Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Do you think it could have been a student?”

“There was too much cunning in it. It was too worked out.”

“Did you ever know Pendergast,” asked Hawthorne, “the previous headmaster?”

“I met him several times over the years.” Moulton had stopped eating but continued to watch Hawthorne closely.

“What did you think of him?”

“I can’t say I’d formed an opinion. He seemed friendly enough. Hail fellow well met. I was sorry when he lost his wife.”

“Were you surprised when he resigned?”

“I expect I was surprised that I hadn’t heard anything about it before it happened.”

“Do you know anyone very well at the school?”

“I can’t say I know anyone well. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Grayson, and I were in school together. And I’ve known Mrs. Hayes for many years. The local people at the school, I pretty much know all of them. And a number of the teachers I’ve seen around.”

“And you talked to them?”

“You mean about the vandalism? I expect I’ve talked to them all.” Chief Moulton sipped his Coke, then patted his lips with the back of his hand.

“One more thing. There was a girl, Gail Jensen, who died over the Thanksgiving break three years ago. Do you know the cause of her death? She probably died in Plymouth, but I’m not sure.”

Moulton pushed his sandwich away, got to his feet, and hitched up his belt. “I can find out.” He walked to the file cabinet, limping slightly, and pulled out the top drawer. Then he drew out a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together and began to read.

“Well?” asked Hawthorne.

Moulton went to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. He seemed to be pondering something. “She died of a hemorrhage.”

“Due to appendicitis?”

Moulton dug at one of his front teeth with a thumbnail, then he plucked something off the tip of his tongue. “She died due to a botched abortion,” he said.

–

It was Monday night and Scott McKinnon was playing detective. He liked it. There was nothing at Bishop’s Hill that escaped his notice, or almost nothing, since he still had to find out who’d trashed Evings’s office. For that matter, he still hadn’t worked out who had hung Mrs. Grayson’s cat. But he hadn’t given up. Persistence, that’s what he had. Indefatigability.

Like tonight, for instance, he had been outside by the garage smoking a cigarette when he heard shouting from the kitchen, then LeBrun slammed out of the back door, followed immediately by the cook, who was angry and shouting at his cousin, and now Scott was hurrying behind them, eager to hear what the fuss was about.

It was cold and no stars were visible, just a glow from the hidden moon. It was supposed to start snowing in the night and snow all the next day and maybe the day after, and Scott liked to think they’d be marooned and the kids who hoped to go home on Wednesday for Thanksgiving would get stuck and wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, because Scott wasn’t going anywhere either. His father was in L.A. and his mother was in Boston and both said they didn’t have time for Thanksgiving. “Maybe I’ll grab a turkey sandwich,” his father had told him over the phone, then he had laughed. It would snow so much there would be a great mountain of snow covering the first-floor windows and all the kids who had homes to go to for Thanksgiving and couldn’t go anywhere would feel like shit.

LeBrun hurried along the edge of the playing fields with Gaudette about ten feet behind him. Gaudette wore a white jacket that made him glow in the light of the distant security lights. LeBrun wore a dark sweater. Scott thought they must be freezing, because he was wearing a down jacket and he was still cold and his feet in their basketball shoes were chunks of ice as he jogged forward to catch up. But he didn’t get too close, only close enough to hear. So far the only word he’d made out was tequila, which didn’t seem like much, though he guessed it had to do with Jessica’s getting drunk in the headmaster’s house and dancing wildly with her clothes off, which was a scene that Scott would have liked to see.

“Stop!” called Gaudette. “I’m warning you! I’ll go to Hawthorne!”

Abruptly, LeBrun turned to face his cousin and Scott had to fling himself down so he wouldn’t be seen. Then he wriggled toward the trees in order to soak up some shadow.

“Fuck you,” said LeBrun.

Gaudette stopped a few feet from LeBrun. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you liked Hawthorne. Who paid you to wreck that old guy’s office? Was it Bennett? Jesus, you make a mess wherever you go.”

“Just stay out of it, do you hear? You got work, I got work. That’s just how it is.”

“How come your work always brings in the cops? And you’re fucking that girl, right? She’s a kid.”

“I’m not fucking anybody.”

“Who paid you to wreck that office?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gaudette took a pack of cigarettes from under his cook’s jacket. He popped one out and lit it. The glow from the lighter briefly illuminated his face, making it seem redder than usual.

“Give me one of those, will you?”

