The Sixes (21 page)

She shoved her cart through the store, only half paying attention. As she reached the checkout, she spotted a depleted display of candy for trick-or-treaters and grabbed two bags of miniature chocolate bars.

She arrived at Glenda’s at exactly noon. Though she knew she was going to have to do some fancy footwork to convince Glenda to let her stick with her research, she was determined to make it happen. The housekeeper answered the door, unsmiling, and led Phoebe into the wood-paneled study off the far end of the living room. Glenda was standing there, but to Phoebe’s surprise, the expression on her face registered consternation, not welcome.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Phoebe asked. The words were barely out of her mouth when she sensed the presence of someone else, and she snapped her head to the right. Tom Stockton and Craig Ball were standing over by the weathered antique desk, both looking stern. Clearly, there’d been some new development, and it was not a good one. Phoebe looked back toward Glenda for an explanation.

“Phoebe, we need to talk to you,” Glenda said solemnly. “Something’s happened.”

Phoebe didn’t like the tone of Glenda’s voice any more than she liked the expression on her face.

“What’s going on?” she asked bluntly.

“A student has accused you of plagiarism.”

“That’s—that’s impossible,” Phoebe exclaimed, and even as she spoke, she realized they were the same words she’d used last spring about her book. Her legs suddenly felt like liquid, as if they were about to dissolve. “I mean, I haven’t even published anything since I’ve been here, for God’s sake.”

“Take a look at this,” Glenda said, gesturing toward the desk.

A laptop had been set up there, and Stockton and Ball had clearly been studying something on it. Phoebe crossed the room, forcing herself to breathe slowly. I’ve got to stay calm, she told herself. It’s all some dreadful mistake, and I can’t lose control now.

“This is what the student brought to our attention,” Glenda said, pointing to the screen. “It’s on the blog you do for writers.”

Phoebe leaned forward and stared at the page that was up on the screen. It was titled “On Words and Writing,” fairly crudely designed, and there was a photo of Phoebe in the upper right-hand corner. She could tell from the dress she was wearing that the picture had been taken at a movie premiere in New York about a year ago. There was a short bio, which oddly stated that she had once edited a poetry journal. The most recent blog entry was titled, “Is Shorter Better?” It took only a moment of scanning the article for Phoebe to realize that though her byline was on the piece, it was actually an essay that one of the male students in her class had handed in as an assignment several weeks ago.

Phoebe reached a hand toward the keyboard, and as she did, Ball jerked forward slightly, as if his first instinct had been to stop her.

“Do you mind?” she said. “I’d like to see what else is here.”

Ball nodded curtly, and Phoebe studied the site. There were just two other entries, and both were pieces she’d written as a guest blogger for Huffington Post within the last two years—one on memoirists making things up, and the other on unnamed sources.

Phoebe turned back to Glenda, who looked ashen. “So the guy from my class came across this,” Phoebe said, “and reported it to you?”

“To me, actually,” Stockton interjected. Phoebe thought she could detect a little excitement in his eyes, like a hound that’s just picked up the scent of a fox.

“I hope you don’t honestly believe that
I
put this site together?”

“But who else could have done it?” Ball said.

“
Anyone
could have,” Phoebe said. She could feel her anger begin to boil, and she warned herself again to simmer down. “All anyone would have to do is go to a site like blogger.com and set up a blog in my name. They could drag a picture of me onto it from another site. And they could add on material I’d written for other sites. The two other pieces here are things I
did
write. As for the essay here that my student wrote, I shared it with everyone in class.”

“Are you saying it’s a hoax, then?” Stockton said. “That someone created this to make you look bad?”

“Of course it’s a hoax,” Phoebe said. “Can’t you see how crude and amateurish this site is? Trust me, if I was putting together my own blog site, I’d do a hell of a better job than this.”

“See what I said, Tom?” Glenda interjected. She turned to Phoebe. “I never thought you had done this.”

“Then why call in the cavalry?” Phoebe asked sarcastically. Glenda flinched, and Phoebe turned back to Stockton and Ball.

