THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN FOOTBALL, DON’T YOU THINK? GO, SKINS!
Chapter 47
KYLE CRAIG HAD JUST HEARD the latest good news from Washington, DC, when his mother slowly opened the twelve-foot-high front door of the vacation house near Snowmass outside Aspen. When she saw who it was, the old woman fainted like somebody had hit her “off” switch.
Kyle managed to catch dear old Mom before she struck the stonework floor, and he smiled to himself. It was good to be home again, wasn’t it?
Moments later, he was reviving the old woman in the cavernous kitchen of the twelve-thousand-square-foot house. “Are you okay? Miriam? Mother?”
“William?” she groaned when she looked up at the face staring down at her. “Is that William?”
“Now how could that possibly be?” Kyle asked, and he frowned deeply. “For once, just once, use the intelligence that you were given, that you must have been given. Your husband, my father—William—has been dead for a long time. I helped you bury the general in Alexandria. Don’t you remember the glorious day? Sunny skies, crisp cool breeze, smell of burning leaves in the air. Good Lord, you’re losing it, woman. People sent all those flowers—congratula
ting you on gaining your freedom from that hypocritical tyrant and bastard.”
Suddenly, Kyle clasped both hands to his face. “Oh, my God. My fault! This is all my fault, Mother. The mask! These prosthetic masks are so damn realistic. I look just like Father in this one, don’t I? Finally I’m living up to the old man’s image for me.”
His mother began to scream, and he let her go on for a bit. There was no one around to hear her raving, anyway. His father had never allowed her household help when he was alive, and she still didn’t have any staff. How typical was that? She had all the money in the world and nothing to spend it on.
He watched the pathetic old woman shake and twist her head back and forth. Ironically, her face was more masklike than his, a mask of one family’s tragedy.
“No, it’s just me. It’s Kyle. I’m out and about again. I wanted to see you, of course, to visit. But the other reason I came—I need some money, Mom. Won’t be here for more than a couple of minutes. You’ll have to give me the numbers for the overseas accounts, though.”
After Kyle had finished at the computer in his father’s old office, he felt like a new man. He was wealthy now, nearly four million transferred into his account in Zurich, but even more important, he finally felt free. That didn’t happen just because a man got out of prison. For some prisoners, the sense of freedom never came again, even if they did get to see the sun.
“But I’m free, free at last!” he shouted to the high rafters of the Colorado house. “And I have important things to do. I have so many promises to keep.”
Chapter 48
WHEN HE CAME BACK downstairs to say good-bye to his mom, he had discarded the rubber mask. He’d worn it on most of the drive from Florence to Aspen, but it probably wasn’t wise to push his luck too far. The same could be said for being here at the house—except that few people knew his mother stayed here—and he did need the money after all, needed it for his plan, to make all his nightmares come true.
He snuck up on Miriam, whom he had hog-tied to his father’s old lounge chair in the family room. Right in front of the twelve-foot-high fireplace. God, how many memories were here—his father screaming at him until his veins looked like they would burst, the general striking him so many times he lost count. And Miriam—never saying a word, pretending that she didn’t know about the beatings, the tongue-lashings, the years of constant abuse.
“Boo—Mommy!” Kyle said as he popped up behind the old girl. He wondered if she remembered how he used to do this when he was just a little boy, five or six years old at the most. Boo—Mommy! Pay attention to me, please?
“Well, I’m through with the bulk of my business here in Colorado. I’m a wanted man, y’know, so I’d best hit the road. Oh dear, you’re shaking like a leaf. Listen, sweetie, you’re perfectly safe here in this house, this fortress of yours. Alarms everywhere. Even a snowmelt system on the walk and driveway.”
He leaned in close to her—smelled lavender, and it was like reliving a nightmare of things past, things gone terribly, terribly wrong in his life.
“I’m not going to murder you, for God’s sake. Is that what you were thinking? No! No! No! I want you to watch what I do from now on. You’re an important witness for me. I’m working to heap honor on you and Dad too.
“Speaking of which, tell me one thing—did you know that he struck me almost every day when I was a boy? Did you know that? Tell me that one thing. It will stay between the two of us. I won’t tell Oprah or anything like that. No memoirs for me. I’m no James Frey or Augusten Burroughs.”
It took her nearly a minute to get the words out. “Kyle . . . I didn’t, I didn’t know. What are you talking about, anyway? You always made things up.”
He smiled down at her. “Ahhh. That’s a relief.”
Then he pulled out a Beretta, one of the guns Mason Wainwright had left for him in his car.
“Changed my mind, Mom. Sorry. I’ve wanted to do this for so long. I’ve ached to do it. Now watch this. Watch the little black hole at the end of the barrel. You see that? Tiny eternal abyss? Watch the hole, watch the hole, watch the abyss, and—”
Bang!
He shot his mother right between the eyes. Shot her a couple of times for good measure. Then he left a few clues behind for the investigators who would show up at the house eventually.
Clue #1: In the kitchen—a half-finished bottle of Arthur Bryant’s barbecue sauce.
Clue #2: Propped on the bedroom dresser, a Hallmark card with no handwritten message.