Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [139]
He came out of the study and up the small landing that led down into the living room or up into the bedrooms. He could feel a breeze off the water, and that’s when he noticed himself, reflected in the mirror over the mantel, a black figure standing bent, callow, and scared. The sight had frozen his blood, and his heart, stopped for a beat, was now racing. He looked down and at his feet saw Dr. Sam, lost in the deepest sleep on the daybed—and Eberling froze once again. He came quietly down the stairs and bent down before him, Eberling’s neck stuck forward like a lizard or a bird. They looked so much alike, like brothers, Eberling balder and darker skinned and slightly hunched whereas Sheppard lay long and tall. One good blast across the temple with the flashlight and he’d be out for good. Eberling might even tell Marilyn this. He’s down, he’d tell her; I took care of him. He won’t bother us. I’m sorry I woke you, but I couldn’t wait.
He looked up the stairs. He’d promised himself to trust his instincts, that when the moment finally presented itself he wouldn’t hesitate. It’s sooner, he’d whisper to Marilyn, covering her mouth so she couldn’t scream. It’s tonight.
He straightened up and started up the landing, but then he heard a noise and froze for the third time. It was footsteps. He stepped into the living room.
Through the windows looking out onto Lake Road, he saw a shadow at the kitchen door, and then, just before he hurried back to the basement, he heard a key sliding tooth by tooth into the lock.
“Is that your theory?” Mobius asked.
Sheppard looked at him impassively.
“Is that all you have to add?”
Sheppard shifted in his chair and then cleared his throat.
“Because you’ve already fucked up, you know that?” When Sheppard remained silent, Mobius said. “I know.”
• • •
Eberling stood over the both of them—Dr. Sam and Marilyn—in the bedroom, breathing so heavily at the sight, so horrified, that his heart was like a flag being ripped apart by a gale. But for that it was so quiet, so much quieter now. His cut wrist was bleeding heavily and he stood in the doorway with the flashlight slick in his hand, Eberling too afraid to turn it on. Marilyn to his left in the blackness, in her bed, pulled down to the middle of the mattress. Her pajama top was bunched near her neck, her legs hung beneath the crossbar. Her face was mashed—he could make that out now—and looked almost melted, inexpressive and glistening blackly, the black blood encircling her head like a queen’s ruff. Yet Eberling wanted to touch her. He couldn’t help it. Her torso was like a thing apart, unsullied from the neck down and pubis up, her breasts and belly as white as alabaster. It was the only part that was still her, and he wanted to love it; but this only made her seem more remote than ever; and he felt himself begin to cry. Sheppard lay between his legs, his head by Marilyn’s feet. He looked perfect and unblemished in his white T-shirt.
It was all so still that it was like he wasn’t here, like it was a dream, and Eberling couldn’t move, even to turn away, and let only his eyes wander. So much blood was sprayed on the white walls and right up onto the ceiling that the room looked like the negative of a star-filled sky. He had to go. But it was like he was standing on the most fragile glass, or ice on the instant of liquefying. One wrong move and everything would be irrevocably changed.
Contemplating inching backward, he felt his balance falter and almost fell. The room was like something painted all around him, his very presence