But there was nothing serious about their conversation, with only a few passing references to Annie or Peter. Michael asked him what it was like growing up as a boy in Ireland, for example; and O’Sullivan was only too glad to tell him. And somehow his son seemed instinctively to know not to ask about his combat experiences in the Great War. They both had had enough of their own war, in recent days.
Then O’Sullivan — feeling more than an occasional twinge of guilt over how little he really knew about the boy — would question his son about his likes and dislikes. He heard the entire story of how the Lone Ranger was the last of a band of Texas Rangers who had been “betrayed and bushwhacked by the Cavendish gang.” He heard about Tom Mix, and Mickey Mouse, and Little Orphan Annie.
And that the boy, it turned out, was really interested in sports — an enthusiasm of Michael’s that O’Sullivan had only been vaguely aware of.
“I’m a good shortstop, you know,” Michael said.
“I bet you are. Are you fast?”
“You couldn’t beat me.”
“Ha. Care to wager?”
“Save your money, Pop.”
“Did you play at the Villa?”
“No... the diamond’s over at Longview Park.”
That cast a slight pall — Longview Park was on 20th Street, across from the Looney mansion.
“Well, maybe I’ll take you to a big-league ballgame,” O’Sullivan said, shifting the subject slightly. “We could see the Cubs play.”
“But we’re going to Kansas.”
“We’ll have our car... Anyway, Kansas is still America, last time I looked.”
The boy was shaking his head. “They don’t have a team.”
“They have a minor league team.”
“What’re they called?”
O’Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“See what I mean? They don’t have a team.”
“I’ll take you to see the Cardinals in St. Louis.”
That excited the boy. “Really? They could take the pennant this year — they’re really good!”
Later, Michael asked his father about music. The boy approached this delicately, and finally O’Sullivan figured out why: Michael only knew his papa could play piano because of the duet O’Sullivan and Looney had played at the McGovern wake.
“Did you take lessons?” the boy asked.
“No... I just picked it up. By ear, they call it.”
“Really? You could hear the notes?”
O’Sullivan, driving casually, one hand on the wheel, shrugged. “Well, you just sort of hit keys and listen and remember... It takes time. My grandmother had a piano.”
Michael’s eyes were wide with interest. “I never met her.”
“No you didn’t. But she died on this side of the ocean.”
“The Atlantic.”
“That’s right, son.”
Somehow it bound them further, this sudden realization that they both had lived lives filled with incident and interests; O’Sullivan looked forward to getting to know his son even better. And he could tell, from the boy’s questions, that Michael felt the same.
By late afternoon of the second day they were on a rural gravel road, surrounded by startling foliage.
“How can Kansas be so green?” Michael asked, as his father pulled up alongside the road, near a dirt trail through high grass leading to lush woods.
“It’s always green, near any lake, this time of year,” his father said.
“... Why are we stopping?”
“Because we’re here.” O’Sullivan considered taking this moment — alone together — to tell his son about his need to leave; but he couldn’t bring himself. Anyway, maybe he could stay on at Perdition. Open a shop in the little town. Or find a farm of his own...
“We’ll walk the rest of the way,” O’Sullivan said, getting out.
Michael closed his door, and was half-standing on the road, half in the ditch. “Why don’t you drive right up to the house?”
O’Sullivan was locking the car. “Son, we still need to be careful.”
His wheelman thought that over. “Sneaking up to check and see if cars are there, huh?”
“We’re not sneaking up — just trying not to be stupid.”
O’Sullivan still had his .45 holstered under his left arm, beneath his brown suitcoat.
The boy shrugged, said, “Okay,” and soon they were angling down a hillside — no topcoat for the father, no jacket for the son, in this inviting weather — emerging from the woods, where a beautiful if oddly desolate landscape awaited.
Dusk was dispensing shadows to soften the view, touching the stretch of beach along the lake with cool blue; a light breeze blew in off the lightly whitecapped water. The cabin-like farmhouse had no barn next to it; the farm was across the road, out of view. No sign of any car except a battered pick-up truck that belonged to Uncle Bob.
Looking toward the house on the beach, Michael asked, “Is that it?”
“That’s it. Ring any bells?”
“Sort of... I’m not sure.”
“Here comes somebody that’ll jog your memory.”
From around the house a big mutt came loping, floppy ears and lolling tongue, a friendly conglomeration of breeds whose tail was wagging at the sign of company. Michael ran to meet the dog, and immediately they began to play, running toward the beach.
O’Sullivan did not join them. He merely stood and watched his son behaving like the boy he was.
“Forgive me, Annie,” O’Sullivan said softly, “for the dangerous road I’ve taken him down.”
Then he loped on toward the house, allowing his son to caper on the beach with the hound. Up the porch and through the open screen door O’Sullivan went, following light at the end of a hallway to the kitchen. He called to Sarah and Bob, announcing himself, but received no immediate answer.
And the kitchen was empty. He looked around — the evening dishes had been put away, the room clean and white. Over the sink, sheer curtains billowing, was an open window onto the lake, where he could see Michael on the beach, bending to pet the dog.
“Hey!” someone said, and O’Sullivan whirled, already sensing something, but his hand hadn’t reached his holstered weapon when the first shot punched him in the chest.
Three more followed — single claps, echoing a bit in the kitchen, ironic applause — and it took the fourth one to knock him back into the windowed wall. He slid to the floor, leaving a smear of red, fighting to retain his consciousness, hoping to summon strength to go for the gun...
The man in the bowler — only he wasn’t wearing one now — stood before him, a nine-millimeter automatic pistol in one hand, his camera in the other. His eyes were unblinking and crazed in a face whose boyish handsomeness had been replaced with a ravaged welter of scars, the aftermath of that shattered crystal lamp in Rance’s suite.
“You disappointment me, Mr. O’Sullivan,” the photographer said, and he put his gun on the kitchen table.
Good, O’Sullivan thought, only he was fading... could he even move his arm... ?
Harlen Maguire — who had stowed the bodies of Bob and Sarah McGinnis in the pantry nearby, just about an hour before — moved in closer, positioning his camera, and began to focus it. He had paid an awful price for this picture — his face would never be right, even with plastic surgery — but this would be the crowning portrait for his gallery of death.
O’Sullivan — lying on the kitchen floor, life oozing out of him — would make an excellent subject, a special study in death, since a succession of photos would record the stages of dying... one photo would have the glimmer of life in those eyes, the next would show the blankness of death.