Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Praise for Boy in the Water

“Once again, Dobyns has offered readers a thriller that is swift and smart and very, very spooky.”

–The Washington Post Book World

“A shivery whodunit.”

–USA Today

“Dobyns creates a haunted, troubled realm.”

–The Providence Sunday Journal

“Nasty fun.”

–Daily News

“The author has thoroughly mixed several genres—horror, the fiction of personal crisis, suspense—into a weird and original concoction that is highly entertaining.”

–The Chicago Tribune

“An atmospheric thriller.”

–San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle

“Like the best thriller writers, Dobyns not only scares us with what is out there but also with what we find (or don’t find) within ourselves.”

–Booklist

“Mr. Dobyns is a masterly poet and shrewd mystery writer . . . moody and evocatively written.”

–Dallas Morning News

“If you take Boy in the Water to the beach, take lots of sunscreen; you may sit longer than you planned, following this thriller to its intense conclusion.”

–Schenectady Gazette

“[Dobyns’s] prose is fluent and the plot races along like clockwork.”

–The New York Times Book Review

“Set in the New Hampshire mountains at remote Bishop’s Hill Academy, Dobyns’s new novel succeeds . . . Recommended for all mystery collections.”

–Library Journal

Also by Stephen Dobyns

POETRY

Winter’s Journey

Mystery, So Long

The Porcupine’s Kisses

Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides

Common Carnage

Velocities: New and Selected Poems, 1966–1992

Body Traffic

Cemetery Nights

Black Dog, Red Dog

The Balthus Poems

Heat Death

Griffon

Concurring Beasts

NONFICTION

Next Word, Better Word: The Craft of Writing Poetry

Best Words, Best Order: Essays on Poetry

STORIES

Eating Naked

NOVELS

Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?

The Burn Palace

Saratoga Strongbox

The Church of Dead Girls

Saratoga Fleshpot

Saratoga Backtalk

The Wrestler’s Cruel Study

Saratoga Haunting

After Shocks/Near Escapes

Saratoga Hexameter

The House on Alexandrine

Saratoga Bestiary

The Two Deaths of Señora Puccini

A Boat off the Coast

Saratoga Snapper

Cold Dog Soup

Saratoga Headhunter

Dancer with One Leg

Saratoga Swimmer

Saratoga Longshot

A Man of Little Evils

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

First trade paperback edition 2001 by St. Martin’s Press

Originally published by Metropolitan Books copyright © 1999 by Stephen Dobyns

Copyright © 1999 by Stephen Dobyns

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Blue Rider Press is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dobyns, Stephen.

Boy in the water : a novel / Stephen Dobyns.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-99179-4

1. Preparatory schools—Fiction. 2. New Hampshire—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.O2B69 2015 2015017236

813'.54—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

Contents

Praise for Boy in the Water

Also by Stephen Dobyns

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE

One

Two

Three

Four

PART TWO

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

PART THREE

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

About the Author

Everything that happens is as normal and expected as the spring rose or summer fruit; this is true of sickness, death, slander, intrigue, and all the other things that entertain or trouble imprudent men.

—MARCUS AURELIUS, MEDITATIONS

Prologue

Like a black island on a turquoise sea, the dark shape floated on the surface of the water, lit from beneath by a string of underwater spotlights evenly spaced along the twenty-five yards of the swimming pool. They gave off the only light apart from the glow of a red exit sign above the door. The shape at first looked like a barrel or log. It took a moment to realize that it was a body: a boy, naked except for a pair of white Jockey shorts. He was small for his age and quite slender. Perhaps he was thirteen—an eighth grader. Only the boy’s torso and the back of his head rose above the surface; his arms and legs hung down toward the black lines that ran the length of the pool’s bottom. His elbows were bent and his fingers were curved and relaxed, as if he had been holding something but had just let it go. The underwater lights made the air shimmer above the water and formed rippling shadows on the green cinder-block walls and tile ceiling.

Something small with pointed ears and a bedraggled tail stepped gingerly across the boy’s back, tentatively lifting and shaking one paw after another as it moved along the boy’s shoulder blades. It mewed and the sound echoed throughout the pool area. When the creature turned and its full silhouette became visible against the turquoise, one could see it was a kitten stranded on this dark island, stepping lightly from one part of the boy’s back to another, seeking the highest spot, while its movement caused the body to bob and turn very slightly. As a trickle of water ran across the boy’s skin, the kitten reared up like a miniature horse to keep its paws from getting wet.

