shoes and socks, and lay down on the sofa in the dark. I needed to think. If nothing else, the long walk home had sobered me up, and images from the farcical night I’d just spent at Brian and Tess’s kept repeating in my mind. It now seemed ridiculous that I had accused Tess of murdering Nick Pruitt and the others from the list, but when I’d said it, when I’d been there, convinced my coffee had been poisoned, it made perfect sense. I wondered what Tess was doing right now. Had she woken Brian up, told him the story of how I’d shoved her to the ground and accused her of murder? Did she think I’d gone insane? I decided that I’d call her first thing in the morning, maybe confide in her a little more about what had been going on recently. I also thought a little bit about her offer, about the reason I was brought to their house in the first place. In different circumstances, I might be in bed with Tess Murray right now.
I sat up, and Brian Murray’s book fell off my lap and onto the floor. I turned on the lamp, then picked the book up, looking at it for the first time. The title was The Wild Air, and the cover art, like the art of so many of his covers, showed the back of Ellis Fitzgerald looking out toward some sort of landscape, or crime scene. On this cover, she was looking at a single tree on the horizon line, a flock of birds taking off from its branches, one of the birds lying on a snow-covered field. Presumably dead.
I turned to the page where the dedication usually was, and all it said was Dedication TK, editor-speak for text that wasn’t available yet. I wondered if Brian would still dedicate the book to me after he found out I thought his wife was a murderer.
The book began with a line of dialogue: “What’ll you have?” Mitch asked. Ellis hesitated. Her answer was a glass of wine—it was always a glass of wine—but this time she said, “Soda water and cranberry, thanks.”
I thought about reading the rest, but I decided I needed to get some rest instead. I put the book on the coffee table, turned off the lamp, and turned onto my side on the sofa, closing my eyes. I lasted about five minutes. My mind kept revving, going over and over the events of the past few days. Then I remembered the message I’d left on Duckburg trying to reconnect with Charlie and wondered if I had a response. I went and got my laptop, bringing it back to the sofa, and logged on under Farley Walker, my new alias. A blue dot indicated that I’d received a response to my latest message. I clicked through and read it: Hello, old friend was all it said.
I wrote back: Are you who I think you are?
There was no time stamp on the message, so I didn’t know when I’d gotten it. Still, I waited, staring at the screen. Just when I was about to give up, a new message popped up: Do you even know my name, Malcolm?
I wrote back: I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?
Maybe I will but we should go to a private chat first.
I checked the box that made the conversation private. My heart was beating, and my jaw was clenched so tight that it was starting to throb.
Why? I wrote.
Why what? Why did I keep going with something that you started? I think a better question is why did you stop?
I stopped because there was only one person that I wanted dead. And once he was dead there was no reason to go on killing.
There was a lengthy pause, and I was suddenly nervous that Charlie had logged off. I wanted to talk with him more. Also, this was ridiculous, but it felt safe, somehow, seeing the words he was typing on the screen. It meant he wasn’t doing anything else, I suppose.
Sorry for the delay, he eventually wrote. I need to be quiet where I am.
Where are you?
I’ll tell you, but not right now. It will ruin the rest of this conversation and I’m really happy to be having this conversation.
Something about his tone was starting to get to me, and I wrote, You are fucking insane, you know that.
A short pause. Then: I thought I was too. After I killed Eric Atwell for you