Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Gifted,” said Jessica, but she didn’t laugh either.

LeBrun cackled. “Don’t you love it,” he said, “don’t you love it?”

The beam of the light focused on her face and she tried to turn away. LeBrun’s footsteps got nearer. “How’s my girl? Answer me!”

“I’m all right,” said Jessica.

“That’s better. I don’t like people who’re rude to me. I mean, it’s one thing to die and it’s another to die with a lot of pain.” LeBrun sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Let me go,” said Jessica.

“Fat chance. Hey, I need the money. I need some legs to get out of here. Don’t take it personal. It’s a job, that’s all. Like the American way of life. I get paid for it and that makes it okay.” LeBrun laughed again, an ironic bark.

“Then why haven’t you killed me already?”

LeBrun was silent for a moment, then he raised his voice. “Because I’m preparing myself, that’s all. And the money’s not here. Don’t worry, it’s on its way. Your dad’s having a little trouble with the snow, but he’ll get here soon. I just talked to him.”

“He’s not my dad.”

“Yeah, what a shame. Did I tell you why Canucks wear hats?”

Jessica didn’t say anything. Whatever was going to happen, she wished it was over.

“Did I?” shouted LeBrun.

“So they’ll know what end to wipe.”

“Jesus, I could listen to those all night. Know which end to wipe, ain’t it the fuckin’ truth. All right, little Misty, your time’s up.” LeBrun reached over and cut the sheet securing her foot. “Let’s get started. It’s got to be done before he gets here. I’ll be taking his Jeep. I’ve always liked Jeeps.” He took Jessica’s arm and dragged her to her feet.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked, terrified again.

“We’re going up to the top, up where the bell is.” He pulled her over to the door leading to the tower. “Too bad you’re not going to get a chance to admire the view. I hear it’s fantastic.”

–

Detective Leo Flynn and Chief Moulton were in Moulton’s black Chevy Blazer making their way down Antelope Road, which still hadn’t been plowed. They had spent an hour in Brewster Center waiting for a plow but it had never shown up so Moulton said he’d try to force his way through, even though the snow must be nearly three feet.

“I don’t want to freeze to death out here,” said Flynn, who had not meant to say anything, who had meant to seem confident.

“The heater works and I got a full tank of gas. We could be toasty all night.”

“If this was Boston, I could get the entire Department of Public Works to clear the roads. I’d get them out here or I’d fucking have their jobs.”

Moulton cleared his throat. “Too bad we’re not in Boston.”

Flynn thought he detected an element of sarcasm. He glanced at Moulton but the police chief’s face in the dash light was expressionless. “Hey, this guy’s a professional killer. You should of at least called out the National Guard.”

“I called the troopers,” said Moulton. “Everyone’s tied up because of the snow, even the National Guard.”

Again there was the whisper of sarcasm. “So how far do we have to go?”

“About seven miles.”

“That should take us about an hour at this rate.”

“Maybe you’d do better on foot,” said Moulton. “I bet even your feet are better than ours. A Boston flatfoot, isn’t that right? I bet you could walk on the snow just like you had snowshoes.”

“Hey,” said Flynn, “I don’t need this. We got serious business to take care of.”

After the autopsy had located a small puncture at the base of Larry Gaudette’s skull, Moulton had meant to go out to the school and talk to LeBrun. But LeBrun had been only one possible suspect out of several. That is, till Flynn showed up.

“If you’d called this morning,” said Moulton, “we wouldn’t have to be fighting this storm.”

“I wanted to be here. I been looking for this guy all fall. Anyway, I thought Gaudette was our man.” That wasn’t entirely true but Flynn didn’t want to seem stupid.

The Blazer swerved, then straightened again. If its tires hadn’t been more than twice the normal size they would have gotten stuck long ago. In its headlights there was nothing but white. The road was invisible. Only the trees on either side indicated where the road must be. The wheels skidded again and the car swerved to the right.

“Do you think this fellow has left dozens of corpses behind him?” asked Moulton. “He could have been murdering people for years.”

“I doubt it,” said Flynn, a little defensively. He wanted a cigarette and was annoyed that Moulton wouldn’t let him smoke in the car. “Generally with someone like that it takes a while to get the nerve to do the first one, then it gets easier. At the end it’s harder to stop killing than to kill. But he might of only started a year or so ago.”

“A killer who makes bread,” said Moulton. “Francis LaBrecque, a Canuck. I wonder who else he’s killed by now. Why, he could wipe out everyone left at the school.”

