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“Yes, long ago at BU. She was very smart, very energetic. I haven’t seen her for some time.”

Twice during dinner Hawthorne caught Krueger glancing at him with concern. Krueger’s wife kept urging him to eat more and he realized they both thought he was too thin. And his nerves were bad. When Krueger’s small son overturned his milk, Hawthorne jumped and pushed back his chair. Even the Beattys looked at him curiously. He retired early to the upstairs guest room, then read until past midnight—an Agatha Christie mystery with Miss Marple that he had found on his bedside table. He envied a world where simple reasoning and analysis could bring about such successes.

The next morning after breakfast Krueger and Hawthorne retired to Krueger’s study off the sunporch with a pot of black coffee. Hawthorne told him all that had happened since Krueger’s visit—Jessica’s drunken visit, the clarinet playing “Satin Doll,” the grinning portrait of Ambrose Stark, the continued phone calls. Krueger already knew about Evings’s suicide, but Hawthorne described the memorial service and how Bobby Newland had accused the school of murder. He recounted his conversation with Mrs. Hayes and how Bennett and Chip Campbell and others had convinced her that she was about to be fired. He talked about the girl, Gail Jensen, who had hemorrhaged to death after an abortion. And he talked about Lloyd Pendergast and what Mrs. Hayes had said about him. Deborah brought in a fresh pot of coffee. In the backyard, Krueger’s children played in their red and blue snowsuits, throwing snowballs and sledding down a small hill. Their shouts were muted through the picture window.

Then Hawthorne talked about Wyndham, telling Krueger that he felt he was making himself accept these events at Bishop’s Hill because he considered them a just punishment for what had occurred in San Diego—the hubris that had led him to be inattentive. He responded to the gossip and attacks by trying to endure them, doing little to stop them, and part of him wanted the attacks to get worse until they destroyed him. But Hawthorne didn’t mention Claire and his adultery. He was afraid Krueger would hate him and he didn’t think he could survive Krueger’s hate. Through it all Krueger listened without interruption, drinking cup after cup of coffee, hardly changing his position on the couch as the morning sun moved across the snow-covered backyard.

At the end, Krueger said, “You’ve got to get out of there.”

“That’s what they want me to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Your life and sanity are more important.”

Hawthorne sat in a sprawling brown armchair that he had turned to face Krueger. “There are good people there. And there are the students. Nothing would be gained by forcing the school to close. Because that’s what would happen. If I quit, the school will shut down. They might not even make it to May.”

“I thought you said you were there to punish yourself, not to make the place work.”

“I’m there for both.”

“It’s a piece of property. The board of trustees would most likely sell it to pay off the debts.” Krueger drank the last of his cold coffee and made a face. He wiped his mustache. “It’s private. It’s got a physical plant. It’s in a beautiful location.”

“Who’d buy it?”

“Lots of people. A religious group, for instance. Didn’t the Moonies buy a chunk of Farrington College? Or it could be turned into another sort of institution. Think of the money in for-profits. At least a dozen companies have bought up schools or hospitals around the country. The Galileo Corporation, Health International, even Holiday Inn and Sheraton have gotten into nursing homes and care for the elderly.”

Hawthorne pictured Bishop’s Hill full of the dazed and semicomatose, the classrooms turned into bedrooms or wards, the library sold, the marble panels with the names of young men from Bishop’s Hill who had fought in half a dozen wars taken to the dump. Then a fence would be erected around the property—high, but not so high that the place looked like a prison.

“I know some people in that industry,” said Krueger, returning to the couch. “Let’s say Bishop’s Hill became a home for the elderly or for men and women with Down’s syndrome, or a detox for alcoholics and addicts, or even a residential treatment center—the place would still need personnel: ward attendants, secretaries, kitchen and grounds people, housekeepers. I bet a bunch of people now at the school could find jobs. And at higher pay.”

“But they wouldn’t be teaching,” said Hawthorne.

