James Heneghan - Fit to kill

He threw on some clothes and ran. The front door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open.

“Matty?” The light was on in the kitchen.

“Matty?”

Silence except for the wind.

He hurried through into the kitchen.

The back door was wide open. He looked outside and saw a figure kneeling in the dirt.

He shouted, “Matty! Are you all right?”

The only answer was a deep rumble of thunder and flash of lightning.

He went out. “Matty? Come inside!” He stood over her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m burying them,” she said calmly.

“I can’t have them in my house.”

Using a small hand shovel, she was digging a shallow grave in the soft muddy ground. Beside her was a single wood burl, like a bowling ball, glassy with Albert’s epoxy resin finish. Casey bent closer to examine it. He stared. Under the layers of resin, and mounted like a trophy, was a human head.

He yelled at her over the howl of the wind, “Where are the others, Matty?”

She led him into the house and down the stairs to the workshop. She pointed. On the shelf in front of her were four more heads like the one in the backyard, preserved like museum pieces in layers of resin. Like flies trapped in amber.

Women’s heads.

Fixed for eternity.

If you didn’t know they were real women, you would think them beautiful.

“Matty, we have to call the police.”

“No!” She turned on him quickly, pleading.

“Nobody must know. Help me, Casey! Help me bury-”

“But, Matty-”

“My life-” She gasped for breath. “My life would be over…if this got out.” She reached out and gripped his arms. “Please, Casey?”

He looked into her suffering eyes and felt suddenly tired. A huge weight settled across his shoulders. His legs felt weak. The story would be in all the papers right across the country-if not the whole world. The tv scorpions would be after her. Police would be in and out of the house for a week. They would erect a barrier with yellow crime-scene tape around the property. Sightseers would drive by the house taking pictures. People would point out Matty in the street and whisper together as she went by.

“It’s no good, Matty,” he said quietly.

“The police need to know.”

She cried.

“How long have you known Albert was the West End killer, Matty?”

“Since yesterday,” she said. “He left his workshop door open. He never leaves it open.”

She wept. Casey held her in his arms and then steered her out of the workshop and up the stairs to the kitchen.

“Sit here, Matty.” He pulled out a chair for her. The floor was muddy. He crouched beside her. “Look, Matty, it will be all right, you’ll see. Leave everything to me. Now tell me, where’s Albert?”

She raised her swollen eyes to the ceiling.

“Is he all right?”

She shook her head. She was trembling.

He made a fast 9-1-1 call and then hurried up the dark stairs to the bedroom. His fingers found the switch near the door and flipped it on. There was an immediate flash as the wires shorted.

He returned to the kitchen. Matty was shivering. “I need a flashlight.”

She pointed. He pulled open the drawer and took out a flashlight.

“Get out of those wet things before you perish, Matty. Police and ambulance will be here any minute.

He climbed the stairs again and shone the flashlight about the wrecked room, open to the wind and rain. The chestnut tree filled the room.

The rest was broken plaster and lathe, roof tiles, splintered timbers. He moved forward cautiously, feeling his way, acutely aware that a roof timber might fall and trap him.

Then he saw Kayle on the collapsed bed, pinned and crushed under the weight of the huge chestnut tree.

The West End killer was dead.

The storm blew itself out by noon. A ridge of high pressure had moved down the coast, bringing bright winter sunshine. The mountains seemed higher than their four and five thousand feet on days like this. They towered over the city, dazzling white, like bright young nurses in starched caps surrounding the bed of a recovering patient.

The Stanley Park seawall was crowded with walkers, joggers, cyclists.

“All we need is daffodils and it would be just like spring,” said Emma, breathing in the sharp air. She and Casey were on their way to the Sylvia Hotel to meet Debbie Ozeroff and her partner for lunch.

They introduced themselves. All were dressed casually. Ozeroff was the happiest Casey had seen her in months. She shook Emma’s hand enthusiastically. “You’re quite the surprise, Emma. Finally, we meet you. Casey tells us nothing.”

Emma smiled at these words. “He’s a quiet one all right, Debbie.” She pulled off her wool cap and shook hands with Vera Tanaguchi.

Ozeroff asked Casey, “How’s Matty Kayle?”

Casey and Emma had arranged for Matty to stay with Emma’s cousins’ family in Port Moody.

Emma said, “Matty’s good. Dan and Maureen make sure of that. Matty isn’t used to having so many people about her, especially their noisy twins. But Maureen says she’s settled in nicely. She’s talking about things, her husband and her marriage, not locking everything inside. And that’s a good sign, I think. If they can keep her for a while, the police and the media will be out of her hair. Maureen thinks Matty should stay a month at least. They all say she’s lovely and no trouble. The twins love her. Matty seems to think rather a lot of you, too, Casey.”

“She’s a good woman, so she is.”

Ozeroff laughed. “Casey likes to charm the ladies.”

They sipped their drinks.

Later, back at her apartment, Emma closed her eyes. “I’m glad it’s all over. I don’t want to talk or think about that monster for the rest of my life.”

“Is it, Emma? Is it really over for you?”

“No, not really. I’ll probably always have a scar. I don’t like to think of Albert Kayle and what he did.”

“Yes,”

“Will you stay for supper?”

“I will. What are you cooking?”

“It’s vegetarian. You’d better like it.” She frowned. “Casey?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking. I could be dead. I’m only alive today because of you. It makes me want to savor more than ever what’s left of my life. D’you hear what I’m saying?”

“I do. Carpe diem. Seize the day.”

Emma said, “Did you ever drive the winding road from Belfast to Galway?”

“I did.”

“Do you recall the sight of the town as you drive down from the hills?”

“Aye, I do. At night you can see the moon swimming in the Corrib.”

“Casey?”

“Hmm?”

“I miss it sometimes-home, I mean.”

“I miss Ireland too. But Canada is my home now.”

“Mine too. But I want to go back and see it with these new eyes of mine. These Canadian eyes.”

“Perhaps we could go together.”

Emma smiled. “I would like that.”