“Do you remember his name?”

“No, except that it was French and it wasn’t LaBrecque. And he was a cook.”

Flynn figured he could get the name of the cousin when he talked to LaBrecque’s brother that afternoon. He still lived in Manchester. The father was dead.

“Do you think LaBrecque is capable of killing someone?”

Again Renfrew looked uncomfortable, seeming to study the fluorescent light fixture. “I don’t know,” he said, looking back at Flynn. “At first I was absolutely certain he hadn’t been responsible for the attack on the other boy. He seemed so shocked by it. He even wanted to help question the other students and he talked to me several times about what might lead a person to do something so awful. I was touched by his concern, especially since he’d often been this other boy’s victim. But let’s say he did it. Then the lies he told afterward are amazing, because he didn’t simply deny that he’d attacked the boy. He went to great lengths to act shocked and play the detective. And there was that business about the cake.” Renfrew shifted in his chair. “It suggested that he saw it all as an elaborate game. His ego has to be immense. Behind his apparent concern there must have been a complete lack of feeling, which makes me think he might easily be capable of taking another person’s life. He’d be able to explain it in a hundred ways, and his first justification would be that he himself had been a victim.”

—

Frank LeBrun was waiting outside Emerson Hall. It was getting dark, though it was only a little after four o’clock, but the day had turned cloudy. Snow was forecast. The TV had been showing footage of winter storms in Colorado and Montana. LeBrun had only a sweater. He paced back and forth in front of the iron fence posts, rubbing his arms and talking angrily to himself. He had been upset since the memorial service. Bobby Newland had made him mad. He didn’t like being at Bishop’s Hill anymore and he wouldn’t have stayed if there hadn’t been special work to do. The whole business had become disagreeable and he was getting that boxed-in feeling that he hated.

When he heard the front door open, LeBrun pressed back against the fence. Soon Roger Bennett hurried past. LeBrun wasn’t sure that Bennett had seen him—his sweater was dark and the sun had already set. And Bennett was in a hurry—but he always seemed in a hurry. He was always running somewhere and never had time to talk. But it wasn’t going to be like that this time.

LeBrun sprang after him and grabbed Bennett’s arm. “I got a question.”

“Let go of me,” said Bennett, pulling free, then stumbling a little.

“Why didn’t you tell me that old guy was going to kill himself?”

“How in the world could I have known?”

“You knew him better than me. You all knew him.”

Bennett stood facing LeBrun in the driveway. He wore a black leather coat that reached his thighs. Although his face was in shadow, his blond hair shone in the light from the windows. “I thought he’d quit. You know, resign.”

LeBrun stepped forward and took hold of the lapels of Bennett’s coat. “Don’t fuck with me. I had nothing against that old fart.”

Bennett didn’t try to shake him off. “You should watch how you behave. You could be in big trouble. The police want to know who destroyed Clifford’s office and they also want to know where that girl got the tequila. They could probably charge you with quite a few things—corrupting a minor, breaking and entering, vandalism. Maybe Clifford made a pass and you got mad. Why should the police think anyone else was involved?”

LeBrun pulled Bennett toward him, until their faces were almost touching.

“I’m not the only one who knows about this,” continued Bennett. “You’ve been paid and you need to keep quiet. Do you actually care whether Evings is alive or dead?”

LeBrun let go of Bennett’s coat. “I didn’t mean for him to off himself.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

“You know, Bennett, you don’t smile anymore. You used to smile all the time when there was stuff you wanted me to do. How come you quit smiling? Is it because you think you’ve got me in your pocket?”

For the first time Bennett looked uneasy. “Perhaps I see nothing to smile about.”

“Hey, there’s always jokes. You hear about the Canuck who stole the Thanksgiving turkey?”

Instead of answering, Bennett turned abruptly and hurried up the driveway to his apartment behind the chapel.

LeBrun angrily kicked the metal fence. Then he sat down on the ground and massaged his bruised toes. In the beginning it had seemed easy: a little money for this, a little money for that. As for that stuff with the girl, it was a joke. But now Bennett had something on him. And so did others.

For a moment, LeBrun considered running, going out to California, where he had lived before. His sister was in Riverside and he hadn’t seen her for years. But he was almost broke. He had to stay at Bishop’s Hill until he got his money, which would be a bundle, a double bundle. After that he’d have all the freedom he could want. But to get the money he had to finish the job he’d been sent to do. No more fucking around. No more indecision. That fat policeman had come sniffing around the kitchen. LeBrun had talked to lots of cops in his lifetime. They never got shit. But LeBrun hated to see him hanging around the school. And the state trooper had come back as well.

LeBrun got up off the ground. His butt was cold and his foot hurt. Maybe he’d busted a toe, like he’d once busted a finger when he punched a wall. He had to talk to the girl and get the dates straight. Fucking Misty. When he was younger, girls like that wouldn’t give him the time of day. You had to get a hold on a person, otherwise you were nothing. And wasn’t that what Bennett had? A hold? LeBrun hated them all. But he didn’t hate Hawthorne, not yet. On the other hand, he didn’t doubt that if Hawthorne knew more about him, then he’d become an enemy, too. Hawthorne liked him now, but that was because he didn’t know anything. The more a person knew, the sooner they’d turn against you. It had always been like that. Even when he’d been a kid, even before he’d actually done anything. It was a fact of life.

LeBrun walked around the outside of Emerson, rubbing his arms and deep in conversation with himself. He wanted to talk to the girl. It was past four-thirty and she was probably in her room. He’d never been there but he knew it was on the second floor of Smithfield. LeBrun always made a point of finding out where things were. There was no telling when it might come in useful. And keys, he always liked to have a lot of keys.

He rounded Emerson by Stark Hall, into which Bennett had disappeared, then he continued toward the row of dormitory cottages. LeBrun liked how the days were getting shorter. He could never see why people complained about the decreasing daylight. He liked the dark. Maybe he should live in Alaska, where there was lots of night. Or he could go to Quebec and live with the rest of the Canucks. He’d picked up a little French from his grandmom, maybe twenty or thirty words. It would be a start.

There was a back door to Smithfield and LeBrun unlocked it. He stepped inside and listened. He could hear girls’ voices and laughter from the living room. And there was music. LeBrun didn’t like music, not even rock and roll. It made him jittery. He couldn’t imagine listening to music to relax. There was lots of stuff he didn’t like. LeBrun paused on the back stairs and thought about it. He didn’t like people fucking with his space, and to tell the truth, a whole lot of people fucked with his space.

LeBrun paused again at the second-floor landing. A girl was walking down the hall from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and he waited for her to get out of the way. Jessica’s door was the second one down on the left. He would surprise her. It would help to make her think he was invincible. But he wouldn’t touch her. On the whole, he didn’t like to touch anyone, except for business purposes.