The other boy, Eddy Powers, didn’t mind going back to the kitchen as long as LeBrun behaved and Hawthorne got somebody to replace Bengston. Maybe two people. Powers was an eleventh grader, a tall, skinny basketball player with a stoop.

“LeBrun’s okay as long as you don’t talk to him and make sure you laugh at his jokes.”

Hawthorne thanked Powers and started to walk away, then he thought of something. “I gather Scott McKinnon didn’t come into the kitchen much.”

“You kidding? He was in there all the time trying to bum cigarettes and stealing cookies. He and LeBrun would swap jokes and Scott’s were always better. He had a great one about a dead old lady who’s been reincarnated as a rabbit in Wisconsin.”

After Hawthorne had found two more students to help LeBrun, he returned to the kitchen. The women were washing the breakfast dishes and the floor had been swept. LeBrun was kneading a mound of bread dough, hitting it with his fists. Hawthorne told him that the students would show up about eleven, then he said, “You told me you didn’t know Scott. Now I hear he was in here often.”

LeBrun stepped away from the bread dough and wiped his hands on his apron. He wrinkled his nose at Hawthorne. “I lied.”

“How come?”

“Hey, if I said Scott was a friend of mine, the cops would be all over me. ‘When was the last time you saw this? When was the last time you saw that?’ I’d go fuckin’ nuts. So he hung out in the kitchen and bummed cigarettes, does that mean I killed him? What reason would I have?” LeBrun began to reach for a cigarette, then stopped himself.

“So your cousin saw him, too.”

“Sure. I mean, Larry couldn’t stand him hanging around.”

—

Tuesday evening Hawthorne worked in his office after dinner. The state police had visited the school during the day to search the buildings. Chief Moulton said they were also looking for Larry Gaudette’s car, which struck Hawthorne as peculiar since he assumed that Gaudette had taken it with him. In any case, no car was found. Moulton said that none of Gaudette’s family in Manchester had heard from him, nor had his friends. As a result, the police were revising their theories.

About eight-thirty, Hawthorne locked his office. Emerson appeared empty. Even though the hall lights were burning brightly, Hawthorne started at every sound as he walked toward the rotunda. His snow boots squeaked on the marble floor. Hawthorne kept telling himself that in another week everything would be all right. The students would be gone and he could concentrate on his problems with the faculty. And LeBrun, something would have to be done about LeBrun. Skander was right: there was no way he could remain in charge of the kitchen.

Hawthorne left through the front door of the building, and out on the driveway he could see stars. The light in the bell tower shone above the school like a beacon. It was cold and he turned up his collar. A dog was barking far away and Hawthorne heard music, the high squeal of guitars. He walked around the outside of Adams. Lights burned in the library in Hamilton Hall and he saw a girl in a green sweater standing at a card catalogue. Lights were also on in the dormitory cottages, though many windows were dark. Farther on, Hawthorne could see that people appeared to be home in the faculty houses.

A man was standing on the patio by the French windows of Hawthorne’s quarters, a dim figure illuminated by a light on the walkway. Hawthorne hesitated, then continued forward. When he got closer, the man called his name. It was Kevin Krueger.

“What are you doing skulking back here?” asked Hawthorne, hurrying toward him.

Krueger shook his hand. “I just arrived. I need to talk to you.”

Hawthorne heard the seriousness in his voice. He unlocked the door and motioned Krueger inside. “Come in, come in, you must be freezing.” Hawthorne began turning on lights. He was struck by how dreary his apartment seemed. Only his leather chair looked inviting, something he could take pleasure in. For the first time, Hawthorne wondered if Skander had left the apartment dreary on purpose. I have to stop this, Hawthorne told himself. I can’t keep suspecting everyone.

“Would you like a beer? A cup of coffee?”

“Coffee’s fine,” said Krueger.

Hawthorne unbuttoned his overcoat as he continued to the kitchen. Krueger followed him. His cheeks were red with cold. “How long did it take you to get up here?” asked Hawthorne.

“Two hours.” Krueger removed his coat and laid it across a chair.

“That’s not bad. What’s on your mind? I’m amazed that you drove all this way.”

“I’ll wait till I’m settled with my coffee first.”

Hawthorne was struck by Krueger’s tone. He looked at him from the stove. “I guess I’ll have coffee as well,” he said, turning on the faucet and filling the kettle.

Five minutes later they were seated in the living room. Hawthorne had insisted that Krueger sit in the new chair while he sat on the couch, which after several months of airing still smelled vaguely of cat urine. Hawthorne waited for Krueger to speak.

Krueger blew on his coffee, then set the mug on a small table to the right of his chair. “I heard today that Hamilton Burke has been in contact with the Galileo Corporation.”

The Galileo Corporation was one of the for-profits Krueger had mentioned at Thanksgiving, a private company that ran about forty residential treatment programs for high-risk children and adolescents, as well as a number of homes for the retarded. The company’s headquarters were in South Carolina.

Hawthorne held his mug with both hands, letting its warmth take the chill from his fingers. “Perhaps it’s just a general inquiry. A contingency plan.”

“Actually he’s been in negotiation for several months, almost since the beginning of the semester. He’s counting on Bishop’s Hill not opening in the fall.”

“He said the other day that he and the trustees don’t intend to close the school.”

Kruger pulled at his mustache with his thumb as he listened. “I don’t know anything about that. Burke expects the deal to be settled within the next few months.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“You remember Ralph Spaight—he was in several of your classes at BU? He works for Galileo. I talked to him.”

Hawthorne had a vague memory of a fast-talking graduate student with short black hair. “I never liked him.”

“He’s doing well,” said Krueger.

“And he said Burke was negotiating to sell Bishop’s Hill?”

“Spaight has spoken with him. He said Burke’s flown down to Columbia twice.”

“And this was a board decision?” Neither of them were drinking their coffee.

“No, that’s the point. He’s done it on his own. Most of the board wants to keep the school open. Of course, if you resign and the school falls apart, then there’s no hope. Burke will talk about interested parties hoping to make a deal and the board will see him as a hero. I don’t know the particulars, but it’s clear that some people will stay on in managerial positions.”

“Did Spaight say anything about Fritz Skander or Roger Bennett?”

“He didn’t know any names other than Burke’s.”

Hawthorne considered what it meant to have Burke lying to him. “I wonder if he ever offered Clifford Evings that leave.”

“I doubt you could prove anything.”

“If he lied to him, then he as good as killed him. Why is he so keen on all this?”

Krueger didn’t respond and Hawthorne realized that the answer was obvious. Galileo had presumably offered Burke a sizable amount of money to see the deal go through. Most likely he would also be retained as attorney. Hawthorne went on to tell Krueger about the faculty meeting he had planned for Monday. “I’ve invited Burke and the other trustees. The faculty is obliged to come. I’m thinking now that I’ll also invite Chief Moulton.”

“I’d like to be there, too,” said Krueger. “And you should have a lawyer.”