jealous. I wanted to kill him. To kill both of them. I’m not-I mean, Marla was the first woman I’d ever been intimate with. She needed money and I worked free for her, did anything for her. Maybe she was only using me, but it killed me that she was deserting me for one of them … a man. I phoned her in Orlando and arranged to meet her at her house that night, told her it was important. I took Brant with me, still not knowing who he really was, thinking he was Marla’s other lover. I didn’t find out I was wrong until the next day.”

“Wasn’t Marla surprised to see Brant when she opened her door? Didn’t she say anything?”

“She was astounded, but I thought it was the shock of seeing me with the man she was leaving me for. She just stood there with her mouth open, and as soon as we were in the house, I shot both of them to death before I could change my mind. She never really had time to do anything but stammer. I used the Tokarev because I knew it would be difficult to trace, and I could dispose of it without arousing suspicion or having to replace it. Then I fired some rounds with the gun I’d talked Marla into buying and knew she kept in her nightstand, hoping that in the aftermath of the fire it would appear the two of them had become locked in a struggle for it and killed each other in a burst of gunfire.”

“The thirty-two-caliber revolver the police found,” Carver said.

“Yes. I meant for them to find it. I thought if the fire was hot enough, the bullets would melt and become misshapen so there couldn’t be any ballistic tests, and the police would think they all could have come from Marla’s gun. After planting the gun, I went outside and got the spare gasoline can I kept in my car.”

“You left the can behind, along with the brass casing from the Russian gun.”

“I’m not an experienced arsonist, Mr. Carver. I was planning as I went. The flames shot up faster than I imagined and I panicked and ran. I didn’t realize until later I’d dropped the gas can in my flight. And I thought I’d picked up all the 7.62-millimeter shells ejected by the Tokarev. But I counted them later and realized I’d missed one.”

“You’re not an experienced killer, either,” Carver said.

“Experienced now,” she said sadly, and shivered.

“Tell me the truth about Marla and Brant,” Carver said. “Was he really stalking her?”

Willa seemed to be talking to the floor, her head still bowed, her voice a dull monotone. “No. Marla was rejected by her adoptive family, especially her father, and it left a void and a restlessness in her, a yearning. She told me once she’d been molested by her father, but she never talked about it again. She’s a journalist and knows how to do research, so she decided to find her real family. She contacted Portia Brant and identified herself as her sister shortly before Portia’s death. Portia was frightened, and because Marla was her sister she confided in her. She told Marla she suspected Joel was planning to murder her for her life insurance money so he could pay off gambling debts.”

“That’s Marla’s version. Did you believe her?”

“Of course. But before Marla could learn more, Portia was dead. Marla did some investigating. She was sure the air bag on the passenger side of the Brants’ car had been tampered with so it inflated a precious second too late after impact. The driver would be relatively safe in a head-on collision, but the passenger would die.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

“She probably would have, but while she was considering it, the salvage yard crushed the car and destroyed the evidence.”

“So Marla decided to avenge her sister’s death,” Carver said. “She was going to murder Joel Brant by setting him up, convincing the police he was fixated on her and stalking her, so she could make it look as if she’d killed him in self-defense.”

“Marla was the one with the fixation,” Willa said. “She lived with the conviction that Joel Brant had murdered her sister, but she did nothing about it. Then, three months ago, a woman named Gail she was involved with in Orlando died in a fire. First her sister, then her lover, gone. I think that’s when Marla became mentally unhinged with grief and obsessed with Joel Brant’s execution. She never called it murder. She was going to shoot him. I gave her the gun, taught her how to use it. I guess I was going to be a murderer either way.” She raised her head and stared at him beseechingly, as if she craved absolution. He couldn’t give it to her. “Do you understand now?” she asked.

He nodded silently.

She saw that he wasn’t going to forgive her. “I’m basically a good person,” she said, her voice an agony of guilt and a plea for understanding if not mercy. “Deeply religious.” She glanced with a terrible longing at the crucifix on the wall. “A good person. Nothing like any of this ever happened to me before. I lost my way. I only made one, horrible mistake that I’ll never be free of inside. But I disposed of the murder gun, and the shell casing you found doesn’t mean anything by itself. There’s no way you can prove what I just told you. No way a jury could convict me even I did have to go to trial.”

He knew she was right.

About everything but justice.

“In your case,” he said, “I don’t think it matters about the law or the jury.”

He gently removed from her hand the half-full glass of gin that was tilting sharply and about to spill, then he placed it next to the bottle on the table. On a glossy copy of Shooter’s World.

Then he left her to the truth.

“I talked to the detective in charge of the Portia Brant accident investigation,” Carver said. “He told me there was no reason for Marla Cloy to think Joel had tampered with the passenger-side air bag. Portia’s death was an accident.”

“He could be wrong,” Beth said.

“It’s possible.”

They were sitting side by side on the plank steps of the cottage’s front porch, watching sky and ocean darken as the sun set behind them. Far offshore the lights of a cruise ship became faintly visible in the void, a distant, self-contained world of soothing delusion.

“You think she was paranoid about Joel?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know. A lonely woman, forsaken by her adoptive family, a victim of childhood molestation. Then she discovers she has a sister. A lifeline. Then she suddenly loses the sister. Easy to understand how she might have blamed Joel Brant.” Carver stared out at the distant lights that seemed motionless. “Or maybe she really did have some reason to suspect him.”

“Might she have lied to Willa Krull?” Beth asked.

“Anyone might lie to anyone.”

“Then Willa might have lied to you.”

“Yes,” Carver said, “you can call this one whichever way you choose, however your mind colors it. You were right. Sometimes the truth’s impossible to discover. Life’s about irresolution, and learning to live with it.”

“But you,” Beth said, “you discover some of the truth, then you figure out the rest as accurately as possible. You find a faint thread woven through the tapestry and you follow wherever it goes, no matter the consequences. That makes you special, Fred.”

Special? Or simply good at his work? Or maybe it was the same thing. He knew the only kind of proof he had was Willa Krull. He’d believed her story, believed her pain. She was living with the truth.

“You solved your case,” Beth said. “You found the killer and the motive. The rest is always shadow.”

Carver’s stiff leg was extended so the heel of his moccasin dug into the sandy earth beyond the steps. He and Beth were sitting so close together that their arms touched. In the dying heat they continued to watch the darkness close in. The wavering snarl of a speedboat drifted in on the night, then faded as the boat made its way south along the shoreline.