I phoned Kinnear several times on the drive but got the same message. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about his address-a suburban house in a suburban street. When we arrived there was something remarkable, to us at least- a blue Camry parked further down the street. We stopped behind it. There was a scattering of cars parked in the street.
‘He’s here,’ Wes said.
‘Yeah, probably inside. Wonder what he made of my phone calls.’
Wes opened the door. ‘I’ve got to go in and talk to him. Make him see sense.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Look there.’
A station wagon passed us and pulled into the driveway of Kinnear’s house. The gate was open and the car drove in and out of sight behind some shrubs. Wes jumped from the car and sprinted towards the house. I grabbed the Colt from the glove box and followed him at the best pace I could muster.
The house was a double-fronted weatherboard with a California bungalow-style wide front porch on a large block. The garden had been carefully tended at one time but had been let go-the grass was long and weeds had invaded the flower beds and were sprouting up around the bases of the shrubs. Wes hesitated at the porch and I caught up with him.
‘At the back,’ I whispered. ‘He’d go from the garage to the back door.’
‘Where’s Clinton?’
I didn’t answer. Instead I got going around the back, hoping to be able to size up the situation before Wes barged into it, charged with emotion and a good chance to get himself shot. We stopped dead when we rounded the back of the house. Lights were blazing in a glassed-in sun porch and we could see two figures, distorted and unclear through the dirty louvres, standing in the middle of the room. Both were tall and heavily built, but it wasn’t difficult to pick out Clinton. He was the one with the gun in his hand. The gun was pointing at the middle of Kinnear’s chest.
I held Wes back with one hand. ‘This is dodgy. That pistol doesn’t need much of a pull.’
‘God damn you for letting him get it.’
That was helpful. We crept closer to the back door and could hear what was being said inside.
‘I know you gave her the steroids, Ted,’ Clinton said. ‘I fucking know!’
‘I didn’t, Clint! I swear I didn’t.’
I felt Wes react as Clinton swiped Kinnear across the face with the pistol and then had it quickly poised again. ‘You’re lying.’
Kinnear reeled back under the blow but he didn’t fall. It seemed to galvanise and embolden him. ‘Well, fuck you, Clint. What if I did? She begged me for the stuff. She knew she wasn’t good enough to make the Institute unless she got stronger. I just did what she wanted. You could’ve done with a dose of the same at the time. You’re a fucking fat pig now, but.’
I expected Clinton to hit him again but he didn’t. Instead, still moving with athletic grace, he got behind Kinnear.
‘Outside,’ he said quietly.
‘Why?’
‘I’m going to execute you and I’d rather do it outside.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I will. I’ll kill you and then myself. And I don’t want to die in your filthy fucking house. Move!’
He clouted Kinnear on the side of the head with the pistol. Not hard, but enough to jolt him, then he shoved him ahead. Instinctively, Kinnear pushed the door open and stepped out into the yard. Close behind, Clinton kicked him precisely in the back of the right knee. Kinnear collapsed on the broken cement path. Then Clinton saw us. He didn’t hesitate. He moved forward, grabbed Kinnear’s collar, jerked his head up and rammed the pistol into the base of his skull.
Wes stood and extended his hand. ‘Clinton, don’t do it, son. You’ll ruin your life for this old…’
‘Stay there, Dad. My life’s over, good as. It just didn’t work out.’
‘That’s crazy. Think of your mother and your sister.’
There wasn’t a lot of light in the yard but I could see the tears on Clinton’s face. ‘All I can think of is Angela and how this bastard killed her.’
It was impossible to tell whether he’d cocked the gun. If he hadn’t, it wouldn’t fire and we could get to him in the time it’d take him to cock it. But if he had, he could do what he threatened in a matter of seconds.
Kinnear was petrified but he managed to turn his head slightly towards us. ‘Do something,’ he pleaded.
‘They can’t,’ Clinton said. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
‘Clinton. No, boy, no.’
The guttural Aboriginal voice was firm and arresting; Clinton turned to look but kept both hands in place. Joe Cousins and Kathy Simpson stepped into the patch of light coming from the porch.
‘He killed Angela, Mr Cousins,’ Clinton said. ‘He’s admitted it.’
‘Don’t let him kill you then,’ Joe Cousins said. ‘Give us the gun.’
He moved forward, almost casually and, strangely, Kathy came with him. For no good reason, it struck me that she was the only fair one among us. She seemed to glow in the faint light and she was making murmuring noises of comfort directed towards Clinton and he wavered. It could have been the presence of someone young like himself, or maybe the authority Joe Cousins was exerting or both, but Clinton relaxed his grip on Kinnear’s collar and let him sprawl forward. Beside me, Wes relaxed as Cousins took the pistol from Clinton’s hand.
‘Good boy,’ he said. Then he bent, placed the gun to Kinnear’s temple, fired and blew the top half of his head away.
25
Clinton moved to grab the gun, probably still intending to kill himself, but his father clipped him with a short right that buckled his knees. Wesley held him. Clinton struggled but then sagged and burst into tears. I took the pistol from Cousins who was standing calmly by. Then both men comforted Clinton as he cried his young heart out.
Kathy Simpson stood with her hands up to her face. She was shaking. I’d taken the gun by the barrel. I laid it down on the steps and put my arm around Kathy’s shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I should bring Mr Cousins. I didn’t know what was going to happen.’
‘No one did, Kathy. You did the right thing. Mr Cousins stopped Clinton from shooting him.’
‘But… but Mr Cousins…’
‘It’s better this way,’ I said. ‘It won’t be too bad. I’m going in to phone the police. You come in and sit down, or make some coffee or something. It’s a hard thing for a youngster like you to see, but you’ll get over it. Just come inside and don’t look.’
In fact we all went inside and they sat around the laminex kitchen table in silence while I phoned the police. Kathy drank a glass of water but didn’t make coffee. I doubt that anyone would’ve drunk it. It wasn’t a time for routine gestures.
Joe Cousins was composed and dignified and Wesley had trouble concealing his pleasure and relief. Clinton had calmed down. He sat beside his father, staring straight ahead as if there was something interesting written on the wall. His mouth moved as he muttered something but I couldn’t catch what it was.
‘I never shot a gun like that before,’ Joe Cousins said. ‘A hand gun I mean. It’s easy isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Too easy.’
A police siren sounded and he sat up straighter in his chair with his gnarled boxer and axeman hands clenched in front of him.
‘Listen, Joe,’ I said. ‘Don’t say a word to the cops. Don’t say a single word until you’ve got a lawyer right there with you.’
Cousins almost smiled. ‘Okay. Yeah. Things’ve improved that way. We’ve got some bloody good lawyers now.’
