Free Victims by Collin Wilcox

from you?” I asked.
    She nodded slowly, then vaguely shrugged. “I knew what my father told me.” Her lips twisted again, sadly mimicking a smile. “That’s the trouble. That’s always been the trouble, I suppose. All of my information comes from my father.” She sat silently for a moment, then said, “He did my divorce. My father, I mean. And that was the trouble, you see. It was like the Treaty of Versailles.”
    I frowned. “The Treaty of Versailles?”
    “Gordon had nothing left, after my father got through with him. No money, no business left—and no visitation rights, either. Not really. So he had to leave town. My father saw to that. Literally, my father drove him out of town. So whenever Gordon got his life put back together, he’d naturally want to get his pound of flesh back. Just like the Germans did, after the First World War. If it hadn’t been for the treaty, you see, then we’d never’ve had Hitler. And—” She hiccupped again, smiled sadly again, shrugged again. “I’m a history buff, you see. Or, at least, I used to be a—” She broke off, obviously struck by a sudden thought. I saw her eyes sharpen. Her mouth came spontaneously open as momentary shock penetrated her alcoholic bemusement.
    “Maybe Gordon thought it was—”
    I waited for her to finish it. Speaking in a hushed voice, her eyes searching mine, she said: “Maybe he thought it was my father, when he shot.”
    “Yes,” I answered, “I thought about that. It would make sense out of what happened.”
    “Except that Gordon’s not a killer. For one thing, he’s too smart. He’s tough enough to kill someone, maybe. But he’s too smart to do it. He was a street kid, you know, when he grew up—a Jewish street kid. So he—”
    I heard the sound of a buzzer. Someone was at the front door. I looked at Marie Kramer inquiringly, but she waved a slack hand. “Bruce will get it.”
    “Is he the bodyguard your father hired?”
    She nodded. “That’s right. Bruce Durkin.” She smiled, mockingly lascivious. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
    Remembering Kramer’s statement that Marie Kramer hit the singles’ bars on the weekends, I nodded knowingly.
    With the leering, boozy smile still in place, she said, “He lives downstairs. There’s a small apartment down there, completely self-contained. In case you were wondering.”
    I was writing “Bruce Durkin” in my notebook when a boy came up the stairs, followed by a well dressed, middle-aged man. The boy, of course, was John Kramer. I watched him come up to the head of the stairs and stop. Standing motionless, he looked first at me, his dark eyes solemn. Then he turned toward his mother, who had risen unsteadily to her feet. For a moment the two faced each other. Then, awkwardly, the woman moved toward the boy. She steadied herself with a hand on the back of her chair, as if she were unwilling to leave the security it offered. The boy took one hesitant step forward, then another. Now he stopped, watching her with his dark eyes. His expression revealed nothing.
    As Marie Kramer closed the few feet between them and stooped to put her arms around her son, the image of a stage play returned: the hesitant actress, unsure of herself, acting out lines from a half-learned script. The boy didn’t return her embrace. He waited calmly until she’d dropped her arms and stepped back. Then he announced, “We rode in a police car, all the way across the bridge, from the airport. I sat in front. Right by the radio and the shotgun.”
    “Do you want something to eat?” Marie Kramer asked.
    “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” she answered.
    “Did I miss the cartoons?”
    “I—” She blinked. “I’m not sure, John. Do you want to—?” She moved her head toward a flight of stairs that led up to the house’s third level. The meaning: he could go to his room and watch TV.
    “I want some chocolate milk and cookies while I’m watching.”
    “Yes. All right. Here—”