The Kind Worth Killing (16 page)

I did my work, then showered and dressed. At my garage I decided, on the spur of the moment, to take out my vintage 1976 Porsche 911, the car I'd bought after I'd made my first big deal, instead of the Audi. I avoided the Pike and drove toward the river, getting onto Storrow Drive. The river was filled with college rowers, prepping for the upcoming Head of the Charles weekend. The day was perfection, the sky only creased by the vapor trails of airplanes. I looked up, wondering if I was seeing the remnants of the plane that was taking my wife to Florida.

From Storrow Drive I got onto Soldiers Field Road, then wound my way through Waltham and Newton till I found Boston Post Road, and headed west through the suburbs toward Winslow. Shifting gears, I wondered why I had ever gotten the automatic transmission on my Audi. The next car I bought would be a standard.

I drove down Main Street in Winslow center, looking for parking in the surprisingly busy downtown. Students were crossing the street in large groups. Mostly girls in jeans and boots, with hair pulled back in ponytails. Waiting for several to cross the walkway, I peered through the abutting metal gates toward the college campus. I could see three low brick buildings that bordered a carefully manicured lawn. A line of oaks marked a path across the campus. Was Lily in one of the buildings I could see? Was she the type who brought a sensible lunch and ate in her office or did she walk into the town center for lunch? It was
a Friday, after all, a sunny October day. The car behind me honked and I put the Porsche in gear, then turned off Main onto a side street with metered parking. I found a spot, and walked back toward the group of restaurants I'd passed earlier. The place I'd read about—the Carvery—was there, but I chose a restaurant called Alison's, that had an open outside table that faced both the high midday sun and Winslow's campus. I ordered a Bloody Mary and a Cobb salad from the college student waitress, and watched the pedestrians pass by. The students had the scrub-faced look of earnest young feminists. They hauled backpacks that looked as though they'd put a football player into traction. The nonstudents were mostly middle-aged housewives out for shopping and lunch. They wore handmade scarfs and flouncy clothes that hid their hips. I saw a few professor types—men with bad haircuts and tweedy jackets, and women who looked like older versions of the solemn young students. But I didn't see Lily, even when, after lunch, and a second Bloody Mary, I took a walk through Winslow's campus.

It was a pretty college, its campus gently sloping away from Winslow center down toward a pond that was circled with a walking path. I sat for a while on a wooden bench in the botanic gardens, next to a conservatory with a high peaked roof. There was no one around, and I imagined that this might be the type of place where Lily would bring her lunch. To this very bench maybe. I stayed seated until clouds appeared in the sky and the sun disappeared and suddenly it was cold.

I'd forgotten to refeed the parking meter after lunch and I had a Town of Winslow parking violation under my wiper. Fifteen dollars. I slid it into my jacket pocket and lowered myself into the Porsche. I was tired all of a sudden, and took the Pike all the way back to Boston, arriving at home just as I received a text from Miranda that she had safely landed in Miami and the festivities had begun. I texted her back, then went to my computer to check my e-mails. It was a slow period for me, not that I needed the work. The stock market, after years of stagnation, was surging again. My portfolio was healthy, and work was just a matter of filling my time.

Another text from Miranda: don't forget take the lamb out of the freezer.

I wrote back, thanking her for the reminder.

I had actually forgotten and walked down to the basement kitchen, taking the loin chops out of the freezer and putting them under running water. The text from Miranda was strange, as was the overly sentimental good-bye. Was she up to something sinister? Or was it possible that she had broken it off with Brad and was suddenly contrite? Even so, that didn't take away from what she had already done to me.

