The River King (16 page)

“Hey,” Abe called to some kid walking by. Immediately, the boy froze. Boys of this age could always identify a cop, even the good kids with nothing to hide. “Which one is Chalk House?”

The kid directed them to a building so close to the river the branches of weeping willows trailed across the roof. When they reached the house, Abe stomped some of the mud off his boots, but Joey didn't bother. There were several more of those expensive bikes tossed down carelessly. Haddan wasn't the sort of town where bikes needed to be locked, nor front doors latched for that matter, except back when Abe and Joey were on the loose and people from the village went down to the hardware store in droves, asking for Yale locks and dead bolts.

Once the men had stepped inside the dim hallway of Chalk House, Abe's first thought was exactly the one he'd had all those years ago when they were breaking into houses:
Nobody's stopping us.
That's what had always surprised him.
Nobody's in charge.

Matt Farris was waiting in the student lounge smoking a cigarette and using a paper cup as an ashtray.

“What took you?” he asked, something of a joke since he and his partner, Kenny Cook, were usually the ones to be late. He stubbed out his cigarette and threw the whole mess into the garbage.

“You're just on time because Kenny's not with you,” Joey joked.

“Trying to start a fire?” Abe asked of the smoldering wastebasket.

“Burn the place down? Not a bad idea.” Matt was a local boy, with the local prejudice against the school, and it amused him to see bits of trash simmer before he doused it all with a cup of water.

“No photographs?” Abe asked now. Matt's partner, Kenny, was the man with the camera, but he had a second job, over at the Fotomat in Middletown, and wasn't readily available for emergencies.

“The word from Glen was don't bother,” Matt said. “Don't take up too much time with any of this.”

Abe managed a look at some of the rooms on their way past the second floor; all were predictably sloppy, ripe with the stink of unwashed clothes. The men went on, stooping as they made their way up the last flight of stairs, trying their best not to hit their heads on the low ceiling. There was even more need to crouch when they reached the rabbit warren of an attic, with paper-thin walls and eaves so pitched a man of Abel's height had to slouch at all times. Even Joey, who was barely five-eight, quickly began to feel claustrophobic. In all those years of imagining how the other half lived, they had never imagined this.

“What a frigging dump,” Joey said. “Who would have thunk it.”

They'd always believed Haddan students lived in luxury, with feather beds and fireplaces. Now it seemed what they'd envied had turned out to be nothing more than a cramped attic, with floorboards that shifted with every step and pipes that jutted out from the ceiling.

As they neared Gus's room, Abe heard the crying again. This time, Joey and Matt heard it, too.

“Just what we need. Some spoiled brat in hysterics.” Joey had less than twenty minutes to get home, eat dinner, placate Mary Beth for all the household tasks he'd forgotten or would forget soon, and get to his job at the mall. “We could leave,” he suggested. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right.” Abe took some Rolaids out of his pocket and tossed a few into his mouth. “Let's get this over with.”

The nagging feeling Abe had been having was turning sour. He never could stand to hear anyone cry, although by now he should be used to it. He'd witnessed grown men sobbing as they pleaded for another chance after he'd pulled them over for a DUI. He'd had women lean on his shoulder and weep over minor traffic accidents or lost dogs. In spite of his experience, Abe was never prepared for displays of emotion, and it only made matters worse when he opened Gus's door to discover that the person in question was only a girl, one not much older than Joey's daughter Emily.

For her part, Carlin Leander hadn't heard anyone approach, and when she saw Abe, she was immediately ready to run. Who could blame her? Abe was a big man, and he seemed especially huge in the tiny attic room. But in fact, Abe wasn't paying much attention to Carlin. He was far more concerned with a bit of visual information that surprised him far more than a crying girl: the room was spotless.

Carlin had risen to her feet; she judged Abe to be a police officer even before he'd introduced himself as such, and for one stupefying instant, she thought she was about to be arrested, perhaps even charged with murder. Instead, Abe went to the closet, where he found the shirts neatly placed on hangers, the shoes all in a row. “Was this the way Gus usually kept his room?”

