014218182X (39 page)

“Do you know anyone very well at the school?”

“I can’t say I know anyone well. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Grayson, and I were in school together. And I’ve known Mrs. Hayes for many years. The local people at the school, I pretty much know all of them. And a number of the teachers I’ve seen around.”

“And you talked to them?”

“You mean about the vandalism? I expect I’ve talked to them all.” Chief Moulton sipped his Coke, then patted his lips with the back of his hand.

“One more thing. There was a girl, Gail Jensen, who died over the Thanksgiving break three years ago. Do you know the cause of her death? She probably died in Plymouth, but I’m not sure.”

Moulton pushed his sandwich away, got to his feet, and hitched up his belt. “I can find out.” He walked to the file cabinet, limping slightly, and pulled out the top drawer. Then he drew out a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together and began to read.

“Well?” asked Hawthorne.

Moulton went to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. He seemed to be pondering something. “She died of a hemorrhage.”

“Due to appendicitis?”

Moulton dug at one of his front teeth with a thumbnail, then he plucked something off the tip of his tongue. “She died due to a botched abortion,” he said.

—

It was Monday night and Scott McKinnon was playing detective. He liked it. There was nothing at Bishop’s Hill that escaped his notice, or almost nothing, since he still had to find out who’d trashed Evings’s office. For that matter, he still hadn’t worked out who had hung Mrs. Grayson’s cat. But he hadn’t given up. Persistence, that’s what he had. Indefatigability.

Like tonight, for instance, he had been outside by the garage smoking a cigarette when he heard shouting from the kitchen, then LeBrun slammed out of the back door, followed immediately by the cook, who was angry and shouting at his cousin, and now Scott was hurrying behind them, eager to hear what the fuss was about.

It was cold and no stars were visible, just a glow from the hidden moon. It was supposed to start snowing in the night and snow all the next day and maybe the day after, and Scott liked to think they’d be marooned and the kids who hoped to go home on Wednesday for Thanksgiving would get stuck and wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, because Scott wasn’t going anywhere either. His father was in L.A. and his mother was in Boston and both said they didn’t have time for Thanksgiving. “Maybe I’ll grab a turkey sandwich,” his father had told him over the phone, then he had laughed. It would snow so much there would be a great mountain of snow covering the first-floor windows and all the kids who had homes to go to for Thanksgiving and couldn’t go anywhere would feel like shit.

LeBrun hurried along the edge of the playing fields with Gaudette about ten feet behind him. Gaudette wore a white jacket that made him glow in the light of the distant security lights. LeBrun wore a dark sweater. Scott thought they must be freezing, because he was wearing a down jacket and he was still cold and his feet in their basketball shoes were chunks of ice as he jogged forward to catch up. But he didn’t get too close, only close enough to hear. So far the only word he’d made out was
tequila,
which didn’t seem like much, though he guessed it had to do with Jessica’s getting drunk in the headmaster’s house and dancing wildly with her clothes off, which was a scene that Scott would have liked to see.

“Stop!” called Gaudette. “I’m warning you! I’ll go to Hawthorne!”

Abruptly, LeBrun turned to face his cousin and Scott had to fling himself down so he wouldn’t be seen. Then he wriggled toward the trees in order to soak up some shadow.

“Fuck you,” said LeBrun.

Gaudette stopped a few feet from LeBrun. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you liked Hawthorne. Who paid you to wreck that old guy’s office? Was it Bennett? Jesus, you make a mess wherever you go.”

“Just stay out of it, do you hear? You got work, I got work. That’s just how it is.”

“How come your work always brings in the cops? And you’re fucking that girl, right? She’s a kid.”

“I’m not fucking anybody.”

“Who paid you to wreck that office?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gaudette took a pack of cigarettes from under his cook’s jacket. He popped one out and lit it. The glow from the lighter briefly illuminated his face, making it seem redder than usual.

“Give me one of those, will you?”

