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Hawthorne waited in the small vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. After a minute or two, Roger opened the door. If he was surprised to see Hawthorne, he gave no sign of it. He put a finger to his lips. “My wife has her Bible study class.”

“I need to talk to you,” said Hawthorne. “We can go into the chapel.” A door in the vestibule connected to a changing room off the choir.

“Can it wait? I hate to miss her classes. I find them so comforting.” Bennett wore a gray sweater, khakis, and brown penny loafers. He leaned back against his door with his hands in his pockets. A lock of hair formed a blond fishhook across his forehead.

“Let’s do it now,” said Hawthorne as he opened the door to the changing room and continued on to the chapel. After a slight pause, Bennett followed him. Rosalind Langdon was practicing the organ. Hawthorne didn’t think it was Bach. Perhaps Handel. It was muted and continuous like water flowing. Hawthorne saw a light in the organ loft. The rest of the chapel was lit by the golden chandeliers, which were turned down low, putting the far corners in shadow. Hawthorne sat down in a pew in the first row and waited for Bennett to join him. In the dim light the ceiling was nearly invisible.

Bennett sat down in the pew and rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. “So what’s this about? More meetings?” His manner was hearty but cautious.

Leaning back, Hawthorne put his arms on the top of the pew. He tried to make himself appear relaxed, though he didn’t feel relaxed. “Have you seen Chip?”

Bennett looked puzzled. “Campbell? I’ve run into him in Plymouth.”

“Was that where you were yesterday?”

Bennett made an expression of mock sorrow. “I had a dentist appointment. Looks like I have to get a crown for one of my molars.” He tapped his cheek to show Hawthorne the location.

“Isn’t Chip a friend of yours?”

“We’re friendly, that’s all. I don’t drink, which limits the number of possible meeting places. And he’s unhappy with his friends at Bishop’s Hill. He thinks we should have defended him more.”

The notes of the organ reverberated through the chapel. The high notes made Hawthorne think of wind blowing down a chimney. “Why did you tell Mrs. Hayes that I meant to fire her?”

“I never did any such thing.”

“That’s not what she says.”

Bennett stared at him with a fixed smile. “Then she’s not telling the truth.”

Hawthorne was surprised at the repugnance he felt for the other man. “Stop it. I know perfectly well that you told her several times, as did Chip Campbell.”

“Is that why you asked about him? You think we’re in cahoots?”

“And I know of other things you’ve done—spreading gossip and terrifying Clifford Evings. Don’t you feel any responsibility for what happened?”

Bennett’s smile seemed to tighten. “If you’re going to abuse me, then we’ll have to discuss these matters through my lawyer. You’re still mad at me for knocking you down in basketball. I’ve told you over and over that it was an accident.”

“Why is it so important to you to destroy the school?”

“You’re mistaken. I love Bishop’s Hill.”

Hawthorne leaned forward and put one hand on Bennett’s knee. “Roger, let me tell you something. I know exactly what you’ve been doing and I can prove it to the board of trustees. Your position at Bishop’s Hill is no longer secure.”

“You’d fire me?” Bennett opened his eyes wide, which made him look owl-like.

“Just like you say I fired the others.”

Ten

J
essica didn’t like the way LeBrun drove: too fast and jerky, turning the wheel abruptly and swerving, coming down hard on the brake. And in some places there was ice on the road. The car was a four-wheel-drive Chevy pickup and the front tires were out of line, or at least Jessica guessed that was what made it shimmy. The radio was busted and they mostly rode in silence. For a while LeBrun had been telling jokes but at last Jessica asked him to stop. Why do Canucks wear hats and why are Canuck women like hockey players? Then she had to beg. It was Friday evening, just after nine. For the past three days the police had been at the school driving everybody crazy. Dr. Hawthorne had announced that the school would be closing early for Christmas vacation, next Friday instead of the week after. Kids were calling their parents and trying to get their plane tickets changed. People couldn’t stop talking about Scott’s death. And when they weren’t talking about it, you could tell they were thinking about it because their faces looked so serious. Somebody had murdered Scott and thrown his body into the pool. He hadn’t been drowned after all. Had it been someone at Bishop’s Hill or someone from outside? Several students said they had seen a suspicious man sneaking around the campus: tall and very thin and dressed in black. And then there was Larry Gaudette, who was still missing.

