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Hawthorne thanked Powers and started to walk away, then he thought of something. “I gather Scott McKinnon didn’t come into the kitchen much.”

“You kidding? He was in there all the time trying to bum cigarettes and stealing cookies. He and LeBrun would swap jokes and Scott’s were always better. He had a great one about a dead old lady who’s been reincarnated as a rabbit in Wisconsin.”

After Hawthorne had found two more students to help LeBrun, he returned to the kitchen. The women were washing the breakfast dishes and the floor had been swept. LeBrun was kneading a mound of bread dough, hitting it with his fists. Hawthorne told him that the students would show up about eleven, then he said, “You told me you didn’t know Scott. Now I hear he was in here often.”

LeBrun stepped away from the bread dough and wiped his hands on his apron. He wrinkled his nose at Hawthorne. “I lied.”

“How come?”

“Hey, if I said Scott was a friend of mine, the cops would be all over me. ‘When was the last time you saw this? When was the last time you saw that?’ I’d go fuckin’ nuts. So he hung out in the kitchen and bummed cigarettes, does that mean I killed him? What reason would I have?” LeBrun began to reach for a cigarette, then stopped himself.

“So your cousin saw him, too.”

“Sure. I mean, Larry couldn’t stand him hanging around.”

—

Tuesday evening Hawthorne worked in his office after dinner. The state police had visited the school during the day to search the buildings. Chief Moulton said they were also looking for Larry Gaudette’s car, which struck Hawthorne as peculiar since he assumed that Gaudette had taken it with him. In any case, no car was found. Moulton said that none of Gaudette’s family in Manchester had heard from him, nor had his friends. As a result, the police were revising their theories.

About eight-thirty, Hawthorne locked his office. Emerson appeared empty. Even though the hall lights were burning brightly, Hawthorne started at every sound as he walked toward the rotunda. His snow boots squeaked on the marble floor. Hawthorne kept telling himself that in another week everything would be all right. The students would be gone and he could concentrate on his problems with the faculty. And LeBrun, something would have to be done about LeBrun. Skander was right: there was no way he could remain in charge of the kitchen.

Hawthorne left through the front door of the building, and out on the driveway he could see stars. The light in the bell tower shone above the school like a beacon. It was cold and he turned up his collar. A dog was barking far away and Hawthorne heard music, the high squeal of guitars. He walked around the outside of Adams. Lights burned in the library in Hamilton Hall and he saw a girl in a green sweater standing at a card catalogue. Lights were also on in the dormitory cottages, though many windows were dark. Farther on, Hawthorne could see that people appeared to be home in the faculty houses.

A man was standing on the patio by the French windows of Hawthorne’s quarters, a dim figure illuminated by a light on the walkway. Hawthorne hesitated, then continued forward. When he got closer, the man called his name. It was Kevin Krueger.

“What are you doing skulking back here?” asked Hawthorne, hurrying toward him.

Krueger shook his hand. “I just arrived. I need to talk to you.”

Hawthorne heard the seriousness in his voice. He unlocked the door and motioned Krueger inside. “Come in, come in, you must be freezing.” Hawthorne began turning on lights. He was struck by how dreary his apartment seemed. Only his leather chair looked inviting, something he could take pleasure in. For the first time, Hawthorne wondered if Skander had left the apartment dreary on purpose. I have to stop this, Hawthorne told himself. I can’t keep suspecting everyone.

“Would you like a beer? A cup of coffee?”

“Coffee’s fine,” said Krueger.

Hawthorne unbuttoned his overcoat as he continued to the kitchen. Krueger followed him. His cheeks were red with cold. “How long did it take you to get up here?” asked Hawthorne.

“Two hours.” Krueger removed his coat and laid it across a chair.

“That’s not bad. What’s on your mind? I’m amazed that you drove all this way.”

“I’ll wait till I’m settled with my coffee first.”

Hawthorne was struck by Krueger’s tone. He looked at him from the stove. “I guess I’ll have coffee as well,” he said, turning on the faucet and filling the kettle.

Five minutes later they were seated in the living room. Hawthorne had insisted that Krueger sit in the new chair while he sat on the couch, which after several months of airing still smelled vaguely of cat urine. Hawthorne waited for Krueger to speak.

