The Tutor (34 page)

Scott put his hand to his forehead, rubbed it till it reddened, a red patch on his colorless skin.

“What’s wrong, Scott? Has something happened with Codexco?”

Scott took a deep breath. Red spread from the forehead patch all over his face. “I lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“Everything.”

“Every—” The door opened and Julian came in; she hadn’t even heard the car.

His eyes went to Linda, Scott, back to Linda. “Well, well,” he said. “What good parents, home to check on the invalid. Back safe and sound, thank goodness.”

“No,” Linda said.

“No?” said Julian. “What can you mean by that?”

“She’s not here.”

“But you said she was.”

“She’s afraid of you,” Linda said.

“Afraid of me? What makes you say that?”

“She called, half scared to death.”

“She called?” Julian backed toward the door, the car keys in his hand. “The poor little thing,” he said. “Feverish, of course. I’ll go get her. We can straighten this out after I bring her home safe.”

“You know where she is?” Linda said.

“Search for her, more accurately speaking,” Julian said.

“Wait a minute,” Scott said. “What do you know about Codexco?”

“The stock you bought, or sold, or whatever you did? How is that relevant?”

“Linda says you know something about it.”

Julian glanced at her. “I’ll go get Ruby now.”

“No,” Linda said. “I want you to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Why Ruby’s afraid of you. What you know about the stock.”

Julian turned to Scott. “I know you’re both under stress, Ruby sick, dog missing, other possible concerns depending on the relative acuity of your perceptions, but I appeal to you, Scott. Please make Linda see reason. I should be out looking for Ruby. She’s not well.”

“Linda has good judgment. Give me the keys.”

Linda loved Scott then, at the very moment she knew for all time that her judgment was bad.

Scott held out his hand for the keys. Julian’s hand closed around them. “Good judgment? Did she show good judgment the day Adam broke his leg?”

“Adam?” said Scott. “What do you mean?”

Julian turned to Linda. “Why have you allowed it to come to this? You might as well tell him. Probably best, in an air-clearing sense.”

Linda couldn’t speak.

“Tell me what?” said Scott.

“About Tom,” said Julian.

“Tom? What about him?”

“A minor indiscretion, on the scale of things,” said Julian, “but it’s really not my story.”

Scott took a step toward him, grabbed the front of his shirt. “Tell me.”

“But it’s so tawdry,” Julian said, his face close to Scott’s, appearing in no way alarmed by Scott’s hold. “Footsie in the whirlpool, two tipsy people, one thing leading to another. Why don’t you fill in the blanks while I get Ruby?”

Scott let go. He swayed back a little, as though he might faint. The big, thick-glass jar of strawberry jam lay on the butcher block. Linda picked it up and brought it down on the back of Julian’s head with all her strength.

R
uby went to the desk, got the notes for the living novel. She opened the damper on the fireplace the way he’d shown her, lit one of his matches, burned the papers. They were no one’s business.

She left the little house by the bulkhead doors, same way she’d entered, made the same wide circle back to her bike. She raised it out of the snow, brushed it off, started riding, down the lane, right on Trunk Road. On her way home, but not directly: she was going to pull a little surprise on Julian.

Snow still fell, that same light snowfall, like the beginning or the end of a storm except it just stayed that way. Ruby rode through Old Mill, into West Mill, turned right on Depot. The police station was on Depot; she’d passed it many times. But not this time. She rode and rode, shivering now, over the tracks, very tired and very slow. Main? Depot turned into Main? And there was the Shell station. She went inside.

“Hi, Manny,” she said. He was counting money at the cash register again, or still.

“Hey,” said Manny, looking up. “How’s that school project going?”

“Not good,” Ruby said. “Where’s the police station?”

“R
uby the Kid,” said Sergeant D’Amario, coming into the room where they’d asked her to wait.

“Ruby Gardner,” said Ruby, finishing her Sprite. She’d never needed one so bad. “Brandon’s sister.”

“I know,” said D’Amario.

“He’s not a druggie and you’re on the wrong track. I can tell you who’s bringing crack into West Mill.”

“Who?”

“But first I have to hear that tape.”

“What tape?”

“The anonymous caller tape,” Ruby said. “From the night you made the bust in the woods.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s all connected. Like the Musgrave Ritual.”

The cop leaning against the wall said, “Is it a cult thing? Like David Koresh?”

“What’s the Musgrave Ritual?” said D’Amario.