“If you track the e-mail that set up this site, you’ll see it has no relation to me. I’ll bet it leads right back to the Sixes.”

Then Phoebe stormed out of the room without looking back. As she hurried toward the front door, she nearly collided with Mark, coming out of the conservatory. He gave her a withering glance.

“You’re more than welcome to bring yourself down, Phoebe,” he said scathingly. “But please don’t do the same to Glenda.”

Shocked, she just stared back at him. So she’d been dead right about the source of his recent coolness. She started to speak, but bit her tongue. It would only make things worse.

She barely remembered the drive home. She was livid. Evidently the Sixes had created the blog, and Glenda, despite her comment to the contrary, had clearly indulged Stockton and Ball in their investigation. Was that the price that she was always going to have to pay because of the plagiarism charges? Would people always doubt her integrity?

And then there had been the odd reference to the poetry magazine. That was something she’d done in boarding school. Had the Sixes dug up info about her past?

As she entered the house, her heart sank even more. If the Sixes had gone to the trouble of creating the fake blog, they surely would want the word to leak out. Phoebe hurried to her office, shrugged off her coat, and brought up the
New York Post
Web site on her laptop. And there, to her utter dismay, was a short item by Pete Tobias, “Is Phoebe Hall Up to Her Old Tricks?” He stated that a student had accused her of posting his blog as her own and that the school was investigating.

Completely ruffled now, Phoebe called her agent and left a message asking her to call ASAP. I have to fix this fast, she told herself, before it explodes. She also sent an email to the student who’d written the essay, explaining the situation. By the time three o’clock rolled around, she realized that she’d been so distressed she’d forgotten about Hutch. But he hadn’t called, so he probably wasn’t back yet.

When her phone finally rang at four, it was her agent, Miranda. “What’s going on?” Miranda asked bluntly. Phoebe gave her the broad outlines of the situation.

“Why would students do such a thing to you?” Miranda asked.

“I’m caught up in a bit of a mess, which I’ll explain later, but you’ve got to trust me—I’ve done nothing wrong in this whole thing.” Phoebe knew she sounded defensive—guilty even.

“I think we need to marshal the PR team again,” Miranda announced. “Let me try to reach them, though it’s going to be tough on a Sunday.”

By five Phoebe still hadn’t heard from Hutch. She called his number, thinking he might have forgotten that he’d promised to call first, but she reached his answering machine.

The doorbell rang shortly after, throwing her off guard. As she pulled the front window curtain aside, she saw four young trick-or-treaters standing outside. “Just a minute,” she called. She opened a bag of the miniature candy bars, dumped them into a wicker basket, and headed outside. After the kids trooped away, she left the basket on the porch and turned off the lights in the living room.

By eight thirty she still hadn’t heard from Hutch. She felt a small wave of worry, but let it pass. Maybe, she thought, he’s been out in his work shed all afternoon and hasn’t heard the phone. He might have been thinking she would just come over. She decided to do just that. Not only was she anxious to see him, but also it would be a relief to be out of the house.

She threw on her coat and tore out to the car. As she drove to Hutch’s house, she passed bunch after bunch of trick-or-treaters. She felt entirely detached from the world around her, as if she was living in an alternate reality.

As soon as she turned from the road into Hutch’s driveway, she smiled in relief. Even through the dense trees, she could see that there were lights on in the cabin, and as she drove closer she spotted both of Hutch’s vehicles. He was definitely home.

As Phoebe slammed her car door shut, Ginger shot out from the dark of the yard, making Phoebe jump.

“Hey, little girl. What are you doing out all by yourself?”

Ginger whimpered and leaped into Phoebe’s arms. Her body was wet, as if she’d been prancing around in a puddle of water.

“Oh, I hope you haven’t been a bad girl,” Phoebe said. “Does your daddy know you’re out?”

With Ginger still in her arms, Phoebe mounted the porch steps. The dog was wetter than Phoebe had first realized, and she set her down.

Before knocking, Phoebe brushed at the large wet mark now on her coat. It felt sticky, and she pulled her hand away to look. In the porch light, she saw that her palm was smeared with blood.

