The Dark House (41 page)

But before he even reached the corner, the dog howled from the front of the house, and then dashed around toward him, barking. The screen door screeched, and his father called out through the night. “Edward? What the hell you doing over there?”

Rollins froze. He was near the corner of the house, but not near enough. The dog stood before him, growling furiously. Rollins glanced back toward the kitchen. His father was a dark shape in the light by the door.

“Edward?” he called again. He was holding his rifle.

Rollins didn't move.

“Why don't you come back inside, son?”

Rollins was too terrified to speak, or to move.

“Come back inside, son.”

“Yes, Father,” he replied. He stepped back toward the kitchen door. He was a child again, forced to obey. It was natural, easy. Whatever made him think it could ever have been any different? He was in his father's grip, now as always. The gun loomed larger as he came closer. The barrel glistened in the moonlight.

“What were you doing out there?” his father asked when Rollins drew near.

“Just—just looking at the croquet course. We used to have one in Brookline—remember?”

His father pointed the rifle right at him. “That all, son?”

Rollins' chest tingled where the gun was aimed. He stepped back inside the kitchen door, and Father shut the door behind him, then bolted it this time. He motioned for his son to take a seat at the table again. Rollins did. Father sat back down, too. He kept the gun on his son.

“Perhaps we should be more candid with each other.”

Rollins' eyes were fixed on the gun.

“What were you looking in the septic tank for?”

Rollins said nothing.

“Edward, I saw you point a light into it.”

Light was everything at night, as Rollins well knew. He stared at his father. This was no one he knew. The gruff way he talked, the coldness in the eyes. This was a total stranger pointing a gun at him.

The wall phone rang. Rollins jumped.

“I think we'll let the machine take that,” his father said.

“Ah, Mr. Rollins?” It was a hesitant female voice that Rollins immediately recognized. “This is Marj Simmons. I'm a, um, a friend of your son's. I'm calling from the hospital in Hartford. You may have heard that your wife—I mean your ex-wife—is here. She's doing okay. I was hoping to get in touch with, um, Edward. Is he there? I just wanted
to make sure he got there all right, and that he's, like, okay. Could you ask him to call me when you see him?” She left a number at the hospital. “Got that? Thanks, bye.” The machine clicked off.

“That your girl?”

“Yes.”

“She sounds nervous.”

“She's worried about me. She knows I'm here, Father.”

“She thinks you might be here.” The rifle remained pointed at his son's chest.

Rollins' hands were out in front of him. “Put the rifle down, would you please, Father?” He spoke calmly. He'd reached the end of a long journey. It was 8:41. If his father didn't get him, Sloane would. He was past fear now.

His father sighted down the gun barrel. “Pow,” he exclaimed, then smiled weirdly. “I just wouldn't want you to run off, not after you came all this way to see me.” There was a note of mockery in his voice. He did not lower the gun.

“I can't believe you'd ever get involved with slime like Jerry Sloane.”

“So you knew about that, huh? Jerry told me you never made the connection, but I figured you did. You're a smart boy, and you always were nosing around in things.”

Rollins said nothing, just stared at the tip of the gun barrel.

“I needed money. It was that simple.”

“You get a cut of Neely's inheritance, is that the—?” Rollins stopped, his eyes still on the gun.

“It's a deal like any other.” Henry Rollins smiled. “Just a matter of turning information into money.”

“You bastard.” Rage consumed him. He wanted to hurl himself forward onto his father, fists flying. But the gun rooted him in his seat.

Mr. Rollins ignored his son's outburst. “So, how'd you find out—about Neely and me?”

“From Elizabeth.”

“That dyke.”

Rollins ignored that. “She got in touch with me before she died.
She told me where to find some copies of letters you wrote Neely. And that letter Neely wrote Mother.”

“So she kept all those?”

“In a strongbox she'd buried in her garden in Londonderry.”

“Buried treasure. That's cute. So that's what brought you up here? Thought you'd check me out?”

His voice turned imploring. “I had to know, Father. I had to know what happened to Neely.”

“You'll regret that.” He cocked the gun. “So how'd you find out?”

His mouth felt dry. “I found her wristwatch in your bureau, Father.” It pressed into his pants pocket. He would die with it on him.

“You always were fond of her, weren't you?”

Rollins couldn't think about that. One word burst up from deep inside. “Why?”

“I didn't mean to.”

“Well then, you can
explain
. You can get a lawyer. You don't have to make it any worse than it already is.”