Ruby couldn’t believe that: a professional law enforcer, and he hadn’t heard of the Musgrave Ritual? Nothing had changed since Inspector Lestrade’s day. “It doesn’t matter.” She reached into her pocket, took out the evidence: Zippy’s tag, Jeanette’s Post-it, the letter from the master of Balliol.

“What’s all this?” said D’Amario.

“Look it over.”

D’Amario glanced at the tag, read the Post-it. “What does
J
stand for?”

“Jeanette.”

The cops in the room exchanged looks. D’Amario read the letter.

“What’s this got to do with anything?” he said. “Is this Sawyer guy the dealer?”

Ruby handed him the magnifying glass. “Check that date,” she said.

He checked the date. “It’s been changed.”

“What time is it in England?” Ruby said.

“Six or seven hours difference, maybe,” said D’Amario.

“Earlier or later?” said the cop by the wall.

D’Amario ignored him. “What are you getting at?” he said to Ruby.

“Just trying to figure if this is a good time to call R. M. Simkins, K.B.E.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s all connected,” Ruby said. And if so—boom. A watery memory came in view. The last big block shifted in her mind. Everything locked in place. All she’d needed was inside her head, as she’d suspected: it just needed arranging right.

“I don’t get any of this,” said the cop by the wall.

“What if I told you there’s a ski pole at the bottom of the pond?” Ruby said.

He got that one. They all got that one. Ruby got it too, really got it. She buried her face in her hands so no one could see her.

T
hings started happening. D’Amario placed a call to the master of Balliol, left a message. Then they took Ruby into a room packed with electronic equipment. The guy at the controls popped a little disk, smaller than a CD, into some kind of player. After two or three seconds, a voice spoke.

“I’m calling to inform you of a very loud party in the town forest. I believe there was a gunshot, although I wouldn’t swear.”
Click.

“That’s him,” Ruby said.

R
uby went home, riding up front in the lead cruiser, her bike in the trunk. They flashed their blue lights but kept the sirens off. The garage door was open at 37 Robin Road, the Triumph inside; Dewey’s car sat in the driveway, Fuck You You Fuckin Fuck visible for all to see.

“That David Brickham’s car?” D’Amario said.

“Dewey,” said Ruby. “No one calls him David.”

“Maybe they should,” D’Amario said.

D’Amario was smart; maybe not ten times as smart as Brandon and Dewey put together, but smart.

“And the Triumph?” D’Amario said.

“My dad’s.”

“What’s your mom drive?”

“Jeep Grand Cherokee.”

“Color?”

“Blue. Dark but not navy, with some purple in it.” Ruby opened the door.

“Stay in the car,” D’Amario said.

“But I want to see my mom and dad.”

“In a minute.”

A policewoman came to sit with her. She had a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, chocolate ones with sprinkles, normally irresistible.

“No, thanks,” Ruby said.

The cops took out their guns and entered the house, using Ruby’s key. D’Amario came out almost at once and waved her in.

They were in the kitchen: Brandon, Trish, and Dewey, with the remains of half a dozen Subway subs, and a few cops, guns back in their holsters. Dewey’s eyes were darting around, as though he was planning an escape.

“When did you kids get here?” D’Amario said.

“Going to slice up more of my clothes?” said Brandon.

“Don’t fool around,” said D’Amario. “Not the time.”

“Bran,” said Ruby.

“Four-fifteen,” said Trish.

“And it was just like this? No one home?”

“Yeah,” Bran said.

A cop poked his head in. “Mrs. Gardner left her office at eleven-thirty, Mr. Gardner left his a little after that, they’re not sure the exact time. Neither one went back.”

“The Jeep,” said D’Amario.

“Already on it,” said the cop.

“What’s going on?” Brandon said.

“Your sister’ll fill you in,” said D’Amario. “You other two can take off.”

Dewey flew out like a cartoon character. Trish gave Brandon a little kiss on the cheek and followed.

“Cars we can find pretty easy,” D’Amario said.

“Don’t forget eight forty Trunk Road,” Ruby said.

D’Amario gave her a look, then made a little motion with his index finger. A cop hurried out. Another hurried in with some blueprints.

“All set?” he said.

D’Amario went with him. Ruby ducked into the mudroom, saw that Mom’s gray coat with the fur collar and Dad’s leather jacket weren’t there, tagged after D’Amario.

They walked through the house, the blueprint guy, D’Amario, Ruby. There were cops all over the place but the three of them went into every room anyway, tried every closet, checked under every bed. The house was normal, nothing out of place, nothing broken, nothing missing but the parents.