One side of the boy’s body was white as parchment, lit up by the row of underwater lights. The other side was dark. His long red hair floated on the water in a ragged fringe. The kitten continued to mew and pace across the body as the turquoise light flickered and the boy’s shadow drifted like a dark swimmer across the left-hand wall. The kitten’s fur was orange-colored, and the orange of its fur and the red of the boy’s hair seemed significant, as if there were a family connection. It was warm and humid in the large room and the air smelled of chlorine and mold.

Two men stood at the shallow end, watching. Their backs were to the door and together they formed two black silhouettes.

“When did you find him?” asked the one in an Irish fisherman’s hat.

“Half an hour ago.”

“And we’re the only ones who know?”

“Except for whoever put him there.”

The kitten paused and arched its back, and its damp fur bristled. Then it began to mew frantically.

“Do we call the police?” asked the bareheaded one.

“Let someone else do it.”

“You’re taking a chance.”

“I see no reason to think so.”

Both men wore heavy overcoats, giving off an odor of damp wool.

“And is this what you were expecting?”

“No, but it will do.”

Outside it was snowing, as it had been for the past ten hours. More than a foot had fallen and the snow spread its white, uninterrupted surface across the lawns and playing fields to the edge of the forest. A half-moon glowed dully behind the clouds so one could make out the school’s buildings: five two– and three-story structures built in the nineteenth century and laid out in the shape of the letter H. The bridge of the H was Emerson Hall, the administration and main classroom building, with its illuminated bell tower. Lights were spaced along the driveways and sidewalks, creating brilliant circles of white. Beyond the school buildings on a curving driveway stood a row of six dormitory cottages for students, and further along the driveway and scattered among the trees were five small houses where faculty lived. Lights burned in the windows of two of the cottages: Shepherd, where a dozen students and two teachers were eating popcorn and watching Die Hard 3, and Pierce. Here, in the faculty apartment on the top floor, a tall, thin man was hurriedly taking clothes from the bureau and closet and dumping them into the two suitcases that lay open on the bed. It was the Friday night after Thanksgiving and most of the students were gone.

Lights also burned in four of the five faculty houses. In one a woman was mending a tear in a blue denim skirt. Beside her was a bowl of red-and-white peppermints and every so often she would stop her sewing, unwrap the cellophane from a candy, and almost tenderly put it in her mouth. In another house, a boy and his mother were watching the last minutes of a college basketball game. In a third, a man and woman were making love on a blanket before the fireplace, in which three logs were burning. Their damp skin flickered orange in the firelight. In the fourth house, a bearded man was cleaning a double-barreled shotgun in the basement, gently pushing an oiled cotton swab down the length of one of the barrels. Upstairs, his wife watched television.

Over at the school garage, in his overheated office, the night watchman was sleeping with his head on the desk, his arms hanging down so his knuckles brushed the floor. He snorted as he breathed and a trickle of saliva had made a kidney-shaped stain on the green blotter beneath his mouth. Upstairs in a small studio apartment, the assistant cook lay on his single bed, studying the cracks in the ceiling. He was smoking a cigarette and the smoke spiraled upward, forming a nimbus around the bare bulb that hung from a black wire. Next to him on a small bedside table was a half-empty bottle of Budweiser and a saucer overflowing with cigarette butts. In the apartment behind Stark Chapel, the chaplain, a woman, was lying in bed reading an Ellery Queen mystery. Across from the chapel in the library, an overweight, balding man was sitting at a desk leafing through the week’s magazines, licking the index finger of his right hand as he turned the pages. The half dozen other faculty and staff who lived on the grounds were away for the holidays.

The snow swirled around the security lights along the sidewalks and driveways. It seemed to plunge through a hole in the sky above the floodlit bell tower. It accumulated on the scaffolding where workmen had been repairing the roof of Emerson Hall. It dusted the heads of the alligatorlike gargoyles protruding from the cornices of the buildings. It collected on the vines of dried ivy clinging to the brick walls. It drifted through the broken windows of an unused dormitory and mixed with the dust on the floor. It formed delicate caps on the gilded tips of the iron fence posts lining the driveway. It gathered on the soccer goals and bleachers in the playing fields. It gave white cloaks to the pines. It seemed to bring the trees closer—the White Mountain National Forest that surrounded the school on three sides, three-quarters of a million acres stretching across north-central New Hampshire, a vast expanse of wintry dark, spotted with ice-covered lakes. The silence was so profound that a person standing motionless in the middle of the playing fields might have supposed that he had been struck deaf. Then a dog barked out in the woods, or perhaps it was the high yelp of a coyote.

