Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Jessica turned abruptly, knocking the glass with her strawberry frappe so that, if Hawthorne hadn’t caught it, the sticky pink liquid would have spilled across the table.

“You’re just like those men at the club,” said Jessica in an angry whisper. “‘Trust me, believe me.’ All you want to do is get in my pants.”

“That’s absurd,” said Hawthorne.

“You’re sorry you didn’t fuck me when I was drunk. That’s what everyone thought anyway, right? So now you’re sorry you didn’t do it when you could. Don’t tell me you’re on my side.”

Hawthorne wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be angry, but it also seemed that she wanted to distract him from talking about LeBrun.

“So who was the man with Frank?”

Abruptly, Jessica slid out of the booth and stood up. “All right, Dr. Smart Guy, you had your chance. I’m walking.” She began to zip up her jacket.

Hawthorne thought how quickly she could lapse into what he imagined to be the tone, if not the language, of the strip clubs. “That’s okay, I won’t say any more. We’ll have a hard enough time getting back to Bishop’s Hill as it is.”

“Well, better you than LeBrun,” said Jessica.

–

Detective Leo Flynn hated driving in the snow. The back wheels of his Ford Escort slid a little to the left, then to the right, no matter what he did. He hadn’t expected it to be this bad. In Boston it had been raining. Between Routes 128 and 495 there was sleet. Since crossing the New Hampshire border on 93, he had felt as if he were driving deep into the interior of a snowman. Cars slid off the highway into the median or into ditches. Flynn watched them do it, half dismayed, half in awe. They had a silent grace, like dancers in a ballet. A tractor-trailer had overturned near Salem.

Every time Flynn crept by a car stuck up to its fenders he crossed himself. What a foolish way to spend his day off, he thought. If he didn’t go today, however, the whole business would have to be conducted over computers and the telephone. Nothing face-to-face, what Leo Flynn thought of as police work handled the old-fashioned way. A boy had been found dead in a swimming pool near Brewster. An autopsy had shown that he had been murdered just like Sal Procopio, Buddy Roussel, Mike Ritchie, and probably some other guys. The man sought for questioning was Larry Gaudette. And Flynn knew that name. Gaudette was the cousin of Francis LaBrecque and it had occurred to Flynn that maybe ice pick murders were a family business or one of those inherited skills like playing the piano or juggling five apples at once. Anyway, Flynn was driving up to Brewster to surprise the local coppers with his information about the other killings. So what that he was ignoring protocol; Leo Flynn was an old-fashioned guy. But if Jack Coughlin, the homicide captain, had wanted to slow him up, he couldn’t have done better than throwing this snowstorm in his face.

As for catching Gaudette, Flynn could help with that as well. He had talked to Gaudette’s friends and family in Manchester; he had talked to a couple of the guys whom Gaudette had worked for. Everyone liked him, which didn’t mean much—Flynn had met murderers who’d been the most popular guys on their blocks. And serial killers were often charmers—fellows who could talk their way into your living room. Still, Flynn hadn’t figured Gaudette for a killer and he wondered if these yokels had heard of Francis LaBrecque, because that’s what interested Flynn most: just where LaBrecque was hanging his hat and what sort of tricks he was up to.

Flynn had left home at eleven and it was now one-thirty and he’d only just passed Concord—normally a one-hour drive. Soon it would be getting dark, although all the cars had their headlights on already. The only pleasure was in watching the big sport utility vehicles whipping past him—the Explorers and Broncos and Wagoneers—then seeing them stuck in a ditch a few miles farther up the road with their owners staring at them stupidly, as if a portion of the true cross had turned out to be plastic. The salt trucks were out, of course, and the plows, but it was snowing so hard that the road got covered again in no time: two inches, four inches, six inches. And it occurred to Leo Flynn that the smart thing would be to pull off as soon as he could and buy some chains.

Three hours later, Flynn was still driving north. By now it was dark and the fat flakes seemed to fling the brilliance of his headlights back into his face. Through the snow-blanketed silence he could just hear the clink-clink of the chains he had bought south of Laconia. They had cost an arm and a leg, but they were cheaper than having his car towed out of a ditch or dealing with the ulcer that throbbed every time his car skidded, spun, slipped, or swerved. Now, though he was still creeping along, he was doing it in relative safety. Also, as far as he could figure from the radio, the snow would keep up all night and through Sunday, and at some point Flynn would have to drive home. “Major New England storm” was how the deejays described it with pride.