“Why should they care? You’re looking in the wrong direction. The people spreading gossip and holding up the painting and playing the clarinet, they probably have nothing against you. You’re simply in their way. My guess is that they want to sell off the school. They’re greedy, that’s all. It’s too bad about Evings, but whoever wrecked his office can blame it on the kids. Wasn’t he gay? They can say he was hitting on someone, that certain students objected to his homosexuality. The fact that he committed suicide—it was all for the best. The same thing with Mrs. Hayes quitting. Each of these things weakens the school, and if you resign, then that will be that. The place will open next year as a subsidiary of Holiday Inn and this guy Bennett will be a director or manager and making twice the money. You really think he’s going to miss teaching algebra?”

Hawthorne laughed. “So it’s all just progress.”

“Bigger and better into the millennium. Fat profits, that’s what life is all about. You should feel ashamed for standing in their way.”

“But the vandalism and getting that girl drunk . . .” Hawthorne walked to the window. Krueger’s children were making a snow fort, rolling balls of snow and stacking them on top of one another. “I want to talk to Lloyd Pendergast but I’ve no idea where he is. Do you think you can find out?”

“I expect so. What do you intend to do?”

Hawthorne continued to look out at the snow. “I don’t want the school to close.”

“And what if it gets more violent?”

“Then I’ll have to deal with it. I like that policeman in Brewster who’s investigating the vandalism. Perhaps I can count on him if things get bad.”

“I still think you should leave.”

Hawthorne turned around. “I can’t.”

“If you fail, will you take responsibility for that as well? Because, believe me, you’re setting yourself up to fail. Will you go to some new place to seek a new punishment?”

Hawthorne had thought of nothing past Bishop’s Hill. “I don’t know.”

Krueger cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “I’ve got a pistol. I wish you’d take it.”

The thought of packing a gun struck Hawthorne as immensely funny. He began to laugh. “The only guns I’ve ever fired have been in penny arcades.”

“I’m serious. I’ll show you how it works.”

“I’m not that kind of person. I’m a talker. What would I do with a gun?” He paused, then asked, “Do you think a specific company is interested in Bishop’s Hill?”

They went on to discuss possible interested parties. Krueger didn’t mention Wyndham and Hawthorne didn’t bring it up again. Nor did Krueger say anything else about Hawthorne’s need for punishment. But Hawthorne felt better for having told his friend about Bishop’s Hill. Krueger now knew what Hawthorne knew. He had become a witness and it made Hawthorne feel less isolated.

Around noon Krueger’s wife had knocked on the door of the sun porch and brought in a plate of turkey sandwiches. The rest of the day was relaxed. They helped the kids with their snow fort, read, and went for a walk. At times Krueger would ask a question about one or another of the faculty—Herb Frankfurter, Ted Wrigley, Fritz Skander. Hawthorne talked somewhat vaguely about his friendship with Kate. That Friday evening they went to a movie. It was about a couple, each with their own children, trying to begin a romance. Hawthorne thought of Kate and tried not to think of Meg and Lily. He and Krueger were comfortable with each other, almost as they had been years before. Saturday morning they went to the YMCA and shot baskets for several hours. After lunch Hawthorne had driven back up to Bishop’s Hill. The closer he had gotten, the more he had felt the old chill settling around him. Where things had seemed clear, they now began to seem confused again.

It was nearly dark when Hawthorne got back to his quarters in Adams Hall. The lights were out. He paused to stamp the snow from his feet and suddenly, inexplicably, he heard the frantic flapping of wings. Turning on the light, he saw that two birds had gotten into his living room: a mourning dove and a chickadee. The rug was spotted with feathers and bird droppings. At first he wondered how they had gotten in. All the windows were closed. Perhaps they had come down the chimney. Then he realized how unlikely that was. Someone had put them there.

Moving slowly, Hawthorne crossed the room and opened the French windows. The birds flew back and forth, frightened and unaware of the open door. The chickadee settled on a curtain rod. It was cold and the wind blew snow into the room. Hawthorne crossed to the door and tried to drive the birds toward the terrace. What was the point? What was he meant to think? Hawthorne felt only anger.

After a few minutes the chickadee found its way out into the snowy evening. The dove took longer and Hawthorne had to pursue it with a towel as the bird flew from one side of the room to the other and small gray feathers floated down to the rug. But at last it flew out through the French windows as well. Hawthorne closed them and put several sheets of newspaper over the snow that had blown onto the rug. He had just begun to clean up the bird droppings when Floyd Purvis had appeared, hammering on his door. He had found a boy drowned in the swimming pool and Hawthorne had to come right away.