21

P
HOEBE SCOOPED GINGER
up again and scanned the little dog’s body for a wound. But she knew she wouldn’t find anything; she knew, with a rising sense of dread, that something was horribly wrong. Where was the old retriever? she wondered. Where was Hutch?

She clasped Ginger to her body again and stepped closer to the house. She saw through the outer screen door that the inner wooden door was slightly ajar, opening onto the darkened hallway inside. Phoebe rapped on the frame of the screened door and called through the opening.

“Hutch?
Hutch
, are you there?”

There was no reply, though from somewhere far off in the house—the kitchen, she guessed—came the faint murmur of radio voices.

“Hutch, are you okay?”

Behind her the wind snaked through the trees, making the branches moan. Phoebe spun around. The lamps behind the curtains in the living room were casting a jagged circle of light into the yard through the windows, but beyond that it was totally dark, and she could see nothing but the faint outline of trees. She was anxious to get inside.

“Hutch,” she called again, turning back to the door. “It’s me, Phoebe.” Ginger whimpered softly.

Phoebe breathed deeply and opened the screen door. The spring made a creaking sound as the door opened wide. She pushed open the inner door next and stepped into the entranceway. In the air was the familiar blend of wood smoke and pipe tobacco—and something else. Ginger twisted in Phoebe’s arms, fighting to get down, but Phoebe gripped her tightly.

“Hold on, Ginger, it’s okay,” Phoebe said.

But a second later, Phoebe could see that it wasn’t. Stepping from the hall into the living room, she discovered Hutch lying facedown on the floor, just in front of the couch. A pool of bright red blood bordered the right side of his head. And then she saw that blood was everywhere. It was spattered on the couch cushions and on the walls, even on the television screen. Phoebe groaned in despair.

Clutching Ginger, she staggered toward Hutch and knelt beside him. She knew she shouldn’t touch anything, but she had to see if he was alive. She set the dog down and groped around his neck for a pulse. She felt nothing, but wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. Grasping his shoulders, she heaved the old man onto his side.

She could tell instantly that he was dead. His eyes were blank, his mouth slack. His right temple had been battered and was now a caved-in, bloody mess. Pieces of what seemed to be tree bark protruded from the wound. At the top of his head was another wound, caked with blood.

“No, no,” Phoebe wailed, and choked back tears. Ginger scooted from behind her and tried to lick Hutch’s face. Phoebe grabbed the dog in her arms and struggled back up to a standing position. She had to call the police—but first she needed to get the hell out of there. She would call 911 once she was in her car and safely out onto the road.

She turned from Hutch’s body and started to cross the floor, careful where she stepped. She noticed for the first time that flames were dancing in the wood-burning stove, and it was piled with logs, as if Hutch had filled it only a short time ago. Instantly her brain processed the fact:
This just happened
. Her legs felt rubbery. Get out, get out, she told herself.

And then, directly above her, a floorboard groaned.

She froze in terror. Ginger began to squirm in her arms again, this time more forcibly, and then let out a sharp, tiny bark. Someone was up there, Phoebe realized, directly above her. Was it the retriever? she wondered. But it had sounded too heavy for a dog. No, she told herself, her mind strangely clear and precise. It’s the killer.

She didn’t dare go back through the front hallway—the stairs leading to the upper floor were there. Instead she lurched through the living room into the kitchen. The radio was playing music now, a peppy song that seemed absurd to her in light of everything. Phoebe flung open the kitchen back door and clattered down the steps.

It was pitch-dark out back, except for a faint glow from the kitchen light and some illumination from a sliver of moon. With Ginger still in her arms, she tore across the yard and into the first few feet of the woods that rimmed the back of the house. If only she could reach her car, she thought frantically, but by the time she made her way around to the front of the cabin, the killer might be down the stairs and outside the house. She had no choice but the woods, where at least she had the cover of darkness.