At the Brewster exit, Flynn slowed to a crawl and crept down the off-ramp. He hadn’t phoned the police station, because he wanted his arrival to be a surprise, but now he was thinking that everything he had done that day had been stupid. He should have called. He should have stayed in Boston. He should have done what he could do on the computers, which meant telling one of the nerds what he needed, since the only thing Leo Flynn knew how to do on a computer was play solitaire. He passed a Sunoco station just off the exit—a yellow glow in the murk. The orange revolving light of a plow eased past and he could see the sparks from where its great blade scraped the pavement. Only a few other cars were on the road, a few Jeeps and four-by-fours. He could hear the other guys on his homicide team saying to him on Monday, “You nuts? You did what?” Well, if he learned nothing new, then he’d keep his mouth shut. No reason to let others know that he had been this foolish.

It was six o’clock by the time Flynn got to Brewster. He’d asked for directions to the police station, which turned out to be a two-room shack next to a diner. The police station was dark and a note was tacked to the door that said, “Back at six.” On the same note was a message reading, “Please call me as soon as possible—Hawthorne.” The diner was closed. Flynn sat in his car and kept the windshield wipers going so he could see. It occurred to him that he should have bought boots at the same time he’d bought the chains. He wore a pair of low black shoes with leather soles. As he waited, Flynn listened to the radio announcements of canceled bingo games, dances, basketball games, lectures at the college, and church meetings, until he came to think that the entire state was shutting down.

Chief Moulton turned up forty-five minutes later wearing a heavy blue parka and a matching cap. He was driving a black Blazer with oversized tires. Moulton didn’t look like a cop, Flynn thought, more like a lumberjack. They shook hands outside the police station, then Moulton led the way in. Already snow got into Flynn’s shoes and he tried to dig it out with a finger. He and Moulton were about the same age, which was in Moulton’s favor because Flynn didn’t trust anyone under fifty anymore. They didn’t have the prerequisite historical knowledge.

“You drove all the way up from Boston today?” asked Moulton. His voice had a buttoned quality, as if he were trying to hide the humor in it.

Flynn tried to arrange his face into an expression that indicated he was perfectly happy about driving through a snowstorm. “It took a while. Anyway, it was my day off.”

Before they were settled in Moulton’s small office, the chief tried to call Hawthorne. He dialed the number, listened, then pushed the button down and dialed again. After a moment, he said, “Looks like the phones are out at Bishop’s Hill. I tried him earlier and left a message.”

Flynn knew nothing about Hawthorne or Bishop’s Hill but he attempted to look philosophical. Then he told Moulton about the three other killings, trying not to surprise him too much. After all, small-town cops didn’t have a lot of experience with murder.

“I’d already got reports on them from the state police,” said Moulton. “Lieutenant Sloan was telling me about them this morning, but I’m glad to have the details.”

“What about Francis LaBrecque?” asked Flynn. “Do you know anything about him? He’s the cousin of this guy Gaudette that you’re looking for.”

“Not looking for him anymore. A trapper found him in the Baker River before the storm hit—all frozen in the ice except for the heel of his shoe. We had a devil of a time cutting him loose. Poor guy had been turned into a giant ice cube. Anyway, we sent him down to Plymouth. We thought he might be in the neighborhood because his car showed up yesterday. Somebody drove it way down a logging road and left it.”

“What about LaBrecque?” asked Flynn, feeling some of his thunder had been diminished.

“I don’t know anything about any LaBrecque,” said Moulton. “But there’s a Frank LeBrun working at Bishop’s Hill. He’s a cousin of Gaudette’s as well. He bakes bread.”

–

Kate began to worry when she couldn’t get through to Bishop’s Hill on the phone. Her own lights had been flickering since five o’clock and she wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d gone out. All it took was for a branch to break a wire; in a storm like this, entire trees had been known to topple. And if the wires were broken in several places, they could take hours to fix.

Hawthorne had called from Plymouth early in the afternoon to see if she wanted anything from the supermarket. She might not be able to get to a store because of the weather. He had Jessica with him and they were about to drive back to Bishop’s Hill. And he had mentioned seeing LeBrun in town.

