Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Of course, his wife was glad he was back. She’d suspected he had only been fooling around: smoking too much and talking to other old farts like himself. And the rest of his homicide team thought he’d been fooling around as well. In vain did Flynn try to convince them that LaBrecque was the man they were looking for and that they had to find him fast, because who knew how many people he’d killed. LaBrecque could have left corpses all over New England. But Coughlin still saw no reason for Flynn to drive up to New Hampshire. Once the information was sent out electronically, it would only be a matter of time before LaBrecque was picked up. Flynn didn’t doubt that. He just wondered how many more people LaBrecque would stick in the neck before it happened.

And because Coughlin was unhappy with him, he had given Flynn a case concerning a Puerto Rican junkie who had been arrested after feeding slices of his aunt into the garbage disposal.

The junkie had been caught because he’d been using the garbage disposal for three hours straight between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. and it had overheated and started smoking. A neighbor had called the Fire Department. And now Flynn could hardly talk to the junkie without the Department of Social Services, and the public defender’s office, and soon probably even the Puerto Rican Defense League breathing down his neck. It seemed that because the junkie had an IQ of 75, he shouldn’t have to go to prison. But that wasn’t for Flynn to decide. He wasn’t supposed to have opinions. He had his paperwork and court dates and miles of red tape and every bit of it was taking him farther away from New Hampshire, where Francis LaBrecque was probably icing some poor sucker at that very moment. At least that was how Leo Flynn saw it.

–

Shortly after breakfast on Monday, Fritz Skander showed up in Hawthorne’s office saying he had to do something about Frank LeBrun, that the man was unstable and might easily poison the entire school. Hawthorne didn’t usually attend breakfast and preferred to make coffee and eat something in his own quarters. That morning LeBrun had lost his temper and thrown four pots at the two students assigned to help him.

“You seem to be a special friend of his,” said Skander with a worried smile. “You should march in there and set him straight.” Skander stood in the doorway of Hawthorne’s office, his rectangular shape making him seem doorlike as well.

Hawthorne couldn’t imagine marching anywhere. “Was anyone hurt?”

“They were scared, frightened—isn’t that enough? After all, they’re just children.”

As he made his way to the kitchen, Hawthorne assumed there was more to the altercation than what Skander had described, but it wouldn’t do to have LeBrun throwing pots. He wondered why Skander hadn’t spoken to LeBrun himself, and once again Hawthorne saw that he couldn’t take anyone’s actions at face value. There always appeared to be something lying underneath.

When Hawthorne got to the kitchen, LeBrun was alone. There were stacks of dirty dishes from breakfast and no sign of the women employed to wash them. The floor was strewn with pots and broken plates. LeBrun was sitting on a tall stool in the middle of the kitchen with his arms folded and his legs stuck out in front of him, smoking a cigarette, although smoking wasn’t allowed in school buildings. It was a gray morning and the lights were on.

“Now I suppose you’re going to yell at me, too,” he said angrily.

“That wasn’t my intention,” said Hawthorne looking around and walking slowly across the kitchen. “You want a hand cleaning this up?” He stepped over a pile of scrambled eggs.

“I’m not fuckin’ cleaning anything.” LeBrun didn’t look at Hawthorne but stared straight ahead at the wall where there were several refrigerators. His white coat was unbuttoned and underneath he wore a red shirt. His thick dark hair was uncombed and spiky. As he sat, he jiggled his knees so his black boots seemed to dance on the tiles.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Those fuckin’ kids won’t do as I say. I told this kid to take the eggs off the stove and he wasn’t paying attention so they burned. Then the other one burned the toast.”

Hawthorne drew up another stool next to LeBrun and sat down. “They’re kids.”

“Hey, if I’d done that at their age I’d of had the shit kicked out of me.”

“What happened to the dishwashers?”

“They were fucking staring at me and so I said, ‘What the fuck are you staring at, you old bags?’ You should of seen them scatter.”

