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At Skander’s house there were lights in the downstairs windows. Hawthorne briefly imagined that LeBrun might be having a joke, that he would find Skander seated before his fire. But even before he knocked on the door he knew that wasn’t true. As he waited he began to think about returning to Emerson Hall. He told himself that LeBrun was sick, he wasn’t evil. But the thought of going back seemed beyond bearing.

Hilda Skander opened the door. When she saw who it was she looked frightened but she didn’t say anything. “May I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

“What do you want?”

“Fritz is in danger. Do you have a cellular phone?”

Hilda stood aside. “No, nothing like that.” Her blue denim jumper and pink sweater made her look like a middle-aged eight-year-old.

Hawthorne entered and looked into the living room. Someone stood before the fireplace, where a small fire was burning. Squinting his eyes, Hawthorne saw that it was Chip Campbell. He held a whiskey glass and glanced at Hawthorne. The room was smoky and the candles flickered.

“I got here earlier and got stuck,” said Chip, “looks like I’ll be spending the night. You haven’t seen Fritz by any chance, have you?”

Instead of answering, Hawthorne turned back to Hilda. “Do you have a gun?”

“No,” said Hilda, her voice almost a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” said Chip, not moving from the fireplace.

Hawthorne realized that they were both scared, that they had been scared when he entered. “Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and he’s got Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Hilda pressed her closed hands to her chest.

“That can’t be true,” said Campbell, but he didn’t say it as if he believed it.

“LeBrun killed Scott McKinnon. I think he’s in Emerson with Jessica and Fritz. Bennett’s body is in the chapel.” And as he said it, Hawthorne again saw Bennett’s dead grin. “You have to help me. We can get Dolittle and maybe Tank Donoso. The four of us should be able to stop him.” The candlelight, coupled with Hawthorne’s weak eyes, created a sense of unreality. Hawthorne heard his own desperation and the absurdity of his plan.

Chip walked unsteadily to the couch and sat down. He wore jeans and a dark sweatshirt. He rattled the ice cubes in the glass and took a drink. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

Hilda took hold of Hawthorne’s arm. “It’s not true, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is.” He turned to Chip. “You’re mixed up in this. You’ve known what Fritz and Bennett have been doing.”

Chip held up his hands in mock innocence. “You got me wrong. I’ve nothing to do with this place. You fired me, remember? Besides, I’ll be moving out to Seattle in January.”

“You put those clippings about San Diego in people’s mailboxes.”

“That was Bennett.”

“But he told you. And I bet he and Skander told you about the painting and phone calls and bags of rotten food. And you probably wrote that letter to Kate’s ex-husband.”

Chip looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “I had no reason to be nice to you.”

“And you probably knew about selling Bishop’s Hill to the Galileo Corporation. Why didn’t you come to me? You’re no better than they are.”

“You can’t prove I knew anything. Some West Coast hotshot telling us what to do, planning to stick us in a book—how could you expect anybody to help you? You got dumped on us by the board. Nobody asked us if we wanted you or not.”

“I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not leaving this house. I’ve already tangled with LeBrun, and anyway,” said Chip, lifting his glass, “I’m looped.”

Hilda sat down. Her face was buried in her hands and she was weeping.

“You’re a coward,” said Hawthorne.

Chip took another drink and leaned back. “You’re right, I am. There are times when cowardice makes sense.”

“Are you going to let Fritz get killed?”

Chip looked embarrassed. “I’m not a cowboy. Before you fired me I was nothing but a bad history teacher. LeBrun has no rules. I’m frightened just talking about him. He’s a monster.”

The last of the faculty houses belonged to Betty Sherman, and her teenage son, who had been born with Down’s syndrome. Betty’s husband had been dead for some years. He had been much older than his wife and had taught history at the school. The boy was their only child. Hawthorne had seen him several times—a chubby boy both sweet and heartbreaking, who cheerfully introduced himself to everyone as Tommy.

Hawthorne climbed her snowy steps and rapped on the glass so it rattled. First Tommy came to the door, then his mother. “Jim, what’s the matter? You look awful.”

“Do you have a cellular phone?”

“No . . .” Betty wore a dark skirt and a dark long-sleeved blouse.

“What about a gun?”

“Of course not. What’s wrong?”

