Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Her stepfather waved several sheets of paper. “Isn’t it nice to have a little brother who saves your letters.”

Jessica turned to run and bumped against LeBrun.

“He’s got a gun,” said LeBrun.

She looked over her shoulder at Tremblay, who held a small black automatic, not pointing it at her but holding it out so she could see it. “That’s right, I have a gun. Haven’t you read those stories where a husband or wife mistakenly shoots a loved one who came home without warning?” Tremblay smoothed his mustache with the back of his thumb.

“Where’s Jason?”

“Elsewhere. I think we should have a little chat.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” said Jessica. Even though she wanted to appear defiant, she spoke in a whisper. She moved away from LeBrun, who shouldn’t have stopped her from getting away.

Tremblay gave another smile. It was a meaningless expression, just something to occupy his face while he was being mean. “On the contrary, if you want to see Jason again, then we have to talk.”

Jessica tried to look brave but didn’t answer. Tremblay wore a dark sweater and dark pants. She realized he had dressed that way just so he could surprise her more easily. She almost expected him to have worn a hat as well, but Tremblay never wore hats. He was too vain about his thick silver hair.

“First of all,” continued Tremblay, “I want to see this money belt that you’ve been bragging about to your brother.”

Jessica didn’t move.

Tremblay lazily gestured at LeBrun with his pistol. “Take it from her.”

LeBrun reached under her down jacket and sweatshirt to grab the money belt. She could feel his cold fingers on her bare skin. Then he yanked the belt loose and she gasped.

“Throw it here,” said Tremblay. LeBrun tossed it to him. Tremblay opened it, then shook it upside down so the money scattered onto the rug: three thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. “Not bad for showing your little tits.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Jessica, staring down at her money.

“I’m afraid I’m tempted to shoot you both.”

“I had no part in this,” said LeBrun quickly. “She paid me to give her a ride. I had no idea she was going to kidnap anybody.”

Tremblay’s smile this time made his eyes crinkle with good humor. “I’m sure you didn’t. You were just being nice.” He nodded to Jessica. “Couldn’t you find yourself a better-looking boyfriend?”

“That money’s mine,” said Jessica.

“What are you going to do?” asked Tremblay. “Call the police? I’ll tell you what, I’ll try to save it until your twenty-first birthday.”

LeBrun began to chuckle, then stopped himself. He had been looking around the room, which had posters of Red Sox players and a Red Sox pennant.

“Where’s Jason?” Jessica asked again.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I want to see him. He’s my brother.”

“We had a deal, right? Now the deal’s off.”

“No, Tremblay, please.”

Tremblay’s smile had great warmth. When Jessica had first met him six years earlier, she had been encouraged by it. Now it terrified her.

“Please don’t touch Jason. I’ll do anything.”

Tremblay appeared to consider. He turned the small automatic over in his hand and seemed to study it. Jessica realized that it was one of her father’s guns. Tremblay stretched his right foot forward and poked at the fifty-dollar bills on the rug. “I want your boyfriend to take you back to Bishop’s Hill. I don’t want any more foolishness. When you’re here at Christmas, we can talk again. But don’t count on seeing Jason. If you don’t behave, I’ll send him out to my brother’s in Illinois.”

Although Jessica was scared, she was surprised that Tremblay was letting her go so easily. But LeBrun was a witness, so perhaps he was acting semi-reasonable because of LeBrun. Or perhaps Jason had told other people that his sister was going to rescue him. But it was still a sham; everything that Tremblay said was a sham.

Tremblay lifted his chin. This time he wasn’t smiling. “So it’s a deal? You’ll let this guy take you back?”

“You won’t hurt Jason?”

Tremblay laid down more conditions—no phone calls, no letters. It was ten-thirty; they could be back at Bishop’s Hill by one. Jessica felt exhausted. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream.

“Okay, it’s a deal,” said Jessica.

“Then get out of here.”

“Can I have my money?

“No chance. It’s my money now.”

Jessica’s eyes began to water. She hated to have Tremblay see her tears. “Let me use the bathroom first.”

“I can trust you?”

“I only want to pee.”

She pushed past LeBrun without looking at him and made her way down the dark hall. She didn’t really have to pee, but once she had locked the bathroom door behind her, she peed anyway. There was a phone in the bathroom and it occurred to her that she could call someone; she could ask for help. Then she realized she had no one to call. Maybe she could call Dr. Hawthorne but he was too far away and what exactly could he do? She washed her face in cold water. The sink, toilet, and tub were pink with gold-colored fixtures. There were framed pictures of toy poodles combing, primping, and putting on lipstick. She didn’t flush the toilet. Let Tremblay do it. Jessica unlocked the door, turned out the light, and went back into the hall.

