scenes were dazzling. He might even have been a genius and, in time,
might have been honored with Oscars and other awards. But there was a
disquieting moral arrogance in his work, a smugness and bullying, that
now appeared to have been an early sign of much deeper problems
exacerbated by too many drugs.
ASSASSIN .
She wished that Toby didn't have to see his father labeled a
murderer.
Well, he'd seen it before. Twice before, all over his own house. He
had heard it at school, as well, and had been in two fights because of
it. He was a little guy, but he had guts. Though he'd lost both of
the fights, he would no doubt disregard her advice to turn the other
cheek and would wade into more battles.
In the morning, after she drove him to school, she would paint over the
graffiti. As before, some of the neighbors would probably help.
Multiple coats were required over the affected areas because their
house was a pale yellow-beige.
Even so, it was a temporary repair, because the spray paint had a
chemical composition that ate through the house paint. Over a few
weeks, each defacement gradually reappeared like spirit writing on a
medium's tablet at a seance, messages from souls in hell.
In spite of the mess on her house, her anger faded. She didn't have
the energy to sustain it. These last few months had worn her down.
She was tired, so very tired.
Limping, she reentered the house by the back garage door and locked up
after herself. She also locked the connecting door between the garage
and the kitchen, and punched in the activating code to arm the alarm
system again.
SECURE.
Not really. Not ever.
She went upstairs to check on Toby. He was still sound asleep.
Standing in the doorway of her son's room, listening to him snore, she
understood why Anson Oliver's mother and father had been unable to
accept that their son had been capable of mass murder. He had been
their baby, their little boy, their fine young man, the embodiment of
the best of their own qualities, a source of pride and hope, heart of
their heart. She sympathized with them, pitied them, prayed that she
would never have to experience a pain like theirs--but she wished they
would shut up and go away.
Oliver's parents had conducted an effective media campaign to portray
their son as a kind, talented man incapable of what he was said to have
done. They claimed the Uzi found at the scene had not belonged to
him.
No record existed to prove he had purchased or registered such a
weapon. But the fully automatic Micro Uzi was an illegal gun these
days, and Oliver no doubt paid cash for it on the black market. No
mystery about the lack of a receipt or registration.
Heather left Toby's room and returned to her own. She sat on the edge
of the bed and switched on the lamp.