“
Explain
. I wanted to take her away from all this crap. I'd had enough of it, and so had she.
That's
my explanation.” He kept the gun on his son.

“Well, there, you see?”

“No,
you
don't see.”

Rollins stared at the gun. “So what happened?”

Father's index finger was curled about the trigger.

“Tell me. Please. I have to know.”

“All right, sure. I'll tell you. Your mother sent me a ticket East a few years ago. I was down on my luck, and I thought I'd look up old Neels. It had been a long time, and I had such happy memories of her. I drove over there to that house of hers in Londonderry, and I saw her on the road, walking. I offered her a ride.”

A quick upward glance into his father's steely eyes. “She got in your car?”

“I had a gun with me. Not this one. A handgun I bought out West. Like I say, I was real eager to see her. Guns can be persuasive, now can't they?” He fell silent a moment. “It had been such a long time. I'd never
stopped thinking about her. Through two wives, other women…Nothing else was like being with her. She was the whole reason for the trip. Nothing else was so—so fresh. I just wanted to be with her one more time. That's what I told her. ‘Just once, Neely. That's all I want. Then you'll never hear from me again, I promise.' She really didn't like the gun. She started whimpering, telling me I'd ruined her life and all that.” His father's voice turned scornful. “Come on. She was old enough to make her own decisions. I took her down the road, then turned down a smaller road, then a smaller one still. We were miles away from anywhere. I stopped under some trees, turned the headlights off. The rain was coming down. It was late, it was dark. There was nobody around. I was losing patience. She started crying harder, which annoyed me. She didn't have any reason to cry. Not with me. We'd always been such good friends! I mean, the things she used to tell me! And she'd always liked the sex. God, she was an animal.” A strange new light came into his eyes.

“I had to bring the gun right up close to her head to get her to understand me. She undid her things, and I got on her, and we did it right there in the car. It was nice. Just like old times.”

“And then—and then you
shot
her? You just shot her?” Shocked. Desperate.

“Hell no. What do you think I am? I wasn't going to do anything like that.”

“So, what—?”

“She was crying pretty hard at the end. Her face was all red, and she was real broken up. I told her to quiet down. I couldn't take that. That blubbering. It was rude.”

Rollins stared at the stranger across from him.

“I thought maybe we'd go up to Canada. It's real pretty up there in the fall. But she wanted out of the car, said she wouldn't tell anyone. I told her no, I couldn't do that. Then she tried to open the car door as we were going along! I told her, ‘Don't. It's dangerous.' I didn't want her to get hurt. Well, she came at me and clawed her nails into my face. I'll admit, that made me angry. I still had the gun, and she's damn lucky I showed a little self-control. I could have shot her. But I didn't. I
grabbed her and held her. She was struggling. She always was a wild one. So I had to hold her tighter.” He paused. “Maybe I shook her a little.”

Rollins' father was a blank shape across from him. “She went still. I guess her head must've hit something. I don't know. She was breathing fine. I figured she'd passed out. I started up again. Like I said, I wanted to go clear up to Canada. It's so beautiful up there in the fall. I tipped the seat back so she could rest. I kept on for miles. I kept expecting her to come around.”

The world went darker, colder. Rollins had never felt so lonely, so scared. “But that's not murder!” he cried. “You didn't—”

“I didn't kill her, Edward.” His father spoke coldly, decisively. “I want you to know that.”

“Then you
can
explain!”

“It's too late for explanations, don't you understand? I'd hoped to keep you out of this, son. But you came at the wrong time. I was just emptying the tank. I have to do that every few years. Can't use Red Tag for it—that's the local outfit. I have to pump it out myself. Thought I'd be all done by now, but my pump got clogged this morning. I guess that's our tough luck, now isn't it? I had to drive down to Brattleboro for a spare part.”

It was completely black outside. The kitchen was reflected in the windowpanes. It had all come down to Rollins and his father, and a gun between them. It would end here.

“I loved that girl.” Mr. Rollins tightened his hands on the rifle again. “And now I need you to forgive me, son. Forgive me my trespasses, just as the Bible says. I've wronged you, Edward. More than your mother, your brother. More than your dear little sister, God bless her soul. More than Neely. She betrayed me, but you never did.”

“I didn't know.”

“You didn't want to know. It was a mark of your goodness that you didn't. Please, son, forgive me. I need that from you.”

Anger gave him strength. “Put down the gun, Father.”

“Forgive me.”

“Father,
please
. Not like this.” Rollins stretched out his hand
toward his father and reached for the gun barrel. “Put down the gun, please.”