Hawthorne grinned suddenly. “I guess you made a clean sweep, didn’t you?”

LeBrun grinned as well. “Damn straight.”

“Skander’s afraid that you’ll poison the school.”

LeBrun stood up and kicked a pot, which went skittering across the kitchen. “Fat chance. I’m not going to poison anybody unless I get paid for it.” Then he grinned again.

Hawthorne climbed off the stool and picked up a couple of pots. “These hang from those hooks over there?”

“Yeah, those ones by the sink.” LeBrun dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his heel.

Hawthorne hung the pots from the hooks, then went back and got several more. LeBrun watched him. When he had finished hanging up the pots, Hawthorne took a broom and began sweeping the broken dishes into a pile in the middle of the floor. They made a rattling noise as he pushed them ahead of the broom.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Somebody’s got to.”

“But you’re the boss.”

Hawthorne kept sweeping. “So what?”

LeBrun got a broom as well. “You’re just trying to make me feel bad.”

Hawthorne walked over to LeBrun. “No, I’m not. We got about one hundred and twenty people who are going to want lunch in a couple of hours, so I’d better get started.”

“You can’t cook.”

“I can make sandwiches.”

“Not good sandwiches. Not with all the stuff on them like I do.”

Hawthorne shrugged and leaned on his broom.

“Okay, okay,” said LeBrun, “I’ll make lunch.”

“Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.”

LeBrun kicked at another pot, which landed against the stove with a bang. “I don’t need your fuckin’ help.” He let the broom drop to the floor and lit another cigarette.

“Is something bothering you?”

“The cops have been in here half a dozen times. I just tell them to get the fuck out, that I’m busy. Nah, that’s not right, I talked to them. I just don’t like it, that’s all. I don’t like them nagging me about Larry and when did I see this person last and that person last.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Hawthorne.

“It’s not your fuckin’ fault. Why does Skander think I’ll poison the school?”

“I guess he’s nervous.”

LeBrun began sweeping the broken crockery. “What a jerk. He thinks he’s got it all figured out. He doesn’t know shit. Like, he’s making a big mistake. Look, you go tell those old bags they can come back and wash the dishes anytime they want, and you can get those kids as well. I won’t say a word to them. But don’t expect me to apologize.”

“That’s okay,” said Hawthorne, “I can apologize. You want me to hire some more people?”

“Nah, it’s just till the end of the week. Saturday I’m outta here one way or the other.”

Hawthorne found the two dishwashers in the small lounge used by the housekeepers. They were shapeless women in their sixties who wore light blue dresses and white aprons. They said they didn’t want to work with LeBrun anymore. Hawthorne said that LeBrun had promised to behave and that, anyway, it would only be until the students left. He offered them each a bonus of two hundred dollars. Grudgingly, they returned to the kitchen.

As for the students who had been helping out, one of them absolutely refused to go back. The whole school was scaring him half to death. He was leaving for his parents’ house in Framingham either Tuesday or the next day and he wasn’t sure if he’d be coming back in January. He’d have to think about it. It depended on whether they found out who had killed Scott. The boy was a tenth grader named Harvey Bengston. He wore thick glasses that made his soft brown eyes seem huge.

The other boy, Eddy Powers, didn’t mind going back to the kitchen as long as LeBrun behaved and Hawthorne got somebody to replace Bengston. Maybe two people. Powers was an eleventh grader, a tall, skinny basketball player with a stoop.

“LeBrun’s okay as long as you don’t talk to him and make sure you laugh at his jokes.”

Hawthorne thanked Powers and started to walk away, then he thought of something. “I gather Scott McKinnon didn’t come into the kitchen much.”

“You kidding? He was in there all the time trying to bum cigarettes and stealing cookies. He and LeBrun would swap jokes and Scott’s were always better. He had a great one about a dead old lady who’s been reincarnated as a rabbit in Wisconsin.”

