Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Hawthorne crouched down in the closet as LeBrun went up and down the hall whispering his jokes. “Hey, professor, what’s the difference between a Canuck and a three-day-old turd?” Then LeBrun chuckled. His footsteps faded away, then returned. Why is a Canuck like a tampon? Had he heard of the Canuck who had to use three rubbers at once? LeBrun’s laugh was a noise deep in his throat, half laugh, half growl. Several times he came into the room where Hawthorne was hiding, bumped into a desk, knocked over a chair, then went out again.

“Hey, professor, did you hear about the Canuck who shoved two aspirin up his dick so he wouldn’t get the clap? How about the Canuck who went to Paris and jacked off the Eiffel Tower? Where are you, professor! Answer me! You lousy fuck, you’re not making me feel good. I got work, professor. You’re making me waste the whole fucking evening! I don’t need to kill you easy, I can kill you so it hurts!”

LeBrun came into the classroom again, stumbled into another desk, and swore. He picked it up and threw it so it crashed against others. Something—a window—shattered. He went back into the hall. He had stopped telling jokes. Hawthorne could hear his boots tramping up and down the hall. He imagined him pausing at the doorways and listening. Ten minutes went by. At last Hawthorne heard LeBrun walk down the hall and open the fire door. Hawthorne still didn’t move. He imagined LeBrun taking off his boots and sneaking back. Another ten minutes went by, then ten more. Hawthorne crawled out of the closet and moved quietly to the hall. He was afraid even to breathe. A cold wind blew through the broken window. Hawthorne listened at the doorway. Then he began to move down the hall in the opposite direction from where LeBrun had gone, making no noise. The darkness seemed full of shapes. At every doorway he expected LeBrun to leap out at him. He had no weapon, not even the flashlight. When he reached the fire door leading to the stairwell, he paused to listen again. There was nothing. Quietly he opened the door and hurried down the stairs, continuing past the first floor down to the exit. Hawthorne pushed open the door and the cold air was like ice against his sweat-drenched shirt. He ran out into the snow.

Twelve

The left-hand side of the double doors of Stark Chapel stood open and indentations led down the steps through the snow. Hawthorne was sure the door had been closed when he had passed by sometime after six. It was now after eight and the snow was falling as hard as ever. The electricity still hadn’t come on but there was a reddish glow from the chapel windows, a circle of radiance through the stained glass. Without his glasses, Hawthorne’s sight was blurry. Objects had lost their precise edges and seemed to merge with one another. His spare pair was in his desk in Emerson but he lacked the courage to go back and get them.

He was breathing heavily. He had thought he would die up there on the second floor of Emerson Hall. LeBrun’s raving, his intensity, his madness, had nearly paralyzed him. Hawthorne’s body felt as if its very center had been ripped away. For nearly an hour after the terrifying encounter with LeBrun he had stayed in Adams Hall—not even in his apartment but in a dark classroom on the second floor—trying to recover. He thought of Bennett’s remark that he would be safer running into the forest, into the deep snow, that they both would. But Hawthorne still believed that the more he could increase LeBrun’s self-doubt and irrationality, the better the chance Hawthorne would have of stopping him. In addition, he was worried about Jessica—and even Skander. LeBrun must have them both, and an attempt had to be made to rescue them. As he thought this, however, Hawthorne’s fear increased. Perhaps he could find somebody to go back into Emerson with him. Even Bennett might help now that he knew how brutal LeBrun could be.

Hawthorne worked his way up the chapel steps. Because of the light, he assumed somebody was inside. When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back along the driveway at Emerson. Up in the attic he saw a dim glow that shifted from one window to another. LeBrun was prowling up there; most likely that was where he had Fritz and Jessica. Even the suggestion of LeBrun’s presence in the attic of Emerson Hall made Hawthorne’s heart beat faster.

Hawthorne entered the vestibule outside the chapel and kicked the snow from his boots. The noise was loud and he started. Cautiously he opened the door and stepped inside. The steeply banked rows of wooden pews descended toward the apse. At the foot of the center aisle, in front of the altar, a bright light pointed up at an angle toward a stained-glass window where a bearded disciple in a blue robe held a fishing net. Hawthorne’s nearsightedness transformed the light to a blurred shimmering, and it wasn’t for another moment that he saw a figure sitting in the front row facing the altar, slightly bent forward as if praying or meditating.

