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“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.