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Briefly, Hawthorne was afraid that it might be LeBrun, but the coat was not LeBrun’s and the person seemed smaller. Hawthorne made his way down the steps of the aisle, which were carpeted, so that his boots made no noise. When he had gone halfway, he saw that the light on the floor was a flashlight and that the figure in the front row was a man sitting completely still, as if his whole being were concentrated on the altar and the silver crucifix that stood upon it. The chapel was silent. Not even the wind made a noise and it seemed to Hawthorne that he could hear his own heartbeat. As he drew close to the man, he saw that the flashlight was his own, the one he had dropped when he had been struggling with LeBrun, and a second later he realized the figure was Roger Bennett. For a moment Hawthorne was full of hope.

“Roger,” he called, “it’s me, Hawthorne.” He squinted, trying to make the figure and the light at his feet come into focus.

Bennett still didn’t move. He wore a bright blue down jacket and sat with his hands in his lap. He seemed riveted so completely on the altar in front of him that he had no awareness of Hawthorne’s approach. His hair in the glow of the flashlight appeared golden.

“Roger,” said Hawthorne, and he reached out to put a hand on Bennett’s shoulder.

At first Bennett appeared to be pulling away, but so hesitantly that Hawthorne was unsure. Bennett leaned forward with his head tilting and his whole body turning slowly, not looking at Hawthorne but continuing forward, until suddenly Hawthorne knew that Bennett was going to fall and he reached out to grab his arm and missed. Almost gracefully, Bennett rolled off the pew, turning and landing on his back with his arms flopping out at his sides, his head banging against the carpet and looking up at Hawthorne with a grin so horrible and demented that it was all Hawthorne could do not to scream. Bennett lay on the red runner, his eyes wide and unfocused. He was dead but his grin was huge, like the grin on the painting of Ambrose Stark, an open-mouthed leer, a homicidal clown grin, with his white teeth protruding over his lower lip as if he were about to guffaw or sing. Hawthorne snatched up the flashlight from the floor and pointed the beam at Bennett’s face. At first he was unable to move, but then, bending over, he saw that Bennett’s grin had been contrived by shoving toothpicks between his upper teeth at the corners of his mouth, which stretched his lips into this imitation of humor. And broken toothpicks had also been used to prop open Bennett’s eyelids, making him appear wide-eyed and manic. A lock of blond hair lay diagonally across his forehead. There was no sign of violence, no blood, nothing to show how he had died. On Bennett’s feet were great green rubber boots with their toes pointing toward the chapel ceiling. Hawthorne had no doubt as to who had killed him. He felt his horror increase.

There was a noise to Hawthorne’s right, followed by a cry, a high wailing. Stumbling back, Hawthorne saw that the Reverend Bennett had come through a door at the rear of the chapel. She was staring at her husband with one hand over her mouth even as her cry continued to echo through the open space. Hawthorne stepped to one side but he felt that he was invisible to the woman. She hurried forward, clumsily because of her weight, then threw herself at her husband, dropping to her knees and grabbing Bennett’s shoulders, trying to pull him up, even pull him to his feet. Bennett’s head had fallen back and he seemed to be staring up at his wife. The toothpicks stuck from his teeth like tiny fangs. His eyes seemed full of cheer. Hawthorne wanted to remove the toothpicks but he couldn’t make himself get any closer. In any case, the chaplain paid no attention to him. She released her husband so he tumbled backward, then she buried her face in his lap and sobbed with great gasps, which shook her body and shook Bennett’s as well, as if he still had life in him after all.

Hawthorne set the flashlight on the first pew, then retreated up the aisle, trying not to stumble. He could do nothing here, give no comfort, make nothing better. He opened the door and stepped out of the chapel.

Again he plunged into the snow, making his way along Stark Hall, skirting Emerson, and going along beside Douglas toward the dormitory cottages and the faculty houses that lay beyond. Twice Hawthorne fell, then got up again, his jacket white with snow. He thought he might be on the road that ran in front of the cottages but he couldn’t be sure. There was no sign of his tracks from earlier. He kept seeing LeBrun shoving toothpicks between Bennett’s teeth and under his eyelids to fabricate a smile. The work appeared to be that of the devil himself. But Hawthorne didn’t believe in the devil. It was sickness that Hawthorne had seen and he had to repeat this to himself.