Briefly, Hawthorne was afraid that it might be LeBrun, but the coat was not LeBrun’s and the person seemed smaller. Hawthorne made his way down the steps of the aisle, which were carpeted, so that his boots made no noise. When he had gone halfway, he saw that the light on the floor was a flashlight and that the figure in the front row was a man sitting completely still, as if his whole being were concentrated on the altar and the silver crucifix that stood upon it. The chapel was silent. Not even the wind made a noise and it seemed to Hawthorne that he could hear his own heartbeat. As he drew close to the man, he saw that the flashlight was his own, the one he had dropped when he had been struggling with LeBrun, and a second later he realized the figure was Roger Bennett. For a moment Hawthorne was full of hope.

“Roger,” he called, “it’s me, Hawthorne.” He squinted, trying to make the figure and the light at his feet come into focus.

Bennett still didn’t move. He wore a bright blue down jacket and sat with his hands in his lap. He seemed riveted so completely on the altar in front of him that he had no awareness of Hawthorne’s approach. His hair in the glow of the flashlight appeared golden.

“Roger,” said Hawthorne, and he reached out to put a hand on Bennett’s shoulder.

At first Bennett appeared to be pulling away, but so hesitantly that Hawthorne was unsure. Bennett leaned forward with his head tilting and his whole body turning slowly, not looking at Hawthorne but continuing forward, until suddenly Hawthorne knew that Bennett was going to fall and he reached out to grab his arm and missed. Almost gracefully, Bennett rolled off the pew, turning and landing on his back with his arms flopping out at his sides, his head banging against the carpet and looking up at Hawthorne with a grin so horrible and demented that it was all Hawthorne could do not to scream. Bennett lay on the red runner, his eyes wide and unfocused. He was dead but his grin was huge, like the grin on the painting of Ambrose Stark, an open-mouthed leer, a homicidal clown grin, with his white teeth protruding over his lower lip as if he were about to guffaw or sing. Hawthorne snatched up the flashlight from the floor and pointed the beam at Bennett’s face. At first he was unable to move, but then, bending over, he saw that Bennett’s grin had been contrived by shoving toothpicks between his upper teeth at the corners of his mouth, which stretched his lips into this imitation of humor. And broken toothpicks had also been used to prop open Bennett’s eyelids, making him appear wide-eyed and manic. A lock of blond hair lay diagonally across his forehead. There was no sign of violence, no blood, nothing to show how he had died. On Bennett’s feet were great green rubber boots with their toes pointing toward the chapel ceiling. Hawthorne had no doubt as to who had killed him. He felt his horror increase.

There was a noise to Hawthorne’s right, followed by a cry, a high wailing. Stumbling back, Hawthorne saw that the Reverend Bennett had come through a door at the rear of the chapel. She was staring at her husband with one hand over her mouth even as her cry continued to echo through the open space. Hawthorne stepped to one side but he felt that he was invisible to the woman. She hurried forward, clumsily because of her weight, then threw herself at her husband, dropping to her knees and grabbing Bennett’s shoulders, trying to pull him up, even pull him to his feet. Bennett’s head had fallen back and he seemed to be staring up at his wife. The toothpicks stuck from his teeth like tiny fangs. His eyes seemed full of cheer. Hawthorne wanted to remove the toothpicks but he couldn’t make himself get any closer. In any case, the chaplain paid no attention to him. She released her husband so he tumbled backward, then she buried her face in his lap and sobbed with great gasps, which shook her body and shook Bennett’s as well, as if he still had life in him after all.

Hawthorne set the flashlight on the first pew, then retreated up the aisle, trying not to stumble. He could do nothing here, give no comfort, make nothing better. He opened the door and stepped out of the chapel.

Again he plunged into the snow, making his way along Stark Hall, skirting Emerson, and going along beside Douglas toward the dormitory cottages and the faculty houses that lay beyond. Twice Hawthorne fell, then got up again, his jacket white with snow. He thought he might be on the road that ran in front of the cottages but he couldn’t be sure. There was no sign of his tracks from earlier. He kept seeing LeBrun shoving toothpicks between Bennett’s teeth and under his eyelids to fabricate a smile. The work appeared to be that of the devil himself. But Hawthorne didn’t believe in the devil. It was sickness that Hawthorne had seen and he had to repeat this to himself.

Candles were burning in Pierce, where the nurse and the remaining students were weathering the storm. Hawthorne heard the sound of a guitar and voices singing. The high voices of the girls seemed to make shapes in the air. Hawthorne wanted to go into Pierce and stay until the storm was over and the police arrived. Then he thought of getting Tank Donoso to go with him. Hawthorne pressed forward through the snow. Cowardice, he thought again. He was full of cowardice.

