Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

At an assembly in the chapel during first period on Monday, Hawthorne talked about what had happened. He didn’t talk about how Scott was found and he said nothing about the kitten. He spoke about grief and how it was a painful but necessary emotion. He said they all had every reason to be upset and the best thing they could do for Scott was to grieve for him, but they should also remember him and celebrate him and recall all that was good about him. The Reverend Bennett said several prayers. Many students wept and even several of the teachers wiped their eyes. Then Hawthorne canceled classes for the rest of the day and the students broke into groups to discuss their feelings. Many said how they were still upset about Mr. Evings, that he had been so unhappy that he had to kill himself, and they spoke about Bobby Newland’s accusations and how distressing those had been. Then the students began to realize that Mr. Newland wasn’t at the school. He had been there for Thanksgiving dinner but had left either on Friday or on Saturday. According to the boys living in his dormitory cottage, the door to his small apartment was open and his clothes were gone.

As for Hawthorne, he was kept too busy to think about his conversation with Kevin Krueger. On Saturday he had begun trying to call Scott’s parents, although he hadn’t been able to reach the father in California until Sunday. And then he had to explain that he didn’t know exactly what had happened or why Scott had been in the pool. He said the police were investigating. The father was angry and asked Hawthorne why they hadn’t kept the damn place locked. And he said he meant to call his lawyer. The mother told Hawthorne that she would take care of the funeral arrangements. She wanted to get the body right away and she was upset when Hawthorne told her there had to be an autopsy. She said she didn’t want her boy cut up, and Hawthorne could do nothing but give her Chief Moulton’s phone number. And she, too, talked about lawyers and how she’d thought she could trust the school, when obviously it turned out that she couldn’t. Hawthorne knew their anger masked their guilt—why, after all, had Scott had no place to go on Thanksgiving?—and he tried to be gentle with them and let them express their resentment and outrage.

Hawthorne’s discovery that Bobby Newland had packed his clothes and disappeared was especially disappointing and made everyone’s task more difficult, since Hawthorne needed him to talk to students. Bobby had the knack of making students feel at ease and express their emotions without constraint. He would have been useful that Monday when the students were saying how they felt about what had happened. All day Hawthorne went from one group to another, listening, for the most part, but also assuring them that their grief was necessary and natural. But it was more than grief. They all sensed that death was coming too close. First Evings, now Scott. Who would be next? A tenth-grade boy by the name of Skoyles asked if the locks shouldn’t be changed and a twelfth grader, Sara Bryant, recalled that Gail Jensen had died at just this time three years earlier.

The notices that Hawthorne had written advertising for a new psychologist had begun to appear in the journals in November and already a few letters and resumes had arrived, despite the low salary. Hawthorne recognized several names and one man had been a student of his in Boston. He realized that some applicants were responding to his own reputation, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Fritz Skander also talked to students but he wasn’t good at it and appeared stiff. The crying upset him and he told several students that they had to be brave, till Hawthorne explained to him that it was better to let them be emotional. It was Skander’s idea that Scott had broken into the pool in order to swim and had accidentally drowned. His death was the grievous effect of a reckless cause. “It should remind us all,” he told one group, “that we need to act like grown-ups.” To another group he said, “A person who breaks into a cage of tigers must face the consequences.”

A few faculty were helpful. Kate, of course, and Alice Beech. But also Betty Sherman, Gene Strauss, and Ted Wrigley. Bill Dolittle organized a reading of poems and other texts on grief and loss. The nurse went from dorm to dorm, just saying a few words; Kate came over to Jessica’s dorm and talked to the girls in the living room, and she went to other cottages as well. But at least half the faculty stayed out of the way, though they, too, were shocked. Herb Frankfurter, for example, used the time to go hunting. Roger Bennett was also absent. Throughout Monday, Hawthorne hoped that Larry Gaudette would return and take some of the burden off his cousin, but there was no sign of him.

During the afternoon the Reverend Bennett told Hawthorne that Bill Dolittle was moving furniture into the empty apartment in Stark Hall. “And I hear him pacing above me,” she said. “I didn’t realize that you had given him permission to move in. I hate to think of the racket he’s going to make.”

Hawthorne went to look for Dolittle in the library and found him organizing the bookshelves. Dolittle’s face lit up when he saw Hawthorne. “Have you heard something from the board?”

