“What? Haven’t you heard a single word I said?”
“I need to find him.”
Suddenly determined, she went to the door.
I blocked her path. “Kate, stop—”
“Get out of my way. I need to find him.”
“Wait.” I reached into my pocket. “Here—”
I pulled out the revolver. I held it out to her.
“Take it.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it, in Jason’s study—where he hid all the guns.” I pressed the gun into her hands. “Take it.”
“No.”
“Take it. Act like an idiot if you must—but take this with you. Please.”
Kate stared at me, for a second. Then she made a decision.
She took the revolver.
I smiled. I stood aside and let her pass.
7
Gripping the gun, Kate walked out of the summerhouse. She went along the path in the direction of the coast—toward the beach, and the jetty—in search of Jason.
I waited for a moment. Then I followed.
I felt nervous as I walked along the path. I had butterflies in my stomach, the way you do on a first night. It felt thrilling to have done all this: written this drama, not with pen and paper, for fictional characters on a stage—but for real people, in a real place. All of them, performing in a play they had no idea they were in.
In a way, it was Art. I really believed that.
As I approached the beach, I could see the wind was calming down. Soon the fury would have blown itself out, leaving destruction in its wake. I looked around for Kate. Sure enough, she was up ahead, making her way across the sand toward the jetty—where Jason was waiting.
What would happen now? I knew the answer to that. I could predict the future as surely as if I had written it in my notebook. Which, in fact, I had.
Kate would climb up the stone steps to the jetty. Jason would see the gun in her hand. And being Jason, he would demand Kate hand it over to him.
The question was, given what I had just told Kate—all the doubts about him that I had planted in her mind—would she give Jason the gun?
More important, now that I had put a loaded gun in Kate’s hand … would she use it?
Soon, we would know the answer to the question I posed that night Lana came over, and I stayed up writing until dawn. Would I be able to contrive Jason’s death without pulling the trigger myself?
I felt confident that my plan had every chance of working. Particularly as Kate played so completely into my hands. She was volatile at the best of times; and right now, she was also terrified, highly emotional, and inebriated. There was every possibility that Kate might allow her feelings to overcome her. If I were a betting man, I’d say the odds were damn good.
I took up my position by the tall pines, at the end of the beach. Near enough to have a good view, but not close enough to be seen; safely hidden in the shadows. My own private theater.
Suddenly, I had a last-minute attack of nerves. Every playwright experiences this at some point, you know; an eleventh-hour panic. A fear that the story won’t come together. Have I done enough? Will the structure hold?
It’s imperative to refrain from tinkering at this late stage. Many a great work of art has been ruined by the artist’s inability to stop tampering with it. Many a criminal venture, too, no doubt.
I had to trust in the work I had already done. What happened next was beyond my control. It was in the actors’ hands now; I was merely a spectator.
So, I settled in to watch the show.
8
Kate walked across the beach, and over to the jetty. She slowly climbed up the stone steps. Jason was standing alone on the platform. They stood face-to-face.
There was silence for a second. Jason spoke first, giving her a cautious look.
“Are you alone? Where are the others?”
Kate didn’t reply. She just stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes.
Jason watched her. He seemed uneasy, no doubt sensing something was wrong. “Kate. Are you okay?”
Kate shook her head. She didn’t speak for a second. She gestured at the speedboat, moored below them. “Can we just go? Get the fuck out of here—”
“No. The police will be here soon. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Please, let’s just go now—”
“What’s that?” Jason was staring at the gun in her hand. He spoke in a sharper tone. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“I found it.”
“Where? Give it to me.”
Jason stepped toward her, holding out his hand. Kate took a slight step back—an involuntary movement; but it opened up a chasm between them.
Jason frowned. “Give me the gun. I know how to use it, you don’t.” And then: “Katie, come on. It’s me.”
For a second, Kate believed in his authority—but then she saw his hand was trembling. She realized Jason was as scared as she was.
Jason had every reason to be scared. Kate was out of control, clearly; he had to handle her somehow. He had to calm her down and bring her to a more rational state. He needed to reassure her; persuade her to give him the gun. So he took a calculated risk.
“I love you,” he said.
It was obvious, from the look on her face, that this gamble failed. Kate’s expression hardened. “Liar.”
And that instant I had been praying for arrived. A suspension of disbelief; a kind of theatrical alchemy—call it what you will. Illusion became truth in Kate’s mind. In her imagination, the idea that Jason was not to be trusted took hold. For the first time since knowing him, she felt afraid of him.
This was made worse when Jason tried again, with more force.
“Give me the gun, Kate.”
“No.”
“Kate—”
“Did you kill her?”
“What?” Jason stared at her, incredulous. “What?”
“Did you kill Lana?” Kate went on, quickly. “Elliot said you killed her—by mistake. He said—you meant to kill me.”
“What?” Jason groaned. “He’s insane. That’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is!” He made a movement toward her. “Give me the gun.”
“No.” Kate raised the gun. “Stop.”
She pointed the gun at him. She was shaking so much, it took both her hands to keep it steady.
Jason took another step toward her. “Listen to me. Elliot is a liar. Do you know how much she has left him? Millions. Think about it—who do you trust, Kate? Me or him?”
Jason sounded so upset, so impassioned, so genuine, Kate found herself wanting to trust him. But it was too late. She didn’t trust him.
“Keep away from me, Jason. I mean it. Keep back.”
“Give me the gun. Now.”
“Stop. Don’t come any closer.”
But he kept moving toward her, step by step.
“Jason, stop.”
He kept coming closer.
“Stop.”
He kept walking. He held out his hand. “Give it to me. It’s me, for Christ’s sake. It’s Jason.”
But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Jason, not anymore—it wasn’t the person she had known and loved. As if in a nightmare, he had transformed from a lover into a monster.
Then he made a sudden lunge toward her—
And Kate’s finger squeezed the trigger. She fired.
But she missed. And Jason kept coming.… Kate fired again— And again …
And again.
Finally, she hit her mark. Jason collapsed, and he tumbled down the jetty steps. He lay there, motionless … bleeding to death on the sand.
* * *
I wish I could end the story there.
Smashing ending, isn’t it? It has everything you need: a man, a woman, a gun, a beach, moonlight. Hollywood would love it.
But I can’t end the story like that.
Why not? Because it isn’t true, unfortunately. That’s not what happened. It’s just a figment of my imagination. It’s what I hoped would happen— it’s the scene I sketched out in my notebook.
But it’s only fiction, I’m afraid.
Real life turned out somewhat differently.
9
As I stood there, in the shadows, watching Kate climb the jetty steps, I had the first unpleasant inkling that reality was diverging from my plans for it.
I felt a small, sharp jab in my back. I quickly turned around.
Nikos was there, standing behind me. He was holding a gun on me, which he prodded me with again. Harder this time.