Shepherd and Slocomb, the next two cottages, were dark, but in Latham there was a faint light visible in a second-story window where Bill Dolittle had his studio apartment. Hawthorne clambered through the drifts and made his way up the front steps. The door was unlocked. He entered the dark hallway and blundered across the living room to the stairs. Once on the second floor he wasn’t sure which door belonged to Dolittle, but by crouching down he could see a glimmer of light through the crack beneath a door at the end of the hall. He knocked.

“Bill, it’s me. Jim. I need your help.”

Hawthorne waited.

“Bill, Roger Bennett’s dead. I need you to help me.”

There was no answer. Hawthorne knocked again and waited. After another moment, he ducked down. The gap under the door was dark.

“Damn it, Bill, answer me!”

There was still no response. Hawthorne turned the knob but the door was locked. He pushed against it, hitting it with his shoulder. The door stayed closed. He wondered if he had been mistaken, if his eyes without their glasses had been playing tricks. After another minute, Hawthorne hurried back down the stairs. Once outside, he paused by a small evergreen and looked back up at the window. He kept telling himself that he was in a hurry and had no time to waste. As he was about to leave and make his way toward the faculty houses, he saw a flare of a match reflected in the glass as whoever was inside again lit a candle. For a moment Hawthorne was overcome by anger. He wanted to go back upstairs and kick down the door. Dolittle’s cowardice became his own, his own wish to go someplace safe and dark, to conceal himself as he had earlier concealed himself in Adams. He hated the temptation that Dolittle presented. As he stared up at the flickering light in Dolittle’s window, Hawthorne urged himself to make the sensible choice, to retreat to some protected spot until the storm passed.

Instead, he turned toward the faculty houses. He couldn’t afford his hesitation: He had to find Jessica. He had to search out someone who could help rescue her or he had to rescue her himself. Yet whenever he thought of returning to Emerson he felt weak with fear.

The first of the faculty houses lay about fifty yards beyond the last dormitory cottage and was occupied by Gene Strauss. It was a shadowy two-story shape in the falling snow, no more than the outline of a house. The house was dark and there was no sign of candlelight. At times when Strauss was away doing admissions work—meeting with school heads and talking to prospective students—his wife and daughter went with him. Even so, Hawthorne climbed the front porch and hammered on the door. He waited and hammered again. He tried the door but it was locked. Strauss had gone hunting in the fall and probably had a rifle. Hawthorne told himself that he should break into the house and look for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the glass and force his way in.

Hawthorne made his way back down the steps and waded through the snow to the second house, where Ted Wrigley lived with his wife, Doris, and baby daughter. Wrigley had told Hawthorne that he would be away until Sunday night or Monday morning, although he promised to be at the faculty meeting. Hawthorne saw a light in the window. He climbed the front steps and knocked. It was possible that Wrigley had a cell phone, even a gun. Not for the first time, Hawthorne thought of the pistol that Krueger had urged on him.

The door opened a crack. Doris Wrigley stood in the hall holding a flashlight. “Is that you, Jim? You must be freezing. Come in here where it’s warm. I’ve built a fire.”

Hawthorne scraped the snow from his boots and entered the hallway. There was the smell of popcorn and wood smoke.

“Is the whole campus dark?” asked Doris.

“Everything.”

“And of course the plows haven’t been through. We’ll be lucky to see them before Monday.” She led the way into the living room. Doris Wrigley was bundled up in heavy sweaters and her baby, who was a little more than a year old, was sleeping on a blanket in front of the fire. A dozen candles were scattered around the room on tables and bookcases.

“So is this a social visit?” asked Doris. She and her husband had been moderately friendly and helpful to Hawthorne throughout the fall—straddling the fence until they could judge whether he would be successful.

“Do you have a cell phone, by any chance?” asked Hawthorne.

“Ted has one that he keeps in the car but he’s got it with him. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow, but what with the storm . . .”

“What about a gun, do you have a gun?”

Doris stared up at him and all at once she saw the fear that was in him and some of it reached into her. She took a step back. “No, we’ve nothing. What do you want it for?”

Hawthorne thought of the story he could tell her and how she would be terrified. Yet he could think of no lie that would be reassuring. “I’d just feel more comfortable . . .”

“What’s wrong, what’s going on?”

Hawthorne backed into the hall. He felt foolish and ineffectual.

Doris followed him. “Tell me what’s the matter. Why do you want a gun?”