Hawthorne said that he hadn’t. “I’ve heard you’ve been moving furniture into the apartment.” They stood among the stacks. All the books looked dusty and old.

“That’s not quite accurate. I only took a single chair, not even a comfortable chair.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, there’s no furniture in the apartment and after I clean I like to sit a little and look out the window. There’s a wonderful view, especially at sunset. Did you know there are three rooms as well as a kitchenette: I can walk from one side to another. It’s not roomy, of course, but there’s lots of space.”

Hawthorne thought of Dolittle living in his small apartment in Latham for eight years. “Really, Bill, none of this is settled. We’ve no idea what the board will say. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t move anything else up there.”

Monday night Hawthorne telephoned Kate around eight-thirty, asking if he could come over. He had seen her during the day but they had exchanged only a few words. It had even occurred to Hawthorne that she was avoiding him.

He listened to her breathing. And he could hear a television somewhere in the background—a burst of artificial laughter.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” said Kate. “I’m still trying to think through some stuff.”

“Is it what I told you when I was at your house?”

“I’m just not sure how much I want to complicate my life.”

“I’d like to see you.” Hawthorne meant to say that he needed to see her, but he couldn’t let himself be that explicit. He stood in his living room and thought how empty it was. There were still small feathers on the chairs and rug.

“I’d rather you didn’t. At least that’s what I think right now. I don’t know, it’s all very confusing. Your life’s full of ghosts.”

After hanging up, Hawthorne put on his boots and heavy coat, grabbed a flashlight, and walked for several hours through the snow until he felt exhausted. He thought of the ghosts that populated his head. And wasn’t one of them the person he used to be, the ambitious and self-confident clinical psychologist who believed he could do no wrong?

On Tuesday Hawthorne worked steadily in his office except for the hour he taught his history class in the afternoon. There were parents he had to write to and accounts he had to go over. In class, Scott’s absence made everybody somber and little attention was paid to the Byzantine emperors. Hawthorne also had to telephone the trustees, and it seemed there might be a meeting. The school was supposed to close for Christmas vacation on Friday the eighteenth, and several trustees thought it might be wise to close earlier so that students could deal with their grief at home.

One of the trustees was a dean at Dartmouth, Carolyn Forster. Hawthorne had met her a few times at conferences when he had lived in Boston and it was Dr. Forster whom he had called from San Diego to say that he was interested in the position at Bishop’s Hill. She was a humorless woman in her early sixties who had never married. Her father had graduated from Bishop’s Hill in 1924 and she had worked hard to keep the school open.

After talking to her about Scott’s death and the possibility of closing the school early, Hawthorne asked, “When the board decided to initiate a search for a new headmaster, I gather it wasn’t a unanimous choice. What were the other alternatives?”

Dr. Forster was silent for a moment. “It wasn’t certain that the problems at the school could be solved by a new headmaster, no matter how good, or by an increased financial commitment. Some of the board felt we were merely putting off the inevitable.”

“And what did they suggest instead?”

“They believed we should look into the possibility of selling the school.”

“Who thought this?”

“I expect many of us, though those members of the board who are alumni were the ones most solidly against it. And several others believed the school could still be saved.”

“Do you remember who in particular wanted to sell the school?”

Dr. Forster cleared her throat. She had a deep voice for a woman and the practiced manner of someone with more than thirty years of experience in academic meetings. “You realize, of course, that once we decided to go ahead with the search and you were selected, then the board was entirely unanimous in your behalf.”

“Yes, but earlier, who spoke in favor of selling?”

“There were three, maybe four. I don’t know how strongly each one felt, but the most critical, I expect, was Hamilton Burke. He said that you don’t treat a terminally ill patient with Band-Aids and Mercurochrome.”

After his class on Tuesday Hawthorne spent several hours on the computer in his office going over school expenses and revenues. There seemed to have been payments for purchases that hadn’t been received, or at least there was no sign of their having arrived—a commercial toaster for the kitchen, athletic equipment, office materials, even a trombone for the band. Hawthorne tried checking the paper files in the file cabinet but he still couldn’t find an answer. Three times he called Skander to ask about certain discrepancies, but Skander was in conference or had gone home. When he finally called back, he said he would check his records and talk to the bookkeeper in the morning.