“No!” His father sprang up. Rollins grabbed for the barrel with one hand, and thrust the tip up toward the ceiling. With the other, Rollins tried to free his father's hand from the trigger. The gun was nearly vertical between them. His father strained against Rollins, grunting and panting, his face tight with effort. Rollins could feel the coldness of the gun barrel as it tipped this way and that. “Let go!” he screamed.

“No!” Father's voice was almost all air as he struggled to wrest the gun away. “
You
let go. Goddamnit. I need—I need to do this.”

The tip of the gun was just inches from his father's reddened face. “No—don't! Father! Please! No!” But he was losing his grip. The barrel was angling closer and closer toward his father. “No!”

“Just—watch out for Sloane.” The words were all breath, cutting through his father's teeth. “He's—dangerous.” Then his father's eyes widened and his mouth gaped as if he'd had a vision. There was an ear-ripping explosion, and a bright blue flame leaped upward. His father's head snapped back, and his whole body followed, his chair skidding away, until his father struck the kitchen wall and slumped down onto the floor, blood gushing from the underside of his chin down onto his chest. He lay there, motionless, his head propped up awkwardly on his shoulders, his cold, dark eyes still fixed on his son.

R
ollins stood there for several minutes, staring at his father's blood-soaked body. The sound of the gunshot rang in his ears, and he kept seeing that awful spurt of blue. His father stared at him through glassy eyes. To calm himself, Rollins concentrated on breathing, drawing the air in, letting it out. Over and over. Otherwise, he was afraid that his mind might shatter. Finally, with a sweep of his fingertips, he closed his father's eyes.

Then his chest clenched again. Sloane. He was coming at nine.

Rollins craned his neck around to check the clock. It was 8:53.

He would never be finished until he was finished with Sloane.

The rifle was coated with his father's blood. He started to reach for it, then stopped. He'd never even touched a gun until the struggle moments before. Now he was going to shoot Sloane—kill him in cold blood?

He brought his hands to his face, pushed his fingers in to the bone. “God, oh God.”

The fear squeezed him, pressed against his chest, ground into his belly.

He stepped away from his father's body. Slowly at first, then faster. He raced out the back door. He slipped through the trees, the low brush whacking against his legs as he angled back to where he'd left his car on the road. His lungs heaving, he climbed in the Nissan. He was ready to hit the ignition, to flee.

But, safe in his car, he paused for a moment, caught his breath. The sound of the gun blast receded; the image of his blood-drenched father dimmed.

Watch out for Sloane. He's dangerous
. What made his father say that? What had he meant? Sloane must have done something, something his father had known. Why
else
would Sloane have agreed to cut Father in on Neely's inheritance? Sloane knew that Father had raped Neely, hurt her. That was his leverage. But what did Father have on Sloane? Had
Sloane
killed Neely? Was that it?

Rollins' eyes jumped about the car—to the passenger seat, the dashboard, the radio, the slot under the radio, which contained a spare tape. A tape. To create a record.

He popped open the glove compartment, pulled out his Panasonic, and stared at it. He needed to get Sloane to talk while the tape rolled in secret. To
confess
. To provide evidence for the police, enough to justify Sloane's arrest and conviction. To put him away.

He pulled out the recorder, weighed it in his hand. The only voice it had ever received was his own. But couldn't it also record others? Like Sloane's voice, telling what he'd done?

Rollins switched on the recorder and stuffed it into his pants pocket. A test: “Can you hear me?” he asked quietly. “Am I coming through?” He pulled the recorder out again, rewound the tape, and pressed Play.
Can you hear me? Am I coming through?
His voice was only slightly muffled. The tape heard.

He thrust the tape recorder back into his pocket. Through the trees, he could see light stream from the kitchen, sending out blades of yellow through the night.

He stepped out of the car. He stole through the trees. He made for the light.

The dog barked at him, but Rollins shushed the animal, and it retreated to the front door, whimpering.

Inside the kitchen door, Father was propped up against the wall. The blood had soaked through his T-shirt, oozed onto the floor. The gun lay across his lap.

Rollins bent down over the body, loosened his father's index finger from the trigger. The skin was cool, the joints stiff. The blood was wet and sticky, like paint, on the gun's underside. Rollins swabbed it off with a paper towel, threw that in the trash.

He looked up at the clock: 8:59.

He'd draw Sloane to the body, then surprise him from behind, then get him talking.