South of the school, a quarter mile beyond its front gate, ran the Baker River. Then Antelope Road, extending through the woods between the tiny villages of Brewster Center and West Brewster, where a few of the faculty lived. Beyond Brewster Center lay the road to the city of Plymouth, twenty miles away. Not much was moving except snowplows at this time of night—sometimes a tractor-trailer out on the interstate, heading up to St. Johnsbury or down to Boston, leaving a cloud of snow in its wake.

The two men made their way out of the gymnasium, the one in the hat tugging at the door with his gloved hand to make sure it was locked. They turned up their collars and the bareheaded man put on a blue ski cap. They buried their hands in their pockets and seemed to pull their necks down into their collars.

“Where’s Hawthorne?” asked the man in the ski cap.

“He went down to Concord to visit his friend Krueger.”

“What a shame he was gone just when something like this happened—a boy dead in the pool. What kind of headmaster is he, anyway?”

The other man laughed and began to move away from the building out into the snow. “One whose tenure at Bishop’s Hill will be blessedly brief.”

The men chuckled together as they made their way along the path, lifting their boots above the surface of the snow, like shore birds walking through water. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing the snow in gusts across the playing fields, creating white billows that swirled and rose, as if the snow had a sort of life, enwrapping the men as they walked and smoothing out their footprints until, as the night progressed, there was no evidence that the two men had ever passed that way at all.

PART ONE

One

Burnt flesh newly whole, pink skin puckered on the back of the hand, a moonscape of scar tissue extending from the sleeve of a gray sport coat. In the correctness of dress, only the scars were out of place. As he reached out to shake the hand, Kevin Krueger tried not to hesitate. This was his friend, Jim Hawthorne, his former teacher, a man he loved, a man to whom he owed his career.

“Been a long time,” said Krueger, squeezing the hand. “It’s great to see you.”

Bright morning light cut a yellow wedge across the office floor, the northern light of a fall day under a blue New Hampshire sky. The gold dome of the state capitol seemed to blaze under its regard.

His visitor noticed Krueger glancing at the scars. He gripped Krueger’s hand firmly, as if to show he had entirely healed. “We talked on the phone.”

“But I haven’t seen you for nearly a year.”

“Since before the fire.” Hawthorne let go of Krueger’s hand and stepped back. He was tanned and muscular, as if he spent part of every day at the health club, which was probably true. After all, he had been recuperating. Or perhaps it was that California glow. His hair was lighter than Krueger remembered, nearly blond and finely textured. Then, with shock, Krueger realized that Hawthorne’s hair must have been burned off.

“You look well,” said Krueger, hesitating whether to remain standing or sit down.

Hawthorne considered this estimate with amusement. “My doctor says I’ve been putting myself back together, but it feels like loafing. Now I want to return to work.”

Renovation was going on in one of the state offices down the hall and the sound of an electric saw shrilled through the air. The work had begun on September 2 and after nearly three weeks Krueger still hadn’t gotten used to the noise. He noticed Hawthorne’s jaw tense, then relax.

“But not in your field?” said Krueger, turning to shut the window behind him.

“It’s still school administration.”

“Another sort of school . . .” Krueger let the remark hang. He didn’t wish to bring up the fire, but that meant their talk stayed on a level of superficiality that he had never experienced with his friend. Was he afraid Hawthorne might cry? Or he himself would? After all, he had baby-sat for Lily at least half a dozen times in Boston. In his mind’s eye, he could see her sparkling blond curls.

Krueger had met Hawthorne seven years earlier at Boston University, when he had begun graduate study in clinical psychology. Jim Hawthorne had been his adviser as well as teacher. Hawthorne was now thirty-seven. His birthday was in February, the same month as the fire. Only six years separated them and the two men had made many trips to various agencies and residential treatment programs throughout the state, especially to Ingram House in the Berkshires, where Krueger had done the work that resulted in his thesis. And when Krueger had said he was interested in a job with the New Hampshire Department of Education, Hawthorne hadn’t protested but had made the necessary calls from San Diego, even though he would rather have seen Krueger working in mental health. Yet if Krueger had taken a position someplace else, Hawthorne wouldn’t have been here this morning and Krueger wouldn’t have had the opportunity now to assist him.