After Hawthorne had found two more students to help LeBrun, he returned to the kitchen. The women were washing the breakfast dishes and the floor had been swept. LeBrun was kneading a mound of bread dough, hitting it with his fists. Hawthorne told him that the students would show up about eleven, then he said, “You told me you didn’t know Scott. Now I hear he was in here often.”

LeBrun stepped away from the bread dough and wiped his hands on his apron. He wrinkled his nose at Hawthorne. “I lied.”

“How come?”

“Hey, if I said Scott was a friend of mine, the cops would be all over me. ‘When was the last time you saw this? When was the last time you saw that?’ I’d go fuckin’ nuts. So he hung out in the kitchen and bummed cigarettes, does that mean I killed him? What reason would I have?” LeBrun began to reach for a cigarette, then stopped himself.

“So your cousin saw him, too.”

“Sure. I mean, Larry couldn’t stand him hanging around.”

–

Tuesday evening Hawthorne worked in his office after dinner. The state police had visited the school during the day to search the buildings. Chief Moulton said they were also looking for Larry Gaudette’s car, which struck Hawthorne as peculiar since he assumed that Gaudette had taken it with him. In any case, no car was found. Moulton said that none of Gaudette’s family in Manchester had heard from him, nor had his friends. As a result, the police were revising their theories.

About eight-thirty, Hawthorne locked his office. Emerson appeared empty. Even though the hall lights were burning brightly, Hawthorne started at every sound as he walked toward the rotunda. His snow boots squeaked on the marble floor. Hawthorne kept telling himself that in another week everything would be all right. The students would be gone and he could concentrate on his problems with the faculty. And LeBrun, something would have to be done about LeBrun. Skander was right: there was no way he could remain in charge of the kitchen.

Hawthorne left through the front door of the building, and out on the driveway he could see stars. The light in the bell tower shone above the school like a beacon. It was cold and he turned up his collar. A dog was barking far away and Hawthorne heard music, the high squeal of guitars. He walked around the outside of Adams. Lights burned in the library in Hamilton Hall and he saw a girl in a green sweater standing at a card catalogue. Lights were also on in the dormitory cottages, though many windows were dark. Farther on, Hawthorne could see that people appeared to be home in the faculty houses.

A man was standing on the patio by the French windows of Hawthorne’s quarters, a dim figure illuminated by a light on the walkway. Hawthorne hesitated, then continued forward. When he got closer, the man called his name. It was Kevin Krueger.

“What are you doing skulking back here?” asked Hawthorne, hurrying toward him.

Krueger shook his hand. “I just arrived. I need to talk to you.”

Hawthorne heard the seriousness in his voice. He unlocked the door and motioned Krueger inside. “Come in, come in, you must be freezing.” Hawthorne began turning on lights. He was struck by how dreary his apartment seemed. Only his leather chair looked inviting, something he could take pleasure in. For the first time, Hawthorne wondered if Skander had left the apartment dreary on purpose. I have to stop this, Hawthorne told himself. I can’t keep suspecting everyone.

“Would you like a beer? A cup of coffee?”

“Coffee’s fine,” said Krueger.

Hawthorne unbuttoned his overcoat as he continued to the kitchen. Krueger followed him. His cheeks were red with cold. “How long did it take you to get up here?” asked Hawthorne.

“Two hours.” Krueger removed his coat and laid it across a chair.

“That’s not bad. What’s on your mind? I’m amazed that you drove all this way.”

“I’ll wait till I’m settled with my coffee first.”

Hawthorne was struck by Krueger’s tone. He looked at him from the stove. “I guess I’ll have coffee as well,” he said, turning on the faucet and filling the kettle.

Five minutes later they were seated in the living room. Hawthorne had insisted that Krueger sit in the new chair while he sat on the couch, which after several months of airing still smelled vaguely of cat urine. Hawthorne waited for Krueger to speak.

