Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

–

Frank LeBrun was waiting outside Emerson Hall. It was getting dark, though it was only a little after four o’clock, but the day had turned cloudy. Snow was forecast. The TV had been showing footage of winter storms in Colorado and Montana. LeBrun had only a sweater. He paced back and forth in front of the iron fence posts, rubbing his arms and talking angrily to himself. He had been upset since the memorial service. Bobby Newland had made him mad. He didn’t like being at Bishop’s Hill anymore and he wouldn’t have stayed if there hadn’t been special work to do. The whole business had become disagreeable and he was getting that boxed-in feeling that he hated.

When he heard the front door open, LeBrun pressed back against the fence. Soon Roger Bennett hurried past. LeBrun wasn’t sure that Bennett had seen him—his sweater was dark and the sun had already set. And Bennett was in a hurry—but he always seemed in a hurry. He was always running somewhere and never had time to talk. But it wasn’t going to be like that this time.

LeBrun sprang after him and grabbed Bennett’s arm. “I got a question.”

“Let go of me,” said Bennett, pulling free, then stumbling a little.

“Why didn’t you tell me that old guy was going to kill himself?”

“How in the world could I have known?”

“You knew him better than me. You all knew him.”

Bennett stood facing LeBrun in the driveway. He wore a black leather coat that reached his thighs. Although his face was in shadow, his blond hair shone in the light from the windows. “I thought he’d quit. You know, resign.”

LeBrun stepped forward and took hold of the lapels of Bennett’s coat. “Don’t fuck with me. I had nothing against that old fart.”

Bennett didn’t try to shake him off. “You should watch how you behave. You could be in big trouble. The police want to know who destroyed Clifford’s office and they also want to know where that girl got the tequila. They could probably charge you with quite a few things—corrupting a minor, breaking and entering, vandalism. Maybe Clifford made a pass and you got mad. Why should the police think anyone else was involved?”

LeBrun pulled Bennett toward him, until their faces were almost touching.

“I’m not the only one who knows about this,” continued Bennett. “You’ve been paid and you need to keep quiet. Do you actually care whether Evings is alive or dead?”

LeBrun let go of Bennett’s coat. “I didn’t mean for him to off himself.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

“You know, Bennett, you don’t smile anymore. You used to smile all the time when there was stuff you wanted me to do. How come you quit smiling? Is it because you think you’ve got me in your pocket?”

For the first time Bennett looked uneasy. “Perhaps I see nothing to smile about.”

“Hey, there’s always jokes. You hear about the Canuck who stole the Thanksgiving turkey?”

Instead of answering, Bennett turned abruptly and hurried up the driveway to his apartment behind the chapel.

LeBrun angrily kicked the metal fence. Then he sat down on the ground and massaged his bruised toes. In the beginning it had seemed easy: a little money for this, a little money for that. As for that stuff with the girl, it was a joke. But now Bennett had something on him. And so did others.

For a moment, LeBrun considered running, going out to California, where he had lived before. His sister was in Riverside and he hadn’t seen her for years. But he was almost broke. He had to stay at Bishop’s Hill until he got his money, which would be a bundle, a double bundle. After that he’d have all the freedom he could want. But to get the money he had to finish the job he’d been sent to do. No more fucking around. No more indecision. That fat policeman had come sniffing around the kitchen. LeBrun had talked to lots of cops in his lifetime. They never got shit. But LeBrun hated to see him hanging around the school. And the state trooper had come back as well.

LeBrun got up off the ground. His butt was cold and his foot hurt. Maybe he’d busted a toe, like he’d once busted a finger when he punched a wall. He had to talk to the girl and get the dates straight. Fucking Misty. When he was younger, girls like that wouldn’t give him the time of day. You had to get a hold on a person, otherwise you were nothing. And wasn’t that what Bennett had? A hold? LeBrun hated them all. But he didn’t hate Hawthorne, not yet. On the other hand, he didn’t doubt that if Hawthorne knew more about him, then he’d become an enemy, too. Hawthorne liked him now, but that was because he didn’t know anything. The more a person knew, the sooner they’d turn against you. It had always been like that. Even when he’d been a kid, even before he’d actually done anything. It was a fact of life.

