Bo looked at the paper. Donal O’Coineen’s name was written at the bottom. Bo signed it. Kathleen hugged him again.
“Now it’s done,” she said. “Take it back to Mr. Sutherland, and then we can go anywhere we like, you and me.”
He held her back. Something was wrong. It was dead quiet in the house, not a sound. There was always some sound, he remembered, Joyce playing the piano or Donal and Mary listening to the radio, but it was strangely quiet. “Where’s your folks?” he asked. “Where’s Joyce?”
“They’re all upstairs packing,” Kathleen said, taking his hand and leading him toward the front door. “Now you take the paper to Mr. Sutherland, then come back for me. I’ll be all ready to go.”
Bo held her by the shoulders and looked at her. “Don’t talk crazy, Kathleen,” he said. “Something’s wrong here.” He was beginning to be frightened. He started toward the stairs. “Donal!” he called out.
Kathleen grabbed at his sleeve and pulled, but Bo swept on down the hallway toward the stairs. “No, Bo, don’t go up. He doesn’t want to see you, I told you.”
“Donal!” he called again as he put a foot on the stairs.“
“Bo, let’s go now,” Kathleen cajoled, climbing the steps beside him, tugging at him.
He shook her off. “Joyce!” he yelled, louder, now. He turned at the landing and continued upward, Kathleen begging still.
“Joyce!” he said once more as he reached the top of the stairs, and the name died in his throat. Halfway down the upstairs hallway, at the door to her room, Joyce lay, sprawled in an unnatural position, her legs crossed oddly. Her chest was a mass of blood, and most of her face was gone. She had been shot at least twice with a shotgun, up close, a part of Bo registered, the deputy part. The dark glasses she always wore lay twisted near her head. Her golden hair was scarlet, how, spilling over a pool of her own blood.
Bo’s mouth worked, but nothing would come out. He made himself continue down the hallway, toward Donal and Mary’s room. Kathleen was quiet, now. She had stopped begging. Bo came to the door, which was slightly ajar. He pushed it and it swung freely with a loud squeak. Donal and Mary were in bed, sitting up, or, at least, they had been. Donal was twisted sideways, both his arms flung to the same side of his body. Mary’s head, what was left of it, lay across his leg, and a great deal of her blood had soaked his trousers. The wall behind the bed held gobs of red and gray matter; bits of hair was stuck to it.
There was a pump shotgun on the floor beside the bed. Bo picked it up and worked the action. Empty.
Kathleen spoke for the first time since they had reached the top of the stairs. “I took the plug out,” she said, matter-of-factly.
The gun would have held eight shells without the plug, the deputy part of Bo thought. That part tried to reconstruct what had happened.
“Daddy and Mama were in bed listening to the radio,” Kathleen said, in the same calm voice. “I shot them first, twice each. I heard Joyce call out, and I went into the hall and shot her twice when she came out of her room. Then I came back in here and shot the rest of the times at them.” She paused. “Then I turned off the radio,” she said, finally.
Bo dropped the shotgun, walked back down the hallway past Joyce’s body, and sat down on the top step. He was very tired, it seemed; he felt numb, almost drowsy, and the feeling didn’t square with the beating of his heart, which was rapid and hard.
Kathleen sat down beside him and put her head in his lap. “You see,” she said, “It’s all right, now.” She stroked his thigh the way she had done in the car so many times. “I practiced Daddy’s signature from his cancelled checks for a long time, then I signed the paper.” Her voice was soothing. “Nobody in the world would think it wasn’t his signature, believe me.”
Bo held her wrist to stop the stroking. It astonished him that he was becoming excited, even now, after what he had just seen. Her power over him was that great.
“Now, here’s what we do,” Kathleen continued. “There’s some dynamite out in the shed,” she said, still in her soothing voice. “Daddy used it in the well digging. What you do, is you put some dynamite under the road. We’ll get my things in the car – I’m all packed – and when we drive off you’ll blow up the road. You did that stuff in Korea, so you’ll know how to do it. Then the lake will come in, and the house will go under.” She raised her head. “Oh, I nearly forgot. We’ll put Daddy and Mama and Joyce in the well. There’s some cement bags in the shed, too. We’ll put them in the well on top of them; that way, when the lake comes in they won’t float up. Bo, you’re hurting my wrist.”
Bo was surprised that he was gripping her wrist so tightly. He tried to hold it more gently. It was hard.
“We’ll take Daddy’s little typewriter with us,” Kathleen continued, resting her head in his lap again, nuzzling his crotch. “I’ll write letters to people from him saying we’ve all moved away. I always typed his letters, I’ll know what to say. We’ll take his checkbook, too. I can write the checks just the way he did. And I’ll write letters to people from Joyce, too. I’ve always written her letters for her, nobody will think that’s funny. Remember how I used to write letters to you from her when you were in Korea? It was me put in the sexy parts. Bet you didn’t know that, bet you thought it was Joyce all the time.”
Bo nodded dumbly. He had thought it was Joyce, but when he thought about it, it made sense; it would have been Kathleen saying those things, wouldn’t it? It made sense. He had to make some sense, now. He had to.
“We’re going to be so happy, Bo,” Kathleen said, rubbing her ear against his crotch. “We’ll get us a nice house on a beach out there. There’s lots of beaches in California. At night, we’ll take a blanket out on the beach and lie out there naked, and I’ll do nice things to you, really nice things.”
“Kathleen,” Bo managed to say. He had to make some sense.
“I’ll do things you never even dreamed about,” she continued. “I’ll…”
“Kathleen, shut up,” Bo said. He put his hand on her neck and held her still. “And stop doing that. I’ve got to talk to you, and I can’t talk to you if you’re doing that.”
“All right, Bo,” she said quietly, keeping her head perfectly still. “Talk to me.”
“This is all completely crazy,” Bo said, keeping his hand on her neck, hold her head still. “Nobody will believe any of this, and there isn’t enough money. Houses and things cost a lot more in California than they cost here. The money would be gone in no time, it just isn’t all that much.”
“I figured it all out, Bo,” she said. “Don’t you worry, it’ll be wonderful.”
“No, you can’t figure it out,” Bo replied. “It can’t be figured out. I can’t disappear on the same night that your whole family does. They’ll come looking for us, and they’ll find us, and they’ll bring us back.”
They were both quiet for several minutes now. Then Kathleen tried to move her head, but Bo tightened his grip a little and held her still.
“Bo,” she said, “we have to go away tonight. We have to do it just like I figured it out. If we don’t, they’ll put you in the electric chair.”
“What?” he said. “No, that’s not what will happen. They’ll send you away for a few years; you’re only thirteen, they won’t put you in the electric chair.”
“Not me, Bo,” she said. “You.”
Even before she spoke, Bo thought he knew what was coming.
“I never touched the shotgun,” she said. “I wore a pair of Mama’s gloves. But you touched the shotgun. You picked it up and you pumped it. They’ll find your fingerprints all over it, not mine.”
Bo made a small whimpering noise.
“I’ll tell them you did it, Bo,” she said, and her voice took on an edge he had never heard. “You better take me to California, or I’ll tell them you did it, and they’ll believe me; I’ll make them believe me, you know I can do it.”