There was a radio on the counter. He switched it on, and classical piano played. A Chopin nocturne. A haunting sound, pale as moonlight. It would lure Sloane.

Quick
. To Father's study, gun in hand. Rollins waited there in the shadows behind the door, breathing, his hands tight on the gun. Waiting.

Nine o'clock came and went. 9:05. 9:10. The nocturne ended, and a spirited Schubert piano trio picked up. In the distance, a car rumbled up the road. The headlights lit up a rectangle of flowery wallpaper on the study wall, a patch of brilliance that slid sideways as the car turned in.

A car door slammed; the dog barked.

“Hello there, Scamp,” said a cheery voice. It was Sloane. “Your daddy inside?”

Footsteps on the loose dirt of the driveway.

The dog continued to growl.

“Henry—you here?” Sloane called out by the door. The screen door opened and then banged shut behind him. “Henry?” The Schubert played on.

A heavy tread on the hall. “Henry?” Sloane shouted again. The footsteps continued on toward the kitchen, following the music just as Rollins had planned. The tape recorder was running inside his pocket.

Pointing the gun ahead of him, Rollins opened the door and crept after Sloane. He drifted like air through the dining room, then waited, his brain pulsing, just outside the kitchen door.

“Jesus Christ,” he heard Sloane whisper as he kneeled before the body.

Rollins passed through the doorway into the kitchen. Sweat blurred his eyes, and his hands hurt from clutching the gun. He pointed the rifle at Sloane's head. “Don't move.”

Sloane stayed where he was, facing the body. “Oh, shit. You.”

“Come to finalize the deal?” Rollins asked.

Sloane's voice hardened. “Screw you.” He started to move his hands to his waist.

“Hands
up
!” Rollins screamed. Every pulse was going.

Sloane jerked his hands up to shoulder height.

The sweat trickled down Rollins' face, gathering at his chin. His left eye twitched. He stared at Sloane's hands—pudgy, bright with thick rings—sure they'd fly at him any second.

“You weren't going to call the police, were you?” Rollins' jaw was so tight, it was hard to talk.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You're glad he's dead. Saved you a lot of trouble. You get all the money—and your secrets die with him.”

“Fuck you. I haven't got any secrets.”

“Look at me.”

Sloane turned.

Rollins sighted down the gun barrel at the spot between Sloane's eyes, every muscle tight.

“
He
did her, you dumb fuck!” Sloane was getting edgy now. “Your old man.”

Rollins continued to sight down the gun. He needed to concentrate on Sloane. “You helped.”

“Bullshit.”

Rollins cocked the gun. “
You helped,
” he repeated.

Rollins had Sloane's full attention now.

“You left your fingerprints on her watch.”

“No fucking way.
He
took off the fucking watch! I didn't touch it.”

Dryly, with no triumph in his voice: “So you were there, Jerry?”

Sloane just stared at Rollins.

Rollins could feel the anger. It came at him in waves. He took a few steps farther into the room, keeping his eye down the barrel on Sloane. “Okay. Easy now. Reach the telephone for me, would you?”

Rollins watched Sloane stand up, move toward the wall phone, and pick up the receiver.

“Okay, now dial 911.”

Sloane pushed in three digits.

“Now hold the phone up for me.” Rollins inched toward him.

Sloane reached out with the receiver.

Rollins didn't hear a voice coming from the receiver, but he couldn't wait. “I need help!” he shouted. “I'm out Bald Mountain Road. There's a man here, trying to—”

Suddenly, the receiver swerved. It caught the tip of the rifle and knocked Rollins off balance. Rollins squeezed the trigger, but the gun made only a click.

Sloane ripped the rifle out of Rollins' hands and hung up the phone. “You stupid shit.” Sloane swung the gun at Rollins. It crashed into the side of his face and staggered him. “That's for yesterday,” Sloane shouted. “This is for today.” He kicked Rollins in the belly, the toe of Sloane's shoe plunging nearly all the way into Rollins' spine. It knocked all the breath out of him, doubled him over, and sent a shock wave of pain through his body. “Doesn't feel too good, does it, Eddie boy?”

Rollins was hunched over, unable to breathe, unable to think. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing onto the floor. He kept his arms down, to protect himself from any more blows. A grunt, and Sloane's shoe smashed into Rollins' side, ramming him hard into the counter. Rollins felt a stabbing pain in his ribs. Sloane's fist cracked into the side of Rollins' head. The room spun and blurred.

Rollins stayed low, like an animal.