LeBrun walked around the outside of Emerson, rubbing his arms and deep in conversation with himself. He wanted to talk to the girl. It was past four-thirty and she was probably in her room. He’d never been there but he knew it was on the second floor of Smithfield. LeBrun always made a point of finding out where things were. There was no telling when it might come in useful. And keys, he always liked to have a lot of keys.

He rounded Emerson by Stark Hall, into which Bennett had disappeared, then he continued toward the row of dormitory cottages. LeBrun liked how the days were getting shorter. He could never see why people complained about the decreasing daylight. He liked the dark. Maybe he should live in Alaska, where there was lots of night. Or he could go to Quebec and live with the rest of the Canucks. He’d picked up a little French from his grandmom, maybe twenty or thirty words. It would be a start.

There was a back door to Smithfield and LeBrun unlocked it. He stepped inside and listened. He could hear girls’ voices and laughter from the living room. And there was music. LeBrun didn’t like music, not even rock and roll. It made him jittery. He couldn’t imagine listening to music to relax. There was lots of stuff he didn’t like. LeBrun paused on the back stairs and thought about it. He didn’t like people fucking with his space, and to tell the truth, a whole lot of people fucked with his space.

LeBrun paused again at the second-floor landing. A girl was walking down the hall from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and he waited for her to get out of the way. Jessica’s door was the second one down on the left. He would surprise her. It would help to make her think he was invincible. But he wouldn’t touch her. On the whole, he didn’t like to touch anyone, except for business purposes.

LeBrun made his move, counting the seconds off to himself. Five steps to her door, two seconds to get the key in the lock and he was inside. The girl was on the lower bunk fussing with something. The only light came from a lamp on the desk, and the room was dim. LeBrun looked again. It was a fucking cat.

“Hey,” said Jessica.

“Get rid of that cat.” LeBrun stayed by the door.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” Jessica sat up on the bed and put her bare feet on the floor. The kitten crawled behind her.

“I said, get rid of the cat.”

“It’s not a cat, it’s a kitten. Its name is Lucky.”

Now that LeBrun couldn’t see the cat, it wasn’t so bad, but just thinking about it made him disgusted. Even kittens were filthy with fleas and mites crawling over their skin and feeding on their blood. And they ate filthy things—mice and birds—and played with them as they died. That was as bad as the filthiness. If you had to kill something, you killed it quick. You didn’t fuck around. You only teased something if you hated it and wanted to punish it everlastingly, if its suffering excited you.

“How’d you get a key?” asked Jessica, more curious than frightened.

LeBrun ignored her question. “This business with your brother, I want to do it right away. We can do it this weekend.”

“Nothing’s ready yet. I don’t even know if they’ll be home. I have to tell Jason and the only way I can do that is by writing him.”

“What the fuck’s Jason need to know for? We can just go down and snatch him.”

“Then they’ll call the police. We need time to get away.”

LeBrun kept an eye on the bed behind Jessica to make sure the cat stayed put. If it came sneaking out, then he’d have to twist it. He’d hardly be able to help himself. And if he twisted it, all hell would break loose. Beyond that, he didn’t like being in the room. It smelled of girl things and girl perfumes. There was underwear on the chair—black panties and a little bra—and a box of Tampax on the desk right next to the computer. There were posters of young men stuck up on the wall—that kid who had been in Titanic with a swan curling over his naked shoulder and that singer who’d killed himself, offed himself for no reason that LeBrun could see. Killing yourself was what you did last, and LeBrun laughed because it was a joke and he hadn’t meant it as a joke.

“What’s so funny?” asked Jessica.

“Hey, Misty, what’s the last thing a Canuck does?”

“What?”

“He dies.”

“I don’t find that very funny.”

LeBrun thought about it for a moment. “I guess you had to be there.”

“I don’t like you being in my room. I’m already in trouble and if they see you in here, they’ll guess where I got the tequila.”

The girl had her hand behind her back and LeBrun understood that she was keeping the cat out of his sight, which meant she was touching it. “I want to know exactly when we’re going to get your brother. You’re just fucking with me, promising me that money.”

“No, really, we’ll do it. We have to do it.”

“Next week then.”

“That’s Thanksgiving. There’ll be too many people.”

“Then right after that. On Monday, that’s the thirtieth. We’ll do it on the thirtieth.”

“Won’t there be school that day?”

“You nuts? You plan to come back? You take him and you’ll be gone.”

“Okay, the thirtieth. We’ll do it on that Monday. I’ll write to Jason.” Jessica stuck out her hand. “You want to shake on it?”