Gaudette stepped forward and handed his cousin the pack. Now LeBrun’s face was quickly visible and disappeared again. Scott thought it looked twisted, but that was just a result of the shadows. He wished he too had a cigarette but there was no way he was going to ask them.

Gaudette and LeBrun stood smoking and not saying anything. The tips of their cigarettes made red arcs as they moved them up to their mouths and away.

“You want to hear a joke?” said LeBrun.

“I’m sick to death of your jokes.”

“What does an elephant use for tampons?”

“I said I’m sick to death of your jokes. When you called me about this job, I thought I was doing you a favor. And you promised to stay out of trouble, right? What else have you been doing? You wrecked that office and you’re fucking that girl and getting her drunk . . .”

“I said I’m not fucking anybody.” LeBrun flicked away his cigarette and Scott watched where it went because there had to be a lot left and maybe he could find it after they had gone.

“Somebody must have paid you. If it wasn’t Bennett, then it was probably Campbell. Why else would you have done it unless someone paid you? You caused that old guy’s death just as much as if you’d shot him. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing you up here. You’re as wacko as ever.”

LeBrun took a step toward his cousin, then stopped. “I don’t like being talked to like that. You needed someone to help with the cooking and I done it. I been making good bread.”

“I want you out of here,” said Gaudette. “I’ll drive you to Plymouth and you can get a bus in the morning. If you need cash, I’ll lend it to you. You can pay me back when you get your check.”

“No way, man, I got stuff I got to do.”

“You don’t have a choice. If you don’t go tonight, I’ll talk to Hawthorne. Don’t you see that me knowing this stuff makes me an accomplice? I got a good job here and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Come on, man, I need two more weeks. We’re brothers.”

“Two more weeks to get in even worse trouble? Look what’s happened because you gave the girl tequila. Shit, you said you liked Hawthorne.”

“I was having some fun. It didn’t hurt anybody. A girl dancing, what’s the trouble with it?”

“She’s fifteen.” Gaudette flicked away his cigarette. “And Hawthorne could lose his job. Believe me, I don’t want Skander in charge again.”

“I did a lot worse when I was fifteen. I got dicked and no tears were shed. As far as I know, she’s still got her cherry. Leastways I didn’t take it, that much I know for sure.” LeBrun laughed.

“I’m tired of your troubles. Pack your bag and I’ll drive you down to Plymouth.” Gaudette began to turn away.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bro.”

Gaudette turned back again, furious. “Hurt me, you wacko little shit, you want me to bust up your face? You got one last chance—take it or you’ll go to jail.”

LeBrun laughed again. “Okay, okay. Don’t get so serious.” He began to walk back. “I’ll pack my stuff. I was getting pretty sick of this place anyway. Fucking cold just about tears you apart. You hear about the Canuck who died while getting a drink of water?”

The two men began walking toward the garage. Although Scott wasn’t directly behind them, he was closer than he cared to be, lying flat on his belly. He rolled over, moving nearer to the trees. As a result, he didn’t see exactly what happened.

“Some flicker slammed the toilet seat down on his head,” said LeBrun.

And as Scott looked, it seemed that LeBrun had his arm around his cousin’s shoulder, except that Gaudette fell forward. LeBrun made no attempt to catch him and Gaudette fell onto his face, jerking a little, then lying still, a white mound on the grass.

LeBrun kicked his cousin lightly with his foot. “Wacko, wacko, wacko—you got to watch out what you call a person.”

It was only Scott’s terror that kept him from leaping up and running back toward the school. He lay on the ground and pressed his hands to his face.

LeBrun chuckled a little. He bent over and grabbed Gaudette’s arm, pulling him up. “We got to do one more trip together, bro, one more little journey and that will be that.” He yanked Gaudette upward, then ducked down and pulled his cousin onto his shoulder. Scott had no doubt that the man was dead. He just didn’t see how it had happened so fast. It felt like screaming was going on inside his head, huge amounts of loud noise.