As Jessica approached Jason’s room, she heard LeBrun and Tremblay talking. Then she heard Tremblay say, “What the hell did you bring her down here for? Are you nuts?”

Jessica couldn’t hear LeBrun’s answer.

“And when are you going to do it?” asked Tremblay angrily.

Jessica stood still and tried to make out what LeBrun said but his words were an indistinct mutter.

“Jesus, you’re impossible,” said Tremblay. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing. I should have shot you both after all.”

She was surprised that anyone could talk to LeBrun so rudely and she waited for him to answer, but he said nothing and Tremblay didn’t say anything else. Jessica waited a moment, then moved forward down the hall. When she reentered Jason’s room, they were looking at her. Tremblay was standing by the bureau and LeBrun had moved to the window. LeBrun was shorter than her stepfather but wirier and dark-haired. His narrow face was hatchetlike.

“So you’re ready?” asked Tremblay.

“I guess so.” She looked at her money scattered across the bedroom rug. There didn’t seem to be as much of it.

“Then you’d better get going.”

Jessica and LeBrun left the house and walked back down the sidewalk to the pickup. It wasn’t until they were driving out of Exeter that she spoke.

“Why didn’t you do something?”

“I don’t like guns. You didn’t say there might be guns.” LeBrun’s voice was a low monotone.

“You still could have done something. You could have jumped him.”

LeBrun laughed abruptly. “And get shot? You didn’t pay me to get shot.” The streetlights stopped at the edge of town and the interior of the truck suddenly grew darker.

“Are you going to give me back any of my money?”

“Hey, I just risked my life. That’s worth a grand. Are you going to start in with the questions again?”

Jessica was quiet a moment, then asked, “What did Tremblay mean when he said, ‘When are you going to do it?’ What’d he mean by that?”

“He never said that.”

“I heard him.”

LeBrun continued to stare straight ahead. “What he said was, ‘Why’d you do it?’ Meaning why did I bring you all the way down here.”

“That’s not what he said.” But Jessica wasn’t one hundred percent certain and LeBrun must have heard the doubt in her voice. A few snowflakes drifted across the windshield. More were caught up in the headlights.

LeBrun put his foot on the brake and the pickup slowed. “You want to ride in the back? It’s a long way. You could freeze to death.”

Jessica slouched down in her seat and stuck her chin in the collar of her coat. She wondered whether she had misheard and what it meant if she hadn’t. And she thought about what to do now. She couldn’t even go back to stripping. Tremblay would do something horrible to Jason, she was sure of it. Her sense of defeat was like a stone on her heart. Everything felt pointless and wrong.

–

On Wednesday, December 2, the police had brought the results of the autopsy: Scott had been murdered. This fact gave new significance to Bobby Newland’s disappearance. The autopsy had shown that Scott had been killed by a sharp object pushed up through the base of his skull. The state policeman in charge of the murder investigation was Harvey Sloan, a lieutenant in his midforties who wore dark suits and colorful ties. Over and over, Sloan heard how Bobby had accused the Bishop’s Hill community of Evings’s death. And again the possibility was raised of a link between Evings and Scott, though the police themselves said nothing. Bobby’s description was sent all over the country. The fact that he was gay seemed to suggest that he might have had a special motive for murdering a young boy.

The commotion caused by Bobby’s absence lasted till the next morning, when he was located on Martha’s Vineyard, where he had lived before coming to Bishop’s Hill. He had arrived on the Vineyard on Saturday, returned to the restaurant where he had worked, and asked for his old job back. Plenty of people had seen him and there was nothing to indicate that he was trying to hide. Even so, Lieutenant Sloan had him picked up, then he flew over to Martha’s Vineyard with another policeman to question him. By late afternoon Bobby had been released, although he had been told to stay on the island.

Hawthorne called Bobby on Friday, after getting his phone number from Lieutenant Sloan. Bobby had been shocked by Scott’s murder and angry that he had been a suspect. It also confirmed his belief that he had done the smart thing by leaving. He apologized to Hawthorne for his sudden disappearance, but he added, “What possible reason did I have to continue there?”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Hawthorne said. He was sitting in his office and his desk was heaped with papers. “I thought you did a good job, and the kids liked you.”