“No. His clothes were usually spread all over the floor.”

Joey was out in the hall along with Matt Farris. When he peered into the room, he didn't like what he saw. Another rich Haddan student, that was his estimation, a pampered girl likely to burst into tears every time she couldn't get what she wanted.

“Maybe we should bring her down to the station. Question her there.” Joey had a way of saying the wrong thing at the right time, and this was no exception. Before Abe could assure Carlin they'd do nothing of the sort, she darted from the room. Down the hallway she went; down the stairs two at a time.

“Brilliant move.” Abe turned to Joey. “She might have known something and you had to go and scare her off.”

Joey came to look in the closet; he reached along the top shelf. “Bingo.” He withdrew a plastic bag of marijuana, which he tossed to Abe. “If it's there, I'll find it,” he said proudly.

Abe slipped the marijuana into his pocket; he might or might not turn it in. Either way, he couldn't quite figure how in a room so neat and tidy, a bag of weed could be carelessly left behind. While Matt Farris dusted for fingerprints, Abe went to the window to see the drowned boy's view; they were so high up it was possible to spy birds' nests in the willows, blackbirds soaring above the church steeple in town. From this vantage point, the woods on the far side of the river seemed endless, acres of hawthorn and holly, wild apple and pine. No dust on the window ledge, Abe noticed, and the panes of glass weren't smudged either.

“Two scenarios.” Joey had approached to stand beside Abe. “Either the kid killed himself, or he got good and stoned and accidentally drowned.”

“But you're not voting for the accident theory,” Abe said.

“From what I've heard, the guy was a loser.” Having realized what this implied, Joey quickly backtracked, in honor of Frank's memory. “Not that only losers kill themselves. That's not what I meant.”

“I wish they'd sent Kenny along.” Abe was not about to discuss Frank. Not here. Not now. “I'd still like some pictures of this room, and I know how to get them.”

He had caught sight of the woman with the camera on the path below, and he nodded for Joey to take a look.

“Not bad,” Joey said. “Great ass.”

“It was the camera I wanted you to see, you moron.”

“Yeah, I'm sure it was the camera that attracted you.”

As she walked across the quad, Betsy Chase was wondering if she'd been among the last to see Gus Pierce alive. She could not get past the moment when he'd scaled the cemetery fence, devastated by his argument with Carlin. Was there anything Betsy herself might have done to save him? What if she had called out as he disappeared into the woods, or if she'd gone forward into the cemetery? Might she have changed what was about to happen? Could a single word have redirected that pitiful boy's fate, much the way a single star can guide a traveler through a storm?

Betsy's camera banged against her ribs in its usual, comforting way, but she felt spacy and light-headed, perhaps the effect of crossing from the dim, shaded path into the last of the day's sunlight. In the shadows a recent death cast, even the thinnest rays could be dizzying. Betsy leaned up against one of the weeping beeches to regain her balance. Unfortunately, the swans were nesting nearby. They were such territorial creatures that anybody with sense would have known to walk on, but Betsy brought her camera up to her eye and began to focus. She much preferred to look at the world through glass, but before she could continue, someone called out to her. Betsy placed one hand over her eyes. There was a man on the front porch of Chalk House and his gaze had settled onto her.

“Is that a camera?” he called.

Well, that much was obvious, but no more obvious than the fact that his eyes were a pale, transparent blue and that he had the sort of stare that could hold a person in place, unable or unwilling to move. Betsy felt akin to those rabbits she came upon when she went walking at dusk; although it was clear they should run, they stayed where they were, frozen, even when it was clear they were in the direct path of trouble.

Abe had begun walking toward her, and so it would be ridiculous to bolt. When he took out his ID, Betsy glanced at the picture. Such snapshots were usually laughable, a portrait from the gulag or the prison farm, but this man was good-looking even in his ID photo. Best not look for too long if Betsy knew what was good for her. He was the handsomest man she had seen in Haddan, and a handsome man could never be trusted to appreciate anything as much as the reflection he saw in his own mirror. Still, Betsy couldn't help but notice a few basic facts as she scanned his ID: his date of birth, along with his name, and the color of his eyes, which she already knew to be astoundingly blue.