“I’ve been on the phone with members of the board,” said Hawthorne, “and they’ve sent me cartons of papers. Without actually visiting the place I don’t see how I could be any more prepared.”

“All this in six weeks?”

“They want someone in residence before the semester is much advanced. Classes began two weeks ago. And I was ready to make the change.” He looked uncertain for a moment. “You know, it’s time to make a fresh beginning.”

Krueger wondered what Hawthorne meant by being “ready.” His dark gray jacket, blue slacks, white shirt, even his tie looked new. But of course his other clothes had been destroyed. In fact, in terms of property, he’d probably lost everything. But what had he lost of the rest—of his essential self, what people outside their profession might call the soul?

“There’s no real town nearby, at least for twenty miles,” said Krueger.

“I like the country. Perhaps I’ll learn to ski.”

“You could get stuck after the snow begins. The roads can completely shut down.”

“You’re not very optimistic.”

“These places, they develop their own ways of doing things. They get terribly ingrown: cousins and high school chums working together for years . . .”

“That’s probably why the board insisted on an outside hiring.”

“Of course, of course.” Glancing at Hawthorne’s hand, Krueger saw how the scar tissue extended up the backs of his fingers, how the little finger had no nail but ended in a sort of pink fragility.

Hawthorne was thin and handsome and somewhat gaunt, with dark indentations beneath his cheekbones. He wore glasses with pewter frames that kept sliding down his nose which he pushed back up with his thumb. Krueger was a few inches shorter and stocky, with a receding hairline, bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache, as if these bristling growths were soft bumpers between him and the world. These were men of similar backgrounds who had gone to similar New England schools and universities. They read the same magazines and newspapers, the same books. They felt at home in the same fashionable sections of Boston or San Diego, New York or San Francisco. But one had suffered great tragedy and the other kept trying to imagine it. Krueger had felt inadequate to the task of helping his friend. He had written. They talked on the phone. Hawthorne’s life had taken a turn impossible to anticipate and Krueger had been struck with wonder and compassion.

“It’s hardly your sort of school,” he said.

Hawthorne suddenly grinned. “On the cutting edge of failure, much like myself.”

“You’re a clinical psychologist with a tremendous reputation.”

“The school claims to specialize in youngsters with special needs.”

“You know what that means. Highly structured environment, empathy development, special needs—it’s code. The school’s just a dumping ground.”

“It’s been around a long time.”

“In name only. Even ten years ago it was different. They started that business about special needs when enrollment began to fall. Their accreditation hangs by a thread.”

“You think I can’t save it?” There was a hint of something in Hawthorne’s voice. Not anger or bravado. Perhaps it was no more than a touch of mettle.

“I think it’s an impossible task. Bishop’s Hill needs an endowment, a new student body, a new faculty, and a new physical plant. They’d do better to tear the place down and start over.”

“The board’s given me complete control.”

“But what about the staff? Do they know you’re coming?”

“They were notified on Thursday.”

Krueger almost smiled. “They must be jumping. And why did you decide against a residential treatment center?”

“Maybe I need a break.” Hawthorne sat down at last, perching on the edge of the chair. Glancing around the office, his eyes settled on the photograph of Krueger’s wife, Deborah, and their son and daughter. He looked away. “Maybe I just don’t want that work anymore.”

Krueger began to speak quickly. “I’ve been hearing about Bishop’s Hill ever since I came here. The faculty keeps leaving, many are barely qualified. Parents complain. The health department came within an inch of closing down their kitchen. And there were other stories, allegations even.”

“That’s why they were eager to have me.”

“What happened to the previous headmaster?”

“He’s been gone several years. They had a sort of halfhearted search but it was only this summer that they decided to make a new commitment.”

“It was either that or sell out to the Seventh-Day Adventists.” Krueger rubbed the back of his neck. He hoped he wasn’t getting another of his headaches. Hawthorne had been one of the preeminent administrators at one of the preeminent treatment centers in the country. He could probably go anywhere. Instead, he was choosing a fifth-rate institution on the verge of closing. “You’ll be buried there,” added Krueger.

