“Ladies and gentlemen,” said M.M. in his democratic form of address, “in the Bible some rare events were celebrated by killing the fatted calf. What exactly did that mean? The fatted calf was the outstanding one among the year’s crop of calves, destined not for the table but for the breeding of future cattle, therefore carefully fed and looked after with that end in view. However, on rare occasions a great and joyous event happened, and to honor it, the pampered fatted calf was killed for the table, a signal distinction. The famous example was the return of the prodigal son.”
He stopped, smiling, then resumed too quickly for the TV people to get bored. “Tonight Chubb University and the Chubb University Press are killing the fatted calf not in honor of a prodigal son, but of a different kind of prodigy, Dr. James Keith Hunter. His extraordinary book, A Helical God, examines the very core of our human genetic master plan, ponders the reasons for our being, our membership in that vast family, the gens humana —”
The single loud bark of a gun silenced him, transfixed him.
Millie had moved farther away from her husband, as if loath to have a share in his supreme moment by being in its vicinity, and Carmine’s eyes, for one, had been turned to M.M. as he made his preparatory introduction; Chauce Millstone was to make the main address.
Amazed, stupefied, Carmine’s gaze switched to Millie and Jim, saw her beyond him and completely alone, a revolver in her hands, steadying it like a professional.
Jim Hunter stood, slack-mouthed, his left arm hanging as if lifeless, blood dripping swiftly from its fingertips to the white marble floor to form a pool. A wet, faintly smoking patch in the upper arm of his coat showed where the bullet had gone in. His eyes, huge, pupils dilated, were riveted on Millie.
“That was for my baby!” Millie cried into a deathly silence. “The rest, Jim, are for the years, the life, and the betrayal!”
Carmine had gone from his chair knowing he had no hope of reaching Millie before she finished what she had begun. Scorning the steps, he dropped seven feet to the next tier.
The repeated roar of the gun was ear-splitting, bouncing in multiple echoes off smoothly planed, polished surfaces; five shots in quick succession, each projectile straight into Jim Hunter’s chest. The pool suddenly immense, he stood for a second before his knees buckled and he fell, face downward, into his own blood.
Carmine walked forward, his right hand wrapped in his handkerchief, and took the revolver from Millie’s nerveless fingers, then slipped it in his pocket; out of the corner of his eye he could see Patrick at a wall phone.
“Millicent Hunter, I arrest you for the murder of James Hunter,” he said. “You have the right to an attorney at law and may request one. In the meantime, if you say anything, it may be taken down and used against you in a court of law.”
“I’m finished, it’s all over,” Millie said in an ordinary voice. “He was a traitor, now he’s dead. What happens to me doesn’t matter.”
The crowd hadn’t panicked. In a way, Carmine supposed, taking place one tier up as it had, it possessed all the trappings of a stage drama that shattered its audience far beyond fleeing in all directions. To establish order wasn’t difficult; people were co-operative, even Channel 6.
“Why is it,” Delia demanded wrathfully, “that every time we have a public murder, it’s recorded on television?”
Carmine didn’t bother to answer; instead he went off to join M.M., sitting on a chair and looking ghastly.
“This is an accursed year,” he said to Carmine.
“How, Mr. President?”
“Two major functions, at each of which the academic star was murdered.”
“That’s a pretty narrow definition of accursed. Unfortunate is a better word. After all, the two murders are related.”
“I want Angela, and I want to go home.”
“Angela’s waiting, but before you go, did you have any kind of warning sign from Millie? You were near her just before.”
“Not the flicker of an eyelash,” said M.M. gloomily. “In fact, I was hardly aware of her presence. You know me, Carmine. I concentrate all of myself where I need to. In fact, I wasn’t even conscious of my star, Jim. The first shot came like an overhead clap of thunder. I froze, didn’t know what it was until I saw the blood running off Jim’s hand onto the floor.” He shuddered. “It looked black. I remember wondering if such a black man did actually have black blood.”
“Go home, sir,” Carmine said, beckoning Angela. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll resume tomorrow.”
“And tomorrow, and tomorrow …”