—

When Kate passed the mound of snow covering Hawthorne’s Subaru, she could barely distinguish the outlines of the school buildings in front of her. Even though she had guessed they would be dark, their darkness surprised her, as if the school were dead. She shuffled forward on her skis toward Emerson Hall, planning to go around Emerson to Hawthorne’s quarters in Adams. The snow was letting up, hardly more than flurries, and the sky seemed brighter. She could make out the line of trees at the end of the lawn.

Passing in front of Stark Hall, she saw that the chapel door was open and light was flickering through the stained-glass windows. She might have gone in, but when she turned her flashlight toward Emerson, she saw three figures standing on the steps. She continued toward them, holding both ski poles in one hand and her light in the other. The flashlight’s beam reflected off the snow and shone on the iron fence posts. She turned her light toward the figures again. Almost with disappointment she saw that it was Betty Sherman and her son, Tommy. Standing behind them was Bill Dolittle.

“What are you doing out here?” Kate called. “What’s going on?”

“Is that you, Kate?” said Betty, taking a step toward her. “Oh dear, you should have stayed home. Mr. Bennett’s been killed. Frank LeBrun’s in Emerson with Fritz and Jessica Weaver. Dr. Hawthorne thinks he means to kill them.”

“Where is Jim?” asked Kate. Betty and her son stood on the steps above her. Tommy had stuck out his tongue and was trying to catch snowflakes on its tip.

“He’s gone into Emerson to find LeBrun,” said Dolittle.

“I lent him a hunting knife,” said Betty. “We followed his tracks to the side entrance. I thought I could find someone who might help. Bill came with us. Nobody else would come.”

“Jim’s in there alone?” All the fears that Kate had imagined on her way to Bishop’s Hill were dwarfed by the actuality.

“He went by himself,” said Dolittle. He wore a dark overcoat and a sheepskin trooper’s hat with the flaps down over his ears. His nose was bright red in the cold.

“Have you seen anyone else?” asked Kate, unfastening her skis.

“No, no one,” said Betty.

“You should go home,” said Kate. “You’re in danger here.”

“I want to stay,” said Betty, “but I think Tommy and I will wait outside.”

“Jim came looking for me,” said Dolittle. “I just couldn’t talk to him. I’m sorry.” He turned up his collar and held it together with one hand.

Listening to Dolittle, Kate’s own sense of purpose strengthened. She took off her skis and leaned them against one of the columns, then she continued up the steps through the snow, using a ski pole for support. The door was unlocked, but snow had blown up against it and she had to pull hard. She kept the ski pole with her as if she could use it as a weapon, yet knowing how ineffectual it would be. Once inside she shone her light around the rotunda. Fritz Skander lay sprawled on the blue-and-gold school shield.

Kate began to scream, then bit her lip. She slowly approached the body, holding her flashlight in front of her so that Skander’s yellow shorts seemed luminescent. When she saw his torn flesh, she shut her eyes. For a moment she didn’t move, not trusting her legs to carry her. Then, hesitantly, she advanced toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

—

Chief Moulton was able to drive a little faster. Another car had come onto the road from the cutoff across the Baker River to West Brewster and Route 25, a big SUV, by the look of the tracks, and it had made a path for them. Where the cutoff joined Antelope Road was an old cemetery now looking like a field with a few stones poking up through the snow.

“You telling me all this was once cornfields?” said Leo Flynn.

“Just on the south side of the road. There wasn’t much farming on the mountain. Then farming got worse after the Civil War and folks started heading out west.”

Flynn gestured toward the tracks ahead of them. “You think those belong to the state troopers?”

“Nope. Otherwise, I could of raised them on the radio. I don’t know who they belong to. Whoever it is, they must have a powerful reason for being out on a night like this.”

“What kind of shot are you?” asked Flynn.

Moulton sucked his teeth. Even staying in the SUV’s tracks it was hard to keep the Blazer going straight. “I guess I can hit a barn door if I have to.”

“That’s probably better than I can do.”

They rode in silence for a while. Flynn tried to remember the last time he had fired his revolver. He didn’t even bother with target practice anymore. But at least it was clean, he knew that much. He’d oiled it just that morning.

“You get a lot of summer people?” asked Flynn, who had never liked silence.

“There’s a lot up at Stinson Lake, a few miles north of Brewster Center. I get called up there about a dozen times during the summer. What they call domestic disturbances—”

“Those tracks are turning off to the right,” interrupted Flynn.

Moulton slowed up to make the turn as well. “This’s the turnoff to Bishop’s Hill. Whoever’s in that thing is going right where we’re going.”

—

Hawthorne leaned over the wall of the bell tower, looking down at the scaffolding more than twenty feet below. LeBrun was sitting cross-legged in the snow at the edge of the darkness and Jessica lay on her stomach facing him. LeBrun had one hand on the back of Jessica’s neck as if pressing her against the wood. His flashlight was a little behind him, brightly illuminating his left side and Jessica’s red down jacket. LeBrun was leaning forward and his head was bent. Neither was moving. Around them Hawthorne was aware of great dark space extending in all directions. The snow had decreased and there was a glow to the clouds from the hidden moon. Hawthorne thought how Skander’s conniving had come to this—Skander and Bennett dead, Jessica and LeBrun balanced motionless on the rim of a chasm.

Hawthorne began to call out, then stopped himself. The workmen doing the repairs on the roof had attached a ladder to the side of the tower, and the tip of it extended about a foot above the wall. Hawthorne still held the hunting knife and the flashlight, though the light was off. He set the light on the floor of the tower, then, after a moment of hesitation, he dropped the knife as well, feeling relieved even as his fear seemed to increase. He swung one leg over the wall, then grabbed the top of the ladder, which shifted slightly in his hand. He looked down at the driveway far below and felt his legs weaken. He looked away, toward the woods. Far in the distance, where the road should be, there was a faint glow; a car was coming. Hawthorne eased his right foot onto the ladder, gripped the top with both hands, and lowered his left foot down from the wall. Once he felt secure on the ladder, he took one step, then another. With each step it seemed that splinters of ice swirled through his belly. But as long as he didn’t look down, he could keep moving. He had removed his gloves and his fingers felt numb against the cold metal.

After Hawthorne had descended about ten feet, LeBrun’s light swept across him. “It won’t do any good you coming down here.” The anger seemed gone from LeBrun’s voice.

Instead of answering, Hawthorne continued to climb steadily down the ladder. LeBrun’s light moved away from him.

“You’re a stubborn fuck.”

Again there was no anger. Perhaps frustration and uncertainty, but also the kind of calm that at times results from bewilderment. Hawthorne took a quick look over his shoulder and saw that LeBrun was still sitting cross-legged, with one hand holding Jessica against the scaffolding. The flashlight was again in the snow, the snowflakes swirling through its bright beam. Hawthorne moved down to the next rung.

“I can go ahead and kill her, you know,” said LeBrun. “One twitch of my hand and she’s over the side.” His voice was still quiet, as if filtered through his mystification.