The Heir (34 page)

“Jason Boyer inherited his father Melvin Boyer’s estate, including . . .”

These were the forces more difficult to oppose. But I had to.

I was in my driveway before eleven. The front of the house was dark. I let myself in. I was hungry.

Lights were on in the back hall and the kitchen, and I found Rosita unpacking grocery bags.

“Mr. Jason!” She didn’t know if I was friend or enemy.

“Is Katie still up?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Jason. I have only come back from the grocery store.”

“It’s late.”

“Yes. There is still so much to do in the new kitchen.”

I climbed the stairs. The upstairs hall light was also on. I stopped at the closed bedroom door.

What will I say to her? I had to bring some end to this war. Somehow. Was there any way? I could compromise. She could have the house and enough money. It would be better for her to break loose; she’d never understand me.

But the bed was empty, unused. I went back to the kitchen.

“Would she have gone out?” I asked Rosita.

“She was here when I left.”

“I’d like to find her.”

I went back up the stairs and opened doors. What was the point of sitting in the big, wonderful house all alone? She’d find someone else. A couple years from now she’d be over it. I came to my office door and pushed it open.

I didn’t touch her. I couldn’t move. She was in my reading chair, slouched sideways, glass eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mouth was fallen open and blood covered half her face and had dribbled across the black and purple of her dress. But her hair was still loose and untouched.

I don’t know how long I was there.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. Neither of us could.

And then I touched her unmoving hand. It was cool and limp. Something pressed against my shoe—I looked down. How natural to see a handgun on the floor.

I held it. It was familiar. It was probably mine. I didn’t really remember what mine had looked like.

I looked back at her and I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. It was just Katie, cold and quiet, terrible. I knew she wouldn’t speak to me, or move, but that was all I could comprehend.

Finally, sound! Harsh, abrupt; I’d been holding the gun too tight. Now there was a bullet in the ceiling, too.

The echoes circled and died away, and we were back to silence and not moving. Forever not moving.

Then there was screaming. I turned to the door. Rosita was the one screaming. Her hands were on her cheeks, her mouth open in a circle. I held up the gun to show her what had made the sound, and she left. I heard her running, down the hall, down the stairs, screaming, screaming.

In the jumble and ruin of my thoughts, something stirred. I was still just looking at her face. I would have straightened her up in the chair, but I couldn’t bear to touch her again. I heard Rosita’s screams from outside the window. She was running down the driveway.

The thought pushed up from under the debris and formed itself. I had to get away.

It was not from rational process. It was instinct, and only that growing primal urgency uprooted my feet from the floor and made them carry me to my desk and open the drawer and reach for the thick envelope in the back.

The first thing that came out in my hand was the picture from Melvin’s bedroom. I set it back in the drawer and tried again and found what I was looking for, the cash envelope I kept for whatever reason I might need it. I hadn’t known why I might need it.

I dropped it. Twenty- and hundred-dollar bills scattered across the carpet. Suddenly I was moving fast. Fear and survival instinct were pushing me. I collected as much as I could find. I had to reach under her legs, and my hand brushed her ankle. I pulled my hand back and left those bills where they were.

I had to get away. I turned to leave. Should I look at her one more time?

But I couldn’t. I sprinted down the hall, took the stairs two at a time. The front door was still open from Rosita. I dashed through it to the drive, where I’d parked. I had to get away.

But my car was gone, and someone else was parked in front. Had someone heard the screams and already come? Or had this car already been there? I couldn’t remember if it had.

The gun. It was in my pocket. I’d put it there when I dropped the envelope. If someone else was close by, I’d need it to defend myself.

Then I remembered that this was the rental car. My car was back at the marina. I got myself in and turned the key and the tires screamed as I escaped.

34

The rain was heavy. Ahead, I saw signs for the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was well after midnight.

The adrenaline had finally drained and I could think. It had been seeing her, and Rosita screaming—I’d panicked and run. Now I knew why: Rosita had heard the shot, she’d seen the gun in my hand. She thought I’d killed . . .

