Standing at the stone pillars, Mo checked his watch. It had taken him thirty minutes to walk from his car to the bottom of the drive, but that included some backtracking and standing around. Walking without pausing, you could do it in fifteen minutes.
A new gate closed off the bottom of the driveway, painted in gray primer, and Mo leaned against it as he double-checked his conscience. Paul and Lia were in Vermont. The house was up there, unattended, and Mo really wanted another look through the place, without the distraction of Paul and, especially, Lia there. But he had no legal right to enter the property, he'd made a deal with Paul about respecting his aunt's privacy, Barrett had warned him, et cetera.
Inspecting his conscience took all of ten seconds. If it didn't hurt anyone, if it contributed to the Good Fight, do it. He turned and jogged quickly up and around the first bend in the drive.
Mo was blowing hard by the time he reached the crest and looked down at the circular drive and the lodge. In the diluted sunshine, the house looked forlorn. All around the lodge, bare tree branches tossed in the breeze, like an agitated but eerily silent crowd with arms raised. Uphill, the headless statues stood or lay, looking as if they'd been caught at some odd game and had frozen just as he came over the hill.
He started by walking around the outside of the house, skirting appliances and furnishings that, judging from the way they'd broken or embedded themselves in the soil, had been tossed from the windows. On the south side, Mo paced off the distance from a shattered bureau to the wall of the house and came up with thirty-five feet. Quite a throw. Could even a bull like Falcone accomplish it? Maybe—if he'd taken a good hit of methedrine beforehand. Maybe there was something to think about there.
Mo used his Swiss Army knife to slide the latch on the new kitchen door. Inside, he scanned the wreckage as he passed slowly through it. Looking for what? Signs of a struggle, for Christ's sake? The place was a disaster area. But maybe hair. Blood. Or anything that would let him open this up for the full-scale investigation it required.
Here and there, as he'd noticed during his first visit, suggestive dark stains marked a few of the walls. After quick inventory, he took out his jackknife and scraped off some of the discolored surface into a little envelope he fashioned from a teller's receipt he found in his wallet. It might be soup, for all he knew. Or blood from some animal, like the unlucky raccoon he had noticed in one of the bedrooms. He'd bring it to Helmut Pierce, one of the forensic chemists at the Vallhalla lab, for analysis, ask him to keep his request unofficial.
Cycles. Was there a way of determining whether this was the result of just one psychopathic incident, one incident and a number of lesser visits by local teenagers, or several main incidents? In the downstairs bedroom, Mo knelt to look closely at the heaped mash of debris. Conceivably, there'd be stratification—the rubble would be layered and differentiated by type or condition in a way that would indicate the sequence of events. One by one, he began peeling back items from the heap. Blue terry-cloth robe: mouse droppings in the folds. A splayed Psychology Today magazine, January 1994 issue: faint variation of ink hue at open pages, suggestive of fading from exposure to light. Rags of white cotton cloth, as from shirts, mixed with splinters of wood: mildew stains, smell of mouse piss. A flattened wdre-and-fabric lamp shade, age-