“You fucking kidding? You been playing with that cat. I wouldn’t touch your hand unless you boiled it.”

LeBrun had been leaning against the door. Suddenly it pushed against him. He half stumbled forward as Helen Selkirk entered. Seeing him she stopped, leaving the door open.

“What’re you doing in here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

LeBrun felt himself getting angry. “I’m checking the pipes. You wouldn’t want the pipes to burst now, would you? They’d cause one unholy fucking mess.” Then he left, darting down the hall to the back stairs and making no sound.

–

The Saturday before Thanksgiving there was sleet. Despite the weather, Hawthorne drove in to Plymouth in the morning, telling himself that he had errands, but in fact he wanted to get away from Bishop’s Hill. He had bought a used Subaru station wagon early in the fall and he felt some self-satisfaction that he had had the foresight to buy a vehicle with four-wheel drive. He would have lunch by himself and wouldn’t think that people were talking about him and conspiring against him. He would rest his mind. His subjective and objective selves seemed hopelessly entangled and he wasn’t thinking clearly. His guilt about the fire at Wyndham School, the deaths of his wife and daughter, the phone calls, Evings’s suicide, and all the other business kept rattling through his brain.

Hawthorne now realized that he had accepted the phone calls and the rest as his due, as a criminal might accept lashes of a whip. No punishment, he had felt, would be too awful, if it could expunge those moments with Claire in his parked car. How many thousands of times had he begun the sentence “If that hadn’t happened . . .”? It seemed that before that evening with Claire his life had been utterly in his control. He was a success, he was loved, he could do no wrong. And so he had let her unzip his pants. And although he knew with all the logic at his command that the one event had not caused the other—Stanley Carpasso would have started the fire regardless—he did not believe it. Part of him was certain that the moment with Claire had made the fire inevitable. As a result, he deserved punishment, and if the world wouldn’t mete it out, then he would do so himself.

Now he was truly being punished but he wasn’t the one doing it. He wasn’t the one holding the whip, and the irony of this made him smile: How could he have ever thought that he would be able to choose the time and nature of punishment? Hawthorne’s attempts in that direction were nothing but hubris. The truth was that Hawthorne felt that he could do nothing but hold on and endure what he had to endure. But he worried that he didn’t have enough strength and in his worst moments he feared that he might collapse entirely, retreat to a corner and weep until an ambulance came to take him away. Maybe he’d be sent down to McLean’s, where he had friends on the staff and they would see how far he had fallen. Later in the week, on Thanksgiving, he would drive to Concord and tell Krueger all that he had gone through.

Clifford Evings’s suicide meant that the punishment was no longer Hawthorne’s alone. The stories that Evings had been told about being fired, and the trashing of his office—these had been part of Hawthorne’s burden, part of the gossip, the malice, the Sisyphean boulder of Bishop’s Hill. Hawthorne had tried to bear that burden, but he had done little to discover who was responsible for Evings’s torment, since surely he himself was the real target. And then Evings had died. As Hawthorne drove the gray, sleet-covered road to Plymouth, his hands clenched the wheel so tightly that the car swerved. Was he responsible for Evings’s death as well? He had allowed Evings to become a shareholder in his punishment. He had done nothing to stop it. And who would be next? Kate? Jessica Weaver? Skander? Alice Beech? He had to do more than foolishly peering around a tree at the door of his apartment. He had to involve others—and others more capable than Tank Donoso.

At first, he had been tempted to talk to Chief Moulton, but he was afraid of not being believed. In his years as a clinical psychologist he had heard dozens of delusional confessions, ranging from intimate acquaintance with space invaders to the boast that the speaker was Jesus of Nazareth. He remembered hearing these confessions and trying to keep his face immobile, to maintain a certain smoothness of tone as he rid his speech of all trace of emotion or doubt. How awful it would be to see these responses in Moulton, for of course he would see them. How awful to hear Moulton say, “How interesting,” and “Tell me more,” as his eyes glazed over. No, he couldn’t talk to Moulton, as least not yet.

