Chapter 130

FRED BRINKLEY WALKED ALONG Scott Street, looking straight ahead under the brim of Dr. Carter's baseball cap. He was watching the small peaks of sails in the marina at the end of the street, smelling the air coming off the bay.

His head still hurt, but the meds had quieted the voices so that he could think. He felt strong and ka-pow-pow powerful. The way he'd felt when he and Bucky had wasted those pitiful assholes on the ferry.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in Dr. Carter's office, how he'd exploded into action when the cuffs came off like he was some kind of superhero.

Touch your nose.

Touch your toes.

Grab the scalpel.

Put it to the doctor's jugular and ask the guard for his gun. Fred was laughing now, thinking about that stupid guard snarling at him as he taped the guard and the doctor naked together, shoved gauze into their mouths, and locked them inside the closet.

"You'll be back, freak."

Fred touched the gun inside the doctor's jacket pocket, thinking, I'll be back, all right.

I'm planning on it.

But not just yet.

The small stucco houses on Scott Street were set back twenty feet from the road, butted up close to one another like dairy cows at the trough. The house Fred was looking for was tan with dark-brown shutters and a one-car garage under the second-floor living space.

And there it was, with its crisp lawn and lemon tree, looking just like he remembered. The car was in the garage, and the garage door was open.

This was excellent. Perfect timing, too.

Fred Brinkley walked the twenty feet of asphalt driveway, then slipped inside the garage. He edged alongside the baby-blue '95 BMW convertible and took the cordless nail gun off the tool bench. He slammed in a cartridge, fired into the wall to make sure the tool was working. Tha-wack.

Then he walked up the short flight of stairs, turned the doorknob, and stepped onto the hardwood floor of the living room. He stood for a moment in front of the shrine.

Then he took the leather-bound photo albums off the highboy, grabbed the watercolor from the easel, and carried the load of stuff to the kitchen.

She was at the table, paying the bills. A small under-the-cabinet TV was on – Trial Heat.

The dark-haired woman turned her head as he entered the kitchen, her eyes going huge as she tried to comprehend.

"Hola, Mamacita," he said cheerfully. "It's me. And it's time for the Fred and Elena Brinkley Show."

Chapter 131

"YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE, ALFRED," his mother said.

Fred put the nail gun down on the counter, locked the kitchen door behind him. Then he flipped through the photo albums, showed his mother the pictures of Lily in her baby carriage, Lily with Mommy. Lily in her tiny bathing suit.

Fred watched Elena's eyes widen as he took the watercolor portrait of Lily, broke the glass against the counter.

"No!"

"Yes, Mama. Yes, sirree. These are dirty pictures. Filthy dirty."

He opened the dishwasher and stacked the albums on the lower rack, put the watercolor in the top rack. Slammed the dishwasher door on the complete photographic collection of his sainted sister and dialed the timer to five minutes.

Heard the machine begin to tick.

"Alfred," said his mother, starting to stand, "this isn't funny."

Fred pushed her back down in her seat.

"The water isn't going to come on for five minutes. All I want is your undivided attention for four, and then I'll set your precious picture albums free."

Fred pulled out a chair and sat down right next to his mother. She gave him her "you're revolting" look, showing him the disdain that had made him hate her for his entire life.

"I didn't finish what I was telling you that day in court," he said.

"That day when you lied, you mean?" she said, twisting her head toward the ticking dishwasher, shooting a look to the bolted kitchen door.

Fred removed the guard's Beretta from his jacket pocket. Took off the safety.

"I want to talk to you, Mama."

"That's not loaded."

Fred smiled, then put a shot through the floor. His mother's face went gray.

"Put your arms on the table. Do it, Mom. You want those pictures back, right?"

Fred wrenched one of his mother's arms away from her side, put it on the table, put the head of the nail gun to her sleeve, and pulled the trigger.

Tha-wack. Nailed the other side of the cuff. Tha-wack, tha-wack.

"See? What did you think, Mama? That I was going to hurt you? I'm not a madman, you know."

After he secured the first sleeve, he nailed down the second one, his mother flinching with each thwack, looking like she was going to cry.

The knob on the dishwasher timer advanced a notch as a minute went by.

Tick, tick, tick.

"Give me my pictures, Fred. They're all I have…"

Fred put his mouth near his mother's ear. Spoke in a loud stage whisper. "I did lie in court, Mom, because I wanted to hurt you. Let you know how I feel all the time."

"I don't have time to listen to you," Elena Brinkley said, pulling her arms against the nails, fabric straining.

"But you do have time. Today is all about me. See?" he said, shooting the three-quarter-inch framing nails up the sides of her sleeves to her elbows.

Tha-wack, tha-wack, tha-wack.

"And the truth is that I wanted to do the dirty with Lily, and that was your fault, Mom. Because you made Lily into a little fuck-doll, with her tiny skirts and painted nails and high heels – on a twelve-year-old! What were you thinking? That she could look like that and no one would want to do her?"

The telephone rang, and Elena Brinkley turned her head longingly toward it. Fred got up from his seat and pulled the cord out of the wall. Then he lifted the knife block from the counter and put it down hard on the table. BLAM.

"Forget the phone. There's no one you need to talk to. I'm the most important person in your world."

"What are you doing, Alfred?"

"What do you think?" he said, taking out one of the long knives. "You think I'm going to cut your tongue out? What kind of psycho do you think I am?"

He laughed at the horror on his mother's face.

"So the thing is, Mommy, I saw Lily going down on this guy, Peter Ballantine, who worked at the marina."

"She did no such thing."

Brinkley began to swipe the eight-inch-long blade against the sharpener – a long Carborundum rod. It made a satisfying whicking sound.

"You should leave now. The police are looking -"

"I'm not finished yet. You're going to listen to me for the first time in your spiteful, miserable…"

Ticketa, ticketa, tick.

Inside his head, he was saying, Kill her. Kill her.

Fred put down the blade and wiped the sweat from his palms onto the sides of Dr. Carter's khakis. Picked up the knife again.

"As I was saying, Lily had been teasing me, Mom. Flouncing around, half naked, and then she puts her mouth on Ballantine's dick. Forget the pictures and listen to me!

"Lily and I took the day-sailer out, and we anchored far out where no one could see us – and Lily took off her top."

Liar. Coward. Blaming her.

"And so I reached out to her. Touched her little titties, and she looked at me like you're looking at me. Like I was dog shit."

"I don't want to hear this."

"You will hear it," Brinkley said, touching the blade gently to the crepey skin of his mother's neck. "So there she was in her little bitty half of a bathing suit, saying that I was the freak, saying, 'I'm going to tell Mom.'