I went into the adjoining wine cellar and picked an Old World Syrah that would go nicely with the lamb. I opened the bottle and decanted it. The chops were starting to soften so I left them in their plastic wrap in a bowl of cold water, and went upstairs to the living room. I hadn't seen the paper yet that day, so I sat in the leather recliner and read the day's news while sipping a gin and tonic. After a while, I put the paper down and just thought about Miranda and Brad and Lily and everything that had happened, or that was about to happen, since meeting Lily on the plane from London. I kept involuntarily flashing back to the dream I had awoken from that morning. That awful feeling that once you've murdered someone you can never go back and unmurder them. You will never again awake from a dream and be able to lie there, telling yourself that your life may be a catalog of sin, but that you are not a murderer. And I suddenly realized that my plan to kill Miranda and Brad had become a means to an end, had become a way to get closer to Lily, and that I didn't necessarily need to commit murder to get there. I could simply tell Miranda I wanted a divorce, then e-mail Lily and ask her if she were free for dinner. No one but us would ever know about the plans we had made. Miranda could have Brad, and I'd have Lily, and the world would keep on spinning. I had always been good at compartmentalizing, and I would put all my rage and shame over what had happened with Miranda into a box and close it. I would hand my marriage to the lawyers; half of all
my money was more than enough. A feeling of relief swept through me. It was like waking from a bad dream and realizing that it was just a dream, that it hadn't actually happened.

The doorbell chimed, and I jumped a little in my chair.

Walking to the door I instinctively looked at my watch. It was just past six. Who would be stopping by? I told myself it was probably a deliveryman, and tried to remember if I was waiting for a package.

I put the chain across the door and swung it open five inches. It was Brad Daggett, a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. It took me a moment to register that Brad, from Maine, was on my doorstep in Boston. It felt incongruous, like seeing a man in a tuxedo at a country fair.

“Ted,” he said, and he sounded a little breathless, “I'm glad you're here. Can we talk?”

“Of course,” I said, undoing the chain and opening the door. “Come on in.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. There was no good reason for Brad to come all the way from Maine to see me. He was halfway into the house and I pushed slightly against the door, stopping his progress. “Brad, what are you doing here?”

“Just let me in, Ted. I'll explain.” His voice quivered, and I could smell the booze on his breath. Our eyes met, and I was suddenly scared. I pushed a little harder against the door, but Brad wasn't moving. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and I looked down at the gun he had removed. “Let me in, Ted,” he repeated, and I stepped back as Brad entered my house.

“Addison, what's the matter?” I asked.

“Fucking Nolan,” she said, and came through the door, following me down the stairs. She was brushing rain from her coat, spatters of it striking the back of my head.

“You two have a fight?” I asked as we entered our flat.

She looked at me, wiping tears off her cheeks with the palms of her hand. “He has a girlfriend back at TCU. A
serious
girlfriend.”

“Shit,” I said. “How'd you find out?”

Addison told me how she'd gone onto his computer and read his e-mails, and how he confessed to everything, telling her that he'd been meaning to tell her about Linda, but at first he thought that they—Addison and him—were just having a fling, and now he didn't know. I half-listened, opening a bottle of wine and pouring Addison a glass, but my mind was frantically trying to figure out what to do when Eric returned. Should I abandon the whole plan, telling Eric that I was pretty sure the chicken korma had cashews in it, or should I allow it to play out, with Addison as a witness? In some ways, having Addison here
might be better. She would back up my story—that a drunk Eric mistakenly ate Indian food that had cashews in it, and that we couldn't immediately find his EpiPen. But there were also so many ways that it could go wrong with Addison here. She could call for an ambulance that might get here in time. She could notice that Eric's EpiPen was not where he thought it was. And if Eric asked about the chicken korma—whether or not it had nuts in it, then I couldn't lie in front of her. And, most important, it wasn't fair to Addison to let her watch Eric die from anaphylactic shock. I decided it was off.

“Wait. Where's Eric? Didn't his plane make it here?” Addison asked, her head swiveling around our small flat as though he were here and she had somehow missed him.

“You know that pub challenge at the Bottle and Glass?”

“The ten-pint thing?”

I told her about Eric insisting he could do it, and I told her how I got hungry and sick of waiting for him, and just took off.

“I guess neither of us is having a good night with our men.”

“Well, I'll live,” I said. “You're the one who got screwed over. What are you going to do about it?”

Before Addison could answer, the door buzzed again. “That's Eric,” I said. “Prepare yourself. He's going to be smashed.”