What were his alternatives? Solicit help from the people who were on his side? Who were they? Kate? Bill Dolittle? Fritz Skander? Mrs. Sherman, Rosalind Langdon, and Alice Beech? Gene Strauss, Larry Gaudette, even Frank LeBrun? But what did he know about Strauss except that they had both rooted for the Yankees during the World Series and had watched two games together on Strauss’s mammoth TV? As for Dolittle, his loyalty depended on whether he got the apartment in Stark Hall. And what did Hawthorne know about Skander, the eternal backer of conservative measures who disliked rocking the boat? Though he was tactless and insensitive, Skander had worked with these people a long time. If not his friends, they were at least friendly. Skander hadn’t minded that they borrowed cars and lawn mowers and chain saws and took food from the kitchen.

Briefly Hawthorne considered hiring a private detective but the idea struck him as ridiculous. He imagined a Sherlock Holmes type creeping around Bishop’s Hill with a magnifying glass. Besides, good detectives were expensive and who would pay? Would the money come out of his pocket or would he ask Hamilton Burke? And what did he know about Burke? What exactly had he said to Evings the day before Evings died? Had he really told him that he could take a leave?

It seemed that the only person available to investigate these matters was himself, but that seemed as foolish as hiring a private detective. His job as headmaster took at least sixty hours a week, so when would he find the time? And what did he know about investigation? He was an academic and a clinical psychologist. All his investigations had occurred in the decorous environment of the conference room and the therapist’s office. Could he really snoop? Moreover, there was the likelihood of violence. Obviously the destruction of Evings’s office had been violent.

Should he leave Bishop’s Hill? Or do nothing, work hard, and hope that the people who disliked him would be won over? These choices were equally impossible because each was a failure, a surrender. Then why was he hesitating? Was he afraid? The mere possibility shocked him. And without the least hesitation, his mind moved to Wyndham School and the fire. When he had found the key to the window grate and had run back toward his apartment, to what degree had fear dragged at his footsteps? Flames were sweeping across the ceiling and up ahead the fire was worse. Later he told himself that, if he had left Claire just one minute earlier, Meg and Lily would have lived. But though that might be true, it didn’t address the question of his fear. Had he run as fast as he could? Wasn’t he using those minutes with Claire as an excuse? He had been afraid. He had not run his fastest. There were two crimes for which he deserved punishment, not one. And again Hawthorne nearly swerved off the road as he took his hands from the wheel and pressed them to his face.

When he arrived in Plymouth ten minutes later, he felt dazed, as if he had just awoken after a binge. The cars on the streets, the people on the sidewalks—he hardly saw them. His mind was full of the possibility of his fear. Although it was lunchtime, Hawthorne no longer felt hungry. He stopped at the drugstore to buy shampoo, deodorant, and aspirin, then realized he could easily have bought them at the supermarket where he would be going in any case. He walked aimlessly up Main Street despite the cold and intermittent sleet, looking into shops and staring into people’s faces. He bought a New York Times, then went into a coffee shop and read it for an hour, letting his coffee get cold. When he was done, he could hardly remember anything—difficulties in Israel and Iraq, drug problems in Mexico. Below the level of consciousness, his mind was furiously engaged in argument with itself. He left the coffee shop, retrieved his car, and drove to the supermarket behind a great orange truck that was scattering salt on the pavement ahead.

Although Hawthorne took his meals in the dining hall, he liked to keep his small kitchen stocked with coffee, soft drinks, and an occasional six-pack of Beck’s. And he usually kept crackers and cheese, nothing too elaborate. His Sunday teas for the students were catered by the dining hall, and the only items he might add were a box or two of chocolates, Jordan almonds, or something mildly exotic like a few tins of smoked oysters.

He was pushing his cart down one aisle after another with his mind hardly focused on his surroundings when he saw Mrs. Hayes standing in the checkout line. She wore a knee-length brown coat that swelled out over her full figure and a matching rain hat made of canvas. A man’s black umbrella hung over her left forearm. Hawthorne knew that she lived in Plymouth but he couldn’t remember where. He hadn’t spoken to her since just after her resignation, and in truth she had nearly slipped from his memory.

Hawthorne watched her pay for her groceries then push her cart loaded with bags through the automatic door. She moved slowly, as if conscious of her fragility, and once outside she put up her black umbrella to protect herself from the sleet. Somewhat clumsily she maneuvered her cart while holding the umbrella. Abandoning his own cart, Hawthorne moved to the front of the store so he could observe Mrs. Hayes cross the parking lot to a green Ford Escort dotted with circles of rust. Hawthorne forgot about his shopping. He left the supermarket and hurried to his car, staying out of Mrs. Hayes’s line of vision. Once in his car, he waited for her to finish loading her groceries through the rusty hatch of the Escort.