Krueger blew on his coffee, then set the mug on a small table to the right of his chair. “I heard today that Hamilton Burke has been in contact with the Galileo Corporation.”

The Galileo Corporation was one of the for-profits Krueger had mentioned at Thanksgiving, a private company that ran about forty residential treatment programs for high-risk children and adolescents, as well as a number of homes for the retarded. The company’s headquarters were in South Carolina.

Hawthorne held his mug with both hands, letting its warmth take the chill from his fingers. “Perhaps it’s just a general inquiry. A contingency plan.”

“Actually he’s been in negotiation for several months, almost since the beginning of the semester. He’s counting on Bishop’s Hill not opening in the fall.”

“He said the other day that he and the trustees don’t intend to close the school.”

Kruger pulled at his mustache with his thumb as he listened. “I don’t know anything about that. Burke expects the deal to be settled within the next few months.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“You remember Ralph Spaight—he was in several of your classes at BU? He works for Galileo. I talked to him.”

Hawthorne had a vague memory of a fast-talking graduate student with short black hair. “I never liked him.”

“He’s doing well,” said Krueger.

“And he said Burke was negotiating to sell Bishop’s Hill?”

“Spaight has spoken with him. He said Burke’s flown down to Columbia twice.”

“And this was a board decision?” Neither of them were drinking their coffee.

“No, that’s the point. He’s done it on his own. Most of the board wants to keep the school open. Of course, if you resign and the school falls apart, then there’s no hope. Burke will talk about interested parties hoping to make a deal and the board will see him as a hero. I don’t know the particulars, but it’s clear that some people will stay on in managerial positions.”

“Did Spaight say anything about Fritz Skander or Roger Bennett?”

“He didn’t know any names other than Burke’s.”

Hawthorne considered what it meant to have Burke lying to him. “I wonder if he ever offered Clifford Evings that leave.”

“I doubt you could prove anything.”

“If he lied to him, then he as good as killed him. Why is he so keen on all this?”

Krueger didn’t respond and Hawthorne realized that the answer was obvious. Galileo had presumably offered Burke a sizable amount of money to see the deal go through. Most likely he would also be retained as attorney. Hawthorne went on to tell Krueger about the faculty meeting he had planned for Monday. “I’ve invited Burke and the other trustees. The faculty is obliged to come. I’m thinking now that I’ll also invite Chief Moulton.”

“I’d like to be there, too,” said Krueger. “And you should have a lawyer.”

“Be my guest. I expect sparks will fly.”

Krueger reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper, which he held toward Hawthorne. “I’ve tracked down Lloyd Pendergast for you. He’s working for the Chamber of Commerce in Woodstock, Vermont. You want to call him?”

Hawthorne took the paper and began to grin. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll drive over and see him. I expect there’s quite a lot he can tell me.”

“Do you mean gossip?”

“On the contrary, I’m hoping to find information that can be used in court.”

–

Hawthorne drove over to Woodstock Thursday morning with Kate. He wanted her as a witness and he wanted her company. Her only condition was that she had to be back by three-thirty, when Todd got home from school. Ted Wrigley had taken Kate’s classes, combining hers with his French classes, since half of their students had already left; he was showing Breathless, a kind of pre-Christmas tradition of his.

Hawthorne told Kate what he had learned from Krueger, then he described his years of friendship with Krueger in Boston. It was a sunny morning and the snow gleamed from the fields and between the trees, but it was supposed to cloud up that afternoon. The two-lane road from Hanover was slow because of a number of logging trucks. As he drove, Hawthorne felt constantly aware of Kate’s presence beside him, as if she were a heat source. She wore dark glasses that he had never seen her wear before. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her hands resting in her lap and more than once he was almost overwhelmed with a desire to reach out and touch her.

“What would it mean to sell the school to the Galileo Corporation?” she asked.