“I must say that I’m pleased that you’re such a stickler for detail,” said Skander, cheerfully. “It makes me far more optimistic that we’ll all still be here in ten years’ time.”

“That’s a five-hundred-dollar toaster. What do you think happened to it?”

“Oh, it will turn up,” said Skander breezily. “Things always do.”

Not for the first time Hawthorne regretted the absence of Mrs. Hayes, who had known so much about the workings of the school. Even though she hadn’t handled school finances, very little had escaped her notice. Hilda Skander, while she knew about computers, didn’t know much else, although she took calls, answered letters, and made sure that the office was stocked with Bishop’s Hill stationery.

Shortly after five o’clock on Tuesday Hawthorne went looking for Roger Bennett, first going to his office, then checking the teachers’ lounge, then the Dugout, and finally Stark Hall, where the Bennetts’ apartment took up five rooms on the first floor. It was already dark and the sky was clear. The moon was cresting the mountains to the northwest.

Hawthorne waited in the small vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. After a minute or two, Roger opened the door. If he was surprised to see Hawthorne, he gave no sign of it. He put a finger to his lips. “My wife has her Bible study class.”

“I need to talk to you,” said Hawthorne. “We can go into the chapel.” A door in the vestibule connected to a changing room off the choir.

“Can it wait? I hate to miss her classes. I find them so comforting.” Bennett wore a gray sweater, khakis, and brown penny loafers. He leaned back against his door with his hands in his pockets. A lock of hair formed a blond fishhook across his forehead.

“Let’s do it now,” said Hawthorne as he opened the door to the changing room and continued on to the chapel. After a slight pause, Bennett followed him. Rosalind Langdon was practicing the organ. Hawthorne didn’t think it was Bach. Perhaps Handel. It was muted and continuous like water flowing. Hawthorne saw a light in the organ loft. The rest of the chapel was lit by the golden chandeliers, which were turned down low, putting the far corners in shadow. Hawthorne sat down in a pew in the first row and waited for Bennett to join him. In the dim light the ceiling was nearly invisible.

Bennett sat down in the pew and rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. “So what’s this about? More meetings?” His manner was hearty but cautious.

Leaning back, Hawthorne put his arms on the top of the pew. He tried to make himself appear relaxed, though he didn’t feel relaxed. “Have you seen Chip?”

Bennett looked puzzled. “Campbell? I’ve run into him in Plymouth.”

“Was that where you were yesterday?”

Bennett made an expression of mock sorrow. “I had a dentist appointment. Looks like I have to get a crown for one of my molars.” He tapped his cheek to show Hawthorne the location.

“Isn’t Chip a friend of yours?”

“We’re friendly, that’s all. I don’t drink, which limits the number of possible meeting places. And he’s unhappy with his friends at Bishop’s Hill. He thinks we should have defended him more.”

The notes of the organ reverberated through the chapel. The high notes made Hawthorne think of wind blowing down a chimney. “Why did you tell Mrs. Hayes that I meant to fire her?”

“I never did any such thing.”

“That’s not what she says.”

Bennett stared at him with a fixed smile. “Then she’s not telling the truth.”

Hawthorne was surprised at the repugnance he felt for the other man. “Stop it. I know perfectly well that you told her several times, as did Chip Campbell.”

“Is that why you asked about him? You think we’re in cahoots?”

“And I know of other things you’ve done—spreading gossip and terrifying Clifford Evings. Don’t you feel any responsibility for what happened?”

Bennett’s smile seemed to tighten. “If you’re going to abuse me, then we’ll have to discuss these matters through my lawyer. You’re still mad at me for knocking you down in basketball. I’ve told you over and over that it was an accident.”

“Why is it so important to you to destroy the school?”

“You’re mistaken. I love Bishop’s Hill.”

Hawthorne leaned forward and put one hand on Bennett’s knee. “Roger, let me tell you something. I know exactly what you’ve been doing and I can prove it to the board of trustees. Your position at Bishop’s Hill is no longer secure.”

“You’d fire me?” Bennett opened his eyes wide, which made him look owl-like.

“Just like you say I fired the others.”

