Crimson Joy

CHAPTER 31

The front door opened into a small hallway with tan figured wallpaper.

Stairs led straight up to the second floor. To the right was a small dining room with a mahogany table, two corner cabinets. To the left was a living room that ran the depth of the house and was papered in beige with large red flowers. Felton sat toward the back in a bright red velvet wing chair. His mother sat on the sofa, which was covered with a floral throw.

"Well, who's this?" Mrs. Felton said. She was a sharp faced little woman, her hair tightly permed and colored a honey-brown. She had on a gray-green dress and green high-heeled shoes.

"My name is Spenser, Mrs. Felton. And this is Dr. Silverman."

Mrs. Felton frowned a little at the Dr. Silverman. Doctors were male.

And Silverman sounded Jewish. Felton was absolutely motionless in his chair. The gym bag was on the floor at his feet. He looked at a point in space somewhere between me and Susan.

"What do you want?" Mrs. Felton said. "You should have knocked."

"Do you know what your son's been up to, Mrs. Felton?" I said. Soaping windows? Peeking in the girls' locker room, putting a tack on the teacher's chair? Her face got hard and the lines became immobile and her eyes slitted. She turned toward Felton.

"What does he mean, Gordon? What have you done now?"

Felton remained rigid and still and not looking at any of us. "Nothing."

Felton said. "I don't know them."

"Dr. Silverman is your son's psychotherapist," I said.

The lines in her face deepened and the face got icy.

"Psych ?" she said.

"Psychotherapist," I said. "Dr. Silverman is a psychologist. She had been treating your son."

Mrs. Felton's features were so pinched that they seemed centered in her face.

"What did he say?"

"About you?" I smiled. "It's pretty long to summarize."

"Gordon, what have you been telling about me?"

Felton maintained his rigidity.

"I don't hold with all that psycho logic business. Most of those doctors are crazier than the patients."

"Surely, you would know," I said.

We all waited. The silence was very forceful. I had no idea where I was going. I just wanted us all together there in a stressful environment for as long as I could keep us. If I pushed too hard, Felton would probably bolt. If I searched his bag too soon and found clean socks and a toothbrush, it would score one for Felton, and I didn't want his psyche scoring any. If I came right out and told his mother what he was, she might faint, or throw a wingding, or simply deny it and order us out. That too would prop Felton up.

We were still standing just inside the living room, me forward, Susan slightly back of me. There was a back door from the living room, which probably led to the kitchen. But Felton would have to get up from his chair and go around it to reach the kitchen. Probably a back door out from the kitchen. If he could make it before I stopped him, I'd lost more steps than I thought I had.

"Gordon," Mrs. Felton said. "Just what is this business?"

"Nothing."

Felton said. His voice was flat, and nearly lost somewhere back in his throat.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Mrs. Felton said. "No boy had a better mother. I never left him for a minute. I was always there when there was trouble. I stood on my head for this boy all his life."

I looked at Felton.

"That right, boy?"

Felton seemed to come back from wherever he was. He looked away from the fixed point in space and refocused on Susan.

"See," he said. "See what she's like?"

"Gordon," his mother said, "what on earth are you saying? Don't you dare speak to me that way."

Felton was still looking at Susan.

"Was I speaking to her?" he said. "No, I was speaking to you. But she says I shouldn't speak to her that way."

"Gordon, don't you dare," his mother said.

"See?" Felton said. He was smiling slightly. "It's good you came here, Doctor. Now maybe you'll believe me about her."

I looked at Susan and made a very slight headshake. Susan was silent.

"Gordon, that's enough. If you're in some kind of trouble, I want to hear about it. And I don't want any more fresh talk."

Felton turned and looked at her slowly, his body motionless, only his head moving. He held the look.

"Aw, Ma," he said, "fuck you."

She rocked backwards as if the phrase were physical, all the blood drained from her face. She spoke in a whisper. "What?"

Felton stood up suddenly.

"Just fuck off, will you. You been saying how you stood on your fucking head for me all my fucking life and I don't want to hear it anymore. Dr.

Silverman knows. You stood me on my head. You didn't love me. You never loved anybody. You loved me when I did stuff you liked and didn't love me when I did stuff you didn't like, and none of it had any logic.

You frigid bitch, you ruined my life, that's what you did."

I felt like cheering, except it was too late. The short, happy life of Gordon Felton. His mother seemed not to have heard him.

"Gordon, you may not use that language in my house.

You'll have to leave. And you'll have to take your friends with you."

She sat very straight.

"Language?" Felton's smile had widened. "Language? You mean like 'fuck you'?" He stared at her. "You know what I've done?" he said.

"Gordon, I'm your mother. You do what I say."

"You know what I've done?" Felton said again. "You know the Red Rose killer?" His face was bursting with mirth and pleasure. His cheeks were flushed. "Huh? You know that guy, Ma? Guy ties up colored girls and shoots them in the snatch?"

Mrs. Felton turned and looked firmly at the inexpensive tole lamp at the end of the couch.

Felton threw his arms wide, his face alight with laughter. "Ma, that's me. I did that, Ma. How do you like them apples, huh, Ma? Your boy Gordon is famous."

His mother whirled around at him.

"Shush," she hissed. "You just shush, this minute. I don't want to hear another word. I have friends to think of. You don't care what you do to me, do you?"

"What I do to you, Blackie? I'm the fucking serial killer, Blackie, and you did it to me."

"Don't call your mother by her first name," she said.

"I refuse to listen." She resumed her examination of the lamp.

Felton stood with his arms apart, his chest heaving, the smile beginning to narrow. His mother gazed steadfastly at the lamp. He looked at her staring away from him and shook his head once. He looked at Susan.

"You?" he said.

Susan shook her head slowly.

Felton stared at her and his eyes slowly filled with tears. He shook his head again and shifted his wet gaze at me.

"So, Big Daddy," he said. "It's you and me."

"What's in the bag, Gordon?" I said.

His eyes dropped. He'd forgotten it. He looked back up at me.

"My stuff," he said.

His face remained teary, but it began to be shrewd.

"You got a warrant?" he said. His eyes began to move around the room.

I took my gun out from under my arm.

"Right here," I said.

Mrs. Felton saw the gun. Apparently she wasn't as fixated on the lamp as she looked.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she said.

I walked across the living room and picked up the gym bag from the floor between Felton's feet. I handed it to Susan. She unzipped it. "There's some duct tape, clothesline, and a revolver," she said, "and some of those sanitary gloves made out of saran wrap or whatever." I was looking at Felton. He stared back at me, the tears still muddling his eyes.

"Gotcha," I said.

Felton smiled faintly. He shrugged his shoulders. From the couch his mother hissed at him.

"Run."

He looked at her as if she'd appeared from the skies.

"Run, Gordon. We'll say they're lying. No one will know."

"Ma…"

"Run," she hissed. Her voice seemed hoarse, almost guttural.

"Run, run, run, run…"

"The gun will convict him, Mrs. Felton," I said.

"It won't. They don't have to know. They don't."

She stood up from the couch and walked to her son.

"Would you put me through this," she hissed. "For God's sake, run." She shoved herself suddenly between us. I put one hand on her shoulder. She slapped Felton in the face hard.

"Run, you rotten brat."

Felton gave her a look of such horror that it made my throat close. He whirled and dashed for the kitchen. His mother grabbed hold of my gun hand.

"Run," she screamed. "Run, run, run, run, run."

I shoved her out of the way and looked at Susan. She had her gun out too. Goddamn.

"I'll be fine," she said. "Get him."

I went out the back door after Felton.