“Don’t forget the chimney,” Ruby said. They looked at her funny but did what she wanted.

“There an attic?” said D’Amario in the upstairs hall.

“Shows one,” said the blueprint guy. “Only access is right here.” He pointed to a hatch cover in the ceiling at the top of the stairs, painted over and almost invisible.

“Anybody ever go up there, Ruby the Kid?” said D’Amario.

Ruby hadn’t even known there was an attic. “No.”

The blueprint guy pulled in a chair from Brandon’s room, stood on it, pushed against the hatch cover. “In solid,” he said. “Hasn’t been moved since the painters left.”

D’Amario nodded.

Another cop called up the stairs: “Ready down at the pond.”

“I’m coming,” said Ruby before anyone had other ideas. Jeanette was loyal to her and she was loyal back.

33

R
uby regretted that decision a few hours later.

They had a generator down at the pond and lots of bright lights. The snow, falling thicker and faster now, blackened as it passed through their beams. It was colder too, but the pond didn’t freeze, probably because of the divers going up and down. The divers wore dry suits and huge packs on their backs, bulky like spacemen. They brought up a ski boot, a pole, a pair of skis; then a couple of those weights, the kind that Brandon had in his room, with holes in the middle; finally something in bib ski pants, hair like seaweed. Ruby turned away, not fast enough, lost control of the shape of her face, and started crying. Brandon stepped between her and the pond.

D’Amario came over with another cop. “Take the kids home,” he said.

Ruby tried to pull herself together. “What about Zippy?”

D’Amario shook his head.

“He must be down there.”

“They didn’t see him,” D’Amario said. “We’ll try again in the morning.” The lights went out, one by one.

T
here was a cruiser in the driveway, another on the street, two cops in the backyard, one in the kitchen, one in the front hall. They went up to Brandon’s room, checked his weights. He couldn’t remember exactly what weights he’d had and how many. A couple looked less scuffed than the rest, like they were new, but Brandon wasn’t sure about that either.

The cop in the hall called up: “England coming through.”

“That phone have speaker?” D’Amario called back.

“Yeah.”

They went down. Ruby sat on the stairs. The cop hit the speaker button. D’Amario took the phone.

“Sergeant D’Amario?” An English voice, the upper-class kind that made everyone who had it sound brilliant; for some reason, this guy put the accent in
D’Amario
on the
i
, like Sergeant D’Amario pronounced his own name wrong. “This is Sir Ronald Simkins.”

“Yes,” said D’Amario. “Mr., uh, sir—what should I call you?”

“Ron is fine.”

D’Amario nodded, but he didn’t call him Ron, or anything. “I’ve got a letter it seems you wrote to someone named Julian Sawyer, on either November nineteenth, nineteen eighty-eight, or the same date in nineteen ninety-eight. We could use your help in sorting it out.”

“In what context?” said Simkins.

“A murder investigation.”

“Can you read me the letter?”

D’Amario read him the letter.

“Nineteen eighty-eight,” said Simkins.

“How sure are you?”

“Absolutely,” said Simkins. “Julian Sawyer wasn’t even alive in 1998.”

D’Amario glanced at Ruby. “We’ve got a Julian Sawyer here, and he had the letter,” he said.

“I’m speaking of Julian Sawyer the elder,” said Simkins. “Or senior, as he called himself, in your style.”

“There’s a junior?” said D’Amario.

“Correct. A son of some notoriety a number of years back, but these incidents recur with such frequency nowadays most of them are forgotten.”

“What incidents?”

“Inexplicably violent ones. In this case, young Sawyer burned down the family cottage in Sussex, a kind of retreat they had for use between petroleum ventures. His parents died in the fire. I would have thought him still in prison, but perhaps not. Mitigating circumstances were brought out at the trial, if I recall.”

“What mitigating circumstances?”

“Psychological testimony. Justifiable resentments, perhaps? Something of a hothouse environment, parents never satisfied? Analysis of that nature, plus his relative youth at the time.”

“How old was he?”

“Early twenties, I believe,” said Simkins.

“Did you ever meet him?” D’Amario said.

“I did. He was a student here for several months—I believe that was one of the reasons his father gave that little speech, to smooth the admission process. Marked for greatness, his father said.”

“Several months?” said D’Amario.

“He was dismissed.”

“Why?”

“Mistreatment of laboratory animals, if I’m not mistaken,” said Simkins. “You say you’ve got him?”

“We’re looking for him.”

“Good luck.”