–

Even with cross-country skis, Kate could proceed only at a shuffle. If she had stayed at home, she could have been sitting in front of the fireplace with a warm glass of cider and a book. But her anxiety had made her realize that Hawthorne was dear to her and she wanted to be with him. She thought of him alone at the school with people who wished him harm, and after enough of such thoughts it seemed to make perfect sense to go there. She had dressed warmly and already she was sweating, although her feet were cold. The skis kept her from sinking all the way down in the snow, and slowly she was making progress.

She imagined arriving at the school and finding everything all right. Hawthorne would be reading before his own fireplace and he would laugh at her foolishness. But at least she would be with him. Deep within her, though, she knew that nothing was right, that he was in danger. The snow blew in her face and she had to keep her head down. Now and then she turned on her flashlight, trying to calculate where she was. But the snow had changed the landscape, erasing the usual markers, and the houses set back from the road were dark. Indeed, she was afraid she might miss the turn to Bishop’s Hill and go on toward Brewster. The turnoff would be only a gap between the trees, a slightly different blanket of white. It might be easy to miss.

It was past eight o’clock. Kate didn’t feel tired. Her anxiety was like an extra motor driving her forward. But she worried that she would be late, that something awful had already happened, that Hawthorne would accuse LeBrun and make him angry. She imagined LeBrun destroying him with as much concern as he might show a fly. The thought made her move faster, which only increased her sense of folly. She paused and scooped up a handful of snow with her glove and pressed it to her mouth. Then she turned on the light again. Up on the left was the turnoff. She was certain of it.

–

Hawthorne entered Emerson Hall by a side door. He was too frightened to go up the front steps. In an attic window he had again seen a glimmer of light that he knew was LeBrun. He still had no plan but he had to keep LeBrun from hurting Skander and Jessica. But wasn’t that absurd? How in the world did he expect to stop LeBrun? He doubted he would be able to stab him with Betty Sherman’s hunting knife, no matter what LeBrun had done; it was against everything that Hawthorne believed in. He had to be aggressive but he couldn’t be threatening, and on another day the paradox might have amused him. But however clumsy he was, he had to make LeBrun think that he was acting in LeBrun’s best interests. And it was true. If he could save LeBrun, then he would save him. He had to keep repeating to himself that LeBrun was sick and deserved help. Even the repeating of it helped allay Hawthorne’s fear, if only a little.

He opened the first-floor fire door and stepped into the hall. Two hours earlier he had wrestled here with LeBrun. He had dropped his flashlight and lost his glasses. Now he could hear no sound. Blocking the beam with his hand, he turned on the light. He had almost expected to see LeBrun waiting in the shadows. But there was no one. And there on the floor by the wall were his glasses. He bent to pick them up. The pewter frames were twisted and the right lens was broken. Hawthorne poked out the glass with his finger, then straightened the frames. With his shirt tail he cleaned the left lens and put on the glasses. He still couldn’t see well, but he could see better. Absurdly, it made him feel more confident, as if he had armed himself.

Turning off the flashlight, Hawthorne moved slowly along the hall. He didn’t want LeBrun to be aware of his presence until he chose. The crowbar was stuck in his belt. It might come in handy; he might have to force open a door or a window. The hunting knife was tucked through his belt at the small of his back. Its blade was seven or eight inches long and the handle seemed to have been made from the horn of some animal—an elk or mountain goat. Hawthorne was aware of it at every moment; it filled him with repugnance, as if its very presence belied who he was and dirtied him.

After about five minutes, Hawthorne felt the walls fall away on either side and realized he had reached the rotunda, where the windows created a ghostly transparency. His eyes could distinguish the surrounding open space ascending three stories to the attic and the bell tower beyond. LeBrun was up there—Hawthorne could almost feel him—and why would he stay there if Jessica and Skander weren’t alive? He thought of LeBrun’s saying that he had been born evil, a claim that absolved him of responsibility. Yet his reluctance to kill Jessica meant that he wasn’t just a killing machine. Jessica was different. She couldn’t serve as his tormentor’s stand-in, somebody to punish. She was a girl. She couldn’t be other than victim. LeBrun seemed unable to justify killing her. And Hawthorne hoped this was something he could use.

Yet now that Hawthorne was here and looking up into the rotunda, he hesitated. He stood in the dark and cursed himself, and just when his memory began to summon up the awful hesitations of the past, he flicked on his flashlight and pointed it upward into the huge darkness.

