Hawthorne climbed to the third floor, then unlocked the door to the attic. The stairs were wide enough to accommodate the bookcases, mattresses, and general bric-a-brac stored under the roof. As he began his ascent, he thought he heard a rustling but he wasn’t sure. Reaching the top, he flashed his light down the length of the attic, then located the light switch on the wall. There were three switches: one for the staircase leading to the bell tower, one for the east side of the attic, and one for the west. Hawthorne flicked the switch for the west side and a string of ceiling lights flickered on—dim bulbs that cast shadows into the corners and illuminated boxes of nails and buckets of tar left by the men working on the roof.

Hawthorne again heard a rustling. He expected there were red squirrels as well as rats. He had meant to order traps earlier in the fall but with one thing and another he had forgotten. It was cold and he kept his coat buttoned. The west side of the attic formed a long room cluttered with boxes, broken easels, and music stands, desks, chairs, bookcases, metal bed frames, mattresses, and rolls of paper. Hawthorne told himself that when he had a chance he would see about clearing out some of the clutter. He moved slowly along the passageway that ran down the center, looking behind boxes and heaps of debris. The floors creaked. Hawthorne realized he was breathing rapidly. He stopped and tried to catch his breath. He felt foolish and angry at himself for being frightened. He pushed an old desk away from the wall and looked behind a bookcase. There were papers on the floor—old brochures and school catalogs—and they crinkled as he stepped on them. A chair tipped over with a crash. Hawthorne kept thinking what a firetrap the place was and before he could stop himself he had begun to remember the fire at Wyndham School. Briefly, it absorbed all his attention.

It took Hawthorne twenty minutes to reach the end of the attic. His movements stirred up the dust and he sneezed. Despite the cold, he was sweating. He kept turning quickly, imagining he had seen something out of the corner of his eye—a shadow or a sudden darting.

Hawthorne had just bent down to look behind a dark oak cabinet with two cracked glass doors when the lights went out. It was like being struck blind. He stood up quickly and banged his head against a rafter. Even in the dark, he knew that his hands were shaking.

Hawthorne listened but could hear nothing. He flicked on his flashlight and shined it down the corridor. The space through which he had passed seemed unfamiliar; the boxes and piled chairs took on new shapes. Again he heard a rustling. He pointed his light in the direction of the noise. Then a door slammed, but seemingly far away. Hawthorne’s heart was beating fast and he stood still, trying to calm himself. He wished he were braver, less of an academic. Dust motes floated in the beam of his light.

Slowly, Hawthorne began to make his way back toward the stairs, swinging his light from side to side. Several times he turned around to make sure there was nothing behind him. After he had gone twenty feet, the beam of his light picked up the shape of something ahead. Hawthorne paused. He wished he had a weapon. From a pile stacked against the sloping roof, he took a hockey stick, then he almost discarded it because it made him feel silly. But he held on to it. As he walked forward, the shape ahead of him took on substance and after he had gone another few yards he realized that somebody was standing in the passageway—a wavering shape in the uncertain beam of his light. Hawthorne was afraid that his legs might give way beneath him. He stood still, again trying to calm his breathing. Then he shifted the hockey stick to his right hand and continued forward. Getting closer, Hawthorne realized it was a man and in another moment he saw it was Ambrose Stark. The former headmaster was grinning at him with a bright red grin that disfigured the bottom half of his face. It was the same image Hawthorne had seen staring down at him from the window at Adams Hall.

Hawthorne forced himself to take another step forward, then another. The light jittered across the figure and Hawthorne saw that his hand was trembling. Then Ambrose Stark moved. Hawthorne crouched down, keeping his light focused on the dead headmaster, not daring to look away. He tried to force himself to relax. Stark was about twenty feet ahead of him. Hawthorne made himself stand up, breathe deeply, and then move forward. The next time Ambrose Stark moved, Hawthorne realized the image was swaying. Closer, he saw that it was a painting hanging from the rafters. He wanted to laugh at himself but the image was too awful. The gaping red grin was horrific: a red slash across the face. What frightened him now was the knowledge that the picture hadn’t been there when he had made his way through the attic twenty minutes earlier. Someone had hung it up after he had passed.

As Hawthorne drew nearer, he could see that the portrait was attached to a cord stretched between the rafters. It was a full-length picture showing Stark standing by a desk with his right hand resting on a book. He wore a dark suit and behind him was dark red drapery. His face was so distorted by the red grin that even his eyes took on a demonic appearance. He looked as if he were about to burst into mad laughter. Hawthorne stopped about five feet away. Clearly, it was the same picture that had been in Evings’s office. Moving forward, Hawthorne reached out and took hold of the edge of the canvas. Then he yanked it down so the portrait fell to the floor. He felt relieved, even moderately brave. He was certain that Ambrose Stark would frighten him no more.

—

Detective Leo Flynn was disgusted. It was a rainy Monday morning in Boston with wet snow forecast, and the skyline had disappeared into the murk. Sirens were blaring, cars were honking, and on the other side of the office one of his colleagues was calling a young black kid a “scumbag.” Shouting it over and over: Scumbag, scumbag. It was Pearl Harbor Day and Leo Flynn remembered when there used to be parades. He liked parades. And he liked fireworks. He’d been known to travel a hundred miles for a good fireworks display, and on the Fourth of July he was always out in the harbor in his pal Loomis’s boat, getting as close as they could so the rockets shot up right above them; sometimes the sticks would come whickering down onto the deck and once they’d had a flaming piece of paper. If Flynn had had more sense as a kid, he would have gone into fireworks design instead of being a cop. Explosions for the heck of it. You had to be an artist to be a first-rate fireworks designer; you had to have pizzazz.

Right now Flynn was in the doghouse. The homicide captain had chewed his ear off for wasting so much time in New Hampshire. Why’d he have to go himself? Coughlin wanted to know. Hadn’t Flynn heard of the telephone? Or e-mail? Or departmental reciprocity? Boston was always doing favors for those podunk New Hampshire departments. It was time for them to give something back. Flynn was needed in Boston. He had other cases and court dates coming up. What the hell was he thinking of?

Leo Flynn had told Coughlin everything he could about Francis LaBrecque. He had even told him some of LaBrecque’s jokes, knowing full well that Coughlin hated jokes unless he was the person telling them. And he told Coughlin he had been looking for LaBrecque’s cousin, the cook, Larry Gaudette, but Coughlin had only said, “Can’t you write it all down? You fuckin’ lazy all of a sudden? Give it to me on paper.” Coughlin was in his late forties, fifteen years younger than Flynn, and they weren’t close. Coughlin didn’t know squat about Pearl Harbor Day, for instance.

So Flynn had been writing it down and the information would be sent all over New England. Much had been sent already. The computers would get cracking and a lot of departments would communicate with one another electronically. For Flynn it was obvious that the time was coming when you’d never have to leave the office. Everything would be done electronically and when all the information was in place a couple of patrolmen would be sent out to nab the guy. And someday—Leo Flynn had no doubt about it—they’d be sending out robots. But by then he would be retired and living in Florida, or maybe pushing up daisies, worm food after a life of cheap cigars.