and, since I don’t smoke, I can’t plead for a cigarette. Instead, I want to hear your story. If I’m going to die, I deserve that.”
“You’re stalling. I think you’re lying. In front of everyone, you looked directly at me and said you’d read Paul’s notes and knew all about everything. That’s why I shot at you and why I sent the letter; I wanted you to tell me you’d stop. Paul told me a hundred times he’d recorded every detail and tucked the file away in a safe place. I broke in to find those files, but now I’m pretty sure he hid them somewhere where no one will find them—they aren’t in the house.” He cocked his head to one side and gave a mirthless chuckle. “And Sally Staynor running around saying she knew everything. I didn’t think she did, but I certainly fixed her.”
Hollis knew he was totally mad, but she had to keep trying.” I did tell you the truth. I knew nothing about you, because I didn’t find the file cards—I read the manuscript, and in it Paul gave the men and women he wrote about false names.” Hollis tried to instill doubt in Knox’s mind. “Your name and information is probably in the papers the police took to the station.”
Knox strode back and forth.
“Damn detective, damn police. Meddlers, do-gooders, the world is full of interfering people. I doubt if he used actual names, and unless he did, Simpson will never connect me with Paul.” He straightened and a complacent smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have to take the risk. Paul bluffed to obtain money, to keep me uneasy and ready to pay. You’re a mistake. Once you’re dead, no one will connect me to Paul’s death.”
“Please tell me what Paul found?”
“Why should I? It’s been a secret for years. I owe you nothing. Don’t give me that last request crap.” He paced for another minute and then moved closer to Hollis. Her body felt exposed, vulnerable to a knife sliding in and splitting her open like a stuffed toy eviscerated and leaking its guts. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited.
“Since you’ll die anyway—I’ll tell you part of the story—the part I can bear talking about. When I was a kid, I did things it sickens me to remember. If it came out, my life would be over. The church never again would allow me to do anything with young people. Where would I be without my place in the community, without my family or the church? I’d be a pariah.” A long pause. “You must see I have to protect the secret at any cost?” Again the pleading note. “I’ve hidden my story for more than thirty years, and I’ll continue to hide. I’ve remade my life. I’m not the same person. Paul should have been smart enough to see I’d go to any length to stop him from destroying me.”
“Was Paul threatening to tell?”
“Tell.” Knox considered. “Eventually, I suppose I realized he would. When tormenting me no longer amused him, he would have marshalled the information and presented it on some occasion when he could have maximized the positive impact for himself. He’d have said something like, ‘I greatly regret having to do this, but I can’t live with myself and the thought of the young and innocent children with whom this man comes in contact.’ Yes, he would have told, but that wasn’t why I killed him—I did it because he demanded more money.”
Her arms cramped. She twisted to relieve the weight of her body cutting off her circulation. Moving released dust. Breathing shallowly, she tried not to inhale as it settled.
“Why did Paul demand money?”
“Not for himself. He didn’t take a cent for himself. Not a cent.”
“But . . .”
“He extorted money from me, but it wasn’t for him.” Knox’s jaw locked, and he spoke in a harsh tone. “All right, I’ll tell you this much. My trouble involved homosexuality. I was . . .” He hesitated before he said firmly, “A victim. As a result, I hate gays. I know what they do to innocent boys.” He paced again before he moved closer to her and emphasized his next words with a kick that caught her in the stomach and made her gag. “He forced me to donate two hundred dollars a month to Gay Pride. He insisted I give the cash to him each month.”
He kicked Hollis again, this time connecting painfully with the flesh wound on her upper thigh. She knew she was substituting for Paul.
“Of course, I didn’t write a cheque, because I couldn’t risk Linda finding out. Paul labelled it a ‘business transaction’. Each month he provided me with the previous month’s receipt made out to ‘Anonymous donor’.” Knox snarled, “He told me to hang on to the receipts to file with my income tax and claim as a charitable donation. Fat chance—Linda does our taxes.” Bitterly, he added, “You can’t imagine how hard it was for me to squeeze the dollars out month after month without Linda zeroing in—she’s a stickler for accounting. Six months ago, when he warned me that soon, of course he didn’t say how soon, the rate would increase because every organization had to provide for inflation, I decided to kill him.”
He bent over, and his fingers groped for her elbows.
“That’s it. Stand up. We’re going downstairs.” His hands gripped her arms, and he grunted when he tried to hoist her to her feet.
A flashback to her godson, Mike, as a toddler, and her attempts to dress him when he lay limp. Pushing his feet into his boots had been like trying to force cooked spaghetti to stand up. She willed her limbs to become as unresisting as a floppy doll’s.
Knox’s fingers dug into her arms while he struggled to pull her to her feet. He shook and then dropped her. “What are you doing? Get up. When I say get up, you get up.”
The lifting and shaking had released more of the chenille’s dust. She choked, breathed dust, and a single cough evolved into a spasm of gasping. Bile filled her mouth. She breathed through her nose, pretending to be a jellyfish stranded above the high tide mark and unable to move.
Again Knox tried to stand her up.
A newsreel image of Gandhi speaking about passive resistance played itself on her mind screen. She willed herself to remain as unresponsive as a bundle of laundry.
“Hollis, if you don’t stand up, I’m going to haul you down those stairs like a sack of potatoes.”
Remaining silent, she sensed Knox’s indecision. He wanted her to cooperate.
She directed her thoughts first to the big toe on her right foot and visualized it relaxing. One by one she considered each toe then moved on, draining the tension from her right foot. Knox broke her concentration by stomping across the room.
To find out what he was doing, she raised her head, but he was out of her line of vision. A squeak, an unidentifiable sound, a rattle, which sounded like hangers moving together, was followed by a thump like a door shutting.
Knox moved toward her head. What was he going to do? Maybe he had a knife: he’d boasted about his expertise with knives. Her resolve to be brave faltered, and her body tensed as she anticipated pain.
He squatted, bent over, hooked both hands under her body and turned her towards him. When he had her rolled on her side, he stuffed something under her, flipped her the other way onto what must be a quilt or a rug. He let her flop, lifted the sides of her wrap and tied it around her. Then he walked to her feet, grabbed the quilt with both hands and hauled her across the room.
While her body slid along the floor, the tension on her left arm and shoulder, caught behind her when he first enveloped her in the