Everyone would think so. The police would. It would be obvious I was the . . . the person who had . . .

Who had killed her. Katie. She was dead.

It must have been a dream, it couldn’t be true. How could she not be alive?

Even if I hadn’t been there, they’d still be chasing me. It was so obvious I was the one. It had even been my gun.

It couldn’t be true. I’d go back. It wouldn’t be true.

I kept going. I didn’t get on the turnpike; it was watched too closely.

What was I doing? The more I thought, the more I had to get away. Melvin, Angela, Grainger. They’d accuse me of all of the murders. What could I do? Fred and DeAngelo, they’d make sure I was convicted. Being innocent didn’t matter. Fred always said that.

Every way I thought of it, it was worse. The first murders had left no trace, but this one used my gun, my house, my . . .

Oh, Katie. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road until the shaking stopped. Katie was dead.

Where was I? My car was at the marina—the boat was on Cape Cod. I’d rented this car with my Jeff Benson driver’s license. It was as if I’d planned to make myself hard to trace. Eventually the police would figure it all out, and it would be more proof against me. For now, it would help me get away.

I needed to get far away. The police would have been at the house by now and would be looking for me everywhere. There was a New England map in the glove box. I picked a road to Keene, in New Hampshire. I’d stay off highways.

The rain finally stopped about two. I’d bought gas in Keene, and I was crossing the bottom edge of Vermont. Francine would know by now that her daughter was dead. Eric would know, too. They’d have searched his place and questioned him. He’d tell them about me pulling out the gun in Fred’s office. Fred would know, of course. He’d have already talked to DeAngelo, the police commissioner.

The gun! Fred had kept it. How had it gotten to my house? Wasn’t it the same gun?

It all made sense. It had to be Fred. He was the only one. The last person to see Melvin; he was in the right place to kill Grainger. He was obviously someone Angela would let into the parlor.

There would have been no problem getting to Katie.

Why? I didn’t know. Katie had changed her mind? I could guess a hundred reasons—I’d have to know everything Fred knew to guess which one. It would have to do with money and power, of course. He’d do anything.

One small sign beside the road and I was out of Vermont. It was so quiet. “We’re in New York,” I said. She must be asleep.

No. She wasn’t there.

It was three thirty and pitch black on the two-lane road. A long time since I’d pulled myself off the couch in the office and eaten Pamela’s bagels.

Albany was ahead. I pulled into a shopping center so bright I couldn’t see. Behind the all-night grocery store I found the employees’ cars.

It only took two minutes to unscrew the license plates from a red pickup and another three minutes to put them on my car. My brain was spinning and throwing out thoughts, but my actions were still just reflex.

My old plates I put in my trunk. That was enough adrenaline to get me through Albany wide awake.

Then I had to stop. I parked in a hospital lot filled with cars and leaned the seat back.

It wasn’t sleep, just a vehicle for hallucinations. Inside my skull she was alive. She was a rainbow, her dress every color in turn, her pearls a long shoreline of lights in the dark, and I was on the black waves looking for her. I woke in dread of all the nights ahead of me.

It was seven thirty, the sun in my eyes.

I bought a razor and a toothbrush. The clothes I had on were the same I’d sailed in last night, and they stank and were stiff with salt. I used the razor to scrape the rental stickers off the car windows. I didn’t use it on myself.

The newspaper headlines were Harry Bright and Boyer divorce. Nothing about Boyer murder. Maybe it hadn’t happened.

The New York Times
had a picture of Henry Malden taking his oath of office. With his hand up, he looked like the stone statue in the church. I thought about Katie’s funeral. First I thought how terrible it would be, looking at her casket. Then I remembered I wouldn’t be there. Francine had always known I’d kill her daughter.

I forced myself to turn on the radio. It was loud static; I was far from the station I’d listened to the night before, driving back from Cape Cod. I searched channels.