LeBrun had driven down to Concord on the interstate, then had cut across to Northwood on Route 4, heading toward Durham, then had turned south again. He seemed to know the roads and didn’t need to look at a map. Jessica knew he was from Manchester but she didn’t know much else. Questions irritated LeBrun. If he offered information, then she could ask a question—a “follow-up,” she called it. Otherwise she let him alone. Twice she had begun to ask him about Lucky being thrown in the pool, then she had thought better of it. Even asking LeBrun to stop telling his jokes had been a mistake. But it was either ask him to stop or go crazy, Jessica had no doubt about that. One more joke and she would have jumped out of the truck. Jessica needed him; there was no one else to help her. But the sooner she was out of his company, the happier she’d be. She thought how in September she had seen LeBrun as easygoing and a little edgy—but not in a bad way. Then, scratching deeper, she had found someone who frightened her.

In the lights from the dashboard she watched his profile and at times she could see his lips moving and his cheeks going up and down as if he were arguing with himself. And his forehead would wrinkle. He drove with both hands at the top of the wheel and he tapped his fingers. He wore a dark hunting coat and a baseball cap. Now and then he glanced at Jessica but didn’t say anything. Whether he was worried or angry, Jessica didn’t know, though she could tell that something was bothering him and she thought it had to be the jokes, the fact that they had upset her.

“D’you think it’s going to snow more?” asked Jessica at last, just to break the silence. Heaps of snow on either side of the road shone in their headlights.

“Snow? Sure, it’s going to snow. It’s not even winter yet. It’ll snow for months. Everything’ll get buried. A fuckin’ graveyard of white stuff, that’s New Hampshire in a nutshell.” He spoke quickly, without looking at Jessica. She heard the irritation in his voice.

“Did those cops talk to you?”

“’Course they talked to me, they talked to everybody. More’n once, too. They kept coming into the kitchen. I’m surprised they didn’t poke their fuckin’ heads in the oven. I would of given them a push and cooked them. Wouldn’t that be a surprise. Baked cop.”

The police had talked to everyone who had been at the school over Thanksgiving. It turned out that Scott had cut his classes on Tuesday and his roommate said that he had left their room only to go to the bathroom. And Scott had asked him to bring food from the dining hall. He said he was sick but he didn’t want to go to the infirmary. Then his roommate had left on Wednesday, going down to Quincy to spend Thanksgiving with his family. Scott asked if he could come along but his roommate hadn’t wanted to make his father angry. Now his roommate regretted it, of course. Jessica had heard that Scott had called Miss Sandler on Thanksgiving but she didn’t know about what and she didn’t know if Scott had been seen after that.

“Do you think the police have any ideas?” asked Jessica. She didn’t want to keep asking questions but it was like a sore place and she couldn’t stop fussing with it. She wanted to hear what LeBrun had to say. She wanted him to tell her something that would prove that he hadn’t been involved, that he hadn’t thrown Lucky into the pool.

“Sure they have ideas, they think Larry did it. That’s why they’re looking for him. Why would they be looking for him if they didn’t think he did it?” Again LeBrun sounded exasperated, as if Jessica was just too stupid to understand.

Jessica watched LeBrun in the glow of the dash lights. It looked like he was angrily chewing something. “Do you think he did it?”

“He didn’t tell me,” LeBrun said, raising his voice. “Larry didn’t tell me fuck. What d’you think, he’s going to tap me on the shoulder and say he just killed the kid? You think he’s going to wear a fucking sign? Or maybe it was that queer Newland. He’s gone too, right? Or maybe it was that old bag who used to work in the office. Or maybe somebody snuck into the school, like a bandit. But I think it was Larry. It stands to reason, right? He must of killed the kid. I mean, he’s disappeared.”

“Why do you think he killed him?” Jessica kept watching LeBrun’s jittery profile.

“Who the fuck knows? Maybe the kid kept trying to bum cigarettes from him like he did me. Maybe Larry just got fucking tired of giving him smokes. And he’d hang around, you know, always trying to get a cookie or something. Maybe Larry got sick of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good reason to kill a person.” Jessica had mended the knife cut in her down jacket with a piece of silver duct tape and she kept picking at it.