“Lily, I'll just leave. I totally forgot he was coming in tonight.” Addison stood, snatching her purse from the kitchen table.

“Not a chance. You stay here.”

I climbed the stairs again, bracing myself for a drunk Eric, but when I opened the door it wasn't Eric standing there, but Nolan, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Ah, the bigamist,” I said, and he gave me a confused look.

“Is she here?” Nolan was tall and skinny with bright red ears. His close-cropped hair was an almost-white blond and he wore a puka necklace tight around his neck.

“She's here,” I said, “but that doesn't mean she wants to see you. You wait here and I'll go check.”

I left Nolan on the stoop and went back downstairs. Addison was refilling her wineglass. “Guess who's here?”

“Who?” She looked genuinely puzzled.

“Nolan. I left him upstairs. You want me to send him away?”

She let out a long, dramatic breath. “No, I'll see him.” She continued to sit there at the table, and I realized that she was expecting me to go get him. I climbed the stairs for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, and when I reached the door I could hear male voices talking loudly at one another. I recognized one as Eric; he was back from the pub.

“I see you two have met,” I said, opening the door to find them together, Eric with a hand on Nolan's shoulder, telling him about the pub challenge. I knew that Eric had succeeded by the way he turned toward me, a handsome grin on his face. “And it looks like you triumphed,” I added to Eric.

“Barely,” he said. “It's much goddamned harder than it looks.”

“Come down, you two. Eric, let Nolan and my roommate be. They need to talk.”

We all trooped down the clattery stairs. Addison was now standing in our doorway, a look of determination on her face. Nolan said, “Ad,” in a hoarse voice. Eric introduced himself, sounding relatively normal for someone with so much beer in him. It was one of his immutable traits, that he was always civil and friendly no matter what the circumstance. A politician, basically.

Eric and I went inside while Nolan and Addison stood just outside the door on our grim landing, lit only by a bare lightbulb hanging from its cord. I filled Eric in on what was going on, looking to gauge any reaction he might have to hearing that Nolan was, like himself, dating two women at the same time.

“You think they'll work it out?” he asked, then said, before I had a chance to answer, “I need to eat something.”

I was about to tell him that there was Indian food in the fridge that I could heat up for him, and that he shouldn't risk the chicken korma
because I thought it had nuts in it, when Addison pushed her way back into the flat. “Don't worry, you two. We're going to give you some privacy. We're going to go get a drink.” Nolan was behind her, and I could tell by the redness around both their mouths that they had been kissing in the hallway. I don't know what he had said but it had worked. Addison grabbed her coat and purse and they went back out into the damp night. I realized suddenly that my plan was back on if I wanted it to be. My stomach roiled with anxiety, but if anything, what I had just witnessed between Nolan and Addison had given me added resolve. Guys like Nolan and Eric got away with breaking hearts far too often.

“Look, Eric,” I said. “I'm exhausted. I drank too much myself, and Addison wiped me out. I'm getting into bed. There's Indian in the fridge if you want. I got you a chicken korma.”

“You goddamn saint,” he said, and kissed me sloppily on the side of my mouth. I went into the bedroom, swung the door so that it was partially open, and took off my jeans and sweater, slipping into the wool pajamas that kept me warm in our cold flat. I could hear Eric rummaging around the kitchen; there was the sound of clanking dishes, then the loud hum of the dingy microwave. I could smell the korma—the tang of spice and coconut milk—as it heated up. I was sitting on the edge of my bed. I felt calm but my mind was feverish, filled with images. I pictured Chet in the meadow at dusk, swaying above me, not knowing he was about to die. I saw Eric emerging from his office, lighting a cigarette, meeting Faith. I saw Eric the night we first made love, his dark brown eyes an inch from mine.

The microwave stopped humming and I heard Eric open and shut the door, then it was quiet for a moment. I assumed he was rapidly eating, maybe still standing.

A minute passed and the bedroom door swung open. Eric stood there, the food container in his hand, the skin of his face already reddish. And there was a puffiness around his eyes. “There's nuts in here,” he said, pointing at the container. It sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of cotton.