“I’d like to stop and talk to Chief Moulton in Brewster. LeBrun wrecked Evings’s office. Maybe I should talk to LeBrun as well.”

“Jessica told you about that?”

“Yes, but she won’t give me any details.”

That was when Kate began to worry. She herself didn’t like LeBrun, didn’t like his jokes, didn’t like how he looked at her, didn’t like his friendship with Jessica. Now Hawthorne wanted to go back to the school to talk to him. Kate thought that Hawthorne believed too much in talk, just as he put too much trust in his four-wheel-drive Subaru, that it would take him anywhere no matter how deep the snow got. She recalled how ready LeBrun had been to beat up Chip in the parking lot. What was talk to LeBrun? Nothing but telling jokes and being evasive. For that matter, what was talk to Hamilton Burke and the others who wanted to wreck the school? Only a vehicle of deception, something to make their untruths palatable. And the gossip and slander—all of it had been talk. Hawthorne’s innocence almost amused her. He came from a world where talk had value, where people told the truth as best they could. And although it exasperated Kate, it was also something she liked about him. Hawthorne believed that people were better for having the information, while the dishonest, mediocre, and fearful wanted concealment. Bishop’s Hill was full of subjects that people preferred not to discuss—the school’s decline, the pilfering, the bad teaching, the fact that the previous headmaster had gotten a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant. These were subjects best left in the dark.

Kate called the school and found that the phones weren’t working. Her car was in the garage, and when she turned on the light in her driveway she saw that at least two feet of snow had fallen. Clearly Hawthorne wouldn’t be able to come over that evening and the strength of Kate’s disappointment surprised her. She wanted the two of them to be together without interruption. And if Hawthorne spent the night, that would be wonderful. It seemed only a possibility, but even so she had put her best white sheets on the bed.

It was impossible for her to drive anywhere in snow this deep. Even if she could shovel the car out, she wouldn’t be able to get down the dirt roads and the plows wouldn’t clear them until the snow stopped. Did she really believe Hawthorne was in trouble or was she exaggerating the danger? Was it just because she wanted to see him? She went to the phone again, only to find there wasn’t even a dial tone. Then she began to collect candles and to see if her kerosene lamps were full. The wind was blowing and the temperature falling, although the snow showed no signs of letting up. She put the kerosene lamps on her kitchen table and went to find a flashlight. After ten minutes she had found two, and some batteries as well. The previous winter she had cross-country skied to Bishop’s Hill a few times, but never when the snow was two feet deep. The boots were in her bedroom closet and her skis were in the garage. As she walked to her bedroom, she began to reason with herself. Bishop’s Hill was three miles away and she would hardly be able to shuffle along. Did she really want to fight her way through a blizzard?

–

Hawthorne had gotten back to Bishop’s Hill around four-thirty. A plow had been through, but not for some time, because nearly another foot of snow covered the road. For the last six miles from Brewster Center he had passed no other cars. Twice he had drawn to a halt so Jessica could clear his windshield. Hawthorne had stopped in Brewster, looking for Chief Moulton, but there had been a note on the door saying that he wouldn’t be back till six. So Hawthorne had scribbled a message, then pushed ahead toward the school.

“What do you think happened to Scott?” Hawthorne asked as they drove along Antelope Road toward Bishop’s Hill. “Do you think LeBrun had something to do with it?”

But Jessica had slid down in her seat and didn’t appear to hear. Hawthorne considered the adolescent’s ability to leap forward into adulthood when treated as a child and to leap back into childhood when treated as an adult.

“Do you think he threw your kitten into the pool?”

Again Jessica wouldn’t answer. Hawthorne asked himself what he knew about LeBrun. The cook had been hired by Skander on Gaudette’s recommendation before Hawthorne arrived at Bishop’s Hill. After LeBrun had swung at Chip, Hawthorne had run a check on him but he had learned nothing. The man seemingly had no record. Still, Hawthorne was increasingly aware of a volatility that he found disturbing, as if LeBrun had no inhibitions, no moral or ethical controls. What was LeBrun’s background? And he found himself remembering the tack that one of the students had found in his bread back at the beginning of the school year.