“Frank,” he shouted, “I’ve come back for you!” Then he paused as the echoes of his cry rushed through the building, and he felt horror at what he had done. Still, he shouted again, “Frank, answer me!” And he kept his light pointed upward.

Far above he heard the clattering of footsteps descending wooden stairs. Hawthorne knew that LeBrun was coming down from the attic and his body turned cold.

“Frank, what are you doing? Answer me.”

The air around Hawthorne trembled with the reverberation of his voice. He tried to calm himself, exert some self-control. He needed to keep LeBrun off balance and use the man’s self-doubt and instability, even his anger.

“Answer me, Frank! Why are you doing this?”

“Go away!” came a cry in response. “I’ll hurt you, I swear I’ll hurt you!”

Somehow, hearing LeBrun’s voice, even in its awfulness, made LeBrun seem less awful. “Frank, you’re not answering my question!”

“Go away, professor! I swear, I’ll get even. I’ll hurt you!”

There was a bumping noise and a grunt, as if LeBrun were lifting something heavy.

Hawthorne moved his flashlight around the top of the rotunda and it seemed he could just make out the whiteness of LeBrun’s face looking over the low wall at the third floor. Then something came tumbling out of the darkness, tumbling into the beam of Hawthorne’s light. For a second it was just a white shape, but as it spun and twisted through the air Hawthorne saw that it was a human body, shifting from indistinctness to clarity as he stared through his broken glasses. It fell with bare arms and legs outstretched, and its white feet seemed to shine. It tilted, falling headfirst, then turned again onto its back, falling horizontally. Was it LeBrun? No, it was gray-haired and nearly naked, and splotched with blood. It was thick and plump and its skin was pink—Skander. Hawthorne leapt out of the way and tripped, falling backward. Skander hit the marble floor on his back, hit the blue-and-gold school shield, and bounced slightly. The sound of the impact had a wetness to it, a damp heaviness, followed by a smaller thud as he bounced again. His head hit after him and he lay still.

Hawthorne stood up and pointed his light at Skander. He wore yellow boxer shorts and nothing else. There were half a dozen crescent-shaped teeth marks on his shoulders and arms. His body was crisscrossed with blood and his skull was broken, a red crack across his forehead that disappeared into his gray and bloody hair. He lay doll-like with his arms stretched out as if attempting to fly. His legs were spread apart and bloody, and the bright yellow shorts made him look oddly childish. Skander’s face was distorted and twin rivulets of dried blood extended from his nose down to his chin. He was slack-jawed and his eyes were glazed with dull surprise.

Hawthorne could hardly keep the light steady. His whole body was telling him to run. Gradually he took hold of himself and turned the light upward.

“Frank, how could you have done this?” He spoke loudly, making his voice stern.

“Go away, get out of here!”

“I’m coming up,” called Hawthorne.

LeBrun’s voice rose to a squeal. “I’m warning you, I’m warning you. Don’t you know what I can do?”

Then he heard another voice. “Dr. Hawthorne!” It was Jessica.

“Let the girl go,” called Hawthorne, both relieved and increasingly terrified.

There was the sound of feet high above him and the sound of something being dragged. “I want to help you, Frank,” called Hawthorne. “Let Jessica go.” Hawthorne began to ascend the stairs. He imagined how LeBrun must have pursued Skander through the building, laughing and biting his body. “I’m coming up, Frank.”

A door slammed. LeBrun was going back into the attic, taking Jessica with him. Hawthorne reached the second floor. As he climbed, the hunting knife chafed and rubbed his back. He paused and took it out, feeling its weight as his light reflected off the blade. Then Hawthorne began to climb to the third floor. On one of the steps lay Skander’s white shirt, spotted with blood. A little farther lay a boot, then another—rubber boots with high leather tops, the laces of which had been slashed down the center.

At the top of the steps Hawthorne listened, but he heard nothing except the wind. He looked over the wall. Shining his light downward, he saw Skander spread-eagled on the school shield in the very center of the rotunda. He moved to the door leading to the attic. It was locked. He began to break it open with his crowbar, inserting the blade in a space near the knob, but then he stopped and rummaged through his pockets for his keys. He unlocked the door and swung it open.

Hawthorne listened and heard nothing. “Frank, are you up there?”

He imagined LeBrun waiting for him in the darkness. “Frank, answer me!”