Abe explained what he needed and led her toward Chalk House. As Betsy walked beside him, she kept a watch on the swans, expecting them to charge, hissing and snapping at coats and at shoes, but that didn't happen. One merely peered out from the nest, while the other followed along on the path, which encouraged Betsy to quicken her pace.

“I saw Gus Pierce last night,” Betsy found herself telling the detective. “It was probably right before he wound up in the river.”

Abe had often noted that people gave you more information than they were asked-for; without the least bit of prodding, they'd answer the exact question that should have been posed, the important detail that hadn't yet come to mind.

“He was with another student.” Betsy tossed some of the crusts in her pockets onto the path, but the swan ignored her offerings and hurried after them, feet slapping the concrete. Thankfully, though, they had reached the dormitory.

“A blond girl?” Abe asked.

Betsy nodded, surprised he would know. “They were arguing in the old cemetery.”

“Bad enough for him to kill himself over?”

“That all depends.” What was wrong with her? She couldn't seem to shut up, as if silence might be even more dangerous in the presence of this man than speech. “It's hard to tell how people in love will react.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Color rose at her throat and cheeks, and Abe felt oddly moved by her discomfort. He stepped closer, drawn by a most delicious scent, reminiscent of homemade cookies. Abe, a man who never cared much for desserts, now found he was ravenous. He had the urge to kiss this woman, right there on the path.

“Don't answer that question,” he said.

“I didn't intend to,” Betsy assured him.

In fact, she had absolutely no idea what people in love might do, other than make fools of themselves.

“You're a teacher here?” Abe asked.

“First year. What about you? Did you go to school here?”

“No one from town goes to the Haddan School. We don't even like to come onto the property.”

They'd reached the door, which had locked behind Abe; he pressed his weight against the wood, then ran his gas credit card under the bolt, bypassing the coded entry lock.

“Pretty good,” Betsy said.

“Practice.” Abe told her.

Betsy felt such a ridiculously strong pull toward him, it was as if gravity were playing a nasty little trick. It was nonsense, really, the way she couldn't catch her breath. The attraction was on the same level as wondering what the postman's kisses might be like, or what the groundskeeper who tended the roses would look like without his shirt. She and Eric would surely laugh about it later, how she'd been roped into police work by a man with blue eyes. It was her civic duty, after all. To keep matters businesslike, she'd make certain to charge the police department for film and processing.

“I see you caught yourself a photographer.” Matt Farris introduced both himself and Joey when Betsy was brought up to the attic. With so many people standing around, Gus's room seemed tinier still. Matt suggested they step into the hall and let Betsy work away. “Not bad,” he commented to Abe once they had.

Joey craned his neck to get a good look while Betsy set up in Gus's room. “Far too smart and pretty for you,” he told Abe, “so I'm not giving out any odds.”

Local people liked to joke that ninety percent of the women in Massachusetts were attractive and the other ten percent taught at the Haddan School, but these people had never met Betsy Chase. She was more arresting than pretty, with her dark hair and the sharp arc of her cheekbones; her eyebrows had a peculiar rise, as though she'd been surprised in the past and was only now beginning to recover her equilibrium. The fading light through the attic window illuminated her in a way that made Abe wonder why he'd never noticed her in town. Perhaps that was just as well; there was no point in getting worked up over Betsy, who wasn't even close to his type, not that Abe had ever found his type before. A woman with zero expectations, that's what he'd always wanted in the past. Someone like Betsy would only make him miserable and reject him in the end. Besides, it was too late for him to start any emotional attachments now; he probably couldn't if he tried. There were nights he sat alone in his own kitchen, listening to the sound of the train headed toward Boston, when he'd stuck pins into the palm of his hand, just to get a reaction. He swore he didn't feel a thing.