Gaudette stepped forward and handed his cousin the pack. Now LeBrun’s face was quickly visible and disappeared again. Scott thought it looked twisted, but that was just a result of the shadows. He wished he too had a cigarette but there was no way he was going to ask them.

Gaudette and LeBrun stood smoking and not saying anything. The tips of their cigarettes made red arcs as they moved them up to their mouths and away.

“You want to hear a joke?” said LeBrun.

“I’m sick to death of your jokes.”

“What does an elephant use for tampons?”

“I said I’m sick to death of your jokes. When you called me about this job, I thought I was doing you a favor. And you promised to stay out of trouble, right? What else have you been doing? You wrecked that office and you’re fucking that girl and getting her drunk . . .”

“I said I’m not fucking anybody.” LeBrun flicked away his cigarette and Scott watched where it went because there had to be a lot left and maybe he could find it after they had gone.

“Somebody must have paid you. If it wasn’t Bennett, then it was probably Campbell. Why else would you have done it unless someone paid you? You caused that old guy’s death just as much as if you’d shot him. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing you up here. You’re as wacko as ever.”

LeBrun took a step toward his cousin, then stopped. “I don’t like being talked to like that. You needed someone to help with the cooking and I done it. I been making good bread.”

“I want you out of here,” said Gaudette. “I’ll drive you to Plymouth and you can get a bus in the morning. If you need cash, I’ll lend it to you. You can pay me back when you get your check.”

“No way, man, I got stuff I got to do.”

“You don’t have a choice. If you don’t go tonight, I’ll talk to Hawthorne. Don’t you see that me knowing this stuff makes me an accomplice? I got a good job here and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Come on, man, I need two more weeks. We’re brothers.”

“Two more weeks to get in even worse trouble? Look what’s happened because you gave the girl tequila. Shit, you said you liked Hawthorne.”

“I was having some fun. It didn’t hurt anybody. A girl dancing, what’s the trouble with it?”

“She’s fifteen.” Gaudette flicked away his cigarette. “And Hawthorne could lose his job. Believe me, I don’t want Skander in charge again.”

“I did a lot worse when I was fifteen. I got dicked and no tears were shed. As far as I know, she’s still got her cherry. Leastways I didn’t take it, that much I know for sure.” LeBrun laughed.

“I’m tired of your troubles. Pack your bag and I’ll drive you down to Plymouth.” Gaudette began to turn away.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bro.”

Gaudette turned back again, furious. “Hurt me, you wacko little shit, you want me to bust up your face? You got one last chance—take it or you’ll go to jail.”

LeBrun laughed again. “Okay, okay. Don’t get so serious.” He began to walk back. “I’ll pack my stuff. I was getting pretty sick of this place anyway. Fucking cold just about tears you apart. You hear about the Canuck who died while getting a drink of water?”

The two men began walking toward the garage. Although Scott wasn’t directly behind them, he was closer than he cared to be, lying flat on his belly. He rolled over, moving nearer to the trees. As a result, he didn’t see exactly what happened.

“Some flicker slammed the toilet seat down on his head,” said LeBrun.

And as Scott looked, it seemed that LeBrun had his arm around his cousin’s shoulder, except that Gaudette fell forward. LeBrun made no attempt to catch him and Gaudette fell onto his face, jerking a little, then lying still, a white mound on the grass.

LeBrun kicked his cousin lightly with his foot. “Wacko, wacko, wacko—you got to watch out what you call a person.”

It was only Scott’s terror that kept him from leaping up and running back toward the school. He lay on the ground and pressed his hands to his face.

LeBrun chuckled a little. He bent over and grabbed Gaudette’s arm, pulling him up. “We got to do one more trip together, bro, one more little journey and that will be that.” He yanked Gaudette upward, then ducked down and pulled his cousin onto his shoulder. Scott had no doubt that the man was dead. He just didn’t see how it had happened so fast. It felt like screaming was going on inside his head, huge amounts of loud noise.

Still, when LeBrun set off across the playing field, Scott followed, staying some distance behind so that, if it hadn’t been for Gaudette’s white jacket, he couldn’t have seen them. LeBrun moved quickly across the grass, then around the gym, at times even jogging forward a few steps as the dead man jostled on his shoulder. He crossed the lawn in front of the school till he joined the driveway, then he quickened his pace, passing between the gates and up the road. Scott couldn’t guess where he was going but he kept after him, sometimes losing sight of him, sometimes catching the glint of Gaudette’s jacket as it lurched on LeBrun’s shoulder.