Ten

Jessica didn’t like the way LeBrun drove: too fast and jerky, turning the wheel abruptly and swerving, coming down hard on the brake. And in some places there was ice on the road. The car was a four-wheel-drive Chevy pickup and the front tires were out of line, or at least Jessica guessed that was what made it shimmy. The radio was busted and they mostly rode in silence. For a while LeBrun had been telling jokes but at last Jessica asked him to stop. Why do Canucks wear hats and why are Canuck women like hockey players? Then she had to beg. It was Friday evening, just after nine. For the past three days the police had been at the school driving everybody crazy. Dr. Hawthorne had announced that the school would be closing early for Christmas vacation, next Friday instead of the week after. Kids were calling their parents and trying to get their plane tickets changed. People couldn’t stop talking about Scott’s death. And when they weren’t talking about it, you could tell they were thinking about it because their faces looked so serious. Somebody had murdered Scott and thrown his body into the pool. He hadn’t been drowned after all. Had it been someone at Bishop’s Hill or someone from outside? Several students said they had seen a suspicious man sneaking around the campus: tall and very thin and dressed in black. And then there was Larry Gaudette, who was still missing.

LeBrun had driven down to Concord on the interstate, then had cut across to Northwood on Route 4, heading toward Durham, then had turned south again. He seemed to know the roads and didn’t need to look at a map. Jessica knew he was from Manchester but she didn’t know much else. Questions irritated LeBrun. If he offered information, then she could ask a question—a “follow-up,” she called it. Otherwise she let him alone. Twice she had begun to ask him about Lucky being thrown in the pool, then she had thought better of it. Even asking LeBrun to stop telling his jokes had been a mistake. But it was either ask him to stop or go crazy, Jessica had no doubt about that. One more joke and she would have jumped out of the truck. Jessica needed him; there was no one else to help her. But the sooner she was out of his company, the happier she’d be. She thought how in September she had seen LeBrun as easygoing and a little edgy—but not in a bad way. Then, scratching deeper, she had found someone who frightened her.

In the lights from the dashboard she watched his profile and at times she could see his lips moving and his cheeks going up and down as if he were arguing with himself. And his forehead would wrinkle. He drove with both hands at the top of the wheel and he tapped his fingers. He wore a dark hunting coat and a baseball cap. Now and then he glanced at Jessica but didn’t say anything. Whether he was worried or angry, Jessica didn’t know, though she could tell that something was bothering him and she thought it had to be the jokes, the fact that they had upset her.

“D’you think it’s going to snow more?” asked Jessica at last, just to break the silence. Heaps of snow on either side of the road shone in their headlights.

“Snow? Sure, it’s going to snow. It’s not even winter yet. It’ll snow for months. Everything’ll get buried. A fuckin’ graveyard of white stuff, that’s New Hampshire in a nutshell.” He spoke quickly, without looking at Jessica. She heard the irritation in his voice.

“Did those cops talk to you?”

“’Course they talked to me, they talked to everybody. More’n once, too. They kept coming into the kitchen. I’m surprised they didn’t poke their fuckin’ heads in the oven. I would of given them a push and cooked them. Wouldn’t that be a surprise. Baked cop.”

The police had talked to everyone who had been at the school over Thanksgiving. It turned out that Scott had cut his classes on Tuesday and his roommate said that he had left their room only to go to the bathroom. And Scott had asked him to bring food from the dining hall. He said he was sick but he didn’t want to go to the infirmary. Then his roommate had left on Wednesday, going down to Quincy to spend Thanksgiving with his family. Scott asked if he could come along but his roommate hadn’t wanted to make his father angry. Now his roommate regretted it, of course. Jessica had heard that Scott had called Miss Sandler on Thanksgiving but she didn’t know about what and she didn’t know if Scott had been seen after that.

“Do you think the police have any ideas?” asked Jessica. She didn’t want to keep asking questions but it was like a sore place and she couldn’t stop fussing with it. She wanted to hear what LeBrun had to say. She wanted him to tell her something that would prove that he hadn’t been involved, that he hadn’t thrown Lucky into the pool.

“Sure they have ideas, they think Larry did it. That’s why they’re looking for him. Why would they be looking for him if they didn’t think he did it?” Again LeBrun sounded exasperated, as if Jessica was just too stupid to understand.

Jessica watched LeBrun in the glow of the dash lights. It looked like he was angrily chewing something. “Do you think he did it?”

