Death in High Places (20 page)

“Mum was luckier. She was younger than Dad, and she'd been nursing him for three years when she felt the same thing starting in her. She knew what was coming. She tried to keep it from us, me and William, but that only worked while she was able to juggle, to use the faculties she still had a grip on to compensate for those that were slipping. But she didn't live long enough to deteriorate the way Dad did. She had a heart attack. When the paramedics opened her blouse to listen for a heartbeat, they found the words
Do not resuscitate
tattooed on her chest.

“Can you
imagine
…” His voice cracked and he had to try again. “Can you imagine the despair, the sense of utter desolation, that would lead a middle-class, middle-aged woman to have that done? The paramedics wondered if it was some kind of joke. But I knew she'd never been more serious about anything in her life.”

He made himself smile, and a frail and naked thing it was. “With both parents smitten by early-onset Alzheimer's, it came as no surprise whatsoever when William started getting funny notions. At first they weren't so funny that they couldn't have been true. Someone kept moving his papers at work, he could never find what he needed. There was something wrong with his car, except it didn't do it when he took it to the mechanic. He found the new one-way system near his home unnecessarily complicated.

“Then one day he phoned me and said he'd got lost and would I come and find him? He'd been driving home from his office—I found him two streets over from where he'd lived for twelve years. It turned out there wasn't even a one-way system. I took him home and we both had a stiff drink, and then we talked about what was happening to him. We both knew what it was, of course, and that it was only going to get worse. He never drove the car again. He sold it the next day and set up a contract with a taxi firm.

“The day after that I took him to see his doctor. They have this damn fool test they do, where they ask you who the prime minister is and whether you can count backwards and stuff like that. And William was sailing through it. I was beginning to think we were wrong, it was something else—a virus, a tumor, something you could hope to cure. Then she asked him how old he was. And he said he was thirty-one. He knew his date of birth. He knew the current year. But when he was asked to subtract one from the other, he kept getting thirty-one. So she asked him to look in a mirror. Something he did every morning when he was shaving. And for a moment he didn't recognize himself. When he did, these enormous slow tears slid down his cheeks.”

“And that's…” Horn cleared the scratch out of his throat and tried again. “And that's about ten years ago?”

“Getting on for. He managed to keep some sort of a life together at first. He took early retirement—told people he wanted to enjoy his garden while he was still fit enough to get out in it. We made sure that if he got lost, people would know to call his house. He wasn't dangerous, even to himself. While he was still pretty much on top of things, he hired in all the help he needed. That worked well until the growing confusion started to outweigh the residual lucidity.

“By then he was dependent on someone for just about everything. And I wasn't happy leaving him with people I didn't know and couldn't supervise. There are plenty of well-qualified, professional, kind people out there who'd have done a good job of looking after him. But what if I got it wrong and left him with one of the other sort? The lazy sort, the greedy sort—even the vicious sort? Even if he'd have been able to tell me, would I have believed him? I needed to be on the spot. So I brought him here. About four years ago now.”

They'd strayed a little off the point, but Horn never considered prompting him. This was the longest they'd talked, and it explained so much of what was going on, both in McKendrick's life and in his head.

His head …

“When…” Again the catch in Horn's throat tripped him. “When did you start getting symptoms?”

McKendrick laughed out loud, a savage sound. “Thanks, Nicky. I haven't yet. This is all me, genuine and unreconstructed. If you think I'm behaving irrationally, you should see me on a bad day.”

From somewhere Horn pulled a little censorious frown. “I never know when you're joking.”

“That's easy,” said McKendrick briefly. “I never joke. I'm always in deadly earnest.”

“And you want someone to kill you before you end up like William.”

Something, some emotion, washed through McKendrick that for a moment he didn't recognize. But it was relief. At having it out it the open. At having it fixed and framed by words. The idea had lived in his head and nowhere else, growing but also festering, for over a year now. He'd guarded it like a treasure because he knew there was no one he could share it with for fear of being stopped. It had taken him two or three months to be sure this was what he wanted to do, and the rest of the time to find a way of doing it. That's a long time to keep a secret.

“Right now I could do it without any help at all. But right now it doesn't need doing. I enjoy my life—I don't want to cut the good bit short. But if I leave it until it needs doing, I won't be able to manage alone. I might not even recognize that the time has come. I'm going to need help. Someone who knows what needs doing and how to do it. Someone who knew me when I was rational enough to state unequivocally what I wanted.”

McKendrick let out a slightly uneven breath and his eyes dipped momentarily closed. Someone knew. Someone knew, and now he could talk about it. “And it can't be Beth. I don't know if she'd do it; but if she did, she'd be prosecuted. However sympathetic a court might be, mercy killing still counts as murder—she could lose everything. That's why I need you. Of course I knew who you were, what you'd done—at least, what you said you'd done. I thought you were perfect for my purposes. Getting you on board was important enough to risk my own neck doing it.” He gave a wry little smile. “Mind, knowing what you know now, you may feel that wasn't as big a gamble as it first appeared.”

“You had people out looking for me?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Four months. They're top people, good at what they do. When they found you they let me know, but I didn't want them to approach you. I wanted to talk to you myself—to find out if you'd left Alaska sufficiently far behind that my proposition wouldn't interest you. When I saw a man with a gun shove you up a dark alley, I knew you hadn't.”

Horn couldn't argue with that. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I
wasn't
going to tell you. I was going to offer you a job. You're a carpenter, aren't you? There's always work to be done in a place like this. Once I'd made contact with you, and you had somewhere to work and a place to live that you didn't have to leave in a hurry every few weeks, there'd have been time to get round to the other thing. As it turns out, we've been rather overtaken by events.”