A quarter mile up the road was the bridge over the Baker River. All weekend there had been rain and sleet and Scott could hear the water flowing noisily. LeBrun stopped and Scott crept forward. He could make out LeBrun standing on the bridge with Gaudette’s white shape up in the air as if it were floating. Then the dead man seemed to fly, because the whiteness rose up and disappeared. Seconds later Scott heard the splash and again he felt horror, as if he too had been splashed by frigid water. But he had no time for horror. LeBrun was coming back.

Scott ducked down in the bushes by the side of the road. He heard LeBrun approaching—not the man’s footsteps but his heavy breathing getting louder. It was all Scott could do to stay motionless. Now he heard LeBrun’s hurrying footsteps heading back to the school and he knew that LeBrun would pass only a few feet from him. LeBrun got closer and stopped. He stood in the road breathing heavily and looking around him, a darker shadow in the darkness. Suddenly there was a flame of light as LeBrun lit one of his cousin’s cigarettes, but at first Scott didn’t understand and he jerked and the leaves around him rustled.

LeBrun stood still, breathing heavily, invisible except for the glow of his cigarette. Seconds passed. LeBrun’s breathing grew quieter. “Are you out there, little rabbits?” he said at last. “You watch out the hawk doesn’t get you. They’ll eat you up, little rabbits.”

LeBrun moved forward again and Scott waited until the sound of LeBrun’s footsteps had almost disappeared, before he followed. As he and LeBrun approached the school, Scott could see LeBrun’s silhouette. Again LeBrun cut across the lawns, passing the gym and veering across the playing fields. Scott stayed back, at times losing him, at times catching sight of him in the glow of the security lights. Scott’s body felt weak, as if he were exhausted. He followed LeBrun to the garage where Gaudette’s car was parked. LeBrun got into the car, started the engine, and backed out of the garage. In the light of the headlights, great fat snowflakes began to appear.

Then Scott made a mistake. He thought that LeBrun would try to escape, that he’d turn right and follow the driveway around to the front of the school. Instead, he turned left, driving back toward the old dilapidated barn, which was never used and which the students were told to stay away from because the floor was weak. Scott flung himself down by a bush. He could feel the snowflakes falling upon his neck and face, onto the back of his hands. The car’s headlights moved across him.

PART THREE

Nine

The black lines on the floor of the swimming pool seemed to shiver and bend—five black streaks at the bottom of the iridescent turquoise. The natatorium itself was dark, with only an eerie glow coming from the underwater lights. Somewhere a kitten was mewing, frantic and unceasing, like a squeaking wheel going round and round. Hawthorne stood beside Floyd Purvis, the night watchman. Along with the smell of the chlorine, Hawthorne could smell the whiskey on Purvis’s breath as the older man gently swayed on his heels with his hands in his hip pockets. It was late afternoon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Hawthorne had just returned to Bishop’s Hill, having spent the holiday with Kevin Krueger and his family in Concord.

A shadow was floating on the surface of the pool and Hawthorne realized it was the body of the boy, a dark shape on the brightness of the water.

“Turn on the lights,” said Hawthorne.

Unsteadily, the night watchman made his way to the switch. There was a loud clank and the banks of fluorescent ceiling lights began to flicker and hum. The green cinder-block walls blossomed out of the dark.

Scott McKinnon floated face down in the center of the pool. He was naked except for a pair of Jockey shorts. The orange-striped kitten, wet and bedraggled, was perched on Scott’s shoulder. It mewed and kept lifting its paws one after the other out of the inch or so of water across Scott’s back and shaking them. Scott’s arms were outspread as if he were gliding over the surface.

“I found him just ten minutes ago,” said Purvis. His voice was cracked. He started to reach for a cigarette, then stopped himself. He was a red-faced, soft-looking man of about sixty who wore an orange camouflage hunting jacket and dark blue shirt and pants. “The cops’ll be here anytime.”

Hawthorne didn’t answer. He felt sick in his stomach. A pole with a hook hung on the far wall but Hawthorne didn’t think it was long enough to reach the boy. The lights flickered, giving the two men’s faces a greenish tint. Hawthorne took off his glasses, then kicked off his shoes and began removing his pants.

“You’re supposed to wait for the police,” said Purvis. “I know that much. You’re not supposed to touch the body.” Purvis moved back as if to disassociate himself from Hawthorne.