“Frank LeBrun’s killed Roger Bennett. He’s also got Fritz and Jessica Weaver captive in Emerson Hall. I’m sorry to frighten you.”

“Oh, no.” Betty put one hand over her mouth. Her son looked at her quizzically, then his face took on a worried expression.

“I don’t know what to do. You’re the last person I can talk to.” Hawthorne felt exhausted. “People are scared. Understandably. And there’s no way to get out of here, because of the snow. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

“But you can’t let Jessica stay there. God knows what he’s doing to her.”

“He’s trying to get up his nerve to kill her.” It was warm in the hallway. The snow began to melt on Hawthorne’s jacket. He took off his gloves and ski cap.

Betty’s round face seemed to shrink with distress. “Is he the one who killed Scott?”

Hawthorne nodded.

“I can give you a knife. I have an old hunting knife of my husband’s.”

Hawthorne imagined trying to attack LeBrun with a hunting knife and almost smiled. “I wouldn’t stand a chance fighting him. Maybe I can talk to him. I don’t know. I don’t even have a light.”

“Wait a minute,” said Betty. She hurried off. Tommy stayed in the hall grinning at Hawthorne. A kerosene lamp on the hall table was smoking. Hawthorne lowered the wick.

“No lights,” said Tommy. “They went out.”

“That’s true enough,” said Hawthorne.

“No lights,” Tommy repeated and his grin widened.

Hawthorne tried to look affable, but he was tired and fear filled his heart. He had to talk to LeBrun, convince him to free Jessica and Skander. He had to take advantage of LeBrun’s own instability. He had to try, even if he had no chance of success.

Betty Sherman hurried back into the hall. Going to the table, she put down a flashlight, a hunting knife, and a crowbar. “That’s the best I can do. I’d go with you but I’d be more of a hindrance than a help. And I’m afraid of leaving Tommy . . .” Her sentence trailed off.

Hawthorne looked at the knife. “That’s okay.” He felt that if he touched the articles on the table, there would be no turning back. He remembered his wife calling his name from the burning hallway at Wyndham. Although faint, the sound filled his mind. Hawthorne picked up the crowbar and the flashlight. Then, after a moment, he took the hunting knife as well. “I guess I’ll go back,” he said. “If the telephone starts working again, make sure you call the police.”

—

Jessica lay on her stomach in the attic of Emerson Hall, hog-tied with a torn-up sheet. It was dark except for a sputtering candle near the door to the bell tower, but Jessica didn’t mind the dark. It meant that LeBrun was someplace else, someplace where he couldn’t terrify her. Earlier that day when she had seen LeBrun and Tremblay together in Plymouth, she had understood something that she had suspected ever since she had heard them talking in Exeter. But that wasn’t exactly true—she had known earlier without wanting to know. And yet he hadn’t killed her, had he? In some strange way of his, he must have liked her. But LeBrun had her money and soon he’d have Tremblay’s too. How could she have imagined that he liked her? He didn’t like her, he hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Now, though, he still didn’t seem able to kill her. At least that’s what he had been storming about.

But he had murdered other people—it was one of his favorite subjects. He had killed his cousin and Scott and at some point he would kill her as well. Jessica was certain about that. No wonder Tremblay had agreed to let her come home for Christmas. He had meant for her to be dead long before Christmas arrived. And Jessica thought what a piece of trash she must be if everyone wanted her dead. Not everyone. Her brother loved her. Lucky loved her. Even Dr. Hawthorne had been nice when he had every reason to hate her. And he didn’t want to have sex with her either. In fact, nobody did and maybe that was because Tremblay had already used her so badly. That was another reason why Tremblay wanted her dead, to keep her mouth shut. Jessica thought about heaven and if it existed; surely that’s where her father was and if she went there she would see him. But if there was a heaven, then there must also be a hell and when LeBrun killed her he’d probably be sending her there.

The building was quiet now except for the sound of the wind. Earlier there had been shouting, even screams, and the sound of running. Mr. Skander had been with LeBrun but Jessica didn’t know why or what was going on, except that Mr. Skander had made LeBrun get her drunk. “He paid me for that,” LeBrun had said. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have paid me for Hawthorne as well.” Jessica didn’t understand that, but there had been a whine in his voice, as if Mr. Skander had cheated him. It made her feel sorry for Mr. Skander, though she knew she had every reason to hate him, but she felt sorry for anyone whom LeBrun was angry at. And when there had been the shouting and running, she had heard Mr. Skander yelling for help and begging LeBrun to stop. And she had heard LeBrun telling his awful jokes. And she had heard him growling. It seemed like they had been running through the entire building, then it had gotten quiet.

