“Anywhere, Peter, anywhere you say. New Zealand, you mentioned New Zealand. That would be fine.”
“It is a beautiful country. Or Austria, as I said, we had good times there, didn’t we?” He tightened his grip on the pillow. “Didn’t we?” he asked again.
“Yes we did.” Her eyes dipped to follow his movements and she tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. “Perhaps I could travel there first and then on to New Zealand.”
“And not a word to the police? You promise?” He lifted up the pillow.
Her chin trembled uncontrollably as she watched the pillow come toward her. “Peter. Please. Please don’t.”
His words were stated very precisely. “My name is Jackson, Alicia. Peter Crane doesn’t live here anymore.”
With a sudden pounce, he pushed her flat against the couch, the pillow completely covering her face. She fought hard, kicking, scratching, gyrating her body, but she was so small, so weak; he barely felt her fighting for her life. He had spent so many years making his body hard as rock; she had spent that time waiting for a precise replica of her father to stride gallantly into her life, her muscles and her mind growing soft in the process.
Soon, it was over. As he watched, the violent movements diminished quickly and then stopped altogether. Her pale right arm slid down to her side and then dangled off the couch. He removed the pillow and forced himself to look down at her. She at least deserved that. The mouth was partially open, the eyes wide and staring. He quickly closed them and sat there with her, patting her hand gently. He did not try to hold back his own tears. That would’ve done no good. He struggled to remember the last time he had cried but couldn’t. How healthy was it when you couldn’t even recall?
He placed her arms across her chest but then decided to have them clasped at her waist instead. He carefully lifted her legs up on the sofa and put the pillow he had used to kill her under her head, arranging her pretty hair so that it swept out evenly over the pillow. He thought she was very lovely in death despite the utter stillness. There was a peace there, a serenity that was at least heartening to him, as though what he had just done wasn’t all that terrible.
He hesitated for a moment and then went ahead: He checked her pulse and laid her hand back down. If she’d still been alive, then he would’ve left the room, fled the country, and left it at that. He wouldn’t have touched her like that again. She was family after all. But she was dead. He rose and looked down at her one last time.
It needn’t have ended this way. Now all the family he had left was the useless Roger. He should go kill his brother right now. It should have been him lying there, not his cherished Alicia. However, Roger wasn’t worth the effort. He froze for an instant as an idea occurred to him. Perhaps his brother could play a supporting role in this production. He would call Roger and make him an offer. An offer he knew his younger brother would be unable to resist as it would be all cash; the most potent drug in existence.
He gathered up the elements of his disguise, and methodically reapplied them, all the time making little darting glances at his dead sister. He had coated his hands with a lacquer-like substance, so he wasn’t concerned about leaving fingerprints. He left by the back door. They would find her soon enough. Alicia had said her housekeeper had gone out to run an errand. It was a better than even chance that the police would think Thomas Donovan had continued his homicidal rampage by murdering his lady friend, Alicia Morgan Crane. Her obituary would be extensive, her family had been very important; there would be much to write about. And at some point, Jackson would have to come back, as himself once more, to bury her. Roger could hardly be trusted to do that. I am sorry, Alicia. It shouldn’t have come to this. This unexpected turn of events had come closer than anything he could remember to completely immobilizing him. Above all else he cherished complete control and it suddenly had been stripped from him. He looked down at his hands, the instruments of his sister’s death. His sister. Even now his legs felt rubbery, his body not in sync with his mind.