S
ergeant D’Amario sat them down in the kitchen.

“Where do you want to go for the night?” he said.

“Nowhere,” said Brandon.

“What if Mom and Dad come home?” said Ruby.

“Then who would you like to come over?” D’Amario took a list from his pocket. “Whole lot of people been calling—your uncle and aunt, a woman named—”

“Does anybody have to come?” Brandon said. Ruby understood—she didn’t want someone else staying there, didn’t want it stranger than it already was.

“Aren’t you guys going to be here?” she said.

“Of course,” said D’Amario. “Cruiser out front and foot patrol out back, plus someone inside to monitor the phone.”

“We’ll be fine like that,” Brandon said.

Ruby nodded.

“Just for tonight, then.” D’Amario rose.

“Why would it go on longer than that?” Brandon said. “You said finding cars was easy.”

“So where are they?” said Ruby.

“That’s what we’re working on,” said Sergeant D’Amario.

“What can’t you find easy?” said Ruby.

B
randon tore the last Subway sub in half. “Hungry?” he said, and handed it to Ruby. They sat at the kitchen table, Ruby in her pajamas, hair still wet from the shower, Brandon in sweats. Her filthy, blackened clothes—blue jacket with yellow trim, hat with the stars, all of it—lay in a heap in the upstairs bathroom, and the water spiraling down the shower drain had run black for a long time. Yet she hadn’t realized how dirty she’d been and no one, not Brandon, Sergeant D’Amario or the other cops, had said anything or even given her an odd look. She took that for a bad sign and put down the sub after a single bite.

“Not eating that?” said Brandon. He started on her half. How could he be so hungry at a time like this?

“Aren’t you scared?” Ruby said.

He put down the sub. They sat together, not talking, but she could feel their thoughts, similar ones, mingling in the air.

A cop came in, handed her the portable. “For you,” he said.

“You all right?” Kyla said.

“Yeah. The cops are here.”

“It was on TV,” Kyla said. “They had a picture, from his driver’s license application or something. My dad recognized him.”

“How come?”

“He thought he was the VC guy.”

“What’s that?”

“A money guy—about that stock.”

“Codexco?”

“Yeah,” said Kyla. “We’re not rich anymore. Neither are you, my dad says.”

“I don’t feel any different,” Ruby said.

Kyla laughed that funny laugh of hers, a quick little giggle, really amused. “Me either,” she said. Then there was a silence. “I’m going to say a prayer for you before I go to bed,” Kyla said.

“You pray?”

“Course not,” said Kyla. “Tonight’s the only time.”

Ruby knew all about that already, from Zippy. It didn’t work.

A
t Home.
An epic masterpiece required an epic feat by the hero. Julian, calm, although not as calm as he might have been with a cigarette glowing between his fingers, considered epic feats by epic heroes. Disappointing in the main, the ending so often coupling spiritual triumph with physical demise, Samson being a good example, if thicker-witted than most.

Was the second part, physical demise, really necessary? Or did it merely signify imaginative failure on the part of the artist, an inability to go far enough? The best artists—he recalled his own thought, warmed to it—those artists who changed the world, were always excessive. This, then, this predicament, what lesser men would call a predicament, was in fact an opportunity, a test of his special greatness. How he would relish this moment in future years! The moment in the living novel, the final chapter, in which the artist suddenly reveals himself, takes the stage, a flesh-and-blood giant striding over the paper puppets of his own creation. Even inside the greatest artist burns the need for recognition. He was only human.

Oh, the thrill of it: his finest hour. But not his last. Without life there could be no sequels, each one slightly more disappointing than the last. A funny thought at such a time, so insouciant: he came close to laughing aloud, despite everything. Insouciant, calm—a remarkable man, as anyone would have to acknowledge. As for a plan? The work of seconds. Demeaning to escape under cover of darkness: the epic hero, the epic hero with a brain, exits under cover of light.

T
hey went to bed, Ruby in her bedroom, Brandon in his. A huge, heavy force overwhelmed her the moment she lay down, sleep coming like one of those tides with the Japanese name; it would come to her in a minute. She curled up in a ball. Her eyes closed.

Ruby awoke in the night. She heard the crackle of belt walkie-talkies through her window: the cops down below, in the yard. Everything came back to her, right away. She got up and went downstairs.

The cop in the hall was sitting on that tiny French chair from one of Mom’s antiquing trips, eyes closed.

“Excuse me,” Ruby said.

His eyes opened.

“Sergeant D’Amario around?”

