“After you told me that the FBI had paid you a visit, I knew that someone had finally noticed. I knew that the closer things got to you, the faster you’d try and figure out who I was. So, just to delay the inevitable, I handed you Nick Pruitt.”
Marty told me that it was true that Pruitt had made a formal complaint against Norman Chaney after the house fire that killed Chaney’s wife, Pruitt’s sister. And for that reason, Marty had already checked Pruitt out before I ever asked him for information on Chaney’s death. Pruitt was a recovering alcoholic with a few arrests on his record, someone Marty thought was the perfect candidate for the murder based on Malice Aforethought. If Pruitt suddenly died of alcohol poisoning, who would suspect it was a murder? He had a verifiable past as someone who abused alcohol.
After Marty and I had drinks at Jack Crow’s Tavern on that Wednesday night, Marty went to a liquor store and bought a bottle of scotch to take to Pruitt in New Essex. “He just let me in. I’d shown him my gun, of course. Told him I needed him to take a few drinks. Once he started, he actually couldn’t stop. It wasn’t that hard to convince him to drink almost the whole bottle. I’d laced it with liquid benzos, just to be sure.”
He smiled. “After Pruitt was a dead end, I figured I could push you toward thinking Brian Murray, or even Tess, was involved. Did it work? Did you actually notice the brand of scotch?”
“I did,” I said.
“That pleases me,” Marty said, as though I’d just complimented him on his sweater.
“How well do you know Brian and Tess Murray?” I said.
“Tess I just met tonight. Played a little hide-and-seek with her around the house before you got here. I know Brian pretty well, just through the store, but over the past few years I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping by that hotel bar he likes and having a few with him. I actually saw you with the two of them on Tuesday night. I knew Tess was back because of Brian’s broken arm. And now it’s all set up. Police’ll find Brian’s dead body in his home—I’m thinking a pillow over the face with a gun fired into it—and Tess will have disappeared. We can even pack a suitcase for her. It will be just like Red House Mystery. One dead body, one fleeing murderer. All we need is a good place to hide her body.”
“What’s wrong with her, with Tess?” I said, glancing toward where she was still sleeping curled up on the sofa. She hadn’t moved.
“I slipped some of that benzodiazepine into the coffee she was drinking. Put it in her port, as well, and I think she had some of that. There’s a good chance she took enough to put her over, but if not, I don’t think it’ll be a problem finishing her off. Something gentle like a plastic bag over the head should do it.”
I think we’d both gotten used to hearing the steady snoring coming from Brian in the downstairs bedroom, but suddenly we both heard a loud grunting snore, so violent that we both looked at each other. Marty picked the gun up off his thigh and turned his attention in that direction. “Sleep apnea,” he said. “I doubt he’ll wake himself up, but let’s go have a look.”
He stood up and I could hear his knees pop. “You, too,” he said, pointing the gun toward me. I stood, as well.
Together we walked to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, me first, with Marty behind me. The door had been left open a crack, and I pushed through. It was dark inside, but a small amount of light came through a window so that I could see Brian, lying on his back above the sheets of the bed. Tess had left his clothes on, but his pants were unbuttoned, his belt hanging loose. I watched as his chest fluttered a little, rising and falling fast, then he let out another explosive snore. I didn’t know how it hadn’t woken him.
“Jesus,” Marty said from behind me. “Let’s put the motherfucker out of his misery.”
I turned, just as Marty flicked the wall switch, and the bedroom was suddenly flooded with light from a floor lamp. Above the bed that Brian was sleeping on was a large abstract painting, chunky blocks of red and black.
“You can quit right now, Marty,” I said.
“And do what?”
“Turn yourself in. We’ll both do it. We’ll go together.” I knew it was a long shot, but Marty seemed tired, and it occurred to me that he was at the end of this particular game. Maybe, down deep, he wanted to get caught.
He shook his head. “It sounds exhausting, having to talk to all those cops, and then the lawyers and the psychiatrists. It’s easier to keep going. We’re almost done here. Eight perfect murders. Your favorite murders, Mal.”
“They were my favorites in books, not in real life.”
Marty was quiet for a moment, and I thought that he was maybe breathing a little heavy. For a moment, I fantasized that he might just keel over dead from a sudden heart attack. He looked up, though, and said, “I’ll admit that the thought of it all being over is not unpleasant. I tell you what I will do for you. I’ll let you have this one—have Brian—because, frankly, I’ve been doing all the heavy lifting since you took care of Norman Chaney. I’ll give you this gun, and all you have to do is go put a pillow over his face and fire the gun into it. I don’t think the neighbors will hear it, and if they do, they’ll just figure they heard something else. A car backfiring, or something.”
“Sure,” I said and held out my hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mal. If I give you the gun, then you can keep me at gunpoint and call the cops, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll come after you and you’ll have to shoot me. So, either way, you’re going to have to shoot someone. It’s either Brian, here, or me. I’m giving you that choice. And if it’s me, that’s okay. I’ve got a prostate the size of a whiffle ball. I’ve had my go-around. I think these last few years, getting to know you, and playing this little game, it’s all been gravy.”
“Not for everyone.”
“Ha. I suppose so. But, down deep, like me, you know none of this really matters much. If I hand you this gun and you put a bullet through Brian’s brain, you’ll be doing him a favor, most likely. You just might like it, too. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said, extending my hand farther toward him.
He smiled. Whatever I’d seen in his eyes earlier, that happiness, was gone now. I saw what I always used to see in his eyes. I always thought it was kindness.
He put the gun in my hand. It was a revolver, and I pulled the hammer back.
“It’s a double action revolver,” Marty said. “You don’t actually need to cock the hammer.”
I looked at Brian Murray, prostrate on the bed, and then I turned back to Marty and shot him in the chest.