She plunged deeper into the trees. What little light the moon cast was obscured now by the dense branches. She could see almost nothing, just the bare outlines of things directly in front of her. She was wearing boots, at least, which made it easier to scramble over tree roots and logs, but the ground was also covered with mounds of dead leaves, and they made a whooshing noise with each movement of her legs. She was afraid the killer would hear her, know where she’d gone. When she was about twenty yards into the woods, she stopped to catch her breath. And to listen.

There wasn’t a sound now. The wind had stopped momentarily, Ginger was quiet, too—as if she knew she mustn’t make a peep—though Phoebe could feel the rapid beating of the little dog’s heart. Phoebe raised the dog slightly, so she could reach into her shoulder bag with her left hand and dig for her phone. Just as she’d managed to unsnap the purse, she heard a noise from back where the cabin was. It was the whooshing sound of someone else moving through the dead leaves.

God, no, please, Phoebe pleaded to herself. She began to move again, but slower this time, trying not to make noise. Branches snagged at her jeans and the sleeves of her coat, and one whipped across her face, stinging her. Still moving, she stuck her hand in her bag and rummaged desperately for her phone. Finally she felt its smooth surface and grabbed it. She quickly pounded in 9-1-1.

“Help me,” she told the operator in a whisper. “I’m in the woods, and someone is after me.”

“Can you speak up, ma’am, I can’t hear you.”

“I’m in the woods,” she hissed. “Behind Seven—um, Seven-ninety Horton Road. There’s been a murder, and the killer is after me.”

“Can you describe your location?”

“No—it’s just in the woods. Behind the house. Please, I can’t talk anymore. He’ll hear me. Just send someone.”

“I’m dispatching the police, ma’am. Please, leave your phone on.”

“Okay,” Phoebe said breathlessly.

She began to move again and realized that her feet were soaking wet. Glancing down, she saw that she was in mud, moving along the edge of a small stream. Behind her to the right, she could still hear the whooshing sound. Go faster, she screamed to herself. Faster.

The woods were deeper now, even thicker with trees. She could see only a foot ahead of her, and she was constantly forced to look down, to watch the ground for logs and underbrush. With a jerk, a branch suddenly snared the sleeve of her jacket and wouldn’t let go. Her fingers raced in a frenzy over the fabric as she tried to free herself. Finally she just yanked her body away. The sound of the fabric tearing seemed to carry through the woods. But beyond it she heard something else. Somewhere, off to the left, was the distant sound of cars passing by. The road, she thought. If she could reach it, she could flag down a car for help.

The whooshing sound behind her had stopped. Had the killer given up chasing her? She turned around, to be sure. At first all she saw were endless black trees, but then, as her eyes adjusted, she spotted a figure. The person, with a head as smooth as a bulb, stood on a rise not far behind her, illuminated slightly by the moon. Then the person began to move.

“He’s right behind me,” she nearly moaned into the phone. And then she screamed into the night, “I’ve called the police. They’re coming.” Ginger let out a low growl that made her whole little body hum.

Phoebe picked up her pace, forced every few seconds to catch herself from stumbling. Just get to the road, she told herself. The car sounds had receded. She stopped for a split second, just trying to listen. Close by, came the deep, shuddering sound of a truck moving.
There
, she told herself, and hurled herself forward.

Suddenly she seemed to be in midair, her feet no longer in touch with the ground. Two seconds later she landed hard, and she was rolling, rolling, rolling, over rocks and stumps and logs. She tried to hold on to Ginger, but seconds later she felt the dog being yanked from her. There was a crunching sound next, and pain shot through her arm and her head. Then it seemed as if she was under water, swimming slowly toward a place far away.

There was nothing next, just darkness and silence. And then a light was forcing her eyes open, making her head ache even more. It was from the beam of a flashlight, she realized. Someone was crouching just to her right. Her heart lurched. Was it the killer? But as she tried to lift herself, she saw that the person with the light was in uniform. A policeman. She let her head flop back onto the ground. She realized that she’d passed out, clearly for more than a minute or two.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he told her. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear the words, and she closed her eyes. She just wanted to sleep, even though she was wet and cold.

“Miss . . .
miss
.” It was the cop again, his voice stirring her.