The students—there were still a few who needed Hawthorne’s attention in addition to Jessica. A dozen or so remained at the school. Clearly, they needed to be fed and cared for. A number of the faculty had also left and so, ideally, the last students could be put together in one of the dormitory cottages. Ruth Standish and Alice Beech were still at the school, along with Bill Dolittle. Perhaps they could all camp out in Pierce, and soup and sandwiches could be brought from the kitchen. Hawthorne again wondered how many of those who had left would be coming back after Christmas.

“Do you think you’ll be coming back in January?” he asked Jessica.

She wouldn’t answer. She seemed hypnotized by the swirling mass of snowflakes.

“You have to trust me,” said Hawthorne. “Really, I mean you no harm. If you’re scared, then maybe I can help, but I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jessica glanced at him. In the lights from the dashboard he saw tears on her cheeks. He wanted to reach out and touch her but he was afraid it would be misunderstood.

“There are things I’ve got to do,” she said, “and you can’t help me. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is.”

Hawthorne took the turnoff to the school, crossing the bridge over the Baker River. A small truck or four-by-four had passed that way and Hawthorne tried to stay in its tracks down the middle of the road. Even so, the Subaru skidded. When he passed through the gates, he could see the yellow light from the bell tower on top of Emerson, but very faintly. Although a few other lights were on, the school appeared deserted. The truck seemed to have turned off toward the school garage. Hawthorne wondered who would have driven up to the school in this weather and if it could have been LeBrun. He plunged the Subaru into the white unbroken surface that he hoped was the driveway leading to Emerson, though it could easily have been the front lawn. Even as he accelerated, he knew the car wouldn’t make it. For twenty yards it veered from side to side, then came to a stop. When he put his foot on the gas, the tires spun but didn’t go forward. The car was about a hundred and fifty yards from the front steps.

“I’m afraid this is it,” said Hawthorne. “We’ll have to walk.”

“I should have stayed in Plymouth,” said Jessica.

“I’ll go first and you step in my footprints. Then you can cut through Emerson and Douglas over to your cottage.”

Even pushing open the car door was an effort. Snow blew into Hawthorne’s face and he tucked his chin into his collar. He waited by the hood as Jessica climbed out and waded toward him. She appeared as a white shape rather than a person. He held out his hand to her but she refused to take it. “Just get moving,” she said.

The snow reached above Hawthorne’s knees. He half shuffled, then took big steps, lifting his knees high like a heron in a pond. He could hear Jessica grumbling behind him. Actually, he found the snow invigorating. Its drama outweighed the aggravation. Then he thought of Bennett and how he had to speak to him. Hawthorne was positive that Bennett was mixed up with the destruction of Evings’s office, which meant that he was also mixed up with LeBrun. Perhaps it could wait till morning. But could LeBrun wait?

Hawthorne kept his hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat. Twice he lost his balance and almost fell. When he reached Emerson Hall, he was sweating, while his feet felt frozen. He climbed through the smooth surface of snow on the steps, hanging onto the railing. Again he nearly lost his balance. Jessica fell and he helped her up. She wore no gloves and her hands were like ice. The front door of Emerson was unlocked. Once inside, Hawthorne stamped his feet; the sound echoed in the rotunda. Jessica stamped her feet behind him. Her cheeks were red and her hair was full of snow.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you,” she said. “I’m just scared and, besides that, I’m not a very nice person. Thanks for lunch, at least.” She stared down at her purple boots.

“It’s not true you’re not a nice person.” Hawthorne wanted to say there was nothing to be afraid of but he wondered if that was true. Instead he told her to get over to Pierce. “I’ll call and see what they want to do about dinner. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with the others in the dorm.”

“I’ve got to feed Lucky. I’ll just stop by the kitchen for some milk.”

“Do you want to tell me anything about LeBrun?”

“He scares me, he scares me a lot, and he should scare you too.” The snow in her hair was melting and glistened in the light.

“Who was the man he was with in Plymouth?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Jessica turned away and Hawthorne listened to her footsteps growing fainter. He had an impulse to call to her, to keep her by his side. Then he wondered, What do I know about what’s rational and irrational in situations like this? All those years as an academic and working in treatment centers—they had been no preparation for what was happening at Bishop’s Hill. Wouldn’t Bennett be desperate? He had always thought of him as foolish and henpecked. But was he also sly and calculating? Surely if he had been embezzling money, then it was in his best interest to appear harmless.