Mrs. Hayes drove out of the parking lot and turned left. Hawthorne followed. She drove slowly through the center of town and past the college, with its red brick buildings. She turned right down a residential street, then after three blocks she turned left. The streets were lined with small white Victorian houses. There was nobody else in sight. Hawthorne’s windshield wipers made a steady whap-whap. The day was dim and he began to switch on his lights, then he decided against it.

When Mrs. Hayes turned right into a driveway, Hawthorne pulled to the curb. He knew she lived alone. Her house was small with a gable over the front porch and green shutters. He watched her carry her groceries up the steps and through the front door, turning on the porch light and making several trips. Sleet and wet snow accumulated on his windshield. After Mrs. Hayes closed the door, Hawthorne waited five more minutes to give her a chance to start putting away the groceries. The street was deserted. Not even any dogs were out.

Hawthorne left his car and hurried across the street and up Mrs. Hayes’s front steps. For some reason he decided to knock rather than ring the doorbell. It seemed less intrusive. The storm door had two panels of glass at the top and bottom and the front door itself had a large glass pane. Through it, Hawthorne could see down a short hall to the kitchen, where a light burned.

Mrs. Hayes came out of the kitchen into the hall. She held a dishcloth and was wiping her hands. When she saw who was at the door, she stopped and her face took on a worried look. She stared at Hawthorne from the hallway without moving. Her tight gray curls covered her head like a bonnet. Hawthorne made himself smile and felt intensely foolish. After at least ten seconds, Mrs. Hayes moved forward, still wiping her hands with the dishcloth. She looked at Hawthorne, and with her concern there was also a suggestion of anger. She opened the front door a few inches, leaving the storm door closed.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Hawthorne had nearly forgotten her voice, which was high and elderly. A creaky voice, he had once called it. “I need to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“I think we do. Did you hear that Clifford Evings was dead?”

Mrs. Hayes’s expression softened. “Yes, the poor man.”

“I need to talk to you about what’s going on at the school.”

Mrs. Hayes unlatched the door, pulling it open. “I don’t like you coming here.”

“I’m sorry to bother you but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” Hawthorne wiped his feet on the mat and entered the hall.

“I guess you’d better come in and sit down. Please excuse the mess.”

The living room was as neat as a pin—an old woman’s room with antimacassars and photographs of people who had probably died long ago. On the coffee table were several copies of Reader’s Digest and Yankee magazine. Mrs. Hayes motioned to a worn armchair. “That was my husband’s chair. You can sit in that.”

Hawthorne sat down. He knew nothing of Mrs. Hayes’s husband, whether he had died or had simply gone away. On a side table was a photograph of a beefy middle-aged man standing in a stream and holding a fishing pole above his head. He was grinning.

“I’d like to have you tell me again about the reasons for your resignation.”

Mrs. Hayes sat down on the couch, perching at the very edge of the cushion. “That’s all over and done with.”

“Did someone say you would be fired?”

She didn’t speak and looked down at the coffee table. Her gray hair had a bluish tint, as if she had recently been to the beauty parlor.

“I’d no intention of letting you go. Therefore you must have heard it from other people.”

Mrs. Hayes straightened up as if she had come to a decision. “Roger Bennett told me you meant to fire me. He said he heard it directly from you and that he’d argued on my behalf. He said you were rude, that you called me ‘old baggage.’”

“Anyone else?”

“Chip Campbell said you’d told him the same, that I was too dumb to learn about computers and the sooner I was out of there the better. People talked. They said they were sorry, they offered their sympathy—Herb Frankfurter, Tom Hastings, Ruth Standish. Ruth offered to help but I felt confused. Of course I was angry, but part of me couldn’t help thinking you were right. I couldn’t make any sense of those manuals.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Skander?”

“He tried to help as well. I asked if you meant to fire me and he said that he didn’t know. He told me we were going through difficult times and some changes were necessary. But Mr. Bennett warned me several times and Mr. Campbell, after he’d been dismissed, called me at home to say he’d talked to the board about my pension, that it was secure. I didn’t feel I had any choice, and Mr. Bennett said that if I made a fuss it could jeopardize whatever I received. Really, my pension was small enough as it was. I was quite frightened.” Mrs. Hayes still held the dishcloth, which she twisted in her hands.