Hawthorne seemed not to have heard. “What sort of person is the acting head?”

“Fritz Skander? He’s the bursar. I’ve talked to him on the phone. Well-spoken, kind of upbeat and ironic at the same time. He was hired to teach math, then worked his way into the management end of things. He’s been acting head for two or three years. Personally, I thought he’d be the one to get the job.”

“He has no background in psychology or administration. He has the ability, but I have the résumé.”

“You have tremendous ability. What about your research, your writing?”

Hawthorne began to speak, then turned away. A bony, angular face with a jutting chin—the morning light emphasized every wrinkle that had appeared since Krueger had seen him last, and again he recalled Lily’s glorious curls. The mother, too, had been blond.

“Skander will be associate headmaster and continue as bursar, as well as teaching a section of geometry. The board chairman kept saying how everyone would have to bite the bullet. Otherwise, there’s a psychologist at the school, a couple of mental health counselors. I’ve looked over the records of about half the students. I’d like to hire another psychologist as soon as possible.”

“And the physical plant?”

“Serviceable but failing. There’s a fund drive to replace the roof of the main building, Emerson Hall. Several of the dormitory cottages need substantial work.”

Hawthorne ticked off various problems on his fingertips: a crack in a boiler, the need to replace a stove in the kitchen, faulty wiring in one of the dorms, cracking plaster. Krueger asked questions and his friend responded. Despite the difficulties, Hawthorne was eager to face the challenge. It was a new undertaking to fill his mind. As he said, a new beginning.

Krueger had heard from Hawthorne two days earlier after a silence of six weeks. He was leaving San Diego and would fly into Logan Sunday evening, then stay at a hotel and drive up to Concord on Monday. In his initial surprise, the only detail Krueger found odd was that Hawthorne would stay in a hotel. He probably had dozens of friends in the Boston area. It was only after Krueger hung up that he began to wonder about Hawthorne’s whole enterprise.

“Why’s Jim coming to New Hampshire?” Deborah had asked.

“He’s taking a job at Bishop’s Hill. Headmaster.” Saying those words, Krueger had thought they sounded crazy, as if his friend had taken a job flipping burgers. Even though it was the weekend, Krueger made some calls. Maybe something had changed at Bishop’s Hill in the past few months. But nothing Krueger heard had encouraged him and what had started out sounding insane only appeared more so. Perhaps, he thought, Hawthorne was planning a book and the school was connected with some new area of research.

Now, talking to Hawthorne, Krueger felt in no way persuaded, especially since the research and writing appeared to be a dead issue. But even if Hawthorne’s only intention was to keep the school afloat and even if the board had committed itself to a new financial effort, it seemed too little too late. Krueger rubbed the back of his neck and wondered where he had put his aspirin.

“Maybe you can do it,” said Krueger, trying to be optimistic. “It’s astonishing that the place is still open. And of course it’s expensive. Dumping grounds usually are.”

Hawthorne rose from his chair and walked to the window. Sunlight illuminated the white bark of the birches on the far side of the parking lot. Hawthorne looked both ready and stoical, like a man about to lift something heavy. But mixed with his stoicism was sorrow. Not that his brow was creased or his shoulders were bent; he seemed perfectly calm. Indeed, in the strong chin, Krueger believed that others would see determination. But Krueger couldn’t help but imagine the awfulness of Hawthorne’s memories. If it had been his own wife and child, he didn’t see how he could live.

Hawthorne walked over and squeezed Krueger’s shoulder. “Jesus, it’s great to see you. You remember those basketball games we used to have? Maybe we can do that again.”

The warmth of his smile was a great reassurance. Krueger tried to speak but could only nod a little foolishly.

“I wanted to come out to California in February.”

“I couldn’t have seen anyone. I was dead. Dead inside at least.”

“Even so . . .” Krueger tugged at his mustache.

Hawthorne turned again to the window. “What other problems do you think I’ll have at Bishop’s Hill?”

With relief Krueger returned to the subject that, though bleak, was at least precise. “Your presence should do wonders for morale. I’ll bet even the non-psychology types have been reading your articles. You’ll have to be firm, of course. I’m sure they’ve been worried by how things have drifted along. The main thing is the children—teenagers really. They’re the ones who’ve suffered.”