“It would be the end of Bishop’s Hill. Debts would be paid. The faculty would receive some sort of severance package. A few would find jobs with the new institution. You could probably get a job yourself. Kevin thinks that some people, like Roger Bennett and perhaps others, would qualify for managerial positions that paid quite well. Certainly much more than they earn now.”

“No wonder they were sorry you took the job.”

Hawthorne had nothing to say to that. He thought again how he had come to Bishop’s Hill to hide. He had never imagined that he would have such a strong desire to see the school succeed, that he would come to care deeply about the students, that he would even fall in love.

It had taken an hour before Hawthorne could bring up the subject of Claire Sunderlin. “I have no excuse for what I did,” he said, trying to choose his words precisely. “I loved my wife. I had no wish to jeopardize my family. I’d known Claire for about four years and was attracted to her. Then, when we began to touch each other, I thought, Why not? It seemed like something I could get away with, something without repercussions. I know that my actions with Claire didn’t cause the fire, yet I feel guilty. They kept me from getting there earlier. It’s something I can’t forget. I think of it every day.”

Kate stared straight ahead, listening to Hawthorne without looking at him. Her coat was unzipped and the seat belt cut across her chest. “Have you seen her since?”

“No. She called me after the fire. I was in the hospital. I didn’t want to talk and she didn’t call again.” Hawthorne remembered the nurse telling him that he had a call from a woman. Thinking about it, he could almost feel the pain in his arm once again.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Kate.

Hawthorne was surprised by her frankness. “I’d like our friendship to continue. I hope we’ll grow closer.” Hawthorne hated how cut and dried it sounded. He wanted to say how much he liked her, that he couldn’t stop thinking of her, even that he needed her, but he was afraid of frightening her away.

“You mean sex?”

He looked at her quickly. Kate was still staring straight ahead but she was smiling slightly. “Yes, if that’s what happens.”

“And you could touch me without thinking you were touching another woman, without thinking you were touching your wife?”

“Yes, I think I could do that.”

“If you can’t, then it won’t work.” She had turned and was staring at him. Her eyes were dark and unblinking. “Will you try?”

“With all my heart.”

–

Hawthorne had called the previous day to see if Pendergast would be in his office but not to make an appointment. He had told the secretary that he was a businessman with a chain of cyber cafés and that he was visiting Woodstock with an eye to available real estate. Pendergast’s secretary said that he would be in all morning except for a half-hour meeting at nine. She explained that, as development director for the Chamber of Commerce, Pendergast would be a mine of useful information. Woodstock was just the place for a cyber café. Before hanging up, she asked Hawthorne how to spell “cyber.”

Woodstock was strung with Christmas lights and the shop windows were filled with decorations. Mounds of snow bordered the streets, nearly burying the parking meters. On the sidewalks men and women wore colorful ski jackets. Every doorway seemed to have a Christmas wreath and Christmas music played from speakers tucked among the greenery decorating the old-fashioned street lamps.

Pendergast’s office was in the center of downtown, a two-story brick building near the city hall. In the same way that Woodstock seemed to be a quaint illustration from a greeting card, so did Lloyd Pendergast seem illustrative of bluff, hearty charm. He was a red-faced man of about sixty whose tweed jacket, tattersall shirt, and cavalry twill trousers appeared to have sprung from an Orvis catalog. His brown hair was gray at the temples. Pendergast strode heavily across the floor of his paneled office and took Hawthorne’s hand in a fierce grip. On the walls were six prints of English setters among fallen leaves and corn stalks.

“Awfully glad to meet you, Mr. . . .”

“Hawthorne,” said Hawthorne, trying to give a hearty squeeze in return. “And this is Kate Sandler, a colleague. But I’m afraid that I’ve misrepresented myself.”

Pendergast maintained his robust smile but a touch of suspicion appeared in his eyes. He released Hawthorne’s hand. “Well, what’s it all about?”