“I’m sorry I upset you. It’s just our concern about Larry Gaudette. Stay in the house and you’ll be all right.” Hawthorne quickly opened the door. As he descended the steps he saw Doris’s outline at the glass as she stared after him. He had done nothing but frighten her. He heard the clicking of locks. Then the shade was pulled.

Herb Frankfurter lived in the next house with his wife and two daughters. Hawthorne pushed his way to Frankfurter’s door and knocked on the glass. He was the faculty member who seemed to dislike Hawthorne the most, presumably because Hawthorne had interfered with what he saw as the prerogatives of his twenty-year employment at Bishop’s Hill. He never talked to Hawthorne if he could help it and avoided his glance in the hall. He also had skipped several of the faculty meetings until Hawthorne told him that he had to attend. Yet Frankfurter also seemed indifferent to the rest of the faculty members and had no friends among them.

The door opened and Frankfurter stood back with a flashlight in one hand and his cane in the other. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. He seemed to find nothing odd about Hawthorne’s sudden appearance.

“Can I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

Frankfurter moved aside to permit Hawthorne to enter. He made a polite gesture toward the living room but the expression on his face was ironic.

“Do you have a cellular phone?” asked Hawthorne.

“It’s broken, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“What’s going on?”

“Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and I’m afraid he’ll try to kill Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Frankfurter’s eyes widened slightly, but other than that he showed no surprise. “Where are they?”

“Over in Emerson. If you had a cellular phone, I’d call the police . . .”

“So you’re thinking of tackling him yourself?” Frankfurter permitted himself a sardonic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have a gun. My brother down in Laconia borrowed my shotgun and several hunting rifles and he hasn’t returned them.”

Frankfurter spoke calmly, as if what was a crisis for Hawthorne wasn’t a crisis for him.

“Will you come with me back to Emerson? Maybe we can do something.”

Frankfurter lifted his cane, showing it to Hawthorne. “I’m afraid that’s not part of my job description, Mr. Headmaster. Anyway, with this knee, I doubt that I could even make it through the snow.”

“Fritz and Jessica are in danger.”

“If this fellow’s already killed Roger, then I’d prefer to stay out of it. I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t do anything for you.” Frankfurter’s voice grew harder. “But go ahead, go after him yourself. I’d like to see what happens.”

“Do you really hate me so much?” asked Hawthorne, more surprised than hurt.

Frankfurter had his flashlight pointed downward, where it made a bright puddle of light on the braided rug. “I don’t hate you. You’re a blip in my landscape. You simply don’t exist for me.”

“We work together. We both live here. Surely, you feel some obligation . . .”

“I feel no obligation to risk my life. As for our working together, that’s no more than an accident of fate. I don’t know why this fellow’s gone on a rampage, but I’m sure none of it would have happened if you hadn’t come to Bishop’s Hill.”

“I thought you were a friend of Fritz’s.”

“Friendship has its limits. Besides that, I find his ambitions boring. I’m sorry.” Frankfurter looked uncertain for a moment. “Who am I to go after a killer, or who are you, for that matter? Stay out of it. Wait for the storm to finish and then call the police. Why get yourself killed?”

“And Fritz and the girl?”

“What about them? Look after your own skin.” A trace of anger crept into Frankfurter’s voice. “Skander hates you. He’s been talking behind your back all fall. You were a fool to trust him.”

“You might have told me about it.”

“It was none of my business.”

Hawthorne turned and left the house. He swore that if he and the school survived he would remove Frankfurter from Bishop’s Hill the first chance he got. Then he began to calm down. Frankfurter was afraid and vengeful, but perhaps he wasn’t wrong.

At Skander’s house there were lights in the downstairs windows. Hawthorne briefly imagined that LeBrun might be having a joke, that he would find Skander seated before his fire. But even before he knocked on the door he knew that wasn’t true. As he waited he began to think about returning to Emerson Hall. He told himself that LeBrun was sick, he wasn’t evil. But the thought of going back seemed beyond bearing.

Hilda Skander opened the door. When she saw who it was she looked frightened but she didn’t say anything. “May I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

“What do you want?”

“Fritz is in danger. Do you have a cellular phone?”

Hilda stood aside. “No, nothing like that.” Her blue denim jumper and pink sweater made her look like a middle-aged eight-year-old.

Hawthorne entered and looked into the living room. Someone stood before the fireplace, where a small fire was burning. Squinting his eyes, Hawthorne saw that it was Chip Campbell. He held a whiskey glass and glanced at Hawthorne. The room was smoky and the candles flickered.

