Doyle thought of what the sonofabitch might have done to Courtney, what
he would have done to Colin. He struck again. And again. He struck
harder and faster each time, ripping the nails into the man’s arms,
neck, the sides of his skull . . . Doyle whimpered, painfully aware
that he was now the maniac and that the man on the table had become the
right man. But he went on anyway, slashing and tearing with all of his
strength.
The stranger fell to the floor and cracked his head on the tiles. He
looked sadly up at Doyle and tried to say something.
Blood ran from a hundred cuts and, suddenly, it poured out of his nose
like water from a set of faucets. He died.
For a full minute Alex stood over the corpse, staring down at his
handiwork. He was numb. He felt nothing: not anger, shame, pity,
sorrow, not anything at all. It did not seem right to have killed a man
and feel no remorse.
Waves of pain spread out again from his wounded shoulder. He realized
that he had been using both hands to hold the club, that he had put both
of his shoulders into each brutal swing of it. He dropped the board on
top of the corpse and turned away from both of them.
Colin was standing in the corner by the refrigerator. He was
sheet-white and trembling. He looked smaller and skinnier than ever.
“Are you okay?” Doyle asked.
The boy looked at him, unable to speak.
“Colin.”
The boy only shook.
Doyle took a step toward him.
Suddenly crying out, Colin ran forward, flung himself against Doyle,
hugged the man around the waist. He was sobbing hysterically. He
looked up, eyes glistening behind the thick glasses, and said, “You
won’t ever leave us, will you?”
“Leave you? Of course not,” Doyle said. He grabbed the boy under the
arms, lifted him and held him tightly.
“Say you won’t leave us!” Colin demanded. Tears streamed down his
face. He was shaking so hard that he could not be settled no matter how
firmly Doyle held him. “Say it! Say it!”
“I’ll never leave you,” Doyle said, squeezing him even tighter.
“Oh, God, Colin, the two of you are all I have now. I’ve lost
everything else now.”
The boy cried against his neck.
Carrying Colin, he went out of the kitchen and through the dining room,
out to the main steps. “We’ll go see how Courtney is,” he told the boy,
hoping his voice would calm him.
it did not.
They were halfway up the steps toward the second floor when the boy
began to shake worse than ever in Doyle’s arms. “Are you telling the
truth? You really won’t leave us?”
“Truth.” Doyle kissed the boy’s tearstained nose.
“Not ever?”
“Never. I told you . . . The two of you are all that’s left.
I’ve just lost everything else.”
Holding the boy against his chest as he went to see about Courtney,
Alex thought that one of the things he had lost was the ability to cry
as freely as a child. And right now, more than anything, he wanted to
cry.