Candles were burning in Pierce, where the nurse and the remaining students were weathering the storm. Hawthorne heard the sound of a guitar and voices singing. The high voices of the girls seemed to make shapes in the air. Hawthorne wanted to go into Pierce and stay until the storm was over and the police arrived. Then he thought of getting Tank Donoso to go with him. Hawthorne pressed forward through the snow. Cowardice, he thought again. He was full of cowardice.

Shepherd and Slocomb, the next two cottages, were dark, but in Latham there was a faint light visible in a second-story window where Bill Dolittle had his studio apartment. Hawthorne clambered through the drifts and made his way up the front steps. The door was unlocked. He entered the dark hallway and blundered across the living room to the stairs. Once on the second floor he wasn’t sure which door belonged to Dolittle, but by crouching down he could see a glimmer of light through the crack beneath a door at the end of the hall. He knocked.

“Bill, it’s me. Jim. I need your help.”

Hawthorne waited.

“Bill, Roger Bennett’s dead. I need you to help me.”

There was no answer. Hawthorne knocked again and waited. After another moment, he ducked down. The gap under the door was dark.

“Damn it, Bill, answer me!”

There was still no response. Hawthorne turned the knob but the door was locked. He pushed against it, hitting it with his shoulder. The door stayed closed. He wondered if he had been mistaken, if his eyes without their glasses had been playing tricks. After another minute, Hawthorne hurried back down the stairs. Once outside, he paused by a small evergreen and looked back up at the window. He kept telling himself that he was in a hurry and had no time to waste. As he was about to leave and make his way toward the faculty houses, he saw a flare of a match reflected in the glass as whoever was inside again lit a candle. For a moment Hawthorne was overcome by anger. He wanted to go back upstairs and kick down the door. Dolittle’s cowardice became his own, his own wish to go someplace safe and dark, to conceal himself as he had earlier concealed himself in Adams. He hated the temptation that Dolittle presented. As he stared up at the flickering light in Dolittle’s window, Hawthorne urged himself to make the sensible choice, to retreat to some protected spot until the storm passed.

Instead, he turned toward the faculty houses. He couldn’t afford his hesitation: He had to find Jessica. He had to search out someone who could help rescue her or he had to rescue her himself. Yet whenever he thought of returning to Emerson he felt weak with fear.

The first of the faculty houses lay about fifty yards beyond the last dormitory cottage and was occupied by Gene Strauss. It was a shadowy two-story shape in the falling snow, no more than the outline of a house. The house was dark and there was no sign of candlelight. At times when Strauss was away doing admissions work—meeting with school heads and talking to prospective students—his wife and daughter went with him. Even so, Hawthorne climbed the front porch and hammered on the door. He waited and hammered again. He tried the door but it was locked. Strauss had gone hunting in the fall and probably had a rifle. Hawthorne told himself that he should break into the house and look for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the glass and force his way in.

Hawthorne made his way back down the steps and waded through the snow to the second house, where Ted Wrigley lived with his wife, Doris, and baby daughter. Wrigley had told Hawthorne that he would be away until Sunday night or Monday morning, although he promised to be at the faculty meeting. Hawthorne saw a light in the window. He climbed the front steps and knocked. It was possible that Wrigley had a cell phone, even a gun. Not for the first time, Hawthorne thought of the pistol that Krueger had urged on him.

The door opened a crack. Doris Wrigley stood in the hall holding a flashlight. “Is that you, Jim? You must be freezing. Come in here where it’s warm. I’ve built a fire.”

Hawthorne scraped the snow from his boots and entered the hallway. There was the smell of popcorn and wood smoke.

“Is the whole campus dark?” asked Doris.

“Everything.”

“And of course the plows haven’t been through. We’ll be lucky to see them before Monday.” She led the way into the living room. Doris Wrigley was bundled up in heavy sweaters and her baby, who was a little more than a year old, was sleeping on a blanket in front of the fire. A dozen candles were scattered around the room on tables and bookcases.

“So is this a social visit?” asked Doris. She and her husband had been moderately friendly and helpful to Hawthorne throughout the fall—straddling the fence until they could judge whether he would be successful.

“Do you have a cell phone, by any chance?” asked Hawthorne.

