“So they’ll know what end to wipe.”

“Jesus, I could listen to those all night. Know which end to wipe, ain’t it the fuckin’ truth. All right, little Misty, your time’s up.” LeBrun reached over and cut the sheet securing her foot. “Let’s get started. It’s got to be done before he gets here. I’ll be taking his Jeep. I’ve always liked Jeeps.” He took Jessica’s arm and dragged her to her feet.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked, terrified again.

“We’re going up to the top, up where the bell is.” He pulled her over to the door leading to the tower. “Too bad you’re not going to get a chance to admire the view. I hear it’s fantastic.”

—

Detective Leo Flynn and Chief Moulton were in Moulton’s black Chevy Blazer making their way down Antelope Road, which still hadn’t been plowed. They had spent an hour in Brewster Center waiting for a plow but it had never shown up so Moulton said he’d try to force his way through, even though the snow must be nearly three feet.

“I don’t want to freeze to death out here,” said Flynn, who had not meant to say anything, who had meant to seem confident.

“The heater works and I got a full tank of gas. We could be toasty all night.”

“If this was Boston, I could get the entire Department of Public Works to clear the roads. I’d get them out here or I’d fucking have their jobs.”

Moulton cleared his throat. “Too bad we’re not in Boston.”

Flynn thought he detected an element of sarcasm. He glanced at Moulton but the police chief’s face in the dash light was expressionless. “Hey, this guy’s a professional killer. You should of at least called out the National Guard.”

“I called the troopers,” said Moulton. “Everyone’s tied up because of the snow, even the National Guard.”

Again there was the whisper of sarcasm. “So how far do we have to go?”

“About seven miles.”

“That should take us about an hour at this rate.”

“Maybe you’d do better on foot,” said Moulton. “I bet even your feet are better than ours. A Boston flatfoot, isn’t that right? I bet you could walk on the snow just like you had snowshoes.”

“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.