The wind seemed to rush down the attic stairs, picking up scraps of paper, flecks of dust and grit, blowing them against Hawthorne’s face. He thought of the attic’s clutter and all the places where LeBrun could lie in wait for him. But wouldn’t Jessica call out to him again? And what if LeBrun had killed her? Then Hawthorne pushed those thoughts from his mind and began to climb the wooden stairs, still holding the knife and still offended by it.

When he reached the top he shone the light around the attic but he saw no one. With all the mattresses and bed frames and bookcases, LeBrun could easily be hiding no more than a few yards away, just waiting for Hawthorne to turn his back. Again Hawthorne stopped that train of thought. A candle sputtered on the floor and there were scraps of torn sheets.

“Where are you, Frank?” Hawthorne tried to keep his voice calm, almost conversational. “Are you up here?”

Hawthorne listened. He found himself hating the wind and the noise it made. He took a few steps into the attic and shone his light down the corridor.

“Answer me, Frank.”

Then he pointed the light in the other direction. Nothing. The candle went out abruptly, and Hawthorne jumped, swinging his light back across where the candle had been. The wind must have blown it out; it had to be the wind. Again he tried to calm his breathing.

“I want you to come back with me, Frank. Let Jessica go.”

Hawthorne felt sure that the attic was empty. It was only his fear that was haunting its shadowy space. Slowly, he approached the door to the spiral staircase rising through the bell tower. The door was locked and he didn’t have the key. It was in his desk. He pushed the blade of the crowbar into the narrow gap by the lock and pried, then wedged the bar deeper and bent it back with more force. The door cracked and sprang open. The noise startled him and he held his breath.

Hawthorne listened and heard nothing. Then he began to climb the metal steps of the spiral staircase. Snow had blown through the louvers and the steps were slippery. Brushing against the bell rope, he pushed it aside. Because of his broken glasses, it seemed he saw everything twice: once with clarity and once as a blur. Slowly, Hawthorne went round and round, holding the hunting knife in one hand and the flashlight in the other, trying to keep his balance by pressing his shoulder against the inside column. He came to the trapdoor leading to the top. Again he listened and heard nothing. He tried to push the trapdoor open but it didn’t move. Once more, Hawthorne inserted the crowbar into a gap and bent it back. One of the boards of the trapdoor broke. He pushed the bar into another gap and a second board broke. Hawthorne realized that if LeBrun was in the tower and wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have a chance, knife or no knife. LeBrun could stab him as Hawthorne tried to climb through the opening. He paused once more to gather his resolve, then he shoved upward. The trapdoor slammed back and a shower of snow fell onto his hair and face. Brushing the snow out of his eyes, Hawthorne noticed that he had lost his ski cap without even knowing it. The wind blew against him. Quickly, he climbed the next two steps, pushing his head above the floor of the tower. There were fresh footprints in the snow—the large prints of a man’s boots, and Jessica’s smaller footprints. They led to the wall, the very edge of the dark space. Hawthorne climbed another step and flashed his light around him. The tower was empty.

–

When Kate passed the mound of snow covering Hawthorne’s Subaru, she could barely distinguish the outlines of the school buildings in front of her. Even though she had guessed they would be dark, their darkness surprised her, as if the school were dead. She shuffled forward on her skis toward Emerson Hall, planning to go around Emerson to Hawthorne’s quarters in Adams. The snow was letting up, hardly more than flurries, and the sky seemed brighter. She could make out the line of trees at the end of the lawn.

Passing in front of Stark Hall, she saw that the chapel door was open and light was flickering through the stained-glass windows. She might have gone in, but when she turned her flashlight toward Emerson, she saw three figures standing on the steps. She continued toward them, holding both ski poles in one hand and her light in the other. The flashlight’s beam reflected off the snow and shone on the iron fence posts. She turned her light toward the figures again. Almost with disappointment she saw that it was Betty Sherman and her son, Tommy. Standing behind them was Bill Dolittle.

“What are you doing out here?” Kate called. “What’s going on?”

“Is that you, Kate?” said Betty, taking a step toward her. “Oh dear, you should have stayed home. Mr. Bennett’s been killed. Frank LeBrun’s in Emerson with Fritz and Jessica Weaver. Dr. Hawthorne thinks he means to kill them.”

“Where is Jim?” asked Kate. Betty and her son stood on the steps above her. Tommy had stuck out his tongue and was trying to catch snowflakes on its tip.

“He’s gone into Emerson to find LeBrun,” said Dolittle.

“I lent him a hunting knife,” said Betty. “We followed his tracks to the side entrance. I thought I could find someone who might help. Bill came with us. Nobody else would come.”