Hawthorne wondered if Pendergast recognized his name. “I’m the new headmaster at Bishop’s Hill. I just started in September and I’ve had a bit of trouble with some of the faculty, ranging from general hostility to actual criminal behavior. I’d appreciate hearing what you have to say about them. And I was wondering about your own resignation, whether you felt it was forced upon you in any way.”

Pendergast began to look alarmed, which wasn’t the response that Hawthorne expected.

“Well, there was always a fair amount of grumbling and foot dragging. I’m sure some of them disliked me. One can’t please everyone . . .” Pendergast glanced at his watch.

Hawthorne hoped for information about Bennett, Chip Campbell, Herb Frankfurter, and a few of the others in the years before he came to the school. And there were also certain aspects of Pendergast’s departure from Bishop’s Hill that Hawthorne was still hoping to understand.

“What was your relationship with them?”

“Cordial, businesslike—I felt as headmaster it wouldn’t do to make close friends.”

“You left rather abruptly.”

“I’m not sure that it was all that abrupt.”

“It was in the middle of the school year.”

Pendergast’s anxiety seemed to increase. He half turned toward his desk and seemed unwilling to speak. Then he shrugged. “Sometimes the thought suddenly strikes you that it’s time for a change. I wasn’t happy at Bishop’s Hill after my wife died, all by myself in that apartment. It seemed right that I leave when I did.”

“You gave them hardly a month’s notice.”

“I really don’t have a lot of time this morning, Mr. Hawthorne—or is it Doctor?” The heartiness had gone out of Pendergast’s smile. He looked suspiciously at Kate. “I simply believed I could do better elsewhere.”

Hawthorne felt that Pendergast was lying. The realization led him to recall Mrs. Hayes’s remark that the former headmaster wasn’t a nice man, especially after his wife died. And she had spoken of his vanity, that he had tinted his hair and worried about his figure. Hawthorne glanced at Kate, who was unbuttoning her jacket. Her head was tilted and she seemed to be listening to Pendergast with all the care that she might listen to someone speaking in a language she barely understood.

“Did Fritz Skander put any pressure on you?” asked Hawthorne.

“Why on earth would he have done that? Has Fritz been saying anything about me?”

“You resigned in early December. I’m trying to understand why.”

Pendergast’s red face grew a little redder and he stuck out his lower lip. “I’m not quite sure where you are going with this, Mr. Hawthorne, nor do I welcome it.”

On impulse, Hawthorne asked, “Can you tell me about Gail Jensen?”

“What was the name again?”

“Gail Jensen—she died two weeks before you resigned.”

“Yes, yes, I do remember something,” said Pendergast. “A student, isn’t that correct? She died of a burst appendix . . .” He stood very still as his eyes moved back and forth between Hawthorne and Kate. The sound of Christmas music could faintly be heard through the window.

“She helped out in your office,” said Hawthorne. “You must have seen her every day.” He didn’t understand why Pendergast wasn’t telling the truth.

Pendergast spoke quickly. “Hardly that, and it doesn’t mean I had anything to do with her. I don’t care what Fritz told you.”

There was a pause as they looked at each other.

“Why should Fritz have said anything about Gail Jensen?” asked Kate. Hawthorne noticed the chill in her voice.

“I don’t mean just about her. Why should he talk about me at all? The girl was just someone who occasionally worked in the office. There were several students who did.”

Hawthorne again thought about Mrs. Hayes’s unwillingness to talk about the ex-headmaster. He decided to bluff a little. “That’s not what Mrs. Hayes told me. Let me use your phone and I’ll give her a call.”

Pendergast stood as if rooted to the floor. Hawthorne watched different emotions pass across his face: anger, fear, despair.

“You’re trying to trap me.”

“I think you’ve trapped yourself,” said Hawthorne. “You made her pregnant.” Glancing at Kate, he knew that she had reached the same conclusion.

Pendergast made one last attempt at indignation. “You got the whole thing from Fritz, didn’t you? You’ve been leading me on.”