Again Hawthorne ignored him. Once he was down to his underwear, he stepped to the edge of the pool and dove, gliding under the water with his eyes shut till he rose to the surface. He thought of the hours he had spent in this ugly space coaching the swim team with Kate and how he had never imagined it could get any uglier. Using a breaststroke and keeping his head above water, he swam toward the dead boy, who bobbed gently, as if there were still life in him. When the kitten saw Hawthorne approaching, it began to mew loudly in terror and anticipation, arching its back and bristling its orange fur. Hawthorne tried not to disturb the water, so as not to jostle the boy’s body and further frighten the kitten. Reaching Scott, he began pushing him to the side of the pool. When he’d gone halfway, Hawthorne felt a sudden pain on his right shoulder. The kitten had jumped onto him and dug in its claws. Hawthorne sucked in his breath, trying not to move abruptly. He nudged the body forward. The boy’s skin was the same temperature as the water and felt like rubber. Long strands of Scott’s hair floated on the surface and brushed against Hawthorne’s face.

When Hawthorne had pushed Scott up against the gutter, he called to Purvis, who still stood by the door watching.

“Grab his arm!”

The pain from the kitten’s claws made Hawthorne feel dizzy. Purvis walked part way around the pool, then said something that Hawthorne couldn’t make out because the kitten kept mewing just a few inches from his ear.

“Say that again?” Hawthorne kept kicking his feet to stay afloat.

Purvis took a few more steps along the side of the pool and shouted. “I said I don’t want to touch him. I mean, you’re not supposed to touch the body. I know that much.”

Hawthorne felt so angry that it scared him. “Then take the cat. And for Pete’s sake, hurry!”

Hawthorne had an arm under Scott’s neck and was holding on to the gutter along the side of the pool. With his other hand he held the body against the tiles. This close and without his glasses, Hawthorne took in Scott’s face as a chalky blur—the bump of his nose, the curved horizon of forehead. He tried to lift himself in the water so that Scott’s hair wouldn’t touch his face. The kitten mewed and clung to him anxiously.

Purvis knelt down on the side and reached over Scott’s body to the kitten, which began to hiss and spit. Then he grabbed the kitten, but the kitten wouldn’t let go. Bending forward, Purvis yanked the kitten loose, then fell back into a sitting position.

“Jesus!” said Hawthorne.

Purvis groaned and got to his feet, holding the kitten away from his body with both hands so its legs dangled down. “You’re bleeding,” he said. He seemed surprised

Hawthorne didn’t answer. He tried to roll Scott’s body up onto the side but the water was over his head and he couldn’t get sufficient purchase. He let go of the boy and scrambled out of the water. Then he grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled him onto the tiles. The boy’s skin was puckered and wattled. He looked swollen. There was a black-and-blue mark on the upper part of his right arm. He lay on his back and the water ran off him, forming rivulets that ran back into the pool. Scott’s eyes were slightly open but there was only grayness behind them. Hawthorne stared at him. It was worse than seeing Evings dead. Hawthorne’s grief made him breathless.

“He must of been fooling around and got drowned,” said Purvis matter-of-factly, still holding the kitten away from his body. The kitten squirmed and tried to scratch him but couldn’t.

Hawthorne walked toward his clothes, keeping his back to Purvis. “Then how did he get in? The door was locked.” He picked up his glasses and put them on.

“He must of had a key.”

Hawthorne said nothing to that. He went into the pool office and called Alice Beech and after another moment he called Kate because he wanted to hear the voice of someone he felt close to. Although he had only spoken a dozen words to her alone since Evings’s funeral, Hawthorne couldn’t get her out of his mind and he kept worrying about what she thought. He felt convinced that she despised him.

“Scott McKinnon drowned in the pool.” He described how the watchman had found him and explained that he was calling from the pool office.

At first Kate couldn’t believe it and began to ask questions. Then she said, “I’ll be right over.”

Hawthorne started to say that she didn’t need to come and then he said nothing.

After he hung up, he looked at his shoulder in the mirror. It was still bleeding and drops of blood had rolled down to the waistband of his wet underwear. There was a first aid kit in a rusty white cabinet with a red cross attached to the wall and Hawthorne took out some bandages. Purvis stood in the doorway of the office still holding the kitten, which had stopped mewing and was dangling from his hands and looking around as if trying to accommodate itself to a difficult situation. Purvis held it out as if offering a gift.

“Can you wipe off this blood and put a bandage on my shoulder?” asked Hawthorne. The scratches and cuts were on his shoulder blade below where he could easily reach. Through the window of the office he saw Scott lying by the side of the pool. Very briefly Hawthorne felt surprise that the boy was still there, that he hadn’t gotten up.

