Steven Gore - Act of Deceit

Donnally had the feeling he was about to lose his appetite, too. He set Brown’s plate in the sink, then sat down across from her.

“I shouldn’t have brought him here,” Donnally said. “I’m sorry. This is your house.”

“Until now, I liked having it as our house, whatever ‘our’ means.”

“Look, I’ll testify that you had nothing to do with it.”

“You won’t have to. It’s not like he’s going to run to the police, and even if he did, nobody would pay attention.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then she took a sip of wine and said, “I think it’s time for me to move out and move on. I’ve just been in orbit. Circling the same spot in the universe and not really bumping into anything.”

Donnally felt gravity give way. “But we’re-”

“What? We’re what? People who occupy the same space every few months, or like now when you happened by on a mission that you don’t even understand.”

“I understand it perfectly. The truth has got to come out.”

“If you’re worried about the truth, you should’ve started a little closer to home, like with your father. It’s the blood on his hands, not on Charles Brown’s, that drives you.” She smirked as if she didn’t care whether their relationship ended that second. “Or is that just a little too much truth for you?”

“He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“He’s got everything do to with it. Every murderer you ever hunted down was a surrogate for your father.”

Donnally leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t realize that you’ve been psychoanalyzing me.”

“I should’ve started a helluva lot sooner. I’m not sure why I gave you a pass all these years.”

“Maybe because then you’d have to figure out what, exactly, you’ve been up to. After all, it’s the Vietnamese that he always portrays as either monsters or cannon fodder, or as prostitutes.”

I t was like every other argument they’d ever had, Donnally thought as he kicked at the Ocean Beach sand. Start someplace real, spin onto a tangent, recreate the past for whatever was the current need, and then he or she would say something meant to hurt worse than heartache. Somehow the real point, the real source of the pain, would get lost.

Donnally stopped a few feet from where the high tide died. It was only then, within the sound of the breaking waves and against the cold wind off the water, that he grasped why Brown’s no-contest plea had torn into him. It was as if no one had snuck into Anna Keenan’s bedroom, no one had climbed on top of her, no one had put his hands around her throat, no one had restrained her desperate thrashing, no one had muffled her screams, no one had felt her body go limp, no one had climbed out of her window-

Donnally felt his line of thought get hijacked and yanked off course.

Climbed out of her window?

He closed his eyes and locked his hands on top of his head.

Why would Brown climb out of her window?

Was it panic?

Was it guilt?

Did people like Charles Brown even feel guilt?

Donnally tried to visualize the police diagram he’d copied from the court file.

Why didn’t Brown just walk to the kitchen and out of the back door, or even out of the front door, like nothing happened?

But neighbors said they’d spotted Brown climbing the back fence and running away.

Donnally lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

Maybe it really was just a manslaughter. A premeditating murderer would’ve concealed both his approach and his escape in the normalcy of everyday life, not drawn attention to the crime or to himself by climbing over fences and running through yards.

Even so, Donnally swore as he turned back toward the city. I want to hear him say it. No contest isn’t good enough.

D onnally slipped through the kitchen door into the house. He wanted to force the words out of Brown, then drive him to Golden Gate Park and point him toward the bushes.

And he didn’t want to risk another argument with Janie.

The house was quiet, not even the sound of Janie’s bedroom television.

The basement stairs creaked as Donnally walked down. He wished he’d fixed them last year when she’d complained. The sound foreclosed the surprise he wanted. Without it, Brown would tense. Lock himself up. Bury his face in his hands and pretend the world away.

Donnally imagined Brown looking over at the stairs, watching his feet come into view where the overhead fluorescent fixture cast light on the steps, then his legs, and his torso and the semiautomatic holstered on his belt. Fear building in Brown’s mind. Maybe he’d even panic at the delusion that Donnally was coming down to kill him, cut up his body with the power saw on the shelf, and bury the pieces in the backyard.

Why not march down the stairs, Donnally asked himself, pound his heels into the wood, match crazy with crazy?

But he didn’t want Brown just to say the words, he wanted Brown to mean them.

He slowed his pace and lightened his steps. Just a friend coming to visit.

Donnally took the final turn.

Brown’s chair was empty.

The chains that had held him lay snaked on the floor.

Donnally grabbed a two-by-four, cocked it like a baseball bat, and ducked toward the space under the stairs.

Empty.

He tossed down the board and ran back up the steps.

Brown wasn’t hiding in the downstairs bathroom or in Janie’s office.

Janie.

Donnally ran up the next flight. Her bedroom door was open and her bed was in disarray. The bathroom light was on. He pulled his gun, imagining Brown standing over her bloody body lying in the tub.

Four steps later, he faced an empty bathroom.

He heard a muffled sound from down the hallway, then spun back toward the door and ran to the next bedroom. The door was closed.

He heard a voice from within. Janie’s. “No.”

At least she was still alive.

An image of Brown strangling Anna flashed through Donnally’s mind. He was sure Brown was kneeling over Janie. If he shot at Brown and missed, he’d hit her. He slipped the gun back into his holster, wishing he’d brought the board from the basement and imagining the thunk of wood against the back of Brown’s skull.

Donnally eased his hand around the doorknob and turned it. He heard a soft click of the bolt sliding past the strike plate. He pushed the door inward an inch, then allowed the knob to turn back. He lodged his forearm against the door and set himself to spring across the ten feet between it and the bed, grab Brown by his shoulders, and throw him to the floor.

He flung the door open, took a step, then froze.

Brown was curled into a fetal position at the head of the bed. Janie was sitting at the foot, dressed in her robe. They both flinched and looked up at Donnally, Brown in terror, Janie in anger.

“What are you doing?” she asked, raising her hands in complaint.

“I should be asking you that.”

“You said it’s my house. And in my house I can do what I want.”

Donnally extended his palm toward her. “Don’t put him in the middle of us.” He stepped forward. “Let me do what I brought him here to do.”

She rose and blocked his path. “No.”

“No what?”

“I’ve decided to make him my patient.”

“And have him do to you what he did to Anna when she took him in?”

“How do you know he did anything to her?”

Donnally glanced at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “You’re as nuts as he is.”

Janie reached toward the dresser and picked up a plastic pill bottle. She tossed it to Donnally. He looked at the label. Lithium prescribed at the Santa Rita jail.

“He’s been on that since he first appeared in court. His attorney insisted on it. Perkins wanted him to be competent to stand trial. She wanted to know the truth, too.”