“She had an abortion and died. For Christ’s sake, she was only fifteen!” Hawthorne paused. “Shortly after that, you resigned. I expect you were forced to resign.”

Pendergast moved to his desk and stood with his back to Hawthorne and Kate. His gray tweed jacket had flecks of blue and purple. He put his hands on the edge of his desk and leaned forward as if resting. Then he turned back to Hawthorne. “What if I deny it?”

Kate spoke up first. “Then we’ll go to the police.”

Nodding, Pendergast raised a hand and rubbed his forehead. “Oddly enough, I’ve been expecting a visit like this ever since I left Bishop’s Hill, but I thought it would be someone wanting money.”

“I want to know what happened,” said Hawthorne.

Now that what he had done was out in the open, Pendergast began to relax. He raised a shoulder, then let it drop. “One thing just led to another. She’d been doing work in the office. One night I got her to stay late. We’d been a little chummy all along. My wife had died, I don’t know . . .” He seemed ready to excuse himself, then changed his mind. “I had sex with her once. She wasn’t a virgin, I can tell you that much. Anyway, she got pregnant. She told me I was the father. Of course I had no idea if it was true or false, but I found her a doctor. She told him that the father was a boy her own age. She was frightened that her parents would find out. You have to believe me, I was devastated when she died. Fritz knew about it. He always knew about everything. And a few other people suspected. Fritz said that if I resigned, he’d keep quiet and make certain it went no farther.”

“Aren’t you trying to shift the blame?” said Kate, still with the anger in her voice.

“I’ve no excuse for what I did,” Pendergast said wearily, “but Skander’s no angel. He and Roger Bennett had plenty of little tricks.”

“Like what?” asked Hawthorne.

“Fritz was bursar—I guess he’s still bursar unless you’ve fired him. I was sure he’d been embezzling money. Not much. A few hundred here and there. Then in my last year he and Roger hit upon a particularly lucrative scheme. They pretended that we had one less student than we actually had, which meant the boy’s tuition went into their pockets.”

“How do you know this?” asked Kate.

“I was rather inattentive toward the end. It made them greedy. Actually, it was Mrs. Hayes who asked if there hadn’t been a mistake in the figures. I confronted Fritz and he tried to blame Roger. Finally, they both admitted it.” Pendergast held out his hands as if offering Hawthorne their very emptiness. “Sad to say, I had far more to lose. The Jensen girl had died and I was in no position to stand up to them. So we forgave each other, as it were. I took my retirement and departed.”

“What was the student’s name?” asked Hawthorne.

“Peter Roberts. He was a freshman. As far as I know, he’s still there. And they might have had other hidden students, unless your presence scared them.”

Hawthorne wondered whether Pendergast was just trying to get even for what he believed was Skander’s betrayal. Then he thought of the trombone, a missing computer, a slide projector that had been ordered but had never arrived, the peculiar billing of his chair, the uncertainty about Chip Campbell’s salary. And there was more—a variety of apparent oversights and clerical errors.

“And no one suspected?” asked Hawthorne.

“Fritz handled the books and he did it with a certain casualness, an affable sloppiness that was very cunning. He could conceal a lot. And the embezzlement, if it was discovered, he could blame on a sort of harmless negligence. But this business of hiding students could send him and Bennett straight to jail.”

“What you did was even worse,” said Kate, her voice rising. “It was statutory rape and the girl died.”

“That’s perfectly true, young lady. It was a criminal act, and I feel terrible about it. But imagine what would happen if it became public. Charges and countercharges. The Boston papers would have a field day. Everyone’s reputation would be tarnished, even your own. Who knows who would wind up in court, or if the school could remain open.” Although Pendergast remained watchful, he began to recover a bit of his former heartiness. He moved around his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of Martell cognac. He held it toward Hawthorne and Kate. The color was returning to his face. “I find these discussions utterly exhausting,” he said. “Like a snoot?”