And that was when the shiny yellow Saab turned into the driveway. The man who got
out was vaguely familiar to Todd, but it wasn’t until he slammed the car door and started
to walk towards him that Todd saw the sneakers – low-topped Keds, light blue. Talk about
Blasts from the Past; here, walking up the Bowden driveway, was Rubber Ed French, the
Ked Man.
‘Hi, Todd. Long time no see.’
Todd leaned the rifle against the side of the bench and offered his wide and winsome
grin. ‘Hi, Mr French. What are you doing out here on the wild side of town?’
‘Are your folks home?’
‘Gee, no. Did you want them for something?’
‘No,’ Ed French said after a long, thoughtful pause. ‘No, I guess not I guess maybe it
would be better if just you and I talked. For starters, anyway. You may be able to offer a
perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. Although God knows I doubt it’
He reached into his hip pocket and brought out a newsclipping. Todd knew what it
was even before Rubber Ed passed it to him, and for the second time that day he was
looking at the side-by-side pictures of Dussander. The one the street-photographer had
taken had been circled in black ink. The meaning was clear enough to Todd; French had
recognized Todd’s ‘grandfather’. And now he wanted to tell everyone in the world all
about it He wanted to midwife the good news. Good old Rubber Ed, with his jive talk and
his motherfucking sneakers.
The police would be very interested – but, of course, they already were. He knew that
now. The sinking feeling had begun about thirty minutes after Richler left. It was as if he
had been riding high in a balloon filled with happy-gas. Then a cold steel arrow had
ripped through the balloon’s fabric, and now it was sinking steadily.
The phone calls, that was the biggie. Fucking Richler had trotted that out just as slick
as warm owlshit. Sure, he had said, practically breaking his neck to rush into the trap.
He gets one or two calls a week. Let them go ranting all over southern California looking
for geriatric ex-Nazis. Fine. Except maybe they had gotten a different story from Ma Bell.
Todd didn’t know if the phone company could tell how much you used your phone for
local calls … but there had been a look in Richler’s eyes …
Then there was the letter. He had inadvertently told Richler that the house hadn’t been
burgled, and Richler had no doubt gone away thinking that the only way Todd could
have known that was if he had been back … as he had been, not just once but three times,
first to get the letter and twice more looking for anything incriminating. There had been
nothing; even the Gestapo uniform was gone, disposed of by Dussander sometime during
the last four years.
And then there were the bodies. Richler had never mentioned the bodies.
At first Todd had thought that was good. Let them hunt a little longer while he got his own head – not to mention his story – straight. No fear about the dirt that had gotten on
his clothes burying the body; they had all been cleaned later that same night. He ran
them through the washer-dryer himself, perfectly aware that Dussander might die and
then everything might come out. You can’t be too careful, boy, as Dussander himself
would have said.
Then, little by little, he had realized it was not good. The weather had been warm, and the warm weather always made the cellar smell worse; on his last trip to Dussander’s
house it had been a rank presence. Surely the police would have been interested in that
smell, and would have tracked it to its source. So why had Richler withheld the
information? Was he saving it for later? Saving it for a nasty little surprise? And if
Richler was into planning nasty little surprises, it could mean that he suspected.
Todd looked up from the clipping and saw that Rubber Ed had half turned away from
him. He was looking into the street, although not much was happening out there. Richler
could suspect, but suspicion was the best he could do.
Unless there was some sort of concrete evidence binding Todd to the old man.
Exactly the sort of evidence Rubber Ed French could give.
Ridiculous man in a pair of ridiculous sneakers. Such a ridiculous man hardly
deserved to live. Todd touched the barrel of the .30-.30.
Yes, Rubber Ed was the link they didn’t have. They could never prove that Todd had
been an accessory to one of Dussander’s murders. But with Rubber Ed’s testimony they
could prove conspiracy. And would even that end it? Oh, no. They would get his high
school graduation picture next and start showing it to the stewbums down in the Mission district. A long shot, but one Richler could ill afford not to play. If we can’t pin one bunch of winos on him, maybe we can get him for the other bunch.
What next? Court next
His father would get him a wonderful bunch of lawyers, of course. And the lawyers
would get him off, of course. Too much circumstantial evidence. He would make too
favourable an impression on the jury. But by then his life would be ruined anyway. It
would all be dragged through the newspapers, dug up and brought into the light like the
half-decayed bodies in Dussander’s cellar.
The man in that picture is the man who came to my office when you were in the ninth
grade,’ Ed told him abruptly, turning to Todd again. ‘He purported to be your
grandfather. Now it turns out he was a wanted war criminal.’
‘Yes,’ Todd said. His face had gone oddly blank. It was the face of a department store
dummy. All the healthiness, life, and vivacity had drained from it What was left was
frightening in its vacuous emptiness.
‘How did it happen?’ Ed asked, and perhaps he intended his question as a thundering
accusation, but it came out sounding plaintive and lost and somehow cheated. ‘How did
this happen, Todd?’
‘Oh, one thing just followed another,’ Todd said, and picked up the .30-.30. ‘That’s
really how it happened. One thing just… followed another.’ He pushed the safety catch to
the off position with his thumb and pointed the rifle at Rubber Ed. ‘As stupid as it sounds,
that’s just what happened. That’s all there was to it.’
‘Todd,’ Ed said, his eyes widening. He took a step backward. Todd, you don’t want to
… please, Todd. We can talk this over. We can disc —’
‘You and the fucking kraut can discuss it down in hell,’ Todd said, and pulled the
trigger.
The sound of the shot rolled away in the hot and windless quiet of the afternoon. Ed
French was flung back against his Saab. His hand groped behind him and tore off a
windshield wiper. He stared at it foolishly as blood spread on his blue turtleneck, and
then he dropped it and looked at Todd.
‘Norma,’ he whispered.
‘Okay,’ Todd said. ‘Whatever you say, champ.’ He shot Rubber Ed again and roughly
half of his head disappeared in a spray of blood and bone.
Ed turned drunkenly and began to grope towards the driver’s side door, speaking his
daughter’s name over and over again in a choked and failing voice. Todd shot him again,
aiming for the base of the spine, and Ed fell down. His feet drummed briefly on the gravel
and then were still.
Sure did die hard for a guidance counsellor, Todd thought, and brief laughter escaped
him. At the same moment a burst of pain as sharp as an icepick drove into his brain and
he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he felt better than he had in months – maybe better than
he had felt in years. Everything was fine. Everything was together. The blankness left his
face and a kind of wild beauty filled it.
He went back into the garage and got all the shells he had, better than four hundred
rounds. He put them in his old knapsack and shouldered it When he came back out into
the sunshine he was smiling excitedly, his eyes dancing — it was the way boys smile on
their birthdays, on Christmas, on the Fourth of July. It was a smile that betokened
skyrockets, treehouses, secret signs and secret meeting-places, the aftermath of the
triumphal big game when the players are carried into town on the shoulders of the
exultant fans. The ecstatic smile of tow-headed boys going off to war in coalscuttle
helmets.
‘I’m king of the world!’ he shouted mightily at the high blue sky, and raised the rifle
two-handed over his head for a moment. Then, switching it to his right hand, he started