Herb Frankfurter lived in the next house with his wife and two daughters. Hawthorne pushed his way to Frankfurter’s door and knocked on the glass. He was the faculty member who seemed to dislike Hawthorne the most, presumably because Hawthorne had interfered with what he saw as the prerogatives of his twenty-year employment at Bishop’s Hill. He never talked to Hawthorne if he could help it and avoided his glance in the hall. He also had skipped several of the faculty meetings until Hawthorne told him that he had to attend. Yet Frankfurter also seemed indifferent to the rest of the faculty members and had no friends among them.

The door opened and Frankfurter stood back with a flashlight in one hand and his cane in the other. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. He seemed to find nothing odd about Hawthorne’s sudden appearance.

“Can I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

Frankfurter moved aside to permit Hawthorne to enter. He made a polite gesture toward the living room but the expression on his face was ironic.

“Do you have a cellular phone?” asked Hawthorne.

“It’s broken, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“What’s going on?”

“Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and I’m afraid he’ll try to kill Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Frankfurter’s eyes widened slightly, but other than that he showed no surprise. “Where are they?”

“Over in Emerson. If you had a cellular phone, I’d call the police . . .”

“So you’re thinking of tackling him yourself?” Frankfurter permitted himself a sardonic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have a gun. My brother down in Laconia borrowed my shotgun and several hunting rifles and he hasn’t returned them.”

Frankfurter spoke calmly, as if what was a crisis for Hawthorne wasn’t a crisis for him.

“Will you come with me back to Emerson? Maybe we can do something.”

Frankfurter lifted his cane, showing it to Hawthorne. “I’m afraid that’s not part of my job description, Mr. Headmaster. Anyway, with this knee, I doubt that I could even make it through the snow.”

“Fritz and Jessica are in danger.”

“If this fellow’s already killed Roger, then I’d prefer to stay out of it. I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t do anything for you.” Frankfurter’s voice grew harder. “But go ahead, go after him yourself. I’d like to see what happens.”

“Do you really hate me so much?” asked Hawthorne, more surprised than hurt.

Frankfurter had his flashlight pointed downward, where it made a bright puddle of light on the braided rug. “I don’t hate you. You’re a blip in my landscape. You simply don’t exist for me.”

“We work together. We both live here. Surely, you feel some obligation . . .”

“I feel no obligation to risk my life. As for our working together, that’s no more than an accident of fate. I don’t know why this fellow’s gone on a rampage, but I’m sure none of it would have happened if you hadn’t come to Bishop’s Hill.”

“I thought you were a friend of Fritz’s.”

“Friendship has its limits. Besides that, I find his ambitions boring. I’m sorry.” Frankfurter looked uncertain for a moment. “Who am I to go after a killer, or who are you, for that matter? Stay out of it. Wait for the storm to finish and then call the police. Why get yourself killed?”

“And Fritz and the girl?”

“What about them? Look after your own skin.” A trace of anger crept into Frankfurter’s voice. “Skander hates you. He’s been talking behind your back all fall. You were a fool to trust him.”

“You might have told me about it.”

“It was none of my business.”

Hawthorne turned and left the house. He swore that if he and the school survived he would remove Frankfurter from Bishop’s Hill the first chance he got. Then he began to calm down. Frankfurter was afraid and vengeful, but perhaps he wasn’t wrong.

At Skander’s house there were lights in the downstairs windows. Hawthorne briefly imagined that LeBrun might be having a joke, that he would find Skander seated before his fire. But even before he knocked on the door he knew that wasn’t true. As he waited he began to think about returning to Emerson Hall. He told himself that LeBrun was sick, he wasn’t evil. But the thought of going back seemed beyond bearing.

Hilda Skander opened the door. When she saw who it was she looked frightened but she didn’t say anything. “May I come in?” asked Hawthorne.

“What do you want?”

“Fritz is in danger. Do you have a cellular phone?”

Hilda stood aside. “No, nothing like that.” Her blue denim jumper and pink sweater made her look like a middle-aged eight-year-old.

Hawthorne entered and looked into the living room. Someone stood before the fireplace, where a small fire was burning. Squinting his eyes, Hawthorne saw that it was Chip Campbell. He held a whiskey glass and glanced at Hawthorne. The room was smoky and the candles flickered.

“I got here earlier and got stuck,” said Chip, “looks like I’ll be spending the night. You haven’t seen Fritz by any chance, have you?”

Instead of answering, Hawthorne turned back to Hilda. “Do you have a gun?”

“No,” said Hilda, her voice almost a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” said Chip, not moving from the fireplace.

Hawthorne realized that they were both scared, that they had been scared when he entered. “Frank LeBrun has killed Roger Bennett and he’s got Fritz and Jessica Weaver.”

Hilda pressed her closed hands to her chest.

“That can’t be true,” said Campbell, but he didn’t say it as if he believed it.

“LeBrun killed Scott McKinnon. I think he’s in Emerson with Jessica and Fritz. Bennett’s body is in the chapel.” And as he said it, Hawthorne again saw Bennett’s dead grin. “You have to help me. We can get Dolittle and maybe Tank Donoso. The four of us should be able to stop him.” The candlelight, coupled with Hawthorne’s weak eyes, created a sense of unreality. Hawthorne heard his own desperation and the absurdity of his plan.

Chip walked unsteadily to the couch and sat down. He wore jeans and a dark sweatshirt. He rattled the ice cubes in the glass and took a drink. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

Hilda took hold of Hawthorne’s arm. “It’s not true, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is.” He turned to Chip. “You’re mixed up in this. You’ve known what Fritz and Bennett have been doing.”

Chip held up his hands in mock innocence. “You got me wrong. I’ve nothing to do with this place. You fired me, remember? Besides, I’ll be moving out to Seattle in January.”

“You put those clippings about San Diego in people’s mailboxes.”

“That was Bennett.”

“But he told you. And I bet he and Skander told you about the painting and phone calls and bags of rotten food. And you probably wrote that letter to Kate’s ex-husband.”

Chip looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “I had no reason to be nice to you.”

“And you probably knew about selling Bishop’s Hill to the Galileo Corporation. Why didn’t you come to me? You’re no better than they are.”

“You can’t prove I knew anything. Some West Coast hotshot telling us what to do, planning to stick us in a book—how could you expect anybody to help you? You got dumped on us by the board. Nobody asked us if we wanted you or not.”

“I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not leaving this house. I’ve already tangled with LeBrun, and anyway,” said Chip, lifting his glass, “I’m looped.”

Hilda sat down. Her face was buried in her hands and she was weeping.

“You’re a coward,” said Hawthorne.

Chip took another drink and leaned back. “You’re right, I am. There are times when cowardice makes sense.”

“Are you going to let Fritz get killed?”

Chip looked embarrassed. “I’m not a cowboy. Before you fired me I was nothing but a bad history teacher. LeBrun has no rules. I’m frightened just talking about him. He’s a monster.”

The last of the faculty houses belonged to Betty Sherman, and her teenage son, who had been born with Down’s syndrome. Betty’s husband had been dead for some years. He had been much older than his wife and had taught history at the school. The boy was their only child. Hawthorne had seen him several times—a chubby boy both sweet and heartbreaking, who cheerfully introduced himself to everyone as Tommy.