“Anything more than educational neglect?”

“A tenth grader was arrested for shoplifting in Plymouth in May. Some drunk driving. Marijuana. The school uses a totally antiquated merit system with so many checks resulting in punishment. On the other hand, a new teacher joined the staff in January. I don’t think it’s an us-against-them scenario. There’s even a new cook.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’d like you closer to Concord, where I can see you.” Krueger gave a laugh, but it sounded false to his ears. “And it’s not your area of expertise.”

“You think I won’t be able to do it?”

“You’re a tremendous administrator.”

“That was before.”

Krueger turned in his chair. “I’ll be frank with you. I don’t understand why you want Bishop’s Hill. It’s a pseudo-prep school for kids who have managed to stay out of agencies or institutions only because their parents have money. It’s a sinking ship. I don’t know if anybody could fix it and I don’t know why you want to.”

“I told you, I want to do something different.”

“And that’s sufficient reason to go to Bishop’s Hill? You could go to one of the best places in the country and you’re choosing one of the worst. The money must be terrible.” Krueger tried to make it a joke, but it didn’t sound like a joke.

“I’m not doing it for the money.”

“So what are you doing it for?”

“Simple professionalism.”

“It’ll be like trying to empty Lake Winnipesaukee with a pail.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m good for right now. Listen, I have to start completely over. Can’t you see that the fire was my fault? When this position opened up at Bishop’s Hill, I jumped at it.”

“You know as well as I do who caused the fire.”

Hawthorne ignored him. “If Bishop’s Hill doesn’t work out, then I’m finished. I don’t mean I couldn’t get other jobs. Just that this is the last chance I’m giving myself.”

The silence that followed was filled with the whine of the saw. Krueger heard his secretary laugh and a door slam. He thought of how far Hawthorne had traveled from Krueger’s own life. “You’ll spend the night? Deborah’d love to see you. And your namesake, he’s already four.”

“I’d like to get up there as soon as possible. About how far is it?”

“Two and a half hours door-to-door. The color should be just getting started.”

“I had some stuff shipped from San Diego. It’ll arrive next week.”

“But you’ll stay for dinner?”

“Thanks, but I still get tired pretty easily.”

Krueger stood up. His chair spun back and hit the wall with a thud. “We need to talk more. Stay for lunch. If I were the one going up there, I think I’d move into it gently.”

“You think I’ll fuck up, don’t you?”

“Of course not, but they’ve had lots of time to get fixed in their ways.” Krueger was aware of not answering the question. What did he know of his friend’s mental state? Only that Hawthorne had chosen to bury himself in a backwater, which was itself evidence of eccentricity. Perhaps something worse than eccentricity.

Hawthorne had paused at the door. “As you say, the children come first.” It seemed only politeness that was holding him back.

Krueger gave up. The conversation had exhausted him. “Give me a call once you get there. Or I’ll call you. You know that my office is at your disposal.”

Hawthorne grinned. “It’s been a while since I’ve gone to school.”

They shook hands again. This time Krueger kept his eyes away from the scars. He wondered how much was hidden by Hawthorne’s clothes, whether his entire body had the shiny delicacy of the wrist. Although Krueger felt guilty, he was comforted by Hawthorne’s grip. It seemed evidence of something positive. I’m grasping at straws, he thought.

After he had shut the door, Krueger was struck by something Hawthorne had said. What had he meant by saying the fire was his fault? That kid Carpasso had set the fire. Everyone knew that.

–

The girl sat on the edge of the stage with a cigarette hanging from her lips and stared at her toes in their small, golden thongs. The toenails had just been painted a shade of red called “Passion Juice” and were not entirely dry. They sparkled in the intensity of the spotlights. The girl’s back was bent and a strand of peroxided hair fell forward, concealing one side of her face. She picked at a dab of red on her toe and blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. Around her left ankle was a gold chain with a heart, a gift from her father six years earlier.

She seemed alone in the room despite the two dozen men and the waitresses in their skimpy dresses weaving between the tables. A few men clapped as Gypsy, naked and businesslike, walked briskly from the stage to the dressing room, carrying a little blue dress in one hand and a pair of black high heels in the other. She had just finished her number, and briefly there was a kind of silence. Someone whistled shrilly; a chair scraped; the neck of a beer bottle clinked against the rim of a glass.