The two men began walking toward the garage. Although Scott wasn’t directly behind them, he was closer than he cared to be, lying flat on his belly. He rolled over, moving nearer to the trees. As a result, he didn’t see exactly what happened.

“Some flicker slammed the toilet seat down on his head,” said LeBrun.

And as Scott looked, it seemed that LeBrun had his arm around his cousin’s shoulder, except that Gaudette fell forward. LeBrun made no attempt to catch him and Gaudette fell onto his face, jerking a little, then lying still, a white mound on the grass.

LeBrun kicked his cousin lightly with his foot. “Wacko, wacko, wacko—you got to watch out what you call a person.”

It was only Scott’s terror that kept him from leaping up and running back toward the school. He lay on the ground and pressed his hands to his face.

LeBrun chuckled a little. He bent over and grabbed Gaudette’s arm, pulling him up. “We got to do one more trip together, bro, one more little journey and that will be that.” He yanked Gaudette upward, then ducked down and pulled his cousin onto his shoulder. Scott had no doubt that the man was dead. He just didn’t see how it had happened so fast. It felt like screaming was going on inside his head, huge amounts of loud noise.

Still, when LeBrun set off across the playing field, Scott followed, staying some distance behind so that, if it hadn’t been for Gaudette’s white jacket, he couldn’t have seen them. LeBrun moved quickly across the grass, then around the gym, at times even jogging forward a few steps as the dead man jostled on his shoulder. He crossed the lawn in front of the school till he joined the driveway, then he quickened his pace, passing between the gates and up the road. Scott couldn’t guess where he was going but he kept after him, sometimes losing sight of him, sometimes catching the glint of Gaudette’s jacket as it lurched on LeBrun’s shoulder.

A quarter mile up the road was the bridge over the Baker River. All weekend there had been rain and sleet and Scott could hear the water flowing noisily. LeBrun stopped and Scott crept forward. He could make out LeBrun standing on the bridge with Gaudette’s white shape up in the air as if it were floating. Then the dead man seemed to fly, because the whiteness rose up and disappeared. Seconds later Scott heard the splash and again he felt horror, as if he too had been splashed by frigid water. But he had no time for horror. LeBrun was coming back.

Scott ducked down in the bushes by the side of the road. He heard LeBrun approaching—not the man’s footsteps but his heavy breathing getting louder. It was all Scott could do to stay motionless. Now he heard LeBrun’s hurrying footsteps heading back to the school and he knew that LeBrun would pass only a few feet from him. LeBrun got closer and stopped. He stood in the road breathing heavily and looking around him, a darker shadow in the darkness. Suddenly there was a flame of light as LeBrun lit one of his cousin’s cigarettes, but at first Scott didn’t understand and he jerked and the leaves around him rustled.

LeBrun stood still, breathing heavily, invisible except for the glow of his cigarette. Seconds passed. LeBrun’s breathing grew quieter. “Are you out there, little rabbits?” he said at last. “You watch out the hawk doesn’t get you. They’ll eat you up, little rabbits.”

LeBrun moved forward again and Scott waited until the sound of LeBrun’s footsteps had almost disappeared, before he followed. As he and LeBrun approached the school, Scott could see LeBrun’s silhouette. Again LeBrun cut across the lawns, passing the gym and veering across the playing fields. Scott stayed back, at times losing him, at times catching sight of him in the glow of the security lights. Scott’s body felt weak, as if he were exhausted. He followed LeBrun to the garage where Gaudette’s car was parked. LeBrun got into the car, started the engine, and backed out of the garage. In the light of the headlights, great fat snowflakes began to appear.

Then Scott made a mistake. He thought that LeBrun would try to escape, that he’d turn right and follow the driveway around to the front of the school. Instead, he turned left, driving back toward the old dilapidated barn, which was never used and which the students were told to stay away from because the floor was weak. Scott flung himself down by a bush. He could feel the snowflakes falling upon his neck and face, onto the back of his hands. The car’s headlights moved across him.

PART THREE

Nine

The black lines on the floor of the swimming pool seemed to shiver and bend—five black streaks at the bottom of the iridescent turquoise. The natatorium itself was dark, with only an eerie glow coming from the underwater lights. Somewhere a kitten was mewing, frantic and unceasing, like a squeaking wheel going round and round. Hawthorne stood beside Floyd Purvis, the night watchman. Along with the smell of the chlorine, Hawthorne could smell the whiskey on Purvis’s breath as the older man gently swayed on his heels with his hands in his hip pockets. It was late afternoon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Hawthorne had just returned to Bishop’s Hill, having spent the holiday with Kevin Krueger and his family in Concord.

A shadow was floating on the surface of the pool and Hawthorne realized it was the body of the boy, a dark shape on the brightness of the water.

“Turn on the lights,” said Hawthorne.

Unsteadily, the night watchman made his way to the switch. There was a loud clank and the banks of fluorescent ceiling lights began to flicker and hum. The green cinder-block walls blossomed out of the dark.

Scott McKinnon floated face down in the center of the pool. He was naked except for a pair of Jockey shorts. The orange-striped kitten, wet and bedraggled, was perched on Scott’s shoulder. It mewed and kept lifting its paws one after the other out of the inch or so of water across Scott’s back and shaking them. Scott’s arms were outspread as if he were gliding over the surface.

“I found him just ten minutes ago,” said Purvis. His voice was cracked. He started to reach for a cigarette, then stopped himself. He was a red-faced, soft-looking man of about sixty who wore an orange camouflage hunting jacket and dark blue shirt and pants. “The cops’ll be here anytime.”

Hawthorne didn’t answer. He felt sick in his stomach. A pole with a hook hung on the far wall but Hawthorne didn’t think it was long enough to reach the boy. The lights flickered, giving the two men’s faces a greenish tint. Hawthorne took off his glasses, then kicked off his shoes and began removing his pants.

“You’re supposed to wait for the police,” said Purvis. “I know that much. You’re not supposed to touch the body.” Purvis moved back as if to disassociate himself from Hawthorne.

Again Hawthorne ignored him. Once he was down to his underwear, he stepped to the edge of the pool and dove, gliding under the water with his eyes shut till he rose to the surface. He thought of the hours he had spent in this ugly space coaching the swim team with Kate and how he had never imagined it could get any uglier. Using a breaststroke and keeping his head above water, he swam toward the dead boy, who bobbed gently, as if there were still life in him. When the kitten saw Hawthorne approaching, it began to mew loudly in terror and anticipation, arching its back and bristling its orange fur. Hawthorne tried not to disturb the water, so as not to jostle the boy’s body and further frighten the kitten. Reaching Scott, he began pushing him to the side of the pool. When he’d gone halfway, Hawthorne felt a sudden pain on his right shoulder. The kitten had jumped onto him and dug in its claws. Hawthorne sucked in his breath, trying not to move abruptly. He nudged the body forward. The boy’s skin was the same temperature as the water and felt like rubber. Long strands of Scott’s hair floated on the surface and brushed against Hawthorne’s face.