The office door was open, although Hilda was nowhere in evidence. The red blinker was flashing on the answering machine. The first five messages concerned cancellations because of the weather—deliveries that couldn’t be made, a meeting that wouldn’t be held. The sixth was from Chief Moulton. “Call me as soon as you can, professor. I’ve got something to tell you.”

By now it was nearly five o’clock. Standing at Hilda’s desk, Hawthorne picked up the telephone. It was dead.

Hawthorne removed his coat, shook off the melted snow, and hung it over a chair. Stepping into his office, he smelled peppermint and almost expected to see Hilda appear out of a dark corner. Then his attention was taken by the computer on the table across from his desk. The screen saver showed different paintings by Leonardo da Vinci. Hawthorne couldn’t understand why the machine was on, since he had turned it off before leaving that morning. Then he noticed a scattered pile of diskettes. Nearing the table, Hawthorne saw the diskettes had been cut in half. Despite his shock, he was impressed by how neatly it had been done, as if someone had tidily destroyed them with garden shears. He took the mouse and clicked his way into the file manager program. Right away, he saw that all the Bishop’s Hill files had been removed, not only the students’ files but the payroll, expenses, budget, the financial records, everything he would need for the audit scheduled for Wednesday. Copies were in the bursar’s office, as well as in accounting, though those too might have been destroyed. Additional copies, however, were in his quarters, where he had a laptop.

Quickly Hawthorne returned to the outer office to get his coat. He needed to make sure that his laptop was safe. It contained the evidence about the pilfering and fake orders. No, not pilfering, thought Hawthorne, theft. And without that information the audit would be useless. As for Peter Roberts, the invisible student, a number of teachers remembered him from previous years, but there was no record of his ever having been at Bishop’s Hill.

Putting on his coat, Hawthorne hurried out the door of the office, only to bump into Fritz Skander, who was just entering. They both stepped back, startled.

“Thank God you’re safe,” said Skander. “I was terribly worried. How awful to be stuck out on Antelope Road and be forced to spend the night in your car. And with that girl as well. I should never have let you drive into Plymouth in the first place. Far too much confidence is placed in four-wheel-drive vehicles, if you ask my opinion. I was just coming to see if there was any sign of you.”

It occurred to Hawthorne that Skander was making these rather pointless remarks in order to give himself time to think. “I made it most of the way back. My car’s out near the end of the driveway.”

“And you’re not even wearing boots. Really, Jim, you’re hardly equipped for our New Hampshire winters. As soon as the snow stops I’ll have to take you into Plymouth and get you properly outfitted.” Skander wore a dark brown parka and an Irish fisherman’s hat. He began to unzip his coat. There were great lumps of snow on his boots. His cheeks were flushed and his smile had a fixed quality that struck Hawthorne as unusual.

“I’ve boots in my apartment. You were looking for me?”

“I must confess I was worried. Just last winter a fellow from Rumney froze to death when his car got stuck in a drift and he ran out of gas. Hendricks or Hennessy—I can’t recall the name. For a while I knew it as well as my own. But I was also hoping to catch dear Hilda. It seems that I missed her. I expect she marched off across the snow without even thinking of it. Native-born, of course—they never mind the snow.”

“Where are the students?”

“The ones who’re left have gathered over in Pierce with Alice. They’re toasting marshmallows and having a grand time.”

They were standing in the hallway. Skander removed his hat and shook off the snow. He continued to smile and his eyes seemed bright with pleasure.

“Have you been in my office?” asked Hawthorne.

“I just got here this minute.”

“Somebody destroyed my computer files on the school.”

Skander’s smile faded. “Good grief, how awful. You didn’t think I did it, did you?”

“I don’t know who did it.” Hawthorne recalled the smell of peppermint.

“Show me. What a dreadful thing to happen.”

Skander followed Hawthorne into his office. The lights flickered, dimming, then brightening again. Hawthorne pointed to the destroyed disks. “And the files have been erased from the hard drive as well.”

Skander seemed shocked. He picked up several of the floppies and turned them over. “This is a criminal act. It must have been the same person who wrecked Evings’s office.” He looked back at Hawthorne and his eyes were full of concern. “How dreadful for our friendship that we should come to distrust each other.”

“Surely you have to see that you’re a suspect.” Hawthorne didn’t take his eyes from Skander’s face.

