20

Darren Mattoon had been keeping his antennae trained on Claire, and when he spotted her one morning, he could tell it was a good time for another move. Claire was hurrying across campus, looking preoccupied. Her shoulders were pulled up under her ears, hunched against the tingling early autumn damp. A touch at this moment might succeed, but more importantly, if it failed, it would not be resented. He had nothing to lose.

Darren shifted direction to put himself on a line heading toward her. By good luck, with the cooler days, he had put on his leather bombardier jacket, his current favorite garment. He loved the way he looked in it, but Claire didn’t notice him at first.

“Hey there, Professor Lindemann.” He spoke jauntily, but he had to tip down and sideways to get into her field of vision. “Are we on planet Earth?”

Claire looked up and smiled wanly. “Orbiting nearby.”

“Ah. Everything all right?”

“Fine. Just things on my mind.”

“I was hoping to run into you, actually, to ask a favor.”

“Okay.”

She looked neutral, which was an improvement. So often, when he tried to talk to her, she’d be giving off this wary, skeptical vibe.

“Harlan Graves’s granddaughter Samantha is giving a concert this Sunday at Buckley Recital Hall. I’ve met her, and she’s a sweet kid—a little shy and vulnerable, the way people are at that age.” He was encouraged to see Claire nod. “Apparently, she’s quite a decent pianist. She’ll be trying some of Chopin’s dreamier études and nocturnes.” He lifted his hands up and twiddled his fingers. “Maybe a mazurka or two if things get really crazy.” The last remark brought a mild light into Claire’s face. Even in her gray mood, she was very pretty. “Problem is, only a few tickets have sold, and people are afraid Samantha’s feelings will be hurt if she gets a thin house. I was wondering if you had time to attend. The program’s just an hour or so.”

Claire looked at the ground and thought for a moment. “I guess. David won’t be back from Washington until late. I’m not doing anything.” She nodded, looking up. “Why not?”

“Good. I’ll come by your house about seven thirty, and we can walk over together.” Darren took a quick look at his watch. “Yikes—I have to scamper. See you Sunday.”

He wasn’t really in a hurry—class was not for another half hour—but he didn’t want to give Claire time to reconsider what she’d done.

As Claire sailed off for her office hours, David was at a coffee shop a short walk away in the center of town, consulting again with his old sweetheart, Dr. Susan O’Leary. Susan’s professional training and sympathetic smile were making these occasions a welcome time-out.

“Here’s what, I guess, scares me and makes me feel guilty.” David rubbed at his eye. “I should probably offer to bring Lindsay and Jordan up here, but I honestly don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Problems with the Stephensons?”

“They’re very nice people, but I’m afraid they’re getting burned out. No one thought this setup would go on for so long.”

“Hmm. Okay. What can I tell you? If the girls do come for any length of time, a couple things will probably be essential.” Susan propped her chin on her hand and looked to the side, sticking her lower lip out to concentrate. The pose made David smile.

“What’s so funny?” Susan asked.

“Still the lip thing.” He pushed his own lip out to imitate her.

“I haven’t changed all that much, David.” She stuck her lip out even farther. “And, let’s be honest, neither have you.”

“Why mess with perfection?”

“See what I mean? Still the same old happy actor.”

Susan took a sip of her latte and broke her muffin in half, giving David a look he recalled very well—not hostile, but not about to be taken in by him. In Africa, her dark brown hair had hung down to her shoulders. Now it was short and starting to go gray.

“Sorry,” David said. “Shouldn’t have distracted us. A couple things?”

“First, you’ll want a predictable routine, and second, you’ll need to bring on some good help. If your nieces come for more than a week, and you’re trying to work, a smart, warmhearted nanny or housekeeper will be essential. Also a coolheaded friend to talk to.” She smiled into his eyes and patted his hand. “Maybe we’ll get to see each other more often, bwana.”

Susan’s daughter, Allison, had entered Williston Academy, a nearby boarding school, that fall. Now that classes had begun, she would have a good reason to start making regular trips to western Massachusetts.

During their two years in Kenya, David had taught at a civil-service training institute in Kabete, in the Highlands outside Nairobi, while Susan worked twenty minutes away at a university extension in a little village called Kikuyu. A couple times a week, he’d motor through the coffee fields on his Vespa to pay Susan a visit. Their love affair faded after they returned from Africa, but gently. No big blowup, just a slow drift off to graduate schools and new relationships.

“You’re a real friend to help me out here. I appreciate it.” He thanked her in Swahili. “Asante sana, memsahib.”

“You’re going to have to accept that you can’t fix this, David. It’s not fixable. You just have to listen and take things as they come. And you’ll have to accept that you need help.”

“Yeah, but, it just … It’s like …”

She reached over and touched him again, putting her hand on his shoulder and leaning closer. “It’s the two things you’ve always hated: not being able to wrap something up quick and tidy and having to rely on others.” She backed away and held her hands up, spreading her fingers, another familiar gesture. “But that’s what children do, David. They make you confront things you spent your whole life avoiding. If you embrace this situation, it can be a terrific opportunity to grow.”

“Oh bosh, who wants to grow? They drive me crazy. They go up and down so much, especially the little one, Jordan. And Lindsay is off in her own world ninety percent of the time. I never know what they want.”

“Ask them.” Susan looked briefly impatient. “It’s not rocket science. Every child grieves differently. Remember the basics: Be truthful, acknowledge that their sadness will never completely go away, and let them talk if they want to.” Her impatience faded, and she looked at him affectionately. “Then, just hang on for dear life, and let time do its work.”