“Jim’s in there alone?” All the fears that Kate had imagined on her way to Bishop’s Hill were dwarfed by the actuality.

“He went by himself,” said Dolittle. He wore a dark overcoat and a sheepskin trooper’s hat with the flaps down over his ears. His nose was bright red in the cold.

“Have you seen anyone else?” asked Kate, unfastening her skis.

“No, no one,” said Betty.

“You should go home,” said Kate. “You’re in danger here.”

“I want to stay,” said Betty, “but I think Tommy and I will wait outside.”

“Jim came looking for me,” said Dolittle. “I just couldn’t talk to him. I’m sorry.” He turned up his collar and held it together with one hand.

Listening to Dolittle, Kate’s own sense of purpose strengthened. She took off her skis and leaned them against one of the columns, then she continued up the steps through the snow, using a ski pole for support. The door was unlocked, but snow had blown up against it and she had to pull hard. She kept the ski pole with her as if she could use it as a weapon, yet knowing how ineffectual it would be. Once inside she shone her light around the rotunda. Fritz Skander lay sprawled on the blue-and-gold school shield.

Kate began to scream, then bit her lip. She slowly approached the body, holding her flashlight in front of her so that Skander’s yellow shorts seemed luminescent. When she saw his torn flesh, she shut her eyes. For a moment she didn’t move, not trusting her legs to carry her. Then, hesitantly, she advanced toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

–

Chief Moulton was able to drive a little faster. Another car had come onto the road from the cutoff across the Baker River to West Brewster and Route 25, a big SUV, by the look of the tracks, and it had made a path for them. Where the cutoff joined Antelope Road was an old cemetery now looking like a field with a few stones poking up through the snow.

“You telling me all this was once cornfields?” said Leo Flynn.

“Just on the south side of the road. There wasn’t much farming on the mountain. Then farming got worse after the Civil War and folks started heading out west.”

Flynn gestured toward the tracks ahead of them. “You think those belong to the state troopers?”

“Nope. Otherwise, I could of raised them on the radio. I don’t know who they belong to. Whoever it is, they must have a powerful reason for being out on a night like this.”

“What kind of shot are you?” asked Flynn.

Moulton sucked his teeth. Even staying in the SUV’s tracks it was hard to keep the Blazer going straight. “I guess I can hit a barn door if I have to.”

“That’s probably better than I can do.”

They rode in silence for a while. Flynn tried to remember the last time he had fired his revolver. He didn’t even bother with target practice anymore. But at least it was clean, he knew that much. He’d oiled it just that morning.

“You get a lot of summer people?” asked Flynn, who had never liked silence.

“There’s a lot up at Stinson Lake, a few miles north of Brewster Center. I get called up there about a dozen times during the summer. What they call domestic disturbances—”

“Those tracks are turning off to the right,” interrupted Flynn.

Moulton slowed up to make the turn as well. “This’s the turnoff to Bishop’s Hill. Whoever’s in that thing is going right where we’re going.”

–

Hawthorne leaned over the wall of the bell tower, looking down at the scaffolding more than twenty feet below. LeBrun was sitting cross-legged in the snow at the edge of the darkness and Jessica lay on her stomach facing him. LeBrun had one hand on the back of Jessica’s neck as if pressing her against the wood. His flashlight was a little behind him, brightly illuminating his left side and Jessica’s red down jacket. LeBrun was leaning forward and his head was bent. Neither was moving. Around them Hawthorne was aware of great dark space extending in all directions. The snow had decreased and there was a glow to the clouds from the hidden moon. Hawthorne thought how Skander’s conniving had come to this—Skander and Bennett dead, Jessica and LeBrun balanced motionless on the rim of a chasm.

Hawthorne began to call out, then stopped himself. The workmen doing the repairs on the roof had attached a ladder to the side of the tower, and the tip of it extended about a foot above the wall. Hawthorne still held the hunting knife and the flashlight, though the light was off. He set the light on the floor of the tower, then, after a moment of hesitation, he dropped the knife as well, feeling relieved even as his fear seemed to increase. He swung one leg over the wall, then grabbed the top of the ladder, which shifted slightly in his hand. He looked down at the driveway far below and felt his legs weaken. He looked away, toward the woods. Far in the distance, where the road should be, there was a faint glow; a car was coming. Hawthorne eased his right foot onto the ladder, gripped the top with both hands, and lowered his left foot down from the wall. Once he felt secure on the ladder, he took one step, then another. With each step it seemed that splinters of ice swirled through his belly. But as long as he didn’t look down, he could keep moving. He had removed his gloves and his fingers felt numb against the cold metal.

