he would be dead by the end of the day. He couldn’t have known that he was setting his own death in motion when he got on his bicycle and took the ferry to Adolphustown to tell his boys and his wife that he was coming back to live with them.
Terry Piers said that Craig Killingworth hadn’t returned on the ferry with his bicycle. But someone had. A boy. The same boy Magnus had seen riding a bicycle up the hill to Lake on the Mountain. A dutiful son removing the evidence that his father had been there that night.
She was pure evil, a woman who destroyed to suit her own ego. She’d even enlisted her son to help her. Murder: the one unforgivable sin. Because she had taken away something she could never replace: her husband’s life.
At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve destroyed her in return. Had Ted known all along what he was doing?
The ferry was agonizingly slow approaching the dock. Dan waited in unbearable torment as the crew in fluorescent orange coats with fluty stripes slid open the gate and waved the cars off-ship before calling in the oncoming group. He felt the vibrating charge as his wheels hit the loading ramp, second-last to board. And then there was nothing to do but wait as the boat ploughed into the reach and plied the waves, carving its way through the jagged ice locking the passage.
His car sat next to a muster station with its yellow boogie board life preservers. Dan stepped out and looked over the side at the chunks of ice floating in black water. At this time of year he could almost have run across faster, if the ice would have held. His mind screamed for speed, but the boat kept up its steady crawl. Ahead, he saw the Royal Union flag waving them on to the Kingston side. The last gasp of the United Empire Loyalists. To his left, a sign read MV Quinte Loyalist, rebuilt by Cartier Construction Inc 1992. What had happened to the previous incarnation, Dan wondered, and why had it had to be rebuilt? He tried to keep his mind off what lay ahead. Whatever it might be was now out of his control.
The Killingworth estate sat undiminished by rain or time or encroaching cold, the pines still greenly watching his approach. It had eluded him before, but Dan knew now what the look of the house signified: death waiting.
Saylor had got there first. His car, door wide open, sat in the circular drive with lights flashing and the radio emitting useless sounds that went unanswered. Beneath the front window the garden was ravaged, plants torn out by their roots as though a demon wind had ripped things asunder.
Dan’s footsteps pounded a futile path up the stairs and across the porch. The front hall was stacked with boxes and containers. In the drawing room, the afternoon light still held its hushed somnolence. The furniture had been draped with sheets in preparation for closing the house down for the winter. Ironically, it looked as if the owners had gone into mourning.
The body was in the hall next to a bouquet of faded Monkshood, the delicately hooded flowers wilting as they thawed in the warmth. Lucille Killingworth lay across the carpet, her compact form neatly blending into its patterns and colours. She seemed to be camouflaged, as though the carpet were shielding her while she slept. As though she’d planned her death in advance to be as comfortable and well-coordinated as possible. A designer end. Suitable as any artist’s rendition of what death should look like. The effect was both comforting and eerie.
Ted was crouched on his haunches, watching. Saylor stood over him, regarding Dan with an air of regret. Thom had been detained upstairs in the bathroom, either not man enough to finish the job or so mentally destitute he didn’t realize he hadn’t accomplished it all yet.
Twenty-Eight
Cures
They’d been too late. Aconite has no known antidote, and chances were non-existent that anyone could have survived such a massive dose. Thom’s arrest for the murder of his mother was almost secondary to the shock that a twelve-year-old boy had poisoned his father and then got away with it for twenty years. He might find sympathy with a jury on the plea that his mother had encouraged him to kill his father, turning his young mind against him, but he would have a hard time getting out of the charge of murdering Lucille Killingworth two decades later. The fate of Daniella Ballancourt remained undecided, though Thom stuck to the story that he was innocent of any wrongdoing in connection with her death, and Dr. Bill McFarland, more than a good friend, stood firmly by his man in vouching for him. Dan was quietly surprised by Bill’s steadfastness.
He wondered briefly about Lucille Killingworth’s request for his help back in the fall. Had it merely been a ploy to find out about Daniella’s pregnancy, so she could truthfully say that he, Dan, had told them, if asked? A woman knows these things. She’d probably just wanted to be sure, in case the investigation turned up anything. Thom probably hadn’t known till Dan came by that afternoon. In a way, Dan felt sorry for him. What chance had he had with a mother like that? Then again, he’d had a good father. A very good father, who had loved him beyond all knowing. On some level, even the boy Thom must have known that. Shaken by what he’d done, the twelve-year-old had tried to destroy all remnants of his father’s memory, beginning with his horses, before retreating into a life of showy but mostly superficial physical accomplishments.
The pre-trial publicity kept the presses raging for a few weeks before other matters began to turn the tide of interest. All in all, the length of his sentence wouldn’t matter much to Dan one way or another.
Dan was backing out of his driveway when he heard the tear of metal against metal. He jammed on the brakes, got out of his car and looked back to see a ten-inch gouge running across his rear door. His neighbour’s car, unapologetically parked with a foot of overhang on his drive, hidden by the drifts, stood in the thin wintry sunlight.
Glenda came out of her house wearing an annoyed look. “That’s gonna cost you!” She ran over and saw that her own vehicle had sustained no damage. She turned meekly to Dan who stood glaring. She seemed to wilt.
“Sorry — I guess I was careless.…”
“How many times have I asked you to park your car so it doesn’t block my driveway?”
“Don’t worry, these things happen.” Suddenly, she was all charm. “I’m having a party tonight. You wanna drop by?”
“You’re trying to buy me off with a party invitation?” Dan demanded, more amused than insulted by her colossal lack of respect and consideration.
“There are going to be a couple of gay guys from my work. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”
I’m not falling for this girly-girl routine, Dan thought. It may have worked on Steve and probably every other straight man you’ve ever flirted with, but it doesn’t work on me. That’s at least one advantage gay men still hold over straight men.
“It’s a theme party,” Glenda went on, ignoring his glare. “It’s a come-as-someone-you-hate party. It’ll be fun.”
“Sounds like a riot,” Dan snapped, stepping back in his car. “Can I come as you?”
He left his damaged vehicle on the street and buzzed himself up to Donny’s condo. Donny stood just inside the door, grinning from ear to ear. He looked, Dan thought, suspiciously like a proud parent.
“Guess what Lester said when I asked what he wanted to be when he grew up.”
“No idea. I hope he didn’t say a machine or a porn star.”
“Neither of the above. Cut the kid some slack.” Donny gave Dan a withering look he saved for those few times when he wanted to annihilate with a glance.
