Alyzon Whitestarr (36 page)

“I have an appointment at the Shaletown office of Rayc Inc.”

I gaped at him, and Harrison asked, “He has an office here? Isn’t that kind of weird?”

Raoul laughed. “I thought that would get a reaction from you both. Yes, he has an office here, and yes, it is odd. Apparently his wife was living in Shaletown when he met her, and the office building belongs to her. She inherited several holdings when her previous husband, a self-made Shaletown man called Jamie Makiaros, died. The property is tied up so Rayc can’t sell it, and I suppose he decided he might as well make use of it.”

“Where did you find out all of this?” I asked worriedly.

“Just some clever Internet snooping on my new computer. No communication with human beings and no downloading, so don’t worry. I rang the office this morning to say I had heard Rayc Inc. would be able to give me some advice about finding some more meaningful way to donate money. I said that I was driving through today and would like to discuss the matter. His secretary asked who had given me the name of the office, and I told him I had heard it at a cocktail party.”

“You can’t ask him about Da,” I said, still not completely reassured.

“Of course not. I doubt very much that the man himself will be there, though. I’d just like to get a feel for what the organization actually does. But you two had better go.”

I hesitated, then I reached in my bag and got out my journal. “I’ve been writing stuff down since the accident, and I thought maybe you would like to have a look. The last bit is a copy of what I read in that yellow book.”

Raoul took it, looking pleased, and by the time our food came, he was already leafing through it.

* * *

“It’s lucky the rain stopped,” I said as we walked briskly along the street. Harrison, map in hand, was doing the navigating. Carmine turned out to be a wide street with beautiful, well-established trees on both sides and a glistening carpet of red, brown, and yellow leaves lying beneath them. It was a residential street, and most of the houses were enormous redbrick or sandstone mansions with beautiful well-kept
gardens and gleaming Range Rovers or Volvos sitting in their driveways. The households’ second cars, Harrison guessed. He reckoned the primary cars would be BMWs or Mercedes.

“Just the right setting for a private school,” Harrison added. But although we walked the street from end to end, we saw only houses. “Nothing that could have been a school,” Harrison said. “You’re sure you got the street right?”

“I am,” I said. “Maybe there’s more than one Carmine Street in Shaletown.”

“No, Raoul would have checked.”

We began to make our way back along the street on the other side. “Maybe it’s been turned into a house since it closed,” I said.

“None of these is big enough tae have been a school. Hey!” He had stopped and was gazing back along the street. “That park we passed at the other end of the street. Was it actually a park or could it have been a vacant block?”

“But … they wouldn’t pull a whole school down and then not build anything in its place,” I protested, following him back.

The lot was a huge grassed expanse with nothing to suggest there had ever been any building there. But there was no sign saying it was a park either, and around the corner we found a “For Sale” sign with the phone number of a real-estate agent.

“This must have been it,” Harrison said.

“But why would it have been taken down?” I asked.

“There could be any number of reasons. It might have been a bit of an eyesore.”

“In a neighborhood like this?” I asked.

“It might just have been a white elephant, hard to sell, so they figured grass would do better. On the other hand, it’s not sold and I wonder why.” His eyes lit up. “I’ve an idea.” He got out the cell phone that Raoul had given us.

“Hello, is this Kernes Real Estate?” Harrison made himself sound older and slightly bossy. “I’d like tae speak tae someone about the large lot on the corner of Carmine Street.” His eyes widened and he gave me a pointed look. “Yes, the big one that used tae be a school. I don’t suppose you know anything about … Well, can someone else help me? OK, I’ll call back. Thank you. Yes, thank you.” He pressed the end button. “The woman who handles it is out tae lunch. Let’s go canvass the neighbors.”

We pulled out the clipboards and marched up to the house closest to the vacant block. Harrison rang a doorbell shaped like the head of a lion. No one answered. We tried a few times, and then moved to the next house. A cleaning woman answered, saying that the owners would be home after five.

“Have you worked here long?” Harrison asked. “Maybe you can help us. It willnae take long.”

The cleaning woman sighed and shrugged. “OK, why not. I’ve worked here for two years.”

“That block back there on the corner; it was once a school?”

The woman frowned. “It was some sort of school. Why?”

“We’re doing a project on land use,” Harrison lied smoothly. “We’re looking at how it’s changed, and why. Whether land has always been vacant or what used tae be on it. What happened tae the school, anyway?” It was neatly done. The woman was diverted from her momentary suspicion.

“There was some kind of explosion, I heard. Or maybe it was a fire.”

I was glad she was looking toward the lot just then, because I couldn’t control the jump I gave. But Harrison simply asked why it hadn’t been rebuilt.

The woman shrugged. “Mrs. Callow, she’s the owner of this place, she was sure it had been bombed; it was all she could talk about. Some people have too much money and too little sense to fill all the time they have on their hands.” She glanced at her own reddened hands complacently. “She was real disappointed when the police found it was an accident, because she couldn’t go round anymore telling her friends that she had lived next to violent criminals.” She laughed derisively.

“What did the police think had happened?” Harrison asked with the sort of flattering eagerness that storytellers love.

“I can’t say I recall. It was the boiler that blew up, or maybe a furnace or something. Then there was a fire, and I think some people were killed. Or maybe somebody was only injured.” The woman frowned at me. “Is she all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said huskily. “I think that pie I ate for lunch might have been a bit off.”

“We’d better go. Thanks,” Harrison told the woman. I felt her eyes following us as we passed on down the street and out of her sight. Harrison made me stop and sit on a fence, saying I was as white as a ghost.