Jessica was cold and the dust on the floor kept getting in her nose. It was almost funny that she might freeze to death before LeBrun had a chance to kill her. Then she thought of her kitten and how she wouldn’t be there to take care of it, and she was afraid she would cry, and she hated crying.

The door to the attic banged open and there was the sound of feet on the stairs. Jessica’s body clenched and a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. LeBrun was coming up again. She tried to move but her hands were tied behind her back and her left foot was tied to her hands. She could hardly even wriggle, and when she pulled, the torn sheet hurt her wrists.

“How’s my little girl?” came LeBrun’s voice from the dark. Then she saw the beam of his flashlight as he came up the stairs. “How’s my snuff cake? Did I tell you what they call a Canuck girl with half a brain?” LeBrun chuckled. “Skander didn’t like that one, he didn’t even laugh.” Then LeBrun shouted, suddenly furious, “What the fuck’s the answer?”

“Gifted,” said Jessica, but she didn’t laugh either.

LeBrun cackled. “Don’t you love it,” he said, “don’t you love it?”

The beam of the light focused on her face and she tried to turn away. LeBrun’s footsteps got nearer. “How’s my girl? Answer me!”

“I’m all right,” said Jessica.

“That’s better. I don’t like people who’re rude to me. I mean, it’s one thing to die and it’s another to die with a lot of pain.” LeBrun sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Let me go,” said Jessica.

“Fat chance. Hey, I need the money. I need some legs to get out of here. Don’t take it personal. It’s a job, that’s all. Like the American way of life. I get paid for it and that makes it okay.” LeBrun laughed again, an ironic bark.

“Then why haven’t you killed me already?”

LeBrun was silent for a moment, then he raised his voice. “Because I’m preparing myself, that’s all. And the money’s not here. Don’t worry, it’s on its way. Your dad’s having a little trouble with the snow, but he’ll get here soon. I just talked to him.”

“He’s not my dad.”

“Yeah, what a shame. Did I tell you why Canucks wear hats?”

Jessica didn’t say anything. Whatever was going to happen, she wished it was over.

“Did I?” shouted LeBrun.

“So they’ll know what end to wipe.”

“Jesus, I could listen to those all night. Know which end to wipe, ain’t it the fuckin’ truth. All right, little Misty, your time’s up.” LeBrun reached over and cut the sheet securing her foot. “Let’s get started. It’s got to be done before he gets here. I’ll be taking his Jeep. I’ve always liked Jeeps.” He took Jessica’s arm and dragged her to her feet.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked, terrified again.

“We’re going up to the top, up where the bell is.” He pulled her over to the door leading to the tower. “Too bad you’re not going to get a chance to admire the view. I hear it’s fantastic.”

—

Detective Leo Flynn and Chief Moulton were in Moulton’s black Chevy Blazer making their way down Antelope Road, which still hadn’t been plowed. They had spent an hour in Brewster Center waiting for a plow but it had never shown up so Moulton said he’d try to force his way through, even though the snow must be nearly three feet.

“I don’t want to freeze to death out here,” said Flynn, who had not meant to say anything, who had meant to seem confident.

“The heater works and I got a full tank of gas. We could be toasty all night.”

“If this was Boston, I could get the entire Department of Public Works to clear the roads. I’d get them out here or I’d fucking have their jobs.”

Moulton cleared his throat. “Too bad we’re not in Boston.”

Flynn thought he detected an element of sarcasm. He glanced at Moulton but the police chief’s face in the dash light was expressionless. “Hey, this guy’s a professional killer. You should of at least called out the National Guard.”

“I called the troopers,” said Moulton. “Everyone’s tied up because of the snow, even the National Guard.”

Again there was the whisper of sarcasm. “So how far do we have to go?”

“About seven miles.”

“That should take us about an hour at this rate.”

“Maybe you’d do better on foot,” said Moulton. “I bet even your feet are better than ours. A Boston flatfoot, isn’t that right? I bet you could walk on the snow just like you had snowshoes.”