Just to get rid of her, he said, “Sure.”
She got up abruptly and walked away, toward Treasured Things.
As Colin watched her go, he thought that she was far more terrifying than any of the monsters he’d feared throughout his childhood and adolescence. Christopher Lee, Peter Gushing, Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi-none of them had ever portrayed a character quite as chilling as Helen Borden. She was worse than a ghoul or a vampire, doubly dangerous because she was so well disguised. She looked rather ordinary, even drab, unremarkable in every respect, but inside she was an awful creature. He could still feel where her icy fingers had pressed against his face.
He took the recorder out of the windbreaker and switched it off.
Incredibly, he was ashamed of himself for some of the things he had said about Roy, and for the way he had so eagerly played to her hatred of her son. It was true that Roy was sick; it was also true that he was a killer; but it was not true that he had always been that way. He wasn‘t, as Colin had said, “born evil.” Fundamentally, he was not less of a human being than anyone else. He had not murdered his sister in cold blood, Judging from all the evidence that Colin had seen, Belinda Jane’s death had been an accident. Roy’s sickness had developed in the aftermath of that tragedy.
Depressed, Colin got off the bench and went out to the parking lot. He unchained his bike from the security rack.
He no longer wanted revenge against Roy. He just wanted to put a stop to the violence. He wanted to get the evidence so the proper authorities would believe and act. He was weary.
Although it was pointless to tell them, although they would never understand, Mr. and Mrs. Borden were killers, too. They had turned Roy into one of the living dead.
39
Colin called Heather.
“Did you talk to Roy’s mother?” she asked.
“Yeah. And I got more than I bargained for.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s too complicated over the phone. You’ve got to hear the tape.”
“Why don’t you bring it here? My parents are gone for the day.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t come by the front way,” she said. “Roy just might happen to be at the cemetery across the street; you never can tell. Take the alley and come through the backyard.”
He made certain he wasn’t followed, and she was waiting for him on the patio behind the house. They went into the cheery yellow-and-white kitchen, sat at the table, and listened to the taped conversation between him and Mrs. Borden.
When Colin finally switched off the machine, Heather said, “It’s awful.”
“I know.”
“Poor Roy.”
“I know what you mean,” Colin said morosely.
“I’m kind of sorry I said those mean things about him. He can’t help what he is, can he?”
“It affected me the same way. But we can’t let ourselves feel too sorry for him. Not yet. We don’t dare. We’ve got to remember that he’s dangerous. We’ve got to keep in mind that he’d happily kill me-and rape and kill you-if he thought he could get away with it.”
The kitchen clock ticked hollowly.
Heather said, “If we played this tape for the police, it might convince them.”
“Of what? That Roy was an abused child? That he was maybe abused enough to grow up twisted? Yeah. Maybe it would convince them of that, all right. But it wouldn’t prove a thing. It wouldn’t prove that Roy killed those two boys or that he tried to wreck a train the other night or that he’s trying to kill me. We need more than this. We have to go through with the rest of the plan.”
“Tonight,” she said.
“Yeah.”
40
Weezy came home at five-thirty, and they had an early supper together. She brought stuff from the deli: sliced ham, sliced turkey breast, sliced cheese, macaroni salad, potato salad, big dill pickles, and wedges of cheesecake. There was a lot of food, but neither of them ate much; she was always watching her figure, conscious of every extra ounce, and Colin was simply too worried about the coming night to have much of an appetite.
“You going back to the gallery?” he asked.
“In about an hour.”
“Be home at nine?”
“‘Fraid not. We close at nine, sweep the floor, dust the furniture, and open again at ten.”
“What for?”
“We’ve having a private, invitation-only showing of a new artist.”
“At ten o‘clock at night?”
“It’s supposed to be an elegant after-dinner affair. Guests will have their choice of brandy or champagne. Sound swell to you?”
“I guess.”
She put a daub of mustard on her plate, rolled up a slice of ham, dipped the ham in the mustard, and nibbled daintily. “All of our best local customers are coming.”
“How late will it last?”
“Midnight or thereabouts.”
“Will you come home after that?”
“I expect so.”
He tasted the cheesecake.
“Don’t forget your curfew,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“You be home before dark.”
“You can trust me.”
“I hope so. For your sake, I hope so.”
“Call and check if you want.”
“I probably will.”
“I’ll be here,” he lied.
After she had showered and changed and left for the evening, he went into her room and took the pistol from the dresser drawer. He put it in a small cardboard box. He also put the tape recorder, two flashlights, and a squeeze bottle of ketchup in the box. He took a dish towel out of the linen closet and cut it in half, the long way. He put the two strips of cloth with the other things. He went out to the garage and fetched a coil of rope from the wall, where it had been hanging ever since they moved into the house, and he added that to the bundle.
He had some time to kill before he could set out for the Kingman house. He went to his room and tried to work on one of his monster models. He couldn’t do it. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
An hour before nightfall, he picked up the box that contained the pistol, the tape recorder, and the other items. He left the house and strapped the package to the carrier on his bicycle. He followed an indirect route to the abandoned Kingman house at the top of Hawk Drive, and he was certain he was not followed.
Heather was waiting just inside the front door of the ruined mansion. She stepped out of the shadows when