“Did you hear what she said?” I demanded shakily. “There was a fire and someone was killed.”

“She said
maybe
a fire and
maybe
a boiler accident and
maybe
a bomb. And
maybe
someone or a whole lot of some-ones were
maybe
killed or injured,” Harrison said.

“Harrison, you don’t understand. When she said there had been a fire, I … I remembered. That day I told Harlen that Gilly’s house had burned down, he asked who did it.”

“So?” Harrison asked, looking baffled.

“Don’t you get it?” I cried. “That was the first thing he said. But I didn’t
say
anyone had burned it down. Why would he jump to the conclusion that it wasn’t an accident? It’s proof that he was involved in the fire.”

“If you’re right, it’s also proof that this sickness can provoke people tae pretty extreme actions.” He glanced around and said we had better get on. We could talk more later about the fire.

Three “no answers” and then, at the fourth house, an elderly man with a foreign accent came to the door. His scent was nice and friendly, and there was none of the impatience that I had smelled in the cleaning woman. Harrison explained about the survey, then he asked about the school.

“There was a school that burned down. I had not emigrated then, but my sister wrote of it to me,” the old man said. “She did not say it was a private school, but that difficult children went there. What is the word you see in the newspapers all the time? Delinquents. Yes, it was a school for delinquent boys. But it was a school where the parents are very rich, and so the school was very fine with many facilities.”

I exchanged a glance with Harrison. “Do you know how the school was destroyed?” he asked the man.

“My sister said that it was an accident. Some kind of boiler explosion and then a fire.”

“Was anyone hurt?” I asked.

“Yes! You have reminded me. It was a terrible thing. An inspired music teacher died, my sister said. An accomplished violinist. She called him the heart of the school. A wonderful man who had given his life to helping difficult young men and boys,” the old man said.

“Your sister seems tae have known a lot about the school,” Harrison observed.

He smiled. “My sister is the sort of woman who makes it her business to know a lot about everything. Besides, I think there were occasions when the school invited the neighbors to performances and concerts. To assure them that they were not at risk, I suppose.”

“Was there … was there any suggestion of the explosion being deliberate?” Harrison asked.

The old man frowned a little at the question. “My sister would certainly know if there was such a suggestion. And
she would have told me. What makes you ask such a question?”

“I was just … curious,” Harrison said lamely. “We heard there used tae be a gang of kids at the school that caused a lot of trouble.”

This was a straight-out lie, and I felt myself blush, but Harrison held the old man’s gaze as he considered it. At length he shook his head. “I doubt gangs would have been encouraged or indeed permitted at such a school. The authorities would be trying to prevent such things, I should imagine.” He shrugged. “I do not know who would have spoken of gangs. Perhaps they were thinking of the gang that set fire to the bakery a few weeks ago.”

Harrison shot me a look and then said, “A gang set fire to a bakery?”

The old man shifted from one slipper-clad foot to the other and I smelled the faint mustiness of his fatigue. “It was madness. There was no money to be stolen, and the woman who ran the place is not the sort of person to have alienated anyone. Indeed, she is a wonderful woman and gave work to young people whom no one else would employ.” He sighed.

Harrison held out his hand and thanked the man for his time. The door closed as we walked down the street and Harrison said, “What do you make of all that?”

“I don’t see how a gang that vandalizes a bakery would have anything to do with the rest of this.”

“Unless the vandalism is some sort of initiation rite. ‘Proof of commitment,’” he added with emphasis.

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking of a woman who had employed difficult young people, whose bakery had been burned; and a musician whose work had inspired delinquent boys, killed in a fire. Almost as if they had been harmed for their goodness.

We tried several other houses, but the occupants either did not want to speak with us, were not at home, or had moved to the street since the school had closed down. The sky had gradually darkened, and now Harrison eyed the clouds looming overhead and said we might as well give up and go see Rose Cobb.

It took twenty minutes to reach the detention center, and the wind was buffeting us by the time it came in sight. I noticed a small group of protesters, set up on the lawn beside the entrance, hurriedly pulling plastic bags over their placards and loading them into a dark green van. As we drew level, they got into the van and drove away.

“Which house?” Harrison cried, as thunder rumbled.

“This way,” I called. Lightning flashed overhead, and as if it were a signal, it began to pour. We broke into a run. In moments we were standing on Rose’s front porch, rain lashing at our backs.

“Hope she’s home and doesnae mind letting in a couple of drowned rats,” Harrison said ruefully.

I knocked at the blistered green door with a sudden stab of doubt. I had only met Rose Cobb once, however well we had got along. What if I had misunderstood her invitation? What if she had forgotten me? Before I could voice my apprehensions, the door opened and Rose stared out at me blankly. But at once, to my great relief, her face folded into the warm, kind smile I remembered.

“Alyzon! My dear girl, how lovely to see you! Come in, you and your friend. This house faces right into the teeth of the wind, so the veranda is all but useless as any kind of shelter.” She stood back and the wind seemed to push us through the door and into her little hallway. Harrison caught hold of the door and wrestled it closed, and we all laughed.

Rose made us take off our coats and, after I introduced Harrison, told us to go in and sit by the fire while she made some tea. Harrison grinned at me, and I grinned back. With his damp and wildly tousled hair and half-fogged glasses, he looked cheerful but slightly demented. It wasn’t until we got into the living room that I realized Rose had another visitor. It was the same young man who had been with her before: Davey

He rose and stared at us both. I was startled to see his hands were stained black to the wrists.

“Uh, Davey?” I said awkwardly. “This is my friend Harrison, and I’m—”