He had risen at five, come to the hotel exercise room while the other guests were still asleep, and done a good approximation of his usual weight training. Then he had spent time on a treadmill and a stationary bike before he had gone into the pool. He could see the clock on the wall at the other end of the locker room. It was nearly nine, and he was ready to buy the morning newspapers and eat breakfast. He stepped into the locker room, took some towels from the counter, dried himself, and began to dress.
After Varney did a job at night, he liked to get into a car and drive until morning, or until he heard the first announcement on the car radio. That usually put him far enough away so that he could drop out of sight for a time, watch television, read the papers, and wait.
On his way to Louisville this time, he had stopped in Columbus, Ohio, and registered at this big, comfortable hotel. Columbus was only 214 miles from Louisville on Interstate 71, so he had selected it as a convenient stop on his way home. But now he had lingered in Columbus for five days. Whatever agitation of the authorities that might have added any risk to highway travel was well over by now. He supposed it was time to continue his journey home.
When Varney traveled, he studied the junior-level executives and salesmen in their late twenties or early thirties he saw in airports and hotels, and made sure he looked and dressed the way they did. But he was not what they were. He was a special person.
James Varney had experimented at living a life of adventure since he was eleven years old, but he had not been able to get the last of the obstacles out of his way until he was nearly eighteen. After that, things had been more to his liking, and he had been able to get what he needed.
The experiments had started with Aunt Antonia. She had taught him simply by being in his way. In those days, the family had lived in a big old house in Oakland, California, all dark brown wood, with a big cold kitchen and a great, broad, creaky staircase that always collected dust beneath the railing and next to the wall. The staircase led from the foyer, just opposite the front entrance, up to a row of dark, musty rooms on the second floor. The tiny one at the head of the steps was his, the big master suite at one end of the hall belonged to his parents, and another just like it was set aside for Aunt Antonia. The other three bedrooms were furnished with beds and mismatched furniture, but nobody ever went into them except when Aunt Toni nagged his mother into stripping the beds and washing the sheets and blankets, then pointlessly making the unused beds again. Days like that had made the boy sad.
Aunt Antonia was of no more relevance to the life of the family than the cocker spaniel that was always at her heels, and she was no more pleasant. Each time another member of the household came in the front door, she would be there to complain and criticize, her shrill voice accompanied by the dog’s cranky yapping. They both continued bravely and unremittingly as long as the enemy was in sight. Sometimes when an attack was interrupted, they even waited in siege outside a bathroom door for the next sortie, when they would stage a flank attack and keep up harassment barrages until the next time a door was closed to them.
Each time the intruders departed again, she and the dog both collapsed on the long couch in the study, letting nervous agitation disappear in contemplation of the new wrongs the enemy had committed during this engagement. This new list of crimes would provide fresh rallying cries to inspire them when they repelled the next invasion.
An older person might have taken a more complex view, and decided that Aunt Antonia had some pleasure in her life—even that she enjoyed her warlike outbursts—and that as a living organism, she had a right to them. But Jimmy was a child, and such thoughts did not occur to him.
When he set his mind to killing her, his concerns were simple and practical. It had to be done in a way that would lead no conceivable investigator to him. That was pure instinct. And it had to be done in a way that ensured she and the dog would go together. He knew it was likely that once she was dead, the dog would be put to sleep too, but he felt that he must not rely on this. If there were some kind of mysterious adult sense of propriety or even sentimentality that he had not noticed because he did not feel it, they might keep the dog alive. He could hardly expect to kill the dog later.
He set about stalking his aunt and her dog, being careful not to let them catch him at it. He would get up early every morning through the summer by the simple expedient of leaving the east window of his room uncovered so the rising sun would wake him. Then he crept to her door, watched, listened, and waited. By the end of a week he knew all of her habits, and he began to plan.
He would follow her from place to place at a distance, recording in his mind when she did things and how she did them. He devised all sorts of causes for her death. She could go too close to her open window on the downhill side of the house, where the driveway was dug in deeper so the car could go into the garage under the first floor. The fall from her room would be at least forty feet to the concrete pavement. She could plug in her coffeepot when the kitchen stove was on and the pilot light out, and blow herself up. She could fall on a kitchen knife. She could be mistaken for an intruder and shot by his father in the night. Her own dog could be infected with rabies and bite her, so they would both die a lingering, simultaneous death. Each of these ideas had faults. He had to settle for electrocution.
He waited until all of the conditions were right on a hot August evening. When he heard her bathwater run for a long time and then stop, he listened for the music on her radio. When he heard it, he walked in, tossed her dog into the tub beside her, and pushed the radio in with them.
In the end, there was no real investigation, because the adults who rushed in as soon as they could get up the stairs thought they knew everything instantly. The dog had barked out of playful overexcitement and jumped into the tub to be with its mistress, knocking the radio into the water. The commotion had first brought the boy in—a second tragedy, to have one so young confronted with the sight of his electrocuted, naked aunt and the ugly, dead little dog—and then everyone else.
The boy’s parents had behaved as though they were convinced, not that they had pieced together the sequence of events using inferences and imagination, but that they had seen it, somehow, having seen all of the evidence immediately afterward. The policemen who arrived a few minutes later and did such things as unplug the radio and make everyone leave the bathroom found no fault with the parents’ story. They went away convinced that they had investigated. Later, the coroner’s report had made the tale unassailable: she and the dog had definitely died of electrocution, hadn’t they?
The boy was aware, at the instant when he dropped the radio into the water, that he was taking an irrevocable step. He knew he was casting off his innocence, but he did not think of it as a descent into evil. It struck him as a first, necessary step into adventure. He had stopped cowering in shadows, depending for comfort on not being noticed. He had, instead, seen circumstances as a chance to mold the future to his will. As it happened, the effort at improving the future had failed because he’d had incomplete information. Aunt Antonia was the wife of his father’s dead brother, and thus no real relation to the family.
A week after the funeral, his parents packed all of their belongings and his. They sat him down and explained that the house had belonged to Aunt Antonia. Because his father had been in what he called “a bad patch,” she had allowed them to live with her for a time. The boy had wondered at this, because at the age of eleven, he could not remember having lived anywhere else. But now, her will had been read. The house and the money they had all lived on were going to her sister, a woman none of them had ever met, who lived in Omaha. The house was going to be sold, and even if it weren’t, his parents did not have enough money to pay the heating bills for a place that size.