“He didn’t tell me,” LeBrun said, raising his voice. “Larry didn’t tell me fuck. What d’you think, he’s going to tap me on the shoulder and say he just killed the kid? You think he’s going to wear a fucking sign? Or maybe it was that queer Newland. He’s gone too, right? Or maybe it was that old bag who used to work in the office. Or maybe somebody snuck into the school, like a bandit. But I think it was Larry. It stands to reason, right? He must of killed the kid. I mean, he’s disappeared.”

“Why do you think he killed him?” Jessica kept watching LeBrun’s jittery profile.

“Who the fuck knows? Maybe the kid kept trying to bum cigarettes from him like he did me. Maybe Larry just got fucking tired of giving him smokes. And he’d hang around, you know, always trying to get a cookie or something. Maybe Larry got sick of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good reason to kill a person.” Jessica had mended the knife cut in her down jacket with a piece of silver duct tape and she kept picking at it.

“What d’you know about it? You an expert on killing people? Maybe Larry just got fed up. You hear what I’m saying? Maybe he was fed up right to here.” LeBrun took his hand off the wheel and wiped a finger across the top of his forehead. “I seen it happen. You think someone doesn’t have a reason to kill a person but there’s always a reason. Like killing someone for the fun of it, even that’s a reason, right? Maybe not a good reason but it’s a reason. Maybe Larry killed him just for the fun of it. Like a sick joke.”

“He didn’t seem like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like crazy, I guess.”

LeBrun glanced at her angrily. “What do you know about crazy? You don’t know shit. People aren’t crazy, nobody’s crazy. They’re just not all the same, that’s all. Fuckin’ diversity, that’s what they call it. Like tall guys and short guys.”

“It seems pretty crazy to kill a person for no reason.”

LeBrun hit the flat of his hand on the steering wheel. “The kid went and got himself killed. Maybe if he’d been minding his business, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Jessica kept silent for a moment, then she asked, “Do you think someone paid him to kill Scott?”

“Who the fuck would pay him?” LeBrun kept shifting in his seat, as if he were sitting on a broken spring.

“I don’t know, maybe somebody who didn’t like Scott. Maybe a relative.”

“Shit, you’re as bad as the fucking cops. I should make you sit in the back of the truck and freeze your ass off. That’s what you’ll get if you don’t shut up.”

Jessica kept silent. Her backpack with her clothes was by her feet and when she moved she could feel her money belt. She had given LeBrun a thousand dollars and had said she would give him another thousand when she got away with Jason. Actually, she had been surprised that he had trusted her. On the other hand, she wouldn’t have the nerve to cheat him. She would hate to have him come looking for her.

“Maybe it was an inheritance,” said Jessica after another minute, “maybe he was supposed to inherit some money and now it’s going to somebody else. Maybe that somebody paid your cousin to kill him. You know, a contract killing.”

“What did I say? You want to sit back there in the cold?”

“You think your cousin threw my kitten into the pool?”

LeBrun slammed on the brakes and Jessica was thrown forward against the dash. The tires squealed as the truck fishtailed. When the pickup came to a stop, LeBrun shouted, “I’ve had fuckin’ enough! Get in the back!”

“No, Frank, please, I won’t say anymore.”

“Get in the back!”

Jessica opened the door. There were no lights on the road and it was cold. Once she had climbed into the bed of the pickup, LeBrun started up quickly so she slipped on the cold metal and banged against the tailgate.

Fortunately, she only had to ride in the back for about ten minutes. Still, it was freezing and she couldn’t curl herself up tight enough to stay warm. The metal floor was like ice on her butt. The bumps were jarring and she had to hold on to the side, otherwise she would slide around.

At the edge of Exeter, LeBrun pulled into a supermarket parking lot and let her back in the cab. “Okay, show me where you live, but don’t open your trap about anything else.”

Jessica had sent Jason another letter, then talked to him twice on the phone. Jason had said that Tremblay would be out of town, that he was flying to Chicago. And by nine o’clock Dolly was usually so drunk that it was impossible to wake her. Jessica knew; she had tried. Jason had promised to leave the front door unlocked. They would get him and drive down to Boston to the bus station, where they would take the first bus going south. The next day, Saturday, they would be in Washington and she could call her uncle, at least to talk to him, if not to stay with him. And she would tell him about Tremblay, tell him about every awful thing that Tremblay had ever done.