“I hated Bishop’s Hill,” said Bobby. “I was only there because of Clifford. It’s an awful place and the people are awful as well.”

Fritz Skander wanted to sue Bobby for breach of contract. “It will mean some additional money,” he told Hawthorne. “Goodness knows, we need it.”

“I have no intention of suing him,” Hawthorne answered.

“Well, he certainly won’t be receiving his November paycheck,” said Skander, “and if he ever asks us for a recommendation, he’ll find he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

The discovery that Scott had been murdered brought a number of police detectives to Bishop’s Hill. Chief Moulton was often on campus as well, even though the state police investigation seemed to have passed him by. Lieutenant Sloan never consulted him and Moulton was allowed to poke around Bishop’s Hill only as a courtesy. A state police lab crew spent much of Wednesday in Gaudette’s apartment and sealed off Scott’s dorm room. Bobby’s small apartment was also taken over.

The psychological effect of the murder was disastrous. All pretense of teaching came to a stop. Larry Gaudette had been well-liked. It was shocking to think of him as a murder suspect. Bobby Newland’s decision to quit heightened the sense of chaos. Four psychologists were brought over from Mary Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, and counseling sessions were expanded. It had already been decided to close the school a week early for Christmas vacation, on the eleventh instead of the eighteenth. Hawthorne would have closed the school even sooner if it hadn’t been for the various difficulties of changing plane tickets and travel plans and the disruption to parents’ schedules. Quite a few kids would have had no place to go. Also, the police were reluctant to have the students who had been at the school over Thanksgiving suddenly taken out of reach.

Hawthorne was constantly on the phone to members of the board, trying to convince them that, despite the huge disruption, the school was continuing to operate. Gifts to the school had increased and the work on the roof of Emerson Hall would be completed by mid-January. Although applications were no higher than the previous year, at least they hadn’t gone down.

Carolyn Forster, the trustee at Dartmouth, assured Hawthorne that he had the board’s full confidence, and Hamilton Burke told him on Friday, “We have no intention of closing the school. We’ll keep it going till the last dime is spent.”

At the moment, it seemed to Hawthorne that he was operating on sheer will, with no thought beyond the Christmas vacation. The next semester remained vague; he needed to hire two new psychologists and he needed to have more of the faculty on his side. But at other times he was overwhelmed by pessimism and wondered why he was wasting his time. There was no guarantee that the school would make it, and really, how could they ever get over Scott’s death?

The police interviewed everyone who had known Scott, which meant the entire school. Kate was questioned about Scott’s call to her on Thanksgiving Day when he had been looking for Hawthorne. Had Scott seemed upset? Was he scared? A hundred times Kate blamed herself for not driving to the school right away and bringing Scott home with her. But how could she have known? Even Hawthorne regretted going down to Krueger’s in Concord; if he had been at the school to receive Scott’s call, then the boy might still be alive.

Hawthorne had coffee with Kate in the Dugout late Friday morning to assure her that she couldn’t blame herself about Scott. Herb Frankfurter and Tom Hastings sat drinking coffee across the room. Hawthorne was aware of their quick looks and knowing expressions. Several students were playing video games and a dozen more were grouped around a few tables. Something by the Spice Girls was on the jukebox, although the volume had been turned down.

“It wasn’t as if I’d been doing anything important,” said Kate, explaining why she hadn’t gone over to the school. “It was just laziness on my part.”

“You didn’t know anything was wrong.”

“I could tell that something was bothering him.”

Hawthorne, who had made many such explanations to himself, felt well acquainted with the if-only-I-had-done-such-and-such type of thinking. “I wonder if Scott called anyone else?”

Kate shook her head. “Do you really think Larry killed him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe it.” They were silent a moment. Hawthorne sipped his coffee, which tasted burned.

“I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to see you the other night,” Kate said quickly. “I know you’re going through a lot.”

“I didn’t blame you. After what I told you . . .”

Kate lowered her voice. “It wasn’t that. The whole thing is just so complicated.”

“My life is full of ghosts.”

“I should never have said that.”

“I’m afraid I still want to come over. I want it more every time I see you.”

Kate reached out her hand and placed it on Hawthorne’s. Looking at him, her eyes flickered across his face as if she were trying to memorize it.