“What d’you know about it? You an expert on killing people? Maybe Larry just got fed up. You hear what I’m saying? Maybe he was fed up right to here.” LeBrun took his hand off the wheel and wiped a finger across the top of his forehead. “I seen it happen. You think someone doesn’t have a reason to kill a person but there’s always a reason. Like killing someone for the fun of it, even that’s a reason, right? Maybe not a good reason but it’s a reason. Maybe Larry killed him just for the fun of it. Like a sick joke.”

“He didn’t seem like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like crazy, I guess.”

LeBrun glanced at her angrily. “What do you know about crazy? You don’t know shit. People aren’t crazy, nobody’s crazy. They’re just not all the same, that’s all. Fuckin’ diversity, that’s what they call it. Like tall guys and short guys.”

“It seems pretty crazy to kill a person for no reason.”

LeBrun hit the flat of his hand on the steering wheel. “The kid went and got himself killed. Maybe if he’d been minding his business, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Jessica kept silent for a moment, then she asked, “Do you think someone paid him to kill Scott?”

“Who the fuck would pay him?” LeBrun kept shifting in his seat, as if he were sitting on a broken spring.

“I don’t know, maybe somebody who didn’t like Scott. Maybe a relative.”

“Shit, you’re as bad as the fucking cops. I should make you sit in the back of the truck and freeze your ass off. That’s what you’ll get if you don’t shut up.”

Jessica kept silent. Her backpack with her clothes was by her feet and when she moved she could feel her money belt. She had given LeBrun a thousand dollars and had said she would give him another thousand when she got away with Jason. Actually, she had been surprised that he had trusted her. On the other hand, she wouldn’t have the nerve to cheat him. She would hate to have him come looking for her.

“Maybe it was an inheritance,” said Jessica after another minute, “maybe he was supposed to inherit some money and now it’s going to somebody else. Maybe that somebody paid your cousin to kill him. You know, a contract killing.”

“What did I say? You want to sit back there in the cold?”

“You think your cousin threw my kitten into the pool?”

LeBrun slammed on the brakes and Jessica was thrown forward against the dash. The tires squealed as the truck fishtailed. When the pickup came to a stop, LeBrun shouted, “I’ve had fuckin’ enough! Get in the back!”

“No, Frank, please, I won’t say anymore.”

“Get in the back!”

Jessica opened the door. There were no lights on the road and it was cold. Once she had climbed into the bed of the pickup, LeBrun started up quickly so she slipped on the cold metal and banged against the tailgate.

Fortunately, she only had to ride in the back for about ten minutes. Still, it was freezing and she couldn’t curl herself up tight enough to stay warm. The metal floor was like ice on her butt. The bumps were jarring and she had to hold on to the side, otherwise she would slide around.

At the edge of Exeter, LeBrun pulled into a supermarket parking lot and let her back in the cab. “Okay, show me where you live, but don’t open your trap about anything else.”

Jessica had sent Jason another letter, then talked to him twice on the phone. Jason had said that Tremblay would be out of town, that he was flying to Chicago. And by nine o’clock Dolly was usually so drunk that it was impossible to wake her. Jessica knew; she had tried. Jason had promised to leave the front door unlocked. They would get him and drive down to Boston to the bus station, where they would take the first bus going south. The next day, Saturday, they would be in Washington and she could call her uncle, at least to talk to him, if not to stay with him. And she would tell him about Tremblay, tell him about every awful thing that Tremblay had ever done.

The house on Maple Street was dark, but that didn’t surprise Jessica. It was past ten and Dolly was either in bed or asleep in front of the TV in the den. It was a tall late-eighteenth-century house, perfectly symmetrical, with no curving lines—a pretty, oversized shoe box was how she described it to herself. Jessica didn’t think of the house as hers. It was Tremblay’s house, even though her father had bought it after he and Dolly had gotten married. But Tremblay had put his stamp on it and it smelled of him. He had gotten rid of everything that had belonged to her father, except those things that Tremblay wanted for himself, like her father’s leather chair and his shotguns and hunting rifles. Every time Jessica saw Tremblay in her father’s chair, she felt angry. She had wanted to tell him that it was her chair now. Even the house was hers. One time she told him that when she got her money she would kick him out, but Tremblay had just laughed.