“Ted has one that he keeps in the car but he’s got it with him. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow, but what with the storm . . .”

“What about a gun, do you have a gun?”

Doris stared up at him and all at once she saw the fear that was in him and some of it reached into her. She took a step back. “No, we’ve nothing. What do you want it for?”

Hawthorne thought of the story he could tell her and how she would be terrified. Yet he could think of no lie that would be reassuring. “I’d just feel more comfortable . . .”

“What’s wrong, what’s going on?”

Hawthorne backed into the hall. He felt foolish and ineffectual.

Doris followed him. “Tell me what’s the matter. Why do you want a gun?”

“I’m sorry I upset you. It’s just our concern about Larry Gaudette. Stay in the house and you’ll be all right.” Hawthorne quickly opened the door. As he descended the steps he saw Doris’s outline at the glass as she stared after him. He had done nothing but frighten her. He heard the clicking of locks. Then the shade was pulled.

Herb Frankfurter lived in the next house with his wife and two daughters. Hawthorne pushed his way to Frankfurter’s door and knocked on the glass. He was the faculty member who seemed to dislike Hawthorne the most, presumably because Hawthorne had interfered with what he saw as the prerogatives of his twenty-year employment at Bishop’s Hill. He never talked to Hawthorne if he could help it and avoided his glance in the hall. He also had skipped several of the faculty meetings until Hawthorne told him that he had to attend. Yet Frankfurter also seemed indifferent to the rest of the faculty members and had no friends among them.

The door opened and Frankfurter stood back with a flashlight in one hand and his cane in the other. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. He seemed to find nothing odd about Hawthorne’s sudden appearance.

“Can I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

Frankfurter moved aside to permit Hawthorne to enter. He made a polite gesture toward the living room but the expression on his face was ironic.

“Do you have a cellular phone?” asked Hawthorne.

“It’s broken, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“What’s going on?”

“Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and I’m afraid he’ll try to kill Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Frankfurter’s eyes widened slightly, but other than that he showed no surprise. “Where are they?”

“Over in Emerson. If you had a cellular phone, I’d call the police . . .”

“So you’re thinking of tackling him yourself?” Frankfurter permitted himself a sardonic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have a gun. My brother down in Laconia borrowed my shotgun and several hunting rifles and he hasn’t returned them.”

Frankfurter spoke calmly, as if what was a crisis for Hawthorne wasn’t a crisis for him.

“Will you come with me back to Emerson? Maybe we can do something.”

Frankfurter lifted his cane, showing it to Hawthorne. “I’m afraid that’s not part of my job description, Mr. Headmaster. Anyway, with this knee, I doubt that I could even make it through the snow.”

“Fritz and Jessica are in danger.”

“If this fellow’s already killed Roger, then I’d prefer to stay out of it. I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t do anything for you.” Frankfurter’s voice grew harder. “But go ahead, go after him yourself. I’d like to see what happens.”

“Do you really hate me so much?” asked Hawthorne, more surprised than hurt.

Frankfurter had his flashlight pointed downward, where it made a bright puddle of light on the braided rug. “I don’t hate you. You’re a blip in my landscape. You simply don’t exist for me.”

“We work together. We both live here. Surely, you feel some obligation . . .”

“I feel no obligation to risk my life. As for our working together, that’s no more than an accident of fate. I don’t know why this fellow’s gone on a rampage, but I’m sure none of it would have happened if you hadn’t come to Bishop’s Hill.”

“I thought you were a friend of Fritz’s.”

“Friendship has its limits. Besides that, I find his ambitions boring. I’m sorry.” Frankfurter looked uncertain for a moment. “Who am I to go after a killer, or who are you, for that matter? Stay out of it. Wait for the storm to finish and then call the police. Why get yourself killed?”

“And Fritz and the girl?”

“What about them? Look after your own skin.” A trace of anger crept into Frankfurter’s voice. “Skander hates you. He’s been talking behind your back all fall. You were a fool to trust him.”

“You might have told me about it.”

“It was none of my business.”

Hawthorne turned and left the house. He swore that if he and the school survived he would remove Frankfurter from Bishop’s Hill the first chance he got. Then he began to calm down. Frankfurter was afraid and vengeful, but perhaps he wasn’t wrong.