Hawthorne put his other hand over hers. First he looked into Kate’s face, then he glanced away. Across the room, he saw Frankfurter and Hastings watching them. They had faint smiles. Hawthorne began to remove his hand from Kate’s, then he didn’t.

–

Hawthorne planned to call a faculty meeting as soon as the students were gone, and he asked Hilda to put notices in the faculty mailboxes that a meeting would be held in Memorial Hall on the second floor of Emerson at 10 a.m. on Monday the fourteenth—just over a week away. “Say it’s compulsory,” he told her.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Hilda said.

But Hawthorne insisted. He would use the meeting to describe all that had happened: the appearances of Ambrose Stark, the phone calls, the bags of food. He would accuse Bennett, Chip Campbell, and others of lying to Mrs. Hayes and forcing her from the school, of telling Clifford Evings that he was about to be fired. Then there were the criminal offenses: wrecking Evings’s office and supplying Jessica Weaver with tequila. He hoped he could make Bennett and Herb Frankfurter resign. He imagined wiping the slate clean.

Even though the presence of the police was a continual reminder of Scott’s death, there was still the school’s daily routine to take care of. Hawthorne suspended the twice-weekly meetings in which he and the faculty discussed the students. On the other hand, the expanded counseling sessions required careful orchestrating and the teachers needed some advice on how to organize their classes until the eleventh if little or no academic work was being done. In his history class the quizzes he had planned had to be postponed. Hawthorne had meant to talk about Justinian the Great, but if the students wished instead to talk about Scott McKinnon, Larry Gaudette, or the presence of the police, then that’s what would be discussed.

In addition, supplies had to be ordered, bills had to be paid. LeBrun needed help dealing with local food vendors and the bookkeeping. And Hawthorne was still trying to trace certain items that had been ordered and paid for but apparently never delivered. After some searching, the commercial toaster was found in a stockroom off the kitchen. But why it had never been put into use Hawthorne didn’t know.

As for the three-hundred-dollar trombone, there was no trace of it.

“We already have four trombones,” Rosalind Langdon had told him. “Why would I order another? Only two are being played as it is.”

And Skander said, “I always confuse the trombone with the French horn. Do you think the supplier could have made a similar mistake?”

On Wednesday and Thursday nights Hawthorne had searched the attics of Adams, Douglas, and Hamilton Halls. He told people he was looking for the portrait of Ambrose Stark that had been taken from Evings’s office. He made sure his searches were noticed, then he waited for some response. By Friday a number of the faculty were talking about it—their eccentric headmaster prowling the attics with a flashlight. Because of the police investigation, Hawthorne’s actions were thought to be connected to Scott’s murder and Gaudette’s disappearance. Indeed, on Friday morning Hawthorne had even told Hilda that he believed something significant might be hidden in one of the attics.

That afternoon, Skander dropped by the office looking for an explanation.

“What are you really doing up there?” Skander asked. He spoke lightly, as if Hawthorne were involved in some kind of practical joke. “Have you been reading Sherlock Holmes? I’m not sure that the role of detective suits you.”

“I’d rather not say right now,” Hawthorne told him. “Wait until the faculty meeting on the fourteenth and expect some surprises.”

Skander looked doubtful. “It seems we’ve had enough surprises.”

“I’d just like to do everything I can to help the police investigation.”

“Ah, so you plan to be a detective after all,” said Skander. He rubbed the top of his head and seemed about to say more, then he abruptly shifted to another subject. “Have you given Bill Dolittle permission to move into that empty apartment in Stark?”

“I told him there was no possibility of such a move until we find someone to take his place in Latham. I’ve been quite clear about that.”

“Well, he’s moving in furniture.” Skander stood in front of Hawthorne’s desk.

“Just a chair.” Hawthorne paused. “And a book.”

“I heard that he also moved in a lamp. I know that Bill’s a great fan of yours but he hardly earns his keep. His two English classes are a disgrace. He does little more than read to his students for the entire period—Raymond Chandler, P. G. Wodehouse, Philip K. Dick. Those are his particular favorites. As for the library, it’s in total disarray. If Bill’s been stuck in Latham for eight years, it’s only because he deserves no better. Old Pendergast absolutely despised him, and in my brief tenure as headmaster I came to share his feelings. I hate to criticize a colleague but I know he’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Really, Jim, you’re too softhearted. Now that Bill’s got his foot in the door at Stark, he’ll be impossible to dislodge.”

Although Hawthorne was beginning to share Skander’s feeling, he at first said nothing. Again, he wondered if he had been blinding himself to Dolittle’s inadequacies out of gratitude for his support.