Susan was noticeably older than Claire, and she wasn’t the knockout Claire was. Her climb to professional prominence and her divorce had toughened her up. Still, she swam for an hour every morning, and it showed. They weren’t in the Eden of East Africa, where they’d held hands under the jacaranda trees, smelling the wood fires in the long evenings before slipping back to her narrow bed. But, as she looked at him, he saw she still had that way of smiling with her eyes that felt almost like being kissed.

Sid Cranmer, alone in his house, was still recovering from his talk with Ames. Some years back, he’d read an article in the New York Times Magazine about a woman with Alzheimer’s who’d decided to take her own life before the disease cored out her mind entirely. The article described how she’d gotten what she needed from a source in Mexico. After that, it was just a matter of saying good-bye to her family and moving painlessly on. With a little effort, Sid dug up the article, found an address in Mexico on the Internet, and sent off for the things he might need.

He was aware, of course, that he could make his quietus any time he wanted with the help of the .45 upstairs. Apart from taking the clip out, the search team had left the gun alone, which surprised him. When he’d asked, Patterson had just shrugged. “You’ve got a permit. The warrant doesn’t authorize seizure of firearms. But I’d start making arrangements to get rid of it soon.” Once Sid was convicted—something Patterson obviously considered inevitable—further possession of the gun would be a felony.

At first, Sid was comfortable reserving the gun as his escape hatch if there was no hope. This exit strategy had occupied his mind a lot in the early days after his arrest—he’d even picked up an extra .45 clip online—sometimes calming him and offering relief, sometimes lowering him into a blank despair. Who, really, would give a shit if he blew his brains out? The world would just be relieved.

The problem was that he hated the mess the gun would make. He knew very well what a high-caliber bullet did to a person’s skull. He kept thinking of his beige carpeting—the blood, bone, and globs of flesh spattered all over it—not to mention the shock in store for whoever found him, which would probably be poor Jonathan or, God forbid, Elizabeth.

The tidier medical alternative attracted him. Ironically, though, when the supplies from Mexico promptly arrived, Sid was mildly outraged. Bending over the box, he whispered to himself: “Order a fucking out-of-print book, and you wait for weeks, but if you want to knock yourself off …” The key ingredient was something called pentobarbital, and he now had two hundred-milliliter vials of it. Enough to kill himself twice.

As Darren was making his way to his office, he unzipped his leather jacket most of the way down. The sun was beginning to sift through the mist, and the prospect of the concert with Claire, and perhaps drinks somewhere afterward, was lifting him off the sidewalk. He was smitten, that was for sure, and it was time for him to settle down. He and Claire had similar interests and values, they were both at the college, and she was beautiful, in every way. They could take sabbaticals together. Travel. Make love often. Have kids.

Darren knew he would be better for Claire than that shovelful of sod, Norcross. The guy might be decent and hardworking, but really. He looked like a man with a broom handle up his butt who figured, if he just maintained a thoughtful expression, no one would notice.

A puff of breeze inflated the sides of his jacket, making it bubble out, an apt metaphor for how he was feeling. Then he heard someone calling his name, and the sight of Ryan Jaworski hurrying toward him punctured his cheerful mood. The kid was clearly agitated about something. He was trotting along with his hands in fists.

Ryan quickly drew up and got right to the point. “Libby knows I saw the flyer.”

Darren kept walking. “So?”

Ryan put his hand on Darren’s arm, stopping him. “So? What do you mean, so? She could tell somebody—Lindemann or one of her friends, and I’d be—”

Darren broke in, using his classroom voice. “I’m curious to know, Ryan, how she happened to learn about this.” Darren looked around. It didn’t seem as though anyone was within earshot, but it wasn’t impossible. One of the college patrol cars was parked at the side of Converse Hall.

“It just sort of came out.” Ryan grabbed at Darren’s arm harder to stop him from walking off. “Listen, I can’t get in trouble, okay? My dad would cut my balls off.”

“This is a fix you put yourself in, Ryan.”

“Bullshit! You put me in it! You told me you thought it would be funny.”

“That’s not true, Ryan. I said it would be funny, yes, but I never told you to do anything. I never put you anywhere.” He resumed walking, with Ryan in pursuit.

“You did. I never would’ve—”

“Hey!” Darren put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Just calm down, okay?”

They walked together for a few tense steps, Ryan muttering and shaking his head. Darren zipped up his jacket. Finally, he stopped and turned to Ryan, keeping his voice steady. “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree about what I said or didn’t say. All right?” He looked at Ryan, drawing out one of his well-practiced icy stares. Ryan glared back at him; he was not quailed. After a few more steps, Darren continued, in a more relaxed tone. “This does not have to be a problem, you know.”

Ryan burst out. “Jesus Christ on a crutch, if I’d ever thought the FBI would get involved …” Ryan breathed in, pressing a hand against his chest. “But you had this cute idea.” The boy was more upset than Darren had realized. “Jesus, my dad! I can’t even think about it.”

“Hey, listen to me,” Darren repeated. “This really does not have to be a problem, okay?” He pointed a finger at Ryan. “All you have to do is make sure your lady friend keeps her lip buttoned. You can do that, can’t you? Contain yourself, and contain the situation. As long as she is as silent as a tomb, neither of us will have a thing to worry about.”