“There, we're even,” Sloane said. “Now—outside.” He gave Rollins another kick. Rollins staggered toward the kitchen door.

“Open it.”

Hunched over, Rollins opened the screen door and stepped outside. It was cool now, and gusty. The trees thrashed in the wind. The lawn was glazed with moonlight.

Sloane rammed what felt like a handgun into the small of Rollins' back to shove him ahead. “That way.” Rollins stumbled ahead, weaving past the slim wickets, which seemed like tiny grave markers. “You'll go where she went.”

“So you—you did know.”

“Course I knew. It was my idea. Your old man doesn't know shit about anything. Just like you. What a patsy. I had to kill her. She was groveling around, a fucking mess. I did her with one shot. It got me into your dad big-time.”

“And him into you.”

Sloane gave him another whack from behind. “Keep going.”

The wind eased, and the stench rose from the septic tank.

“It's not—it's not going to work.” Rollins' mouth was swollen from the blows; it was hard to force out the words.

“It worked for the girl.”

“Too many people know I'm here. They'll come looking.”

“They'll figure you shot him and ran off.”

“They'll know it's you.”

“I'll clean up a bit, then I'll call the cops myself. Tell them how shocked I am to find my good friend dead.”

“They've got a record of my call to 911.”

“Nice try. I dialed
4
11. Information, not the cops.”

The stench was fierce. They were nearing the septic tank.

Rollins heard growling and looked up to see Scamp coming around the far side of the house. Rollins' hopes lifted as the dog charged up at Sloane, barking furiously. Sloane tried to quiet him with a kick, but the dog continued to growl and bark. Sloane brought his gun down and fired a single blast that echoed around the trees. The dog spun and tumbled, writhing, to the ground. Sloane touched the gun to the dog's head. A second blast finished him off.

“Now get going.”

Rollins didn't move.

“Get going!” Sloane thrust the gun into his back.

Rollins' body was there, but his mind had flown. It had taken off into the trees, where it flitted about among the branches. He was with Neely again.

Then a roar of a car engine, coming around the house.

Sloane's gun slid across Rollins' back, toward the sound.

Then lights probing the field, swinging to brightening them. Twin lights. Headlights.

His arm up against the glare, Rollins could see a car. A small car. Schecter's Cressida! It rumbled across the lawn.

Sloane grabbed Rollins by the back of his shirt, yanked him up. “Back off, you motherfucker!” He screamed at the car.
“Back off!”
Buttons popped as Rollins was jolted to his feet. “I'll shoot him! I swear to God, I'll shoot him!”

The car stopped. The lights stayed on. Two spotlights.

“Stay there or he dies!” Sloane screamed. “Don't move!”

Using Rollins as a shield, Sloane slowly stepped back across the lawn. He pressed the gun tightly into Rollins' back.

Rollins stumbled as he moved backward across the uneven ground. His thoughts collided inside his head. His whole body was on fire.

At the far corner of the house, Sloane jammed the gun hard into Rollins' back. “Faster!” Sloane told him. “To my car. Go!” He forced Rollins ahead of him.

The driveway scratched under Rollins' shoes. The moon up above—serene, indifferent. Sloane grunted behind. “Go! Go!” The gun hard against his back. Panting. They reached the Land Cruiser, and Sloane jerked open the driver's door.

“Get in!” Sloane shoved Rollins into the driver's seat. “You're gonna drive.” Keeping the gun on Rollins, Sloane stepped around the front of the big car, heading for the passenger side.

His only chance. Shielded by the high dashboard, Rollins slid his left hand down the steering wheel, then groped the control panel. He found the headlight switch, and yanked. A blast of light. Sloane swung his arm up to shield his eyes. Rollins ducked down under the dash
board. Sloane fired, shattering the windshield, spraying glass over the seat. His hand stung, Rollins fumbled for the ignition. The key was in the switch. He turned it. The engine roared to life.

Sloane screamed—“No!”—and fired again. Hunkered down under the dash, Rollins jammed the gearshift into forward, and then shoved a hand down onto the accelerator. The car shot ahead, jerking Rollins backward onto the seat front. A frightened gasp from Sloane, and thunder on the hood, as if a load had dropped on it. Sloane wailed—a hideous, pitiful sound. Above Rollins, the tip of Sloane's hand slapped down on the edge of the remaining windshield. Then the pop of gunshots—one, two, three, four—from far away, but coming closer, and another scream from Sloane. This one guttural, of agony, and the hand slid away. Then Rollins lurched forward again as the SUV smashed into the house.