Krueger blew on his coffee, then set the mug on a small table to the right of his chair. “I heard today that Hamilton Burke has been in contact with the Galileo Corporation.”

The Galileo Corporation was one of the for-profits Krueger had mentioned at Thanksgiving, a private company that ran about forty residential treatment programs for high-risk children and adolescents, as well as a number of homes for the retarded. The company’s headquarters were in South Carolina.

Hawthorne held his mug with both hands, letting its warmth take the chill from his fingers. “Perhaps it’s just a general inquiry. A contingency plan.”

“Actually he’s been in negotiation for several months, almost since the beginning of the semester. He’s counting on Bishop’s Hill not opening in the fall.”

“He said the other day that he and the trustees don’t intend to close the school.”

Kruger pulled at his mustache with his thumb as he listened. “I don’t know anything about that. Burke expects the deal to be settled within the next few months.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“You remember Ralph Spaight—he was in several of your classes at BU? He works for Galileo. I talked to him.”

Hawthorne had a vague memory of a fast-talking graduate student with short black hair. “I never liked him.”

“He’s doing well,” said Krueger.

“And he said Burke was negotiating to sell Bishop’s Hill?”

“Spaight has spoken with him. He said Burke’s flown down to Columbia twice.”

“And this was a board decision?” Neither of them were drinking their coffee.

“No, that’s the point. He’s done it on his own. Most of the board wants to keep the school open. Of course, if you resign and the school falls apart, then there’s no hope. Burke will talk about interested parties hoping to make a deal and the board will see him as a hero. I don’t know the particulars, but it’s clear that some people will stay on in managerial positions.”

“Did Spaight say anything about Fritz Skander or Roger Bennett?”

“He didn’t know any names other than Burke’s.”

Hawthorne considered what it meant to have Burke lying to him. “I wonder if he ever offered Clifford Evings that leave.”

“I doubt you could prove anything.”

“If he lied to him, then he as good as killed him. Why is he so keen on all this?”

Krueger didn’t respond and Hawthorne realized that the answer was obvious. Galileo had presumably offered Burke a sizable amount of money to see the deal go through. Most likely he would also be retained as attorney. Hawthorne went on to tell Krueger about the faculty meeting he had planned for Monday. “I’ve invited Burke and the other trustees. The faculty is obliged to come. I’m thinking now that I’ll also invite Chief Moulton.”

“I’d like to be there, too,” said Krueger. “And you should have a lawyer.”

“Be my guest. I expect sparks will fly.”

Krueger reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper, which he held toward Hawthorne. “I’ve tracked down Lloyd Pendergast for you. He’s working for the Chamber of Commerce in Woodstock, Vermont. You want to call him?”

Hawthorne took the paper and began to grin. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll drive over and see him. I expect there’s quite a lot he can tell me.”

“Do you mean gossip?”

“On the contrary, I’m hoping to find information that can be used in court.”

—

Hawthorne drove over to Woodstock Thursday morning with Kate. He wanted her as a witness and he wanted her company. Her only condition was that she had to be back by three-thirty, when Todd got home from school. Ted Wrigley had taken Kate’s classes, combining hers with his French classes, since half of their students had already left; he was showing
Breathless,
a kind of pre-Christmas tradition of his.

Hawthorne told Kate what he had learned from Krueger, then he described his years of friendship with Krueger in Boston. It was a sunny morning and the snow gleamed from the fields and between the trees, but it was supposed to cloud up that afternoon. The two-lane road from Hanover was slow because of a number of logging trucks. As he drove, Hawthorne felt constantly aware of Kate’s presence beside him, as if she were a heat source. She wore dark glasses that he had never seen her wear before. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her hands resting in her lap and more than once he was almost overwhelmed with a desire to reach out and touch her.

“What would it mean to sell the school to the Galileo Corporation?” she asked.

“It would be the end of Bishop’s Hill. Debts would be paid. The faculty would receive some sort of severance package. A few would find jobs with the new institution. You could probably get a job yourself. Kevin thinks that some people, like Roger Bennett and perhaps others, would qualify for managerial positions that paid quite well. Certainly much more than they earn now.”