After Hawthorne had descended about ten feet, LeBrun’s light swept across him. “It won’t do any good you coming down here.” The anger seemed gone from LeBrun’s voice.

Instead of answering, Hawthorne continued to climb steadily down the ladder. LeBrun’s light moved away from him.

“You’re a stubborn fuck.”

Again there was no anger. Perhaps frustration and uncertainty, but also the kind of calm that at times results from bewilderment. Hawthorne took a quick look over his shoulder and saw that LeBrun was still sitting cross-legged, with one hand holding Jessica against the scaffolding. The flashlight was again in the snow, the snowflakes swirling through its bright beam. Hawthorne moved down to the next rung.

“I can go ahead and kill her, you know,” said LeBrun. “One twitch of my hand and she’s over the side.” His voice was still quiet, as if filtered through his mystification.

Hawthorne reached the bottom and turned slowly on the planking, which was slippery and shook under his weight. LeBrun and Jessica were about ten feet away. The glow from the woods was brighter as the vehicle approached. Hawthorne paused to put his gloves back on, then he took several steps toward LeBrun. He could see the flicker of light through the windows of the chapel far below. Jessica’s head was turned from him. She lay as if she were already dead.

“Don’t get too close,” said LeBrun, raising his voice.

Hawthorne stopped, then lowered himself so that he was sitting about five feet from Jessica. There was nearly a foot of snow on the scaffolding, more in some places where it had been sculpted by the wind. He sat cross-legged like LeBrun, with his hands in front of him so LeBrun could see that they were empty. He didn’t speak. LeBrun’s light seemed to be getting dimmer, yellowing at the edges of its circle. Jessica’s jacket and jeans were turning white with the falling snow. They sat silently for several moments as LeBrun continued to stare down at the girl.

“Why can’t I do it?” said LeBrun at last, turning toward Hawthorne. He removed his hand from Jessica’s neck and wiped the snow from his face. He wore no gloves and his other hand was in his coat pocket.

Hawthorne didn’t answer for a moment. He could see headlights slowly coming down the road out of the woods, approaching the gates of the school.

“Let’s go downstairs, Frank. Let’s just stop.”

“Tell me. Why can’t I do it?” Now Hawthorne heard the frustration more clearly.

“You already know the answer.”

“Because she’s a girl?”

“More than that.”

“Give me a reason.”

“You can’t blame her for anything. She’s a victim, just like you.”

LeBrun’s voice rose a little. “That’s bullshit.” LeBrun reached out and grabbed the back of Jessica’s neck. Hawthorne heard her breathe sharply. He kept himself still.

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you.” Hawthorne paused, as if counting off the seconds. “Tell me about the school in Derry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. All that’s dead, it’s over and done with. I hardly remember anymore.”

“What happened before that?”

“It’s a dead time, don’t you hear what I’m saying? I fuckin’ cut it out already.”

The car was now at the far end of the driveway. It looked like a large Jeep. LeBrun glanced at it, then looked back at Hawthorne. He let go of Jessica and put his hand in his coat pocket.

Hawthorne leaned forward. “Let’s go, Frank.”

LeBrun reached out for his light and shone it in Hawthorne’s face, then he lowered it. “I got no place to go. Anyway, it’s too late for that shit.”

“Perhaps I can help you.”

LeBrun’s voice hardened. “What the fuck are you offering me, prison?”

“There’re other kinds of places. If you let Jessica go, it’ll be better.”

“A fucking loony bin.”

“I’ll try to help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” There was no regret in LeBrun’s voice, only resignation.

“Let Jessica go. Let her go home.”

LeBrun made one of his croaking laughs. “She doesn’t have any home.” He pointed toward the car, which had stopped between Hawthorne’s buried Subaru and the library. “See that Jeep? That’s her stepfather. Fucking Tremblay. Five grand down and five on completion. He probably figures I’ve already done the job. I could go down there right now, get the money, and get out of here. Shit, I could even take his Jeep.”

“He paid you to kill his daughter?” said Hawthorne, lowering his voice. He looked quickly at Jessica. Her very stillness made him realize that she already knew about Tremblay.

“Stepdaughter. He’s just another of the world’s assholes.”

LeBrun’s hands were back in his coat pockets and he was again leaning toward Jessica. “If she’d paid me to kill Tremblay,” he said at last, “I probably could of done it, no problem. You hear what I’m saying?”