Still, when LeBrun set off across the playing field, Scott followed, staying some distance behind so that, if it hadn’t been for Gaudette’s white jacket, he couldn’t have seen them. LeBrun moved quickly across the grass, then around the gym, at times even jogging forward a few steps as the dead man jostled on his shoulder. He crossed the lawn in front of the school till he joined the driveway, then he quickened his pace, passing between the gates and up the road. Scott couldn’t guess where he was going but he kept after him, sometimes losing sight of him, sometimes catching the glint of Gaudette’s jacket as it lurched on LeBrun’s shoulder.

A quarter mile up the road was the bridge over the Baker River. All weekend there had been rain and sleet and Scott could hear the water flowing noisily. LeBrun stopped and Scott crept forward. He could make out LeBrun standing on the bridge with Gaudette’s white shape up in the air as if it were floating. Then the dead man seemed to fly, because the whiteness rose up and disappeared. Seconds later Scott heard the splash and again he felt horror, as if he too had been splashed by frigid water. But he had no time for horror. LeBrun was coming back.

Scott ducked down in the bushes by the side of the road. He heard LeBrun approaching—not the man’s footsteps but his heavy breathing getting louder. It was all Scott could do to stay motionless. Now he heard LeBrun’s hurrying footsteps heading back to the school and he knew that LeBrun would pass only a few feet from him. LeBrun got closer and stopped. He stood in the road breathing heavily and looking around him, a darker shadow in the darkness. Suddenly there was a flame of light as LeBrun lit one of his cousin’s cigarettes, but at first Scott didn’t understand and he jerked and the leaves around him rustled.

LeBrun stood still, breathing heavily, invisible except for the glow of his cigarette. Seconds passed. LeBrun’s breathing grew quieter. “Are you out there, little rabbits?” he said at last. “You watch out the hawk doesn’t get you. They’ll eat you up, little rabbits.”

LeBrun moved forward again and Scott waited until the sound of LeBrun’s footsteps had almost disappeared, before he followed. As he and LeBrun approached the school, Scott could see LeBrun’s silhouette. Again LeBrun cut across the lawns, passing the gym and veering across the playing fields. Scott stayed back, at times losing him, at times catching sight of him in the glow of the security lights. Scott’s body felt weak, as if he were exhausted. He followed LeBrun to the garage where Gaudette’s car was parked. LeBrun got into the car, started the engine, and backed out of the garage. In the light of the headlights, great fat snowflakes began to appear.

Then Scott made a mistake. He thought that LeBrun would try to escape, that he’d turn right and follow the driveway around to the front of the school. Instead, he turned left, driving back toward the old dilapidated barn, which was never used and which the students were told to stay away from because the floor was weak. Scott flung himself down by a bush. He could feel the snowflakes falling upon his neck and face, onto the back of his hands. The car’s headlights moved across him.

PART THREE

Nine

T
he black lines on the floor of the swimming pool seemed to shiver and bend—five black streaks at the bottom of the iridescent turquoise. The natatorium itself was dark, with only an eerie glow coming from the underwater lights. Somewhere a kitten was mewing, frantic and unceasing, like a squeaking wheel going round and round. Hawthorne stood beside Floyd Purvis, the night watchman. Along with the smell of the chlorine, Hawthorne could smell the whiskey on Purvis’s breath as the older man gently swayed on his heels with his hands in his hip pockets. It was late afternoon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Hawthorne had just returned to Bishop’s Hill, having spent the holiday with Kevin Krueger and his family in Concord.

A shadow was floating on the surface of the pool and Hawthorne realized it was the body of the boy, a dark shape on the brightness of the water.

“Turn on the lights,” said Hawthorne.

Unsteadily, the night watchman made his way to the switch. There was a loud clank and the banks of fluorescent ceiling lights began to flicker and hum. The green cinder-block walls blossomed out of the dark.

Scott McKinnon floated face down in the center of the pool. He was naked except for a pair of Jockey shorts. The orange-striped kitten, wet and bedraggled, was perched on Scott’s shoulder. It mewed and kept lifting its paws one after the other out of the inch or so of water across Scott’s back and shaking them. Scott’s arms were outspread as if he were gliding over the surface.