“Yes?” she muttered, after struggling to open her eyes. She saw that there were now two cops, one just behind the other. Her head was pounding, and one of her arms ached badly, but she could barely tell which one. She began to shiver.

“An ambulance is on its way,” the cop said. “Try not to move, all right?”

Had she been trying to move? she wondered. She didn’t remember.

“Okay,” she said.

“Can you tell me your name?”

She had to think for a moment. “Phoebe,” she said finally. “Phoebe Hall . . . Where am I?”

Even as she spoke the words, she saw from the flashlight beams that she was at the bottom of a small hill. She could see the outlines of two other people with lights walking up on the ridge.

“You’re in a ravine,” the cop said. “You must have tripped when you were running.”

“The dog?” Phoebe blurted out. “She—”

“Don’t worry,” the cop said softly. “We’ve got her. She led us to you, in fact.”

Then Phoebe remembered Hutch and started to tear up.

“Can you tell us what happened?” the cop asked.

“Hutch. I came to see him. He was dead. And the killer—he was still in the house—upstairs. I . . .”

She wanted to say more, but she couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy—her legs and her arms, even her eyelids.

“Can I just sleep?” Phoebe whispered hoarsely. “For a little while?”

“You might have a concussion, so you need to stay awake,” he said. “At least until the ambulance comes. Can you do that for me?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” She felt so weary.

“Is that your dog?” he said. “She’s awfully cute.”

The cop talked to her then about little things. She could hear his voice droning in her ears, and sometimes she answered. Then there were more people moving around, lifting her. There was so much noise now, and she wanted to tell them, Shush, be quiet, I can’t sleep, but no words came out.

She was in an ambulance after that, but she couldn’t remember being lifted inside. There was something around her head—one of those protective braces, she thought. The siren made her head ache all over again.

Finally she was in the ER. Doctors and nurses stood over her, tugging off her clothes, prodding her.

“I’m Dr. Morton,” a woman said. She was tall and seemed to tower over the table Phoebe was lying on. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My head,” Phoebe said. “And my arm. The um—left one.”

“We’re going to fix you all up, okay?” the doctor said. Her green eyes were warm and caring. “You may have had a concussion, and your left elbow is broken. We’ll need to do some tests to see if there are any internal injuries.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe muttered.

“Is there someone you need us to call?” another woman asked. A nurse, Phoebe thought.

“No, that’s okay,” Phoebe said. She didn’t want Glenda around, but she knew she would have to alert her eventually.

“There are two detectives who want to talk to you, but I suggested they come back tomorrow. We need to make sure you’re okay,” the doctor said.

Phoebe was in the ER for what seemed like hours. They X-rayed her elbow, and then secured it, and right after that she was wheeled off to another location for a CAT scan of her head. As an orderly rolled her gurney back to the ER later, she wondered what would happen after all the tests were done.

“How will I get home tonight?” she muttered to the orderly.

He chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry about going home. We’re checking you into our fine hotel for the night. Rest assured, it’s four stars.”

Eventually she was brought to another floor and hoisted onto a bed for the night. She drifted off again, though she was aware of people coming in and out of the room, checking on her.

At some point her eyes popped open, and she felt suddenly wide awake. It was dark outside, but there were low lights on in the room, and she could see that she was in a private room with just one bed. The door was open, and from the hall she could hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of something being wheeled. She was on painkillers, she knew, but she sensed they’d begun to wear off—there was a dull ache in her head, her elbow, and, she realized for the first time, also in the left cheek of her butt.

As the minutes passed, her mind began to clear. She forced herself to go over everything, picking up a thread and following it backward. She had injured herself falling down a ravine in the dark. Someone had been chasing her. Hutch’s killer. Her face tightened in anguish as she thought of the kind man she had known so briefly. He had been brutally murdered, beaten to death. There was a chance, of course, that it was a burglary gone bad, but her gut told her it was about the investigation—the one she had lured Hutch into. She felt sick with guilt. Who was the person who had stood on the ridge? She had seen only the outline, but she remembered that the person’s head had seemed smooth as a skull.