Defiant, Dylan’s mother said, ‘If I had these diskettes you’re talking about, I’d have given them to the police. And there’s your proof that Jack never had them, either. If he’d had that kind of evidence, he would never have killed himself. He’d have seen some hope. He’d have gone to the authorities, fought for the investors.’
Proctor nodded, smiled. ‘Not the kind of man you expected to swallow a bottle of pills and suck an exhaust hose, was he?’
Some fire went out of Blair O’Conner, doused by emotions more raw than anger. ‘He was depressed. Not just over his own losses. He felt he’d failed the good people who relied on him. Friends, family. He was despondent….’ Belatedly she read a more ominous meaning in Proctor’s question. Her eyes widened. ‘What’re you saying?’
From inside his leather coat, Proctor drew a pistol.
Jilly gripped Dylan’s arm. ‘What is this?’
Numbly, he said, ‘We thought an intruder killed her, a stranger. Some passing psychopath just off the highway. It was never solved.’
For a moment Dylan’s mother and Proctor regarded each other in silence, as she absorbed the truth of her husband’s death.
Then Proctor said, ‘Jack was my size. I’m a thinker, not a fighter. I admit I’m a coward in that regard. But I thought I might overcome him with surprise and chloroform, and I did.’
At the mention of chloroform, Jilly’s hand tightened on Dylan’s arm.
‘Then while he was unconscious, gastric intubation was an easy matter. All I needed was a laryngoscope to be sure I got the tube down the esophagus, not the trachea. Flushed the Nembutal capsules down with water, straight into the stomach. Pulled out the tube, kept him sedated with chloroform till the Nembutal overdose kicked in.’
Dylan’s shock gave way to anger, but not entirely a personal anger arising from what this monstrous man had done to their family. Indignation was a part of it, too, a wrath directed not merely at Lincoln Proctor but at evil itself, at the fact of its existence. All of humanity might be fallen from grace, but far too many among humankind eagerly embraced darkness, sowed the earth with cruelty and fed on the misery of others, falling farther still, down and down, thrilled by the plummet.
‘I assure you,’ Proctor told Blair O’Conner, ‘your husband felt no pain. Though he was unconscious, I took great care not to force the intubation.’
Dylan had felt this way on finding Travis chained to that bed on Eucalyptus Avenue: sympathy for all the victims of violence and a pure poignant rage on their behalf. Storming through him were emotions no less overblown than those of the characters in an opera, which he found as strange as anything else that had happened to him, as strange as his new sixth sense, as strange as being folded.
‘I’m not at all a good man,’ Proctor said, indulging in the smarmy self-deprecation that had been his style the previous night, when he injected Dylan. ‘Not a good man by any standard. I know my faults, and I’ve got plenty. But as bad as I am, I’m not capable of inflicting pain thoughtlessly or when it isn’t absolutely necessary.’
As though Jilly shared Dylan’s operatic wrath and painfully affecting pity for the weak, the victimized, she went to the older Shepherd, on whom her compassion could have an effect not possible on the untouchable boy of this earlier era. She put an arm around Shep, gently turned him away from Lincoln Proctor, from his mother, so that he would not witness again what he had seen ten years ago.
‘By the time I rigged the hose from the exhaust pipe,’ Proctor said, ‘Jack was so deeply asleep that he never knew he was dying. He had no sense of suffocation, no fear. I regret what I did, it eats at me, even though I had no choice, no option. Anyway, I feel better that I’ve had the chance to let you know your husband didn’t abandon you and your children, after all. I regret misleading you till now.’
To Proctor’s self-justification and to the realization that her own death was imminent, Blair O’Conner reacted with a defiance that stirred Dylan. ‘You’re a parasite,’ she told Proctor, ‘a stinking ugly worm of a man.’