The house on Maple Street was dark, but that didn’t surprise Jessica. It was past ten and Dolly was either in bed or asleep in front of the TV in the den. It was a tall late-eighteenth-century house, perfectly symmetrical, with no curving lines—a pretty, oversized shoe box was how she described it to herself. Jessica didn’t think of the house as hers. It was Tremblay’s house, even though her father had bought it after he and Dolly had gotten married. But Tremblay had put his stamp on it and it smelled of him. He had gotten rid of everything that had belonged to her father, except those things that Tremblay wanted for himself, like her father’s leather chair and his shotguns and hunting rifles. Every time Jessica saw Tremblay in her father’s chair, she felt angry. She had wanted to tell him that it was her chair now. Even the house was hers. One time she told him that when she got her money she would kick him out, but Tremblay had just laughed.

LeBrun parked in front, although Jessica would have preferred him to park down the street, but she was afraid to say anything and she was still cold from sitting in the back of the truck. When they got out, LeBrun shut his door too loudly. Jessica wondered what the neighbors would do if they saw them, whether they would call the police. The large Federalist houses had big yards and old trees. Maybe the neighbors wouldn’t notice the pickup, maybe no dogs would start barking.

Jessica led the way up the walk to the front steps. The yard was covered with snow, though the walk had been shoveled. There was a snowman without a head that her brother must have built. Not too many years before, she had been building snowmen herself. Exeter didn’t have as much snow as Bishop’s Hill—only a few inches. Between the racing clouds, she could see a few stars. LeBrun walked noisily and again she wanted to tell him to be quiet. She had said she could get Jason by herself, that LeBrun should stay in the truck, but he insisted on coming. “I like seeing rich people’s houses,” he had said. “I want to see what I’m aiming for.” As for Jason, she’d told him to pack a small bag and to take nothing that wasn’t really necessary. Jason had said he had saved fifteen dollars and she had been touched by that. Jessica pressed down on the latch and the front door opened. Stepping inside, she smelled the stale odor of Tremblay’s cigars and the cleaning detergent that the maid used. It made her recall other times, not nice times. LeBrun came in after her, scuffing his feet.

“Can’t you be quiet?” she whispered angrily.

LeBrun snorted.

Jessica heard the grandfather clock ticking in the living room and the hum of the refrigerator. She had thought Jason would be down in the hall waiting for her. She couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep, even though it was past his bedtime. She had told him to wait in the hall, but perhaps he was in the living room. She recalled several times when he had gone to sleep on the couch.

Jessica went to the entrance of the living room. “Jason,” she whispered. She moved quietly to a floor lamp by her father’s old leather chair and turned it on. The living room was empty. She turned the light off again. She felt angry and frightened. If it hadn’t been for Jason, she would have gone down to Boston on her own.

“So now what’re you going to do?” asked LeBrun when she had returned to the hall. “Looks like your little brother’s let you down.”

“Maybe he’s in his room upstairs.”

“I don’t want to hang around here all night.”

“It won’t be all night. Wait here.”

But LeBrun followed her as she climbed to the second floor. She wished she had brought a flashlight but she hadn’t thought she’d need one. For that matter, she wished she had a gun. Several of the dancers at the club had guns. Gypsy had had a little chrome pistol that she kept in a tortoiseshell case in her purse. It looked like a makeup kit.

Upstairs it was dark, but the night light was on in the bathroom. LeBrun stayed behind her as she moved down the hall. He seemed to be mumbling to himself. The floor was carpeted and their feet made no noise. Her mother’s bedroom was at the far end of the hall in the other direction. Jessica passed the closed door of her old bedroom and she shivered as she recalled the dreadful things that had happened there. Jason’s room was just past the linen closet on the right. Jessica’s legs felt funny—she hated being this far into the house, like sneaking into a bear’s cave.

She paused before Jason’s door.

“Is this it?” whispered LeBrun.

“Yes.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?”

Again she wanted to tell LeBrun to be quiet. Instead she slowly turned the knob and pushed open the door, which creaked slightly on its hinges. The room was dark.

“Jason?” she whispered.

There was no answer. She felt for the wall switch on her right. A sliver of light came from under the drawn shade but not enough to see if Jason was in his bed. When Jessica listened carefully, though, she thought she could hear him breathing.

“Jason?” she said again.

She turned on the light.

Tremblay was sitting on the bed smiling at her. There was no sign of Jason.