“I got here earlier and got stuck,” said Chip, “looks like I’ll be spending the night. You haven’t seen Fritz by any chance, have you?”

Instead of answering, Hawthorne turned back to Hilda. “Do you have a gun?”

“No,” said Hilda, her voice almost a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” said Chip, not moving from the fireplace.

Hawthorne realized that they were both scared, that they had been scared when he entered. “Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and he’s got Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Hilda pressed her closed hands to her chest.

“That can’t be true,” said Campbell, but he didn’t say it as if he believed it.

“LeBrun killed Scott McKinnon. I think he’s in Emerson with Jessica and Fritz. Bennett’s body is in the chapel.” And as he said it, Hawthorne again saw Bennett’s dead grin. “You have to help me. We can get Dolittle and maybe Tank Donoso. The four of us should be able to stop him.” The candlelight, coupled with Hawthorne’s weak eyes, created a sense of unreality. Hawthorne heard his own desperation and the absurdity of his plan.

Chip walked unsteadily to the couch and sat down. He wore jeans and a dark sweatshirt. He rattled the ice cubes in the glass and took a drink. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

Hilda took hold of Hawthorne’s arm. “It’s not true, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is.” He turned to Chip. “You’re mixed up in this. You’ve known what Fritz and Bennett have been doing.”

Chip held up his hands in mock innocence. “You got me wrong. I’ve nothing to do with this place. You fired me, remember? Besides, I’ll be moving out to Seattle in January.”

“You put those clippings about San Diego in people’s mailboxes.”

“That was Bennett.”

“But he told you. And I bet he and Skander told you about the painting and phone calls and bags of rotten food. And you probably wrote that letter to Kate’s ex-husband.”

Chip looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “I had no reason to be nice to you.”

“And you probably knew about selling Bishop’s Hill to the Galileo Corporation. Why didn’t you come to me? You’re no better than they are.”

“You can’t prove I knew anything. Some West Coast hotshot telling us what to do, planning to stick us in a book—how could you expect anybody to help you? You got dumped on us by the board. Nobody asked us if we wanted you or not.”

“I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not leaving this house. I’ve already tangled with LeBrun, and anyway,” said Chip, lifting his glass, “I’m looped.”

Hilda sat down. Her face was buried in her hands and she was weeping.

“You’re a coward,” said Hawthorne.

Chip took another drink and leaned back. “You’re right, I am. There are times when cowardice makes sense.”

“Are you going to let Fritz get killed?”

Chip looked embarrassed. “I’m not a cowboy. Before you fired me I was nothing but a bad history teacher. LeBrun has no rules. I’m frightened just talking about him. He’s a monster.”

The last of the faculty houses belonged to Betty Sherman, and her teenage son, who had been born with Down’s syndrome. Betty’s husband had been dead for some years. He had been much older than his wife and had taught history at the school. The boy was their only child. Hawthorne had seen him several times—a chubby boy both sweet and heartbreaking, who cheerfully introduced himself to everyone as Tommy.

Hawthorne climbed her snowy steps and rapped on the glass so it rattled. First Tommy came to the door, then his mother. “Jim, what’s the matter? You look awful.”

“Do you have a cellular phone?”

“No . . .” Betty wore a dark skirt and a dark long-sleeved blouse.

“What about a gun?”

“Of course not. What’s wrong?”

“Frank LeBrun’s killed Roger Bennett. He’s also got Fritz and Jessica Weaver captive in Emerson Hall. I’m sorry to frighten you.”

“Oh, no.” Betty put one hand over her mouth. Her son looked at her quizzically, then his face took on a worried expression.

“I don’t know what to do. You’re the last person I can talk to.” Hawthorne felt exhausted. “People are scared. Understandably. And there’s no way to get out of here, because of the snow. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

“But you can’t let Jessica stay there. God knows what he’s doing to her.”

“He’s trying to get up his nerve to kill her.” It was warm in the hallway. The snow began to melt on Hawthorne’s jacket. He took off his gloves and ski cap.

Betty’s round face seemed to shrink with distress. “Is he the one who killed Scott?”

Hawthorne nodded.

“I can give you a knife. I have an old hunting knife of my husband’s.”

Hawthorne imagined trying to attack LeBrun with a hunting knife and almost smiled. “I wouldn’t stand a chance fighting him. Maybe I can talk to him. I don’t know. I don’t even have a light.”

