One Dead Drag Queen (31 page)

“That was fortuitous chance. We wanted one more little explosion to round everything off. We wanted to divert suspicion completely. I recognized the truck from an interview I did with Scott from before he came out. I saw you guys drive off in it together. When I saw it in the clinic parking lot, I thought it would be perfect. What greater way to divert suspicion from our real purpose?”

Scott walked into the room carrying a six-foot-long, two-inch-thick wooden plank on his shoulder. He held it in such a way that Kearn was not in his line of vision.

“Have you been messing with my tools?”

I am never to touch Scott’s tools. He told me he’d get me my own set. I promised and promised to put things back exactly where I found them. He told me it was like how I wanted my own newspaper every day. That I didn’t want sections that he’d read through. I know my peccadillo doesn’t make much sense, but neither does his. But it was one of those compromises. And I don’t need tools all that often. And what was the point of hassling each other about something we could both afford?

Kearn swung his gun in Scott’s direction and commanded, “Put the board down.” He began advancing toward Scott.

Scott looked at me and knew I hadn’t spoken. He swung the board around to look for the other voice. He caught Kearn in the solar plexus. The reporter doubled over. The gun fired. The bullet thunked into the wood, passed through, and tore a tunnel through the carpet. Scott bashed him one on the head.

Kearn crumpled to the floor.

I said, “He’s the bomber.”

“Kearn? How do you know?”

“Myrtle Mae was right and wrong.” I explained about the Fattatuchis’ son, the tapes, and Kearn’s excess of knowledge about Myrtle Mae.

“He killed all those people just to do away with a rival terrorist?”

“It would have been a perfect murder. His cameraman was also one of the fanatic antiabortionists. They worked together.”

While waiting for the police, we trussed Kearn up and tied him to a kitchen chair. When he came around, Scott asked,
“Don’t you feel guilty about killing all those people?”

“Guilt? No, I let the good Christians do guilt.”

Pulver showed up with McCutcheon about twenty minutes later. Jantoro arrived soon after. He brought several beat cops with him.

We explained everything. Kearn didn’t say a word to the cops. They took him away along with the tapes. I felt incredible relief that all the crap was finally going to be over. We refused to be part of the press conference that was held to announce the capture of the bomber. I’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Scott agreed.

Before heading out to my place that night, we visited the hospital. In Alan Redpath’s room Oliver was asleep in the chair. I stood next to Alan. Except for an IV connection to his arm, he was no longer hooked up to any machines. I found the nurse and asked her how he was. She said that he was out of danger and would recover. I returned to the room. Scott and a sleepy Oliver were talking softly. I saw Alan open his eyes. He smiled groggily and reached out his arms to me. I picked him up and held him. I hoped he found as much comfort and satisfaction as I did as his small arms reached around my neck and shoulder.

Over the next few days and weeks several things happened. First, we decided on a simple trip to our cabin in northern Wisconsin as a break for the weekend.

They investigated for weeks, but Kearn’s vast network of a conspiracy turned up only two more people, besides the cameraman.

We were talking with Pulver and McCutcheon one night
after one of Scott’s appearances. We hadn’t hired a new firm yet.

Pulver said, “It’s hard to tell with these conspiracy folks. Their numbers get larger the more vivid their imaginations. I think their power and influence is greatly exaggerated.”

The lawsuit against Borini and Faslo and three baseball team owners they were working for never got to court. Borini and Faslo were bankrupted because of the settlement, but the owners had to pay. We didn’t buy a small country. We did get a minor league franchise in Chicago’s south suburbs. We added the cash from the settlement to what we got in reward for catching the bomber and set up a trust fund for the kids hurt in the blast.

The day we solved the mystery, we went to my place in the country. Mostly I sat and stared at the flat countryside around my home. I listened to tapes of Judy Collins. Scott worked for a while on another carpentry project.

That night we lay awake together in my bed in each other’s arms. I listened to the last insects of fall and the soft breeze through the window, which was open to the last warmth of the summer. I still couldn’t fall asleep. I always wanted my life to have made a difference to the world. I know you can only change the little part that is close to you, and even that part not all that often. Perhaps I’ve always thought my life would be justified if I at least added a little kindness to the world. I know most of us are less than a blip in the vast history of the universe, but I think most of us like to think we’ll have some kind of immortality beyond that which is promised but unproved by most major religions.

I felt Scott’s arms sag and his head lean against mine. His breathing became more regular. If there was to be comfort in the world, this was about as much as I or anybody else would ever get. Love for a good person who in turn loved me.

I stayed in that position until my arm fell asleep. Then I eased it carefully out from under him. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling trying to think of anything but being blown up. But memories do fade and sleep does come and we do move on, and we are not paralyzed by a universe too unimaginably vast to comprehend.