—

Sunday morning, shortly after breakfast, Jessica walked over to the kitchen to talk to LeBrun. The day was sunny and the snow was beginning to melt, even though it was cold. As she walked along the path from her dormitory cottage to Emerson Hall, Jessica kept her eyes squinched against the glare. The mountains seemed to shine and the trees were all snow-covered, although now and then the pines on campus would shed their mantle of snow with a rush. The paths had been plowed and made curving black lines across the whiteness. Jessica wore a red down parka and her boots were bright purple.

She didn’t want to see LeBrun, she was growing increasingly afraid of him, but that morning when she woke there had been a note under her door. She had thought they were about to go down to Exeter and rescue her brother. She had even begun to pack some of her clothes. But the note said it couldn’t be Monday after all. It would have to be Friday. Jessica didn’t like that and she wanted LeBrun to reconsider. If they changed the date, she’d have to call Jason. There wouldn’t be time to write him. And if she called, there was the danger of reaching Tremblay or even her mother, though her mother wouldn’t be so bad because she’d probably be drunk, and it was easy to put Dolly off if she was drunk.

But there was another matter bothering Jessica and that was her kitten, Lucky, which had recovered from its experience in the pool. What worried her was how Lucky had gotten into the water in the first place. She knew that LeBrun disliked cats and she knew he had a passkey, so he could easily have taken the kitten from her room. The implications of that were dreadful, however, because it suggested that LeBrun had thrown the kitten into the pool. And Scott had probably gone into the pool to rescue Lucky and had drowned. But how had Scott gotten into the pool unless LeBrun had let him in? Perhaps Scott had snuck in after him. But whatever the case, Scott’s death and the kitten seemed inextricably entwined.

She felt awful about Scott—everybody did—and there was no way that she would get into that pool ever again. His death was still in the water. At dinner the night before, some kids had been crying and the rest had been somber. Although Jessica hadn’t cried, she felt she should cry. Some kids had suggested that Scott had drowned himself on purpose, even that there was some connection between Scott and old Evings. And one girl, not a very bright one, had suggested that Bobby Newland had drowned Scott, getting even for Evings’s death, and that Newland meant to kill them all one by one. That had been creepy even if it had been stupid. Jessica had liked Scott. He had been especially nice to her, even though he was younger, and he always offered her cigarettes when he had them. So she felt very much that she should cry and that perhaps there was something wrong with her—perhaps she really was a bad person after all—because she couldn’t.

LeBrun was in the kitchen cutting up potatoes for lunch. He wore a white jacket, blue jeans, and a white cap. A student was helping him, a fat boy by the name of Phelps. One of the older women who worked in the kitchen was at the large metal sink, finishing up the pots from breakfast. The kitchen was bright with sunlight and the metal surfaces gleamed. There was the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. When the door swung shut behind Jessica, LeBrun stopped what he was doing and turned. He wrinkled his nose at her, then he came over, the knife still in his hand. Even his walk seemed crooked, as if he couldn’t walk in a straight line. Jessica took off her cap, stuck it in the pocket of her parka, then shook out her hair.

“Hey, Misty, you want to help make lunch? We got a ton of work.”

When LeBrun was about three feet away, Jessica said, “Did you throw Lucky in the pool?” She tried to keep her voice down, but the combination of anger and fear made it waver.

LeBrun raised his hands, as if in surrender, though he still held the knife. As he frowned, his dark eyebrows drew together. “You kidding? Why should I do a dumb thing like that?”

“Please, Frank, don’t hurt my cat. I love it. I saved it and I want to take it away.”

“You mean it’s alive?” LeBrun shook his head in surprise.

“Dr. Hawthorne rescued it.”

“For shit’s sake, one life down, eight more to go.”

“You
did
throw it in the water, didn’t you?”

“What’d I just say?” LeBrun tapped the knife against his pant leg. They stood by two of the large refrigerators with stainless steel doors. Jessica’s red jacket was reflected as a pink smudge on the bright metal.

“I want to take it with us when we get Jason.”