Purvis looked at the scratches on Hawthorne’s shoulder, squinting his eyes. “I’d rather not,” he said. “My hands aren’t steady.”

Hawthorne had taken a towel from the coach’s locker and was drying himself. He paused to glance at Purvis but didn’t speak. Alice could put on the bandage. The scratches still stung but not as badly. Hawthorne took off his wet underwear, then went to get his pants. Purvis seemed uncomfortable with Hawthorne’s nakedness and looked away.

“What do you want me to do with this here cat?” asked Purvis.

Hawthorne finished putting on his pants, then reached out to take the kitten, holding it close to his naked chest and scratching its ears. He knew it was Jessica’s kitten and wondered how it had gotten in the pool. He thought about the cat that had been hung in September, but beyond summoning up the recollection, he didn’t know what to do with it. He took the kitten into the office and dried it off on the towel, then he got another towel and made a little nest on the desk. The kitten began to purr. He put the kitten into the nest and stood back.

“It’ll get away,” said Purvis. He was still swaying a little.

The kitten stretched and began sniffing its way around the desk.

“It might fall in the pool again.”

Hawthorne made no answer and went to put on his shoes.

When Alice showed up a few minutes later, she was out of breath. Her square, chunky face was red with cold. She knelt down by Scott’s body and smoothed back his hair, touching him with great tenderness. She wore jeans and a gray sweater under her down jacket and her short dark hair looked bristly.

“But how’d he get in the water?” she said at last. “Couldn’t he swim?”

“I don’t know,” said Hawthorne.

“He’s been in the water quite a while.”

“The door was locked,” said Hawthorne. “I don’t know how he got in here. And I don’t know where his clothes are. Maybe in the locker room.”

“Where’re the police?”

“Supposedly on their way.”

Alice stood up and moved behind Hawthorne, then lightly touched his back with one finger. “Let me fix up your shoulder. It must hurt.”

They walked back to the pool office. Purvis had gone outside to smoke a cigarette and wait for Chief Moulton. The kitten was nosing around the office, sniffing what there was to be sniffed.

Alice unwrapped the bandage, then took a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet. “This is going to sting a bit.”

Chief Moulton and Kate arrived at the same time about five minutes later. It was snowing and they brushed snow from their jackets and stamped their feet, leaving small puddles of water on the tiles. Purvis ushered them in somewhat officiously, as if he were personally responsible for their arrival. The shoulders of his orange hunting coat were white with snow and there was snow in his gray hair.

“I told Dr. Hawthorne to leave the body where he found it,” he said. “But he insisted on dragging it out.” He looked disappointed and disapproving. He wheezed when he breathed.

Purvis and Moulton knew each other but there seemed no love lost between them. The policeman acted as if Purvis were invisible, hardly looking at him when he spoke. Both he and Kate went over to the boy’s body. Moulton bent down, taking hold of Scott’s arm and moving it a little. Kate stood behind him, staring down with one hand pressed to her mouth and the other pressed across her stomach.

“I called the troopers and the rescue squad,” said Moulton, standing up, then bending over and rubbing his knees. “Not much to be done, but the troopers like to stay abreast of things. Who’s the kitten belong to?”

“A girl at the school,” said Hawthorne.

“It’s a wonder it didn’t get drowned as well,” said Moulton. “It must of fallen into the water after the boy had already been dead a while.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If he drowned, then he’d sink down and some time later he’d come up again. The kitten couldn’t have been paddling all that time, leastways I don’t think so.”

Scott’s clothes were found behind the bleachers, where they had apparently fallen. There were no keys in his pockets to let him into the gymnasium. Hawthorne remembered the boy’s green parka and wondered where it was.

“Little cold to be wandering around without a coat,” said Moulton.

They stood just outside the pool office. Kate hadn’t said anything. She held the kitten in her arms, stroking it. “Scott called me Thursday evening. Thanksgiving.” She nodded toward Hawthorne. “He was looking for you. He sounded excited and scared. I told him you were down in Concord but would be back on Friday or Saturday. I asked if anything was wrong and he said nothing was wrong. But he was almost whispering over the phone and talking fast. I asked if he wanted to come over to my house and even offered to pick him up. But he said no, he could handle it himself, that it wasn’t important. Then I gave him your friend’s name. I told him I didn’t have the number but he could probably get it from information. I don’t know, I should have gone over to the school right away. It was past eight o’clock and Todd’s bedtime.” She turned away and didn’t say anymore. Alice Beech put her hand on Kate’s arm.