“What about the Reverend Bennett?”

“She never spoke to me at all. Cold, I found her. She never even said hello when I passed her in the hall.”

“And were there others?”

“I can’t remember. Many people were sympathetic. Really, I’d no idea who to believe. I can’t think Mr. Bennett meant me harm. He was always friendly, nothing at all like his wife. And Chip Campbell gave me little gifts at Christmas and would always stick his head into the office to say hello.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with the finances of the school?”

“No, never. Mr. Skander handled all that as bursar—him and the bookkeeper. I ordered supplies but I never knew anything about the billing.”

“Tell me about Mr. Pendergast.”

Mrs. Hayes sat a little straighter and pursed her lips. After a moment she said, “He wasn’t a nice man, especially after his wife died.”

“You mean he had a temper?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what was it?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Were you surprised when he resigned?”

“He’d said nothing about it to me. He made the announcement in early December that he’d leave at the end of the semester. Yes, I suppose I was surprised. He was only in his midfifties or so, and I suppose I thought he was going to stay until he retired.”

“Can you give me any more sense of how he was?”

Mrs. Hayes gave a slight smile, half mocking. “He was very vain. Once he asked me if I thought he was losing his hair. Then he began to tint it. And he worried about his figure. When it was somebody’s birthday and there was cake, he never ate any.”

“Was he good-humored?”

“He had a big, booming laugh and I’d hear it when he was talking on the telephone.”

“Did he have any close friends at the school?”

“He was friendly with everyone, but he was headmaster. He felt he should keep a certain distance. He was friends with Mr. Skander and perhaps one or two others. He also had friends here in Plymouth and Laconia.”

“When did his wife die?”

“About two years before he resigned. In the spring. He was quite distraught, although she’d been sick for some time. It was cancer. After she died, he was barely able to finish the semester.”

“And when he came back in the fall he was different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I said I’d rather not talk about it.”

“But he wasn’t nice?”

Mrs. Hayes pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Tell me,” said Hawthorne after a moment, “has he ever been back to visit the school?”

“Never. He’s never been back.”

When he left Mrs. Hayes, Hawthorne drove directly to Brewster. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t had lunch and that there was shopping he meant to do. He thought of the basketball game when Roger Bennett knocked him to the ground. He thought of the Reverend Bennett’s insistence that Mrs. Hayes had been fired. And he thought about Pendergast, old Pendergast, as Skander had called him. The sleet was now mixed with snow. Cars were traveling slowly with their lights on.

Hawthorne found Chief Moulton in his office in a small building next to Steve’s Diner. Yellowing Wanted flyers were stuck to a bulletin board with colored tacks. Against a wall were three wooden file cabinets. Moulton was unwrapping two bologna sandwiches from wax paper on the green blotter of his oak desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, and a can of Diet Coke stood between his left elbow and the telephone. A chunky, balding man, he had an oblong face as smooth as a toddler’s knee. He looked up at Hawthorne and raised his eyebrows.

“You caught me eating my lunch,” he said. Yellow mustard had soaked through the white bread of the sandwiches. Moulton folded the wax paper and slipped it into a small brown paper bag.

“I can wait outside.”

“That’s okay. I guess you’ve seen somebody have lunch before.” He bit into a sandwich and chewed slowly as he looked at Hawthorne without speaking. After a moment, he took a drink of Coke and swallowed. “You can sit down if you want.”

Hawthorne took the chair on the other side of Moulton’s desk. The smell of the bologna and mustard made him recall that he had missed lunch.

“If you tell me what’s on your mind,” said Moulton, “that’ll give me time to chew.”

“I wondered if you knew any more about who had vandalized Mr. Evings’s office.”

“You came all the way from Bishop’s Hill to ask that or were you just driving by?” Moulton’s tone indicated that he was making a joke. As he chewed, he continued to watch Hawthorne.

“It was a contributing factor in Evings’s suicide. I wanted to know if you thought the person who did it was someone at the school or from outside.”

“It was someone at the school.”

“How do you know?”

“Firstly, because Evings hardly knew anyone outside of Bishop’s Hill. He didn’t seem to have friends or enemies. Secondly, because whoever did it knew the layout of the buildings and had a key. The lock wasn’t picked or forced. And why’d the fellow steal that picture from the frame?”