“Be back later.”

“Can you get him a message?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him to check the parking lot at Killington.”

“Yeah?” His eyelids were puffy, might have weighed a pound each.

Ruby went back upstairs, lay down, pulled up the covers. The parking lot at Killington. That didn’t make sense, but something like it did. She tried to think what, but couldn’t, and closed her eyes, had to make them close this time. They popped back open. She got up, went down the hall to Brandon’s room.

“Bran? You awake?”

Brandon’s voice came out of the darkness. “Yeah.”

“I can’t sleep,” Ruby said.

Silence. Then Bran said, “There’s this murderer who says to Macbeth, ‘We are men, my liege,’ and Macbeth says, ‘Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.’ ”

More silence.

“When’s it going to be light?” Ruby said.

“In a while.”

“We already had enough death in this family.”

“Adam?”

“Yeah.”

“So this time it’s going to be okay?” Brandon said.

“Yeah.”

“You’re pretty smart, Ruby.”

“Thanks.”

“ ’Night.”

“ ’Night.”

Ruby went back to her room. Murderer. She opened the closet, took her bow and quiver off the hook, lay down with them beside her; closed her eyes.

In
The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, there was never that big a deal about why the villain did what he did. Always pretty much the same: he didn’t get what he wanted, got frustrated and did what he had to to get it. There wasn’t much talk about resentments or unsatisfied parents. The villain had bad in him and was smarter than everyone else, knew how to get the better of everyone else, all except for Sherlock Holmes. Holmes outwitted the villains and had fun doing it. Ruby realized that was what she liked best about the stories—the fun he had. That fun part was also the difference between a story and what was happening right now. Where were they?

Snow was falling harder; Ruby could hear its soft thudding on the window, like a tiny drumbeat. Snow led her into the cave dream, snow falling inside and out, and her all safe and warm. The storm rose and rose, howling over the drumbeat now, so loud it made noises on the roof of the cave, but it couldn’t touch her. She was a cavewoman, safe and warm, so the storm could howl all it wanted, howl and howl; in fact, the more it howled, the safer and warmer she felt. Now it was shaking the roof of the cave, trying to punch a hole through, but that was impossible, of course, and she was safe: snow, peace, nothing. Heavy, heavy nothing.

And then something real bad happened. A fat, fat snake with a squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck stirred somewhere in the cave. Ruby opened her eyes. But they were already open. She was dreaming with her eyes open. She must have been, because in her dream a long thick ropelike thing was suspended in midair, or maybe dangling above her. In a dreamlike way it did something no rope could ever do, curling back up on itself in a kind of fishhook shape. Then came a hissing sound, so real.

It fell. The long thick thing fell and landed on her pillow, coiling through her hair. She felt its cold, hard heavy body; a light tongue flickered against her cheek, so fast, something she wouldn’t have known how to dream. Ruby screamed, screamed the scream of her life, but kept it inside: she wanted to live.

Ruby lay still, like she was already dead. It hissed again, started moving, little imperfections in its skin catching the edge of her ear, its muscles flexing under her chin, over her throat, across her shoulder, all at the same time, muscles more supple than human muscles and much stronger, and then it mostly slid off to the side, toward the wall. Now? Now.

Ruby rolled away, or jerked, panicking completely, trying to spring out of bed and throw the covers over it in one motion. Everything got all mixed up. It—not it, but the speckled band—reared out of the blankets, head high above her and hissing. She swatted with her quiver. Arrows flew everywhere, most of them backward.

The speckled band got mad, came at her in two quick spasms of its lower half, opened its mouth gaping wide, tongue motionless between the fangs. Ruby stuck out her bow just as it struck, struck so hard that the impact of its fangs vibrated up the bow and into her arm. Then she was running as fast as she could, out of her bedroom, into the hall. Another strike, a hard crack, but on the door just as she slammed it behind her.

Julian, crouched in the doorway of Adam’s room, looked up. He was mostly a silhouette, lit by little flames behind him, a silhouette with a gas can in his hand, the one Dad used for the lawnmower and weed whacker. He rose, in no particular hurry, and walked toward her. Brandon came out of his room. Julian swung the gas can at his head, not even looking at him, connected with a sickening sound. Brandon fell back inside.

Julian kept coming. Ruby backed up, stepped on something. An arrow, one of the arrows flung from the quiver. She snatched it up, raised her bow. Raised her bow and nocked the arrow, not too snug, and drew as Jeanette had taught her, string barely touching the tip of her nose, anchored.