He shook his finger at his son.
“Just remember,” he said. “Never touch that gun. A gun is a deadly thing, Bobby. Hands off.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Guns make a big noise.”
Bobby grinned. “Bang-bang!”
“That’s right. So, hands off. Hear?”
Bobby looked longingly at the gun on the desk.
“Now, run along and play.”
He helped Bobby from his study with gentle pats on the shoulder. Then he closed the door, returned to his desk and sat down.
They would never execute a six-year-old boy for the accident of murder.
From the moment Fred Ordway thought of this, he got into a highly nervous state and remained that way. Right now he was perspiring freely. He mopped his face, loosened his tie, and opened the window beside his desk.
It was a rotten way to work things out, but it was the only way. He’d planned and schemed any number of ways. It always ended with the one simple answer.
He looked at it logically. It didn’t help. His wife, Marge, was beautiful, true—in a crystal-eyed, winey sort of way. But he liked martinis. He loved his son, Bobby. He had it soft, working only because it looked better. Marge had enough money so he would never have to work.
He was a real estate investigator, office in his home.
The only trouble was, he didn’t love his wife. He loved his secretary. Passionately. He couldn’t stand being in the same house with his wife. Yet, he loved his son. If he got a divorce, everything would come out into the open. Marge would gain custody of Bobby. He would lose the house and the money.
True, he would have Lillian. But how much better it would be to have Lillian and the money and Bobby.
Lillian liked Bobby. Bobby liked Lillian.
And Marge was a mess, even if she was Bobby’s mother.
He could not bear to lose the money. He was sick of real estate investigating. Marge didn’t suspect a thing concerning Lillian.
There was only the one thing to do.
Kill Marge.
So when he thought of the how, it floored him. He didn’t know whether it would work. But he became obsessed with the need to try.
He would be absolutely in the clear.
If it worked, Bobby would forget.
“Fred?” It was Marge, outside the study door. She opened the door and looked at him. “Miss Joyce isn’t back from downtown yet?”
He shook his head. “Miss Joyce” was Lillian. “She had to pick up some papers.”
“Oh,” Marge said. “Anyway, I’ve got to run down to the church. About the bazaar.”
“All right.”
“Keep an eye on Bobby?”
“Sure.”
He grinned at Marge. She smiled back at him. Her eyes were a very deep blue and they were striking, along with the shoulder-length auburn hair. She was wearing a fresh white linen suit, with large ebony buttons, and as he stared at her there in the doorway, he wished momentarily that what was happening hadn’t. She was quite beautiful.
Well, he thought, that’s life.
“See you then,” Marge said.
“Right. Uh—Bobby and I might go out for a while. Case we’re gone when you get back.”
“Oh? Where?”
“I’m going to do a little shooting. Break the monotony. Out to the sand pits.” He gestured toward the gun.
“With Bobby?”
“I’d like him to get used to guns, Marge. You know.”
“Well, you be careful.”
“Sure.”
“I gotta run—bye!”
He listened to her heels smack smartly down the hall. The front door closed. He heard her crunching on the gravel in the drive. A car door slammed. She drove off.
He sat there, musing—perspiring. He had to keep his mind closed to the fact of what he was planning. It wasn’t easy. Why couldn’t things in life be solved more easily? There should be a provision.
Lillian knew nothing of what he intended. He did not want her to know.
He picked up the gun. It was a .32 Savage automatic. Light enough for Bobby to handle, yet not obviously so. He had to watch the obvious. He had worked on it himself. It reacted to a gentle touch of the trigger finger. It was a fine, deadly little gun.
He took three boxes of shells from his desk drawer, then put one back. The thing was to whip up desire in Bobby, but not to overdo it. It would be bad if Bobby became tired of the gun.
Ordway knew he wouldn’t. He knew Bobby. The way Bobby’s mind worked, the way he reacted to things, had tipped him off in the first place.
He put the boxes of shells in his pocket, and was about to hunt his son, when a car turned in the drive. He could tell it was Lillian by the sound of her walking.
He met her in the hall.
“She’s not home?” Lillian said.
“No.”
“Oh, honey,” Lillian said. She moved in close to him, laid the bundle of papers she was carrying on the hall table, and kissed him. Holding Lillian was like handling fused, loose dynamite to Ordway. She did crazy things to him that he had never experienced before. Whenever he touched her bright blonde hair, he went a little mad inside. She twisted and writhed in his arms. She was never still. She was wearing a tight aqua dress of some material that slid loosely against her firm body and her warm lips more than threatened his sanity. “Honey, honey—gee!” she said.
