Victims by Collin Wilcox

Then, when it’s too late, you realize that you’ve been bought and paid for. He owns you. And you can’t forget it. Not for a minute.”
    “When you were first married,” I asked, “did you and Guest get along?”
    “Until John was born, he had no interest in me—or in Marie, either. He ignored us. Totally. But then John came along. And he wanted John. From the first, he considered John his property, his possession.”
    “From what you’re saying,” Friedman observed, “it’s pretty obvious that Guest would’ve done anything—anything at all—to keep you from getting John.” He let a beat pass, then said, “So it should’nt’ve surprised you that he hired bodyguards for John—bodyguards who would be guarding him around the clock, wherever he was.”
    “Except that I didn’t think he knew my plans,” Kramer contended. He shook his head. “I still don’t understand how he knew my plans.”
    “Let’s get back to last night,” I said. “You waited until one o’clock. Then what’d you do?”
    “I got out of the car,” he said, “and I walked to Guest’s house, around the corner. I went down the driveway to the garage, and from there I went into the house through the rear hallway. I got John up, and got him dressed. I’d brought some of his clothes with me.”
    “Did you know that John’s room is wired for sound?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Yes.”
    “Were you armed?” Friedman asked.
    “No. I’ve already said I wasn’t armed. I don’t own a gun.”
    “All right—” Friedman waved a placating hand. “Go ahead.”
    “I got John dressed, and we left by the door that leads out to the driveway. And we—”
    “Excuse me,” I said, “but how long were you in the house, would you say?”
    “It’s hard to know. I’ve never been much good at judging time. I’d say two or three minutes, at least. It seemed like forever, though.”
    “Did you jimmy a door, to get in?” Friedman asked. “Did you force an entry?”
    “No. There was a key, hidden. I knew about it. That’s what I used.”
    “Did you hear anything inside the house?” I asked. “Did you hear anybody moving?”
    “I heard the sound of someone snoring,” he said. “I realized that it must’ve been coming from the room next to John’s.”
    “Who did you think was there, in the next room?”
    “I thought it might be one of the servants. Guest’s driver, maybe.”
    “Did you know Guest’s driver by sight?”
    He nodded. “Yes.”
    “Then you must’ve known that the driver and his wife live over the garage,” I said.
    “I—I did know. But—” He shook his head. “But I probably wasn’t thinking clearly. I was—” He licked his lips. “I was nervous. Naturally. I’m not used to housebreaking, after all.”
    “What’d you do, when you heard the snoring?” Friedman asked.
    He shrugged. “Nothing, except try to be as quiet as I could.”
    “Did you think it might be Guest, in the next room?”
    Frowning uncertainly, he finally shook his head. “I—I can’t remember. I don’t think so, though. I guess—” He frowned. “I guess I always associate Guest with his own bedroom, the master bedroom. I wouldn’t ever think he’d sleep in the back of the house. Never.”
    “Did you know that Guest had a gun—that he’s a good shot, apparently?”
    He nodded, “I knew he was in the Marines.” Then, bitterly, he added, “I’ve heard his war stories, and seen his snapshots. He loved it, you know—killing Japs. That’s what he calls them. Japs.”
    “So you got out of the house without being seen,” Friedman prodded. “What happened then?”
    “We were walking down the driveway toward the sidewalk, John and I, when we heard shots. I’ve already told you that.”
    “Describe the shots,” I said. I remembered what Guest had said: one shot, followed a few seconds later by three shots in quick succession.
    He frowned. “I don’t understand what you—?”
    “How many shots? How close