cross-legged on the couch, going over his notes for the trig final. Trig was a bitch for
him, as all maths were and probably always would be. His father was seated across the
room, going through the chequebook stubs with a portable calculator on his lap and a
mildly disbelieving expression on his face. Monica, closest to the phone, was watching
the James Bond movie Todd had taped off HBC two evenings before.
‘Hello?’ She listened. A faint frown touched her face and she held the handset out to
Todd. ‘It’s Mr Denker. He sounds excited about something. Or upset.’
Todd’s heart leaped into his throat, but his expression
hardly changed. ‘Really?’ He went to the phone and took it
from her. ‘Hi, Mr Denker.’
Dussander’s voice was hoarse and short ‘Come over right away, boy. I’ve had a heart
attack. Quite a bad one, I think.’
‘Gee,’ Todd said, trying to collect his flying thoughts, to see around the fear that now
bulked huge in his own mind. That’s interesting, all right, but it’s pretty late and I was
studying-‘
‘I understand that you cannot talk,’ Dussander said in that
harsh, almost barking voice. ‘But you can listen. I cannot call
ib ambulance or dial 222, boy … at least not yet. There is a
mess here. I need help… and that means you need help.’
‘Well … if you put it that way …’ Todd’s heartbeat had -reached a hundred and twenty
beats a minute, but his face was calm, almost serene. Hadn’t he known all along that a
night like this would come? Yes, of course he had.
Tell your parents I’ve had a letter,’ Dussander said. ‘An important letter. You
understand?’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Todd said.
‘Now we see, boy. We see what you are made of.’
‘Sure,’ Todd said. He suddenly became aware that his -mother was watching him
instead of the movie, and he forced a stiff grin onto his face. ‘Bye.’
Dussander was saying something else now, but Todd hung up on it
‘I’m going over to Mr Denker’s for a while,’ he said, speaking to both of them but
looking at his mother – that faint expression of concern was still on her face. ‘Can I pick
up anything for either of you at the store?’
‘Pipe cleaners for me and a small package of fiscal -responsibility for your mother,’
Dick said.
‘Very funny,’ Monica said. Todd, is Mr Denker -‘
‘What in the name of God did you get at Fielding’s?’ Dick interrupted.
That knick-knack shelf in the closet. I told you that. There’s nothing wrong with Mr
Denker, is there, Todd? He sounded a little strange.’
There really are such things as knick-knack shelves? I thought those crazy women who write British mysteries made them up so there would always be a place where the
killer could find a blunt instrument’
‘Dick, can I get a word in edgeways?’
‘Sure. Be my guest But for the closet?’
‘He’s okay, I guess,’ Todd said. He put on his leather jacket and zipped it up. ‘But he
was excited. He got a letter from a nephew of his in Hamburg or Dusseldorf or
someplace. He hasn’t heard from any of his people in years, and now he’s got this letter
and his eyes aren’t good enough for him to read it’
‘Well isn’t that a bitch,’ Dick said. ‘Go on, Todd. Get over there and ease the man’s mind.’
‘I thought he had someone to read to him,’ Monica said. ‘A new boy.’
‘He does,’ Todd said, suddenly hating his mother, hating the half-formed intuition he
saw swimming in her eyes. ‘Maybe he wasn’t home, or maybe he couldn’t come over this
late.’
‘Oh. Well… go on, then. But be careful.’
‘I will. You don’t need anything at the store?’
‘No. How’s your studying for that calculus final going?’
‘It’s trig,’ Todd said. ‘Okay, I guess. I was just getting ready to call it a night.’ This was a rather large lie.
‘You want to take the Porsche?’ Dick asked.
‘No, I’l1 ride my bike.’ He wanted the extra five minutes to collect his thoughts and get
his emotions under control – to try, at least. And in his present state, he would probably
drive the Porsche into a telephone pole.
‘Strap your reflector-patch on your knee,’ Monica said, ‘and tell Mr Denker hello for
us.’
‘Okay.’
That doubt was still in his mother’s eyes but it was less evident now. He blew her a kiss
and then went out to the garage where his bike – a racing-style German bike rather than
a Schwinn now – was parked. His heart was still racing in his chest, and he felt a mad
urge to take the .30-.30 back into the house and shoot both of his parents and then go
down to the slope overlooking the freeway. No more
Apt Pupil
241
worrying about Dussander. No more bad dreams, no more winos. He would shoot and
shoot and shoot, only saving one bullet back for the end.
Then reason came back to him and he rode away towards Dussander’s, his reflector-
patch revolving up and down just above his knee, his long blond hair streaming back
from his brow.
‘Holy Christ!’ Todd nearly screamed.
He was standing in the kitchen door. Dussander was damped on his elbows, his china
cup between them. Large drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. But it was not
Dossander Todd was looking at It was the blood. There seemed to be blood everywhere –
it was puddled on the table, an the empty kitchen chair, on the floor.
‘Where are you bleeding?’ Todd shouted, at last getting his frozen feet to move again –
it seemed to him that he had been standing in the doorway for at least a thousand years.
This is the end, he was thinking, this is the absolute end of everything. The balloon is going up high, baby, all the way to the sky, baby, and it’s toot-toot-tootsie, goodbye. All
the same, he was careful not to step in any of the blood. ‘I thought you said you had a
fucking heart attack!’
‘It’s not my blood,’ Dussander muttered.
‘What?’ Todd stopped. ‘What did you say?’
‘Go downstairs. You will see what has to be done.’
‘What the hell is this?’ Todd asked. A sudden terrible idea -had come into his head.
‘Don’t waste our time, boy. I think you will not be too surprised at what you find
downstairs. I think you have had experience in such matters as the one in my cellar.
First-hand experience.’
Todd looked at him, unbelieving, for another moment, and then he plunged down the
cellar stairs two by two. His first look in the feeble yellow glow of the basement’s only
light made him think that Dussander had pushed a bag of garbage down there. Then he
saw the protruding legs, and the dirty hands held down at the sides by the cinched belt.
‘Holy Christ,’ he repeated, but this time the words had no force at all – they emerged in
a slight, skeletal whisper.
He pressed the back of his right hand against lips that were as dry as sandpaper. He
closed his eyes for a moment… and when he opened them again, he felt in control of
himself at last.
Todd started moving.
He saw the spade-handle protruding from a shallow hole in the far corner and
understood at once what Dussander had being doing when his ticker had seized up. A
moment later he became fully aware of the cellar’s fetid aroma – a smell like rotting
tomatoes. He had smelled it before, but upstairs it was much fainter … and, of course, he
hadn’t been here very often over the last couple of years. Now he understood exactly what that smell meant and for several moments he had to struggle with his gorge. A series of
choked gagging sounds, muffled by the hand he had clapped over his mouth and nose,
came from him.
Little by little he got control of himself again.
He seized the wino’s legs and dragged him across to the edge of the hole. He dropped
them, skidded sweat from his forehead with the heel of his left hand, and stood absolutely
still for a moment, thinking harder than he ever had in his life.
Then he seized the spade and began to deepen the hole. When it was five feet deep, he
got out and shoved the derelict’s body in with his foot Todd stood at the edge of the
grave, looking down. Tattered bluejeans. Filthy, scab-encrusted hands. It was a stewbum,
all right The irony was almost funny. So funny a person could scream with laughter.
He ran back upstairs.
‘How are you?’ he asked Dussander.
‘Ill be all right Have you taken care of it?’
‘I’m doing it, okay?’
‘Be quick. There’s still up here.’
‘I’d like to find some pigs and feed you to them,’ Todd said, and went back down the