“Daddy!” Bobby called, running through the living room.
Lillian jumped back, staring at Ordway with round amber eyes that seemed to spin as he looked at her. Her hands were trembling and so were his. Not touching, he could feel an actual vibration, like electricity, flowing between them.
He had been reeling with this feeling ever since he’d first met Lillian. It compensated for whatever he planned. Two human beings who were meant for each other as much as Lillian and he shouldn’t allow anything to stand in their way. It was a natural law.
“I just—just can’t even talk,” Lillian said.
“Daddy!”
“I’m the same way,” he told her. “Listen. I’ve got to take Bobby out. I promised him.”
Bobby came up to him, took his hand.
Lillian placed her white upper teeth across her full lower lip and stood there with one hand against the side of her face. She nodded. “All right, Fred.” She picked up the papers, brushed against him as she moved down the hall toward the study. He almost weakened. “Tonight, then.”
He swallowed sharply. “Tonight.”
She closed the study door.
He took Bobby into the other room.
“How’d you like to go shooting with me?” he said. He brought the gun out of his pocket, showed it to Bobby, put it away again.
Bobby’s eyes enlarged and began to shine.
“Good,” Ordway said. “Fine!”
* * * *
“Don’t ever point it at your mother,” Ordway said. “Mustn’t scare women. Understand? You know how women are.”
Bobby nodded briskly, watching the gun in Ordway’s hand. Bobby was terribly excited, his face pale.
Ordway looked at his son. He shrugged his shoulders against a sudden feeling of bright guilt and turned toward a close bank, where there was a row of tin cans. The sand pits were a mile or so out of town, in a spotty pine woods, well hidden from the highway. He had thoroughly inspected the area to make certain no one was around. A lot of folks came here for practice shooting. The ground was littered with spent shells. Riddled targets lay everywhere. In the deep depressions between the hummocks and slopes of sand, large ponds of water stagnated. Frogs jumped, and the noon wind breathed among the pines, moaning softly.
“You hold it like this,” he said. “But don’t ever point it at Mama, Bobby. It would scare her to hear so much noise. Don’t ever point it at your mother and scare her with the noise.” He turned quickly, and aimed at the tin cans. “Don’t ever take the gun from my desk and point it at your mother, or anybody! Don’t shoot it!”
He squeezed the trigger as fast as he could. The magazine emptied in a continuous roaring explosion. His ears rang. The gun bucked in his hand.
Bobby laughed hysterically, leaping up and down.
“Bang! Bang!” Bobby yelled.
“You must never do that to your mother, Bobby. You know how women are about guns. They’re afraid of guns. They aren’t like men.” He loaded the magazine again, as he talked. “For instance,” he said, “if that was Mama standing right there in front of us. My, would she be scared if you pointed the gun at her—and pulled the trigger.” He fired two shots.
Bobby laughed. Ordway laughed. He slapped Bobby on the back.
“See?” he said. “Mama would be scared if you shot at her. Don’t ever point the gun at Mama and shoot,” he cried, pointing the gun at the imaginary image of Marge. He emptied the magazine again.
“Let me!” Bobby said.
This was what he’d been waiting for.
“You must never touch this gun,” he said. “Never take it from my desk, where it’ll always be. Don’t ever point it at anybody. Hear?”
Bobby was so excited he couldn’t talk. He ran up and down and rolled on the sand, holding one finger in his ear. His ears were ringing, too.
“Let me,” Bobby said, reaching for the gun. He tried to grab the gun.
Ordway laughed loudly. He pushed back at Bobby, letting his son touch the gun. Bobby grabbed the gun and tried to yank it out of Ordway’s hand.
“Wait’ll I load it.” Ordway loaded the magazine again. “Now, don’t ever point it at your mother. You must never touch the gun, hear? Never touch it!”
Bobby stood there, close to tears.
“Never touch the gun,” Ordway said. “Here,” he said, handing it to Bobby. “Now, don’t shoot Mama!” he yelled.
Bobby turned toward the near bank, where imaginary Mama was, and squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. Bullets flew all over. Bobby roared with laughter.
“Don’t shoot Mama!” Bobby cried.
“That’s right,” Ordway said. “Don’t ever point the gun at Mama and shoot it. Don’t ever touch the gun.”
Bobby beamed at him.
“I’m a good shot,” Bobby said.
