“I’m real sorry about everything, Scotty,” Bo said. “I just didn’t know until you told me about the box. I want you to believe that.”
Scotty managed to get control of herself for a moment. “I believe you, Bo,” she said. “I’ll try and forget about it if you will.” She started to sob again.
Howell was baffled. “Forget it? How can you forget it? He’s your father, for Christ’s sake!”
“Thanks, John,” Scotty said through her tears, “I believe I’ve got the picture.”
Howell’s eyebrows shot up; he snapped his fingers. “That’s what Mama Kelly has been on about, then. She kept saying, ”Little Kathleen is in danger.“ Jesus Christ, You’re little Kathleen!”
“I guess I am,” Scotty said, nodding at Bo and his shotgun. “And I’m in danger.”
Howell had nearly forgotten about that. Fascinated by Bo’s story, he had forgotten that he had meant to grab for the shotgun the first chance he got. “Listen, Bo…”
“Just shut up for a minute, John,” Bo said, waving the shotgun. “I’ve got to think for a minute.”
Howell stopped talking, stopped breathing, but not because of Bo. He had heard something, or rather, didn’t hear something. The crickets had stopped. Something was happening.
“Look, Bo,” he said. “You can’t kill us. You can’t kill Scotty, she’s…”
“You think I haven’t thought about that? If you’d just stayed away from the airport tonight, everything would have been all right. That was the last delivery here, ever.”
“No, Bo,” Howell said, shaking his head, “nothing would have been all right. You murdered Eric Sutherland. You’ve killed your father, for God’s sake. You’ve killed the mother of your child. Do you think killing your daughter will make it all right? Do you think anything could ever be all right again?”
“Yes, I killed the sonofabitch,” Bo nearly shouted. “He played me along for all of my life; he never told me. If he’d told me, not when I was kid, but even as late as when I came back from Korea, then I could have married Joyce. I wasn’t tainted, but I didn’t know that. None of this would have ever happened if he’d only told me, can’t you see? It wasn’t until I figured it out on my own, when I found out he’d been having my mother’s grave tended all these years, that he admitted it. Then he tried to buy me off, showed me his will and how everything was left to me; that’s when I killed him.”
“He didn’t tell you just like you didn’t tell Scotty,” Howell said.
“Hardly,” Scotty chimed in.
“Everything would have been all right if you hadn’t been at the airport tonight, don’t you see? With Sutherland’s money, I could have taken care of Scotty for the rest of her life. Hell, I was already planning it.”
“It’s got nothing to do with our being at the airport, Bo,” Howell fired back. “It’s got to do with you, and the way you always try to overcome your own weakness by killing somebody. You were weak enough to let yourself be seduced by a twelve-year-old girl, then you killed your way out of it; you were weak enough to let Eric Sutherland pave the way for you and run your life, and you killed your way out of that; then, with all you had going for you here, you were weak enough to take drug money, and now you’re going to kill your way out of that, too?”
Bo turned a violent red, and Howell knew he had gone too far. “You stupid bastard,” Bo shouted, “I own this town, now, I own this lake; I own everything Eric Sutherland owned! Do you think I’m going to let you walk out of here and take that away from me?” He swung the shotgun toward Scotty. “You’re goddamned right, I’m going to kill my way out of it, and right now!” He pumped the shotgun and started to bring it to his shoulder.
Howell was struggling past his inflamed ribs, trying to get to his feet before the gun went off, but instead of a shotgun, what he heard was a loud click from across the room. Bo swung the shotgun in that direction and froze. The player piano was starting to play.
“I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” rolled from the machine at a loud volume.
Bo stared open-mouthed at the piano, then, an animal noise rising in his throat, he fired at the instrument. Bits of wood flew everywhere, but the instrument played madly on. Bo fired again; then he stopped and spun to his left. Howell turned to follow his stare.
She looked different, more womanly. The childish overalls were gone, and she wore a simple, virginal, white dress, tied at her small waist with a narrow sash. Her dark hair fell in long waves around her shoulders, and there was a suggestion of lipstick, stark against her white skin. Two buttons undone revealed the swell of her full breasts, straining against the tight fabric. Her huge, dark eyes were fixed on Bo Scully; a little smile played about her lips. Then, she turned and looked at Scotty for the first time, frankly, with curiosity; then, it seemed, with something like approval.
Scotty stood, transfixed by her first sight of her true mother. Howell remembered a photograph he had seen at the Kellys, a family group on a front porch, a little girl of four or five. Now he knew why the child had looked familiar; she had looked like Scotty. Now the resemblance was less strong, but it was there. They were mother and daughter, Kathleen and Scotty.
Bo pumped the shotgun again. He was now emitting a continuous noise made up of a growl and a scream. He raised the gun, took aim and, to Howell’s helpless horror, fired at the girl. He was astonished when she seemed unaffected, her expression never changing, but a large section of the French doors behind her exploded into fragments.
Three shots, Howell managed to count to himself, in spite of what was happening; five more to go.
Kathleen O’Coineen stood, smiling indulgently, as Bo emptied the shotgun at her, affecting only what lay behind her.
Howell hurled himself across the room toward the desk, clawed the drawer open and found Scotty’s pistol, its shells lying next to it. Frantically, he began loading the gun. He had two shells into the chambers when Kathleen, ignoring him and Scotty, turned gracefully, glanced beckoningly at Bo, and walked out of the house, onto the deck. Bo threw the shotgun through what was left of the French doors and ran after her. Howell saw him stop on the deck, staring out at the lake. Howell finished loading the pistol and went after him, then stopped as he reached the door. Scotty was right behind him, dragging the chair to which she was handcuffed.
Bo gazed, wide-eyed, out over the valley. Howell gazed with him. It was just as in the dream, the house ablaze with light, the fog on the rising lake, and all of it lit by a large moon.
Bo said something, not quite a word, and started moving down the stairs from the deck.
“Wait a minute, Bo!” Howell said, and pointed the gun at the sheriff. Bo glanced at him, then continued down the stairs. “Stop, Bo!” Howell said, louder this time. Bo had reached the bottom of the steps and was moving toward the road to the valley. Howell lowered the gun and screamed as loudly as he could. “Bo, don’t go down there! For Christ’s sake, come back!”
Howell moved to follow him, but Scotty had squeezed her chair through the door and grabbed at him, getting hold of his belt. “No, no, Johnny, don’t follow him!”
Howell struggled on down the stairs, dragging Scotty after him, she dragging the chair. They made the bottom and moved a few steps toward the road before Scotty was able to stop him.
“You can’t follow him, you can’t!”
Suddenly, Howell realized she was right and stopped. They stood in front of the cabin and watched Bo run down the road and toward the house, as fast as his legs could move him. Occasionally, he shouted something, but they couldn’t make it out. Finally, they saw him reach the house and run through the front door.