“He didn’t call,” said Hawthorne uncertainly. “What happened on Thanksgiving? Did Larry Gaudette come back?”

Gaudette had turned up missing on Tuesday. His car was gone and he seemed to have taken a small suitcase of clothes. LeBrun said he had no idea where his cousin had disappeared to. “Maybe he’s got family problems,” he had suggested. “That whole family’s messed up.”

LeBrun had declared that he could handle the cooking by himself. He seemed eager. It would be a challenge. Tuesday had been the last day of classes and many of the students had left for Thanksgiving, but twenty students had remained, including Scott and Jessica. LeBrun cooked four large turkeys, making a Thanksgiving dinner with the fixings, including fresh biscuits. Alice Beech had eaten with the students, as had some of the faculty members. She said the meal had been wonderful.

“Frank LeBrun was a real impresario,” she said. The Reverend Bennett had said grace and led them in a few Thanksgiving hymns, accompanied by Rosalind Langdon on an electric keyboard. LeBrun had sung as well, louder than anyone. Alice couldn’t remember if Scott had been there, but she thought he had. She just wasn’t sure.

Moulton asked a few questions about Gaudette, where he was from and how long he had been at the school. Then he made several phone calls from the office. The rescue squad arrived and a few minutes later Fritz Skander came hurrying into the natatorium. He had seen the flashing lights on the rescue truck and asked why no one had called him.

“What a pity, what a pity,” he kept saying. His dark overcoat was dusted with snow. About ten students had gathered outside and Purvis kept them from entering the building. Skander stood by the pool office and watched the men from the rescue squad lift Scott onto the stretcher. He kept wringing his hands as if they were wet. “Jim, could you have possibly left the pool open? After all, you’d been coaching the team—”

“Of course not. Everything was locked. Purvis had to unlock the door.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Skander. “What a tragedy.”

“Did you see Scott on Thursday or Friday? Did he talk to you?”

Skander seemed to consider this. “I don’t think I saw him since before Thanksgiving. We had a quiet turkey at home with a few friends. I don’t believe I came over to the school all day.”

The men from the rescue squad covered Scott with a red blanket. As they carried him past the group standing by the office, Kate began to weep. Hawthorne wished he could weep as well.

“This is awful, simply awful,” said Skander. “Jim, you’ll have to call the boy’s parents right away. Poor things. And goodness knows what the newspapers will make of this. What a pariah we’ll become.” His thick gray hair sparkled with melting snow. He ran his hands through his hair, wiped them on his overcoat, then studied them.

The rescue squad carried the boy out of the building and drove off, taking the body down to Plymouth. Moulton was waiting for someone from the state police. He went outside to talk to Purvis about when he had found the body, when he had last looked in on the pool, and whether he had seen Scott on the grounds either Thursday or Friday.

Skander decided to leave, saying that he felt obliged to tell the other staff and faculty members—those who hadn’t left for the Thanksgiving break. The students were bound to be terribly upset. “Ruth Standish has gone down to Boston and poor Clifford is dead. We’ve no counselors, no one who’s been properly trained, except you, of course.” He nodded toward Hawthorne. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have to engage grief counselors. Who knows where the money will come from?” He buttoned his coat. “I’ll call Hamilton Burke; perhaps he can make a suggestion. And perhaps he can also deal with the press. Poor man, as if he didn’t have enough to do.”

As Skander walked toward the door, Jessica Weaver came hurrying in. She had tried to get in earlier but Purvis had kept her out. Now Purvis was engaged with Chief Moulton.

“Where’s Lucky?” she said anxiously. “They said outside my kitten was here.” She wore a red down jacket. It was speckled with snow and snow was caught in her hair. Seeing her kitten in Kate’s arms, she ran to it and took it gently. “Oh, I thought it was dead.” She hugged the kitten to her face, kissing it, and the kitten squeaked. “It must be starved.”

“How did it get out?” asked Hawthorne.

Jessica unzipped her jacket and slipped the kitten under it. “I don’t know. I went to Thanksgiving dinner and when I came back it was gone. I thought it was a trick. I mean, my door was locked. I’ve been looking everywhere. Scott once told me that someone would probably try to hang it and I was scared. I was even looking at tree branches. But now she’s safe, or he, I’m still not sure.”