“I’ll speak to him about it.”

–

Saturday night Hawthorne went through the attic of Emerson Hall. It had been a long day, during which he had met with Lieutenant Sloan, several trustees, the psychologists from Mary Hitchcock, and Ruth Standish, who had been working with them. He had also spoken with Gene Strauss about the effect of Scott’s murder on applications. Strauss apologized for bringing up his concern so soon after the death, but he dreaded the damage that it would inflict on enrollment. Already Strauss had heard from several parents that their children wouldn’t be returning after Christmas vacation. In the evening, Hawthorne had finally been able to sit for an hour in his new chair, just thinking. He had meant to think about Scott and his possible connection to Gaudette. Instead he thought about Kate and how her hand had felt against his.

About 10 p.m. Hawthorne put on his overcoat, fetched his flashlight, and went out into the dark. As he walked over to Emerson, he ran into Floyd Purvis, who had become more active as a watchman since the police had been at the school.

“You want me to come along?” Purvis asked halfheartedly.

Hawthorne said he’d be fine by himself.

“Watch out for rats,” Purvis warned.

Hawthorne climbed the front steps of Emerson and unlocked the door. There had been snow flurries all day and the night was cloudy. He wiped his feet on the mat and flashed his light around the rotunda. In the middle of the floor, the gold letters B and H of the school crest sparkled as he moved his light across them. Just beyond the rotunda the shadows skittered away, then re-formed themselves. There was no wind and the building was still. Hawthorne pointed his light upward. It was at least fifty feet to the ceiling beneath the bell tower and the light could barely distinguish it.

Hawthorne climbed to the third floor, then unlocked the door to the attic. The stairs were wide enough to accommodate the bookcases, mattresses, and general bric-a-brac stored under the roof. As he began his ascent, he thought he heard a rustling but he wasn’t sure. Reaching the top, he flashed his light down the length of the attic, then located the light switch on the wall. There were three switches: one for the staircase leading to the bell tower, one for the east side of the attic, and one for the west. Hawthorne flicked the switch for the west side and a string of ceiling lights flickered on—dim bulbs that cast shadows into the corners and illuminated boxes of nails and buckets of tar left by the men working on the roof.

Hawthorne again heard a rustling. He expected there were red squirrels as well as rats. He had meant to order traps earlier in the fall but with one thing and another he had forgotten. It was cold and he kept his coat buttoned. The west side of the attic formed a long room cluttered with boxes, broken easels, and music stands, desks, chairs, bookcases, metal bed frames, mattresses, and rolls of paper. Hawthorne told himself that when he had a chance he would see about clearing out some of the clutter. He moved slowly along the passageway that ran down the center, looking behind boxes and heaps of debris. The floors creaked. Hawthorne realized he was breathing rapidly. He stopped and tried to catch his breath. He felt foolish and angry at himself for being frightened. He pushed an old desk away from the wall and looked behind a bookcase. There were papers on the floor—old brochures and school catalogs—and they crinkled as he stepped on them. A chair tipped over with a crash. Hawthorne kept thinking what a firetrap the place was and before he could stop himself he had begun to remember the fire at Wyndham School. Briefly, it absorbed all his attention.

It took Hawthorne twenty minutes to reach the end of the attic. His movements stirred up the dust and he sneezed. Despite the cold, he was sweating. He kept turning quickly, imagining he had seen something out of the corner of his eye—a shadow or a sudden darting.

Hawthorne had just bent down to look behind a dark oak cabinet with two cracked glass doors when the lights went out. It was like being struck blind. He stood up quickly and banged his head against a rafter. Even in the dark, he knew that his hands were shaking.

Hawthorne listened but could hear nothing. He flicked on his flashlight and shined it down the corridor. The space through which he had passed seemed unfamiliar; the boxes and piled chairs took on new shapes. Again he heard a rustling. He pointed his light in the direction of the noise. Then a door slammed, but seemingly far away. Hawthorne’s heart was beating fast and he stood still, trying to calm himself. He wished he were braver, less of an academic. Dust motes floated in the beam of his light.

