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