Classical music, country music, traffic and weather. Maybe nothing had happened. I’d wake up next to her, and Rosita would have breakfast going. I was hungry. I pulled onto the interstate toward Binghamton. Top forty, classic rock. News.

“. . . a massive hunt for the billionaire and apparent murderer. Early this morning the Coast Guard was added to the list of law enforcement agencies seeking Boyer after his car was found at his marina and his personal sailboat was missing from its berth. Authorities now believe Boyer may have been involved in three other murders that have rocked the state, including his father, his stepmother, and a political rival. State Police Commissioner Miguel DeAngelo has personally taken charge of the investigation and search. In a statement earlier, he said that the victim, Katherine Boyer—”

I turned it off. She was Katie. We both disliked
Katherine
.

I was doing ninety. I slowed down and pulled off. There was a big discount store at the exit and I bought some clothes. I counted the money in the envelope—forty-five twenties and seventeen hundreds.

A week ago, twenty-six hundred wouldn’t have been enough to dress for dinner.

The clothes were cheap and fit poorly; I’d hate for Katie to see me looking like this. I bought a hat, a baseball cap I could wear down over my face, and sunglasses.

I had breakfast at a truck stop. I sat in a corner in my disguise and watched the news on the monitor across the room. The volume was high enough to hear in the parking lot.

There was no other news anywhere in the world. It was all mine. They did family history about Melvin, and the FBI investigation into his criminal practices. They did Angela the eccentric widow. They did political scandal. They did impeachment and conviction. Harry Bright was doing his part to keep the story alive—he was refusing to leave the governor’s mansion. They did shutdown of state government and anarchy in the departments and investigations and arrests.

They did the murders. They did Melvin’s faked accident and Angela’s faked suicide, and Clinton Grainger’s unfaked murder. And over and over they showed it, in grainy news video from the street, the white-covered stretcher carried out the front door of my house and gently set in the ambulance.

They had Commissioner DeAngelo personally directing the investigation from the podium in the press room by answering questions from reporters. He told them the suspect was armed and dangerous and that his brother was under police protection. He also confided that he’d suspected Jason Boyer from the beginning. Motive and opportunity. It was obvious. Melvin’s death? DeAngelo waved the report right there on television. Brake fluid on the driveway. Irrefutable proof.

The whole state was shaken and cracked. Everything that Melvin had touched was on the television screen. What deep and wide roots he’d put down, and how damaging it was to pull them up. So many lives he’d touched, and every one was dead or dying.

In Pennsylvania I changed plates again, taking them from a blue Ford van parked behind an auto repair shop. It was past noon.

I was far away. This was not where they would look for me. Here, I just had to be careful, and I had options, west or south.

But my mind was still back at the house, in my own office.

It had to be Fred. Katie, what did you say to him? How did you threaten him? Did you even know? Or maybe she was just an innocent bystander. Did Fred kill her just to get me out of the way? If so, he’d accomplished it.

There was nothing I could do. All I could do was hide from the police, and from Fred. At least the police wouldn’t kill me, probably. Was there any chance the state police would find the real killer? No.

I found a library and spent two hours looking online for every detail they’d reported. My picture was everywhere. I moved to a different computer behind some shelves, less out in the open.

It had been my gun; the bullets matched the ones I’d fired at the gun shop. There was a story about how I’d been rearranging my assets, possibly to transfer funds overseas. It was definite that I had no alibi for Angela’s murder or for Melvin’s murder, and that I’d met with Grainger Thursday night. There was a lot of information that only Fred would have known.

He would kill me next, unless he got me convicted first, which would be just as good. I was his fifth victim either way.

As the sun set I drove into West Virginia. It was high October, when Katie and I usually took a weekend in a quaint New England inn and appreciated the colors and warm days and cool nights. We’d shop for Christmas presents. We probably had reservations somewhere. Katie had made them last year, maybe even for this coming weekend? We hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.

I’d have to sleep in the car again. Behind a big camping store, I found a dark corner. I leaned the seat back and slept in it for the second time.