“Wait a minute,” said Betty. She hurried off. Tommy stayed in the hall grinning at Hawthorne. A kerosene lamp on the hall table was smoking. Hawthorne lowered the wick.

“No lights,” said Tommy. “They went out.”

“That’s true enough,” said Hawthorne.

“No lights,” Tommy repeated and his grin widened.

Hawthorne tried to look affable, but he was tired and fear filled his heart. He had to talk to LeBrun, convince him to free Jessica and Skander. He had to take advantage of LeBrun’s own instability. He had to try, even if he had no chance of success.

Betty Sherman hurried back into the hall. Going to the table, she put down a flashlight, a hunting knife, and a crowbar. “That’s the best I can do. I’d go with you but I’d be more of a hindrance than a help. And I’m afraid of leaving Tommy . . .” Her sentence trailed off.

Hawthorne looked at the knife. “That’s okay.” He felt that if he touched the articles on the table, there would be no turning back. He remembered his wife calling his name from the burning hallway at Wyndham. Although faint, the sound filled his mind. Hawthorne picked up the crowbar and the flashlight. Then, after a moment, he took the hunting knife as well. “I guess I’ll go back,” he said. “If the telephone starts working again, make sure you call the police.”

–

Jessica lay on her stomach in the attic of Emerson Hall, hog-tied with a torn-up sheet. It was dark except for a sputtering candle near the door to the bell tower, but Jessica didn’t mind the dark. It meant that LeBrun was someplace else, someplace where he couldn’t terrify her. Earlier that day when she had seen LeBrun and Tremblay together in Plymouth, she had understood something that she had suspected ever since she had heard them talking in Exeter. But that wasn’t exactly true—she had known earlier without wanting to know. And yet he hadn’t killed her, had he? In some strange way of his, he must have liked her. But LeBrun had her money and soon he’d have Tremblay’s too. How could she have imagined that he liked her? He didn’t like her, he hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Now, though, he still didn’t seem able to kill her. At least that’s what he had been storming about.

But he had murdered other people—it was one of his favorite subjects. He had killed his cousin and Scott and at some point he would kill her as well. Jessica was certain about that. No wonder Tremblay had agreed to let her come home for Christmas. He had meant for her to be dead long before Christmas arrived. And Jessica thought what a piece of trash she must be if everyone wanted her dead. Not everyone. Her brother loved her. Lucky loved her. Even Dr. Hawthorne had been nice when he had every reason to hate her. And he didn’t want to have sex with her either. In fact, nobody did and maybe that was because Tremblay had already used her so badly. That was another reason why Tremblay wanted her dead, to keep her mouth shut. Jessica thought about heaven and if it existed; surely that’s where her father was and if she went there she would see him. But if there was a heaven, then there must also be a hell and when LeBrun killed her he’d probably be sending her there.

The building was quiet now except for the sound of the wind. Earlier there had been shouting, even screams, and the sound of running. Mr. Skander had been with LeBrun but Jessica didn’t know why or what was going on, except that Mr. Skander had made LeBrun get her drunk. “He paid me for that,” LeBrun had said. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have paid me for Hawthorne as well.” Jessica didn’t understand that, but there had been a whine in his voice, as if Mr. Skander had cheated him. It made her feel sorry for Mr. Skander, though she knew she had every reason to hate him, but she felt sorry for anyone whom LeBrun was angry at. And when there had been the shouting and running, she had heard Mr. Skander yelling for help and begging LeBrun to stop. And she had heard LeBrun telling his awful jokes. And she had heard him growling. It seemed like they had been running through the entire building, then it had gotten quiet.

Jessica was cold and the dust on the floor kept getting in her nose. It was almost funny that she might freeze to death before LeBrun had a chance to kill her. Then she thought of her kitten and how she wouldn’t be there to take care of it, and she was afraid she would cry, and she hated crying.

The door to the attic banged open and there was the sound of feet on the stairs. Jessica’s body clenched and a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. LeBrun was coming up again. She tried to move but her hands were tied behind her back and her left foot was tied to her hands. She could hardly even wriggle, and when she pulled, the torn sheet hurt her wrists.

“How’s my little girl?” came LeBrun’s voice from the dark. Then she saw the beam of his flashlight as he came up the stairs. “How’s my snuff cake? Did I tell you what they call a Canuck girl with half a brain?” LeBrun chuckled. “Skander didn’t like that one, he didn’t even laugh.” Then LeBrun shouted, suddenly furious, “What the fuck’s the answer?”