There wasn't much arguing with that, either. Horn was watching McKendrick's face intently. “So, if we come through this, I get a job as your handyman and a cottage in the grounds. And one day, maybe years from now, you ask to see me in your study, and it's not because you're giving me the sack, or even a pay rise. It's because your mind's going and you're scared you can't hold things together much longer, and you want to tell me how and when you want it done. To get hold of a gun and ambush you in the Lime Walk. Or some of that blue stuff they put horses down with, and inject you while you sleep.” Horn looked him full in the face. “Is that what we're talking about?”

McKendrick considered the details a shade gothic, but Horn seemed to understand the wider picture pretty well. “Perhaps not a cottage in the grounds. At least, not until Beth's resigned to having you around. But I'll set you up somewhere not too far away. Somewhere I can protect you from Hanratty.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Why would you refuse? You owe me your life. Why would you refuse me a favor that might cost you just a few years of it?”

“I don't know, Mr. McKendrick.” The strain was audible, stretching Horn's voice. “Maybe, because it's wrong?”

“To rescue someone from fear and suffering? When that person has made it abundantly clear that it's what he wants, and has done from the day he realized it was going to become an issue? How can that be wrong?”

“Don't ask me,” snarled Horn, “ask the Lord Chamberlain.
He
seems to think it's wrong!”

“No, he thinks it's illegal. That's different. I'll give you something in writing to produce if the police catch up with you. It won't keep you out of court, but it'll show that you weren't acting on your own authority. And that Beth didn't hire you to speed through her inheritance. Nicky, nobody will think you did anything very wicked. It's a bit of a gray area, I admit—they only call it assisted suicide if you have the physical strength and the mental clarity to do the final act yourself. But everyone except the law knows there's all the difference in the world between murder and mercy killing, and nobody apart from cranks thinks what I'm proposing is wrong anymore.”

“What if
I
think it's wrong?”

McKendrick looked at Horn, as he sometimes did, as if he'd brought him in on the sole of his shoe. “It doesn't matter what you think. You owe me this. You don't have to like it. Anyway”—his narrow jaw rose combatively—“what entitles you to take the moral high ground? You cut your best friend's rope!”

Horn's voice was low. “I told you, that isn't what happened.”

“You told the police something different. And you told Beth something else again. I think you've told so many lies even you aren't sure what the truth is anymore.

“I'll tell you what the truth is—the only truth that matters. Patrick Hanratty was on your rope, and now he's dead. His father blames you, and his father's hit man is just the other side of this wall. You don't have to like me—in fact, it's probably better if you don't. But by God, Nicky, if you want to live through today, you'd better start seeing things my way!”

“Because you'll shove me outside if I don't?” In the white face, Horn's eyes flamed with a kind of desperate rebellion.

“Maybe that's exactly what I'll do. It's what
you
did—bought your safety with someone else's life. It would be a kind of poetic justice.”

They glared at one another across the little kitchen, both stoking the anger they hoped would protect them from fear. Their backs were against the wall. Even if Hanratty's man had got bored and gone home, their backs would still have been against the wall.

Horn broke the savage silence. “And what's Beth going to say when she hears about this?”

“Beth isn't
going
to hear about this,” McKendrick shot back, “until you've paid your debt. After that she'll probably have to know. And yes, she'll hate you forever. She'll hate me too. I can live with that.” He grinned a vivid acknowledgment of the irony. “I can't afford to worry too much about what Beth wants. I have to concentrate on what she needs. And this is it—this is the best I can do. And, God help me, I need your cooperation to do it.”

“Then, Mr. McKendrick, you have a problem.”

“You think this is easy for me?” When McKendrick's temper flared, suddenly Horn could see the likeness between him and his daughter. She didn't take after him physically. But her temperament—her intellectual arrogance, her risk-taking, her absolute single-mindedness—she'd inherited from him almost unchanged. “This isn't how I wanted my life to be! When I was your age, I was working like a maniac so I could enjoy the kind of lifestyle I wanted. For my family, but also for myself. I imagined that around now I'd be planning my retirement. A boat on the Med. Maybe a beach house in the Seychelles. Enough money amassed to provide for whatever I wanted, whatever opportunities came along.

“I did
not
imagine I'd be spending my time and money and, yes, risking my neck trying to persuade someone to do me the final kindness when playing out the hand I've been dealt has become unbearable. Because that's what we're talking about, Nicky. A life so frightening that no one should be made to live it. Don't have any illusions about what it is I'm facing. I'm not going to be just a charming old dodderer whose socks never match. I'm going to be a broken and tormented man who won't know a moment's peace short of death but who might have to wait ten or fifteen years for it.”

McKendrick's voice was actually shaking. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that it was shaking with fear. He took a moment to steady it. “Look on the bright side. I might never get this illness. I might die of something else first, or I might live to be a hundred with my marbles perfectly intact. And that's something that would give me enormous satisfaction.

“But if I don't kill myself while I'm fully in command of my wits—if I wait until the symptoms start—I won't do it at all. Because by then I won't think it needs doing. I'll think everybody else is being thoroughly unreasonable if not downright cruel but I'm the same as I've always been. I need to have this all organized long before that. I need to set up some kind of chain of events—when Beth notices I'm starting to lose it, she tells my solicitor, and my solicitor posts a sealed letter he's never read and you get your instructions—while I can still work it all out. I can't leave it until it matters. Do you understand that?”

Horn nodded slowly. “I understand it. I just can't do what you want me to.”

“You can,” retorted McKendrick, no shadow of doubt in his voice, “and you will. It's the price of what I've done for you. What I'm still doing. If you live through today, it'll be down to me. So do what you're told, do your time, go away somewhere and get on with your life. I'll make sure there's money to help with that—help you go somewhere Hanratty can't follow.