“Yes,” Ordway said. “Here. Let me load it for you.” He took the gun, loaded the magazine. “Remember,” he said. “A gun is always loaded—always. Don’t ever touch this gun, where I keep it on the corner of my desk.”
Bobby grabbed the gun.
“Don’t point it at Mama, Bobby. Don’t shoot it!”
Bobby fired the gun.
Ordway kept this up for the rest of the afternoon, until all the cartridges were gone. Bobby had a wonderful time. He laughed a lot and was very excited about it all.
Ordway was excited, too.
“Now, what must you remember?” Ordway said, driving home from the sand pits.
“Don’t ever point the gun at anybody—Mama, or anybody,” Bobby said. He swallowed. “Don’t ever shoot it. Don’t touch it, where you keep it on your desk.”
“Don’t ever touch the gun,” Ordway said.
“Yes,” Bobby said. He laughed. He pointed his finger at the dashboard. “Don’t ever!” he said. “Bang! Bang!” he shouted.
They laughed together.
For several days they went out to the sand pits.
* * * *
Three weeks later, Ordway was watering the lawn and talking with Simmons, the next-door neighbor.
“How about a beer?” Ordway said. “The refrigerator’s full up.”
Simmons agreed that a beer would go well. It was a warm afternoon. They went to the house and entered at the kitchen door.
Marge was plastered up against the kitchen stove, making small noises with her mouth, staring with frightened eyes at Bobby.
“Good Lord!” Simmons said.
Bobby stood there with the gun pointed at her.
“A toy?” Simmons said.
“Fred,” Marge whispered. “He’s got your gun. He just keeps standing there, laughing to himself. Fred! Stop him. He’s just a child. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Yes,” Ordway said. “Sure.” He wanted to laugh, but after all, Simmons was with him. “Bobby,” he shouted. “Don’t shoot!”
Bobby laughed and squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. The explosions shattered the stillness of the house. He only missed his mother once, putting a neat hole through the coffee pot. Coffee spurted onto the stove.
Marge was dead before she struck the floor.
* * * *
“The child admits his father warned him never to point a gun at anybody,” the coroner said during the post mortem. “Even, never to touch that gun.”
“It’s terrible,” Ordway said. “What can I do?” He held his head in his hands, rocking it slightly from side to side.
“We cannot condemn a six-year-old child. Curiosity. It’s tragic, but the boy doesn’t know what he’s done.”
“Poor kid,” Ordway said. “Poor Bobby.”
“It can only be adjudged that Mrs. Ordway died as a result of a child’s mistake.”
Ordway closed his eyes.
“Our sympathies to you, Mr. Ordway.”
“I’ll smash the gun,” Ordway said, standing up and shouting. “Smash it! Smash it, I tell you!”
* * * *
He didn’t smash it. He put it at the bottom of his old Army duffle bag under some camping equipment, and stuck the duffle bag in the back of the garage.
For six months he did nothing about Lillian. Then they were married. Everybody was pleased to see Fred Ordway smiling and happily married again.
“This is your new mother, Bobby,” Ordway said. “You like her?”
“Yes,” Bobby said. “I love her.”
Lillian never knew about things. She loved Fred deeply and honestly and with a passion that never died. Fred loved her the same way. They were truly meant for each other.
Sometimes he thought about Marge and what had happened, but he never experienced any real sense of loss.
After all, he had Lillian.
“Are you ever going to tell the boy the truth about what he did?” Lillian asked. “I mean, when he grows up?”
“I don’t know,” Ordway said. “It’s tough.”
Bobby didn’t laugh about it. He missed Marge. He had loved his mother a great deal.
“It’s all right,” Ordway said. “Your mother went away. You’ve got a nice new Mama now.”
Bobby smiled and went out to play.
* * * *
A week later, Ordway was in the garage, hunting for the oil can, so he could get the power mower to running just right. He noticed his army duffle bag dragged out on the floor.
“My God,” he said.
He rushed into the house.
“Lillian!”
Lillian was over against the living room wall. She screamed soundlessly, her hands clenched in front of her.
Bobby had the gun. “Look, Daddy. I found it.”
“No,” Ordway whispered. “Don’t do that, Bobby.” He tried to creep up on his son.
Bobby laughed. He fired the gun three times at Lillian.
“Don’t shoot Mama!” Bobby shouted.
Lillian sprawled on the floor, dead.
Ordway leaped at Bobby, something inside him screaming crazily. Bobby turned, laughing, and emptied the magazine into his father’s chest.
“Don’t shoot anybody!” Bobby yelled.