“No wonder they were sorry you took the job.”

Hawthorne had nothing to say to that. He thought again how he had come to Bishop’s Hill to hide. He had never imagined that he would have such a strong desire to see the school succeed, that he would come to care deeply about the students, that he would even fall in love.

It had taken an hour before Hawthorne could bring up the subject of Claire Sunderlin. “I have no excuse for what I did,” he said, trying to choose his words precisely. “I loved my wife. I had no wish to jeopardize my family. I’d known Claire for about four years and was attracted to her. Then, when we began to touch each other, I thought, Why not? It seemed like something I could get away with, something without repercussions. I know that my actions with Claire didn’t cause the fire, yet I feel guilty. They kept me from getting there earlier. It’s something I can’t forget. I think of it every day.”

Kate stared straight ahead, listening to Hawthorne without looking at him. Her coat was unzipped and the seat belt cut across her chest. “Have you seen her since?”

“No. She called me after the fire. I was in the hospital. I didn’t want to talk and she didn’t call again.” Hawthorne remembered the nurse telling him that he had a call from a woman. Thinking about it, he could almost feel the pain in his arm once again.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Kate.

Hawthorne was surprised by her frankness. “I’d like our friendship to continue. I hope we’ll grow closer.” Hawthorne hated how cut and dried it sounded. He wanted to say how much he liked her, that he couldn’t stop thinking of her, even that he needed her, but he was afraid of frightening her away.

“You mean sex?”

He looked at her quickly. Kate was still staring straight ahead but she was smiling slightly. “Yes, if that’s what happens.”

“And you could touch me without thinking you were touching another woman, without thinking you were touching your wife?”

“Yes, I think I could do that.”

“If you can’t, then it won’t work.” She had turned and was staring at him. Her eyes were dark and unblinking. “Will you try?”

“With all my heart.”

—

Hawthorne had called the previous day to see if Pendergast would be in his office but not to make an appointment. He had told the secretary that he was a businessman with a chain of cyber cafés and that he was visiting Woodstock with an eye to available real estate. Pendergast’s secretary said that he would be in all morning except for a half-hour meeting at nine. She explained that, as development director for the Chamber of Commerce, Pendergast would be a mine of useful information. Woodstock was just the place for a cyber café. Before hanging up, she asked Hawthorne how to spell “cyber.”

Woodstock was strung with Christmas lights and the shop windows were filled with decorations. Mounds of snow bordered the streets, nearly burying the parking meters. On the sidewalks men and women wore colorful ski jackets. Every doorway seemed to have a Christmas wreath and Christmas music played from speakers tucked among the greenery decorating the old-fashioned street lamps.

Pendergast’s office was in the center of downtown, a two-story brick building near the city hall. In the same way that Woodstock seemed to be a quaint illustration from a greeting card, so did Lloyd Pendergast seem illustrative of bluff, hearty charm. He was a red-faced man of about sixty whose tweed jacket, tattersall shirt, and cavalry twill trousers appeared to have sprung from an Orvis catalog. His brown hair was gray at the temples. Pendergast strode heavily across the floor of his paneled office and took Hawthorne’s hand in a fierce grip. On the walls were six prints of English setters among fallen leaves and corn stalks.

“Awfully glad to meet you, Mr. . . .”

“Hawthorne,” said Hawthorne, trying to give a hearty squeeze in return. “And this is Kate Sandler, a colleague. But I’m afraid that I’ve misrepresented myself.”

Pendergast maintained his robust smile but a touch of suspicion appeared in his eyes. He released Hawthorne’s hand. “Well, what’s it all about?”

Hawthorne wondered if Pendergast recognized his name. “I’m the new headmaster at Bishop’s Hill. I just started in September and I’ve had a bit of trouble with some of the faculty, ranging from general hostility to actual criminal behavior. I’d appreciate hearing what you have to say about them. And I was wondering about your own resignation, whether you felt it was forced upon you in any way.”

Pendergast began to look alarmed, which wasn’t the response that Hawthorne expected.

“Well, there was always a fair amount of grumbling and foot dragging. I’m sure some of them disliked me. One can’t please everyone . . .” Pendergast glanced at his watch.