“I know this is hard for you,” Skander said earnestly. “What with Clifford and Scott and those spiteful things old Pendergast told you. There’s nothing worse than conflicting stories. But believe me, I’m counting the minutes till the auditor arrives. Don’t worry, I won’t hold a grudge. You’re doing exactly what you should do. You need to get to the bottom of this. I’ve already explained that Pendergast had every reason to hate me. Who knows what other unsavory tricks he’d been playing.”

“Pendergast raped that girl,” said Hawthorne. “Even if she submitted willingly. And you became an accessory by not going to the police. It’s quite likely there’ll be charges against you.”

Skander put his hat back on. It was crooked and gave him a clownish aspect even though he appeared to be in pain. “The awful thing was that she was already dead. I knew I was taking a risk, but if the police had been brought in, it would have damaged the school tremendously. Of course, I was frightened, but there was no way to bring Gail back. A wonderful girl, in her own way. And so Pendergast was persuaded that it would be in the best interest of all concerned . . .”

“Did you persuade him?”

“I spoke to him but the actual decision came from someone on the board.”

“Hamilton Burke?”

“I’d rather not place the responsibility on his shoulders unless I absolutely must. You don’t know how hard it was for us all. But Mr. Burke was the one who came to me and asked if I would consider being interim headmaster. I must say I was flattered. Naturally, I had spoken to Mr. Burke on several occasions but I’d no idea that he had taken any particular notice of my existence. It was quite a step up for Hilda and me, though of course temporary. I had thought that Roger would get the appointment—he had lobbied for it quite actively—and I believe he was a tad disappointed. But there was some question about his wife, that Roger’s appointment, even if only for a short time, would give the school a greater church affiliation than a few board members thought prudent.”

Hawthorne considered how Skander’s explanations made everything even less intelligible. “Did you know that Burke was in negotiations with the Galileo Corporation to sell Bishop’s Hill?”

Skander tilted his head, as if he found Hawthorne’s question amusing. “You must see that the board has to engage in contingency planning. What if you’re not able to put the school back on its feet? Every month the interest on the loans comes due. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Burke wasn’t talking to half a dozen possible buyers. He hasn’t confided in me. But there’s always talk, of course, and believe me, the subject is upsetting to everyone. The closing of the school, the breakup of our little family. Is this what your meeting is to be about on Monday? No doubt it’s an excellent idea to have these matters discussed. For my part, I intend to do everything I can to make certain that Bishop’s Hill stays open.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” said Hawthorne. There was nothing more to say for the moment. All he wanted was to go to his apartment and see if his laptop was safe.

Skander looked delighted. He reached out to take Hawthorne’s hand but Hawthorne stepped back. “But you don’t entirely disbelieve me, that’s the main thing. When the audit is completed, you’ll see how wrong you’ve been. Talk to Mr. Burke and the rest of the board. I don’t want to speak too soon, but I really think—thanks to you, of course—that Bishop’s Hill is almost out of danger and I plan to say as much at the meeting on Monday.”

They were walking out of the office. Clearly, the audit would prove Skander’s innocence or guilt—unless, that is, the records had been destroyed. As for Peter Roberts, Hawthorne would talk to a lawyer. Yet he dreaded it. Any investigation would necessarily lead to Pendergast and Gail Jensen, which would mean a storm of publicity and criminal charges. However, there was nothing else to be done.

“By the way,” asked Hawthorne, “have you seen Frank?”

“I’m actually on my way over to the kitchen right now. I think he means to put together something for dinner. I must say I’m impressed by how helpful he’s been.”

Hawthorne decided to push Skander a little. “You know, he first told me that he hardly knew who Scott McKinnon was. Now several people have told me that he knew Scott quite well. I wonder if we can fully trust him.”

Skander chuckled. “There you go again, playing detective. Really, you should leave these matters to the police. Frank is surely eccentric but he’s one of the best people we have around here. Look at how he’s working to make something special for us tonight. I’m sure he has a surprise planned.”

–

Five minutes later Hawthorne was hurrying down the hall toward his apartment. He began to go outside again, then decided to cut through Emerson to Adams Hall. Fifteen feet separated the doors between the two buildings but Hawthorne often avoided this path. He liked approaching his quarters from across the terrace, where the view of the mountains was especially splendid, and this route required what he saw as uselessly going up and down two flights of stairs. As he hurried down the hall, he again noticed the lights flicker.