Slowly, Hawthorne began to make his way back toward the stairs, swinging his light from side to side. Several times he turned around to make sure there was nothing behind him. After he had gone twenty feet, the beam of his light picked up the shape of something ahead. Hawthorne paused. He wished he had a weapon. From a pile stacked against the sloping roof, he took a hockey stick, then he almost discarded it because it made him feel silly. But he held on to it. As he walked forward, the shape ahead of him took on substance and after he had gone another few yards he realized that somebody was standing in the passageway—a wavering shape in the uncertain beam of his light. Hawthorne was afraid that his legs might give way beneath him. He stood still, again trying to calm his breathing. Then he shifted the hockey stick to his right hand and continued forward. Getting closer, Hawthorne realized it was a man and in another moment he saw it was Ambrose Stark. The former headmaster was grinning at him with a bright red grin that disfigured the bottom half of his face. It was the same image Hawthorne had seen staring down at him from the window at Adams Hall.

Hawthorne forced himself to take another step forward, then another. The light jittered across the figure and Hawthorne saw that his hand was trembling. Then Ambrose Stark moved. Hawthorne crouched down, keeping his light focused on the dead headmaster, not daring to look away. He tried to force himself to relax. Stark was about twenty feet ahead of him. Hawthorne made himself stand up, breathe deeply, and then move forward. The next time Ambrose Stark moved, Hawthorne realized the image was swaying. Closer, he saw that it was a painting hanging from the rafters. He wanted to laugh at himself but the image was too awful. The gaping red grin was horrific: a red slash across the face. What frightened him now was the knowledge that the picture hadn’t been there when he had made his way through the attic twenty minutes earlier. Someone had hung it up after he had passed.

As Hawthorne drew nearer, he could see that the portrait was attached to a cord stretched between the rafters. It was a full-length picture showing Stark standing by a desk with his right hand resting on a book. He wore a dark suit and behind him was dark red drapery. His face was so distorted by the red grin that even his eyes took on a demonic appearance. He looked as if he were about to burst into mad laughter. Hawthorne stopped about five feet away. Clearly, it was the same picture that had been in Evings’s office. Moving forward, Hawthorne reached out and took hold of the edge of the canvas. Then he yanked it down so the portrait fell to the floor. He felt relieved, even moderately brave. He was certain that Ambrose Stark would frighten him no more.

–

Detective Leo Flynn was disgusted. It was a rainy Monday morning in Boston with wet snow forecast, and the skyline had disappeared into the murk. Sirens were blaring, cars were honking, and on the other side of the office one of his colleagues was calling a young black kid a “scumbag.” Shouting it over and over: Scumbag, scumbag. It was Pearl Harbor Day and Leo Flynn remembered when there used to be parades. He liked parades. And he liked fireworks. He’d been known to travel a hundred miles for a good fireworks display, and on the Fourth of July he was always out in the harbor in his pal Loomis’s boat, getting as close as they could so the rockets shot up right above them; sometimes the sticks would come whickering down onto the deck and once they’d had a flaming piece of paper. If Flynn had had more sense as a kid, he would have gone into fireworks design instead of being a cop. Explosions for the heck of it. You had to be an artist to be a first-rate fireworks designer; you had to have pizzazz.

Right now Flynn was in the doghouse. The homicide captain had chewed his ear off for wasting so much time in New Hampshire. Why’d he have to go himself? Coughlin wanted to know. Hadn’t Flynn heard of the telephone? Or e-mail? Or departmental reciprocity? Boston was always doing favors for those podunk New Hampshire departments. It was time for them to give something back. Flynn was needed in Boston. He had other cases and court dates coming up. What the hell was he thinking of?

Leo Flynn had told Coughlin everything he could about Francis LaBrecque. He had even told him some of LaBrecque’s jokes, knowing full well that Coughlin hated jokes unless he was the person telling them. And he told Coughlin he had been looking for LaBrecque’s cousin, the cook, Larry Gaudette, but Coughlin had only said, “Can’t you write it all down? You fuckin’ lazy all of a sudden? Give it to me on paper.” Coughlin was in his late forties, fifteen years younger than Flynn, and they weren’t close. Coughlin didn’t know squat about Pearl Harbor Day, for instance.

So Flynn had been writing it down and the information would be sent all over New England. Much had been sent already. The computers would get cracking and a lot of departments would communicate with one another electronically. For Flynn it was obvious that the time was coming when you’d never have to leave the office. Everything would be done electronically and when all the information was in place a couple of patrolmen would be sent out to nab the guy. And someday—Leo Flynn had no doubt about it—they’d be sending out robots. But by then he would be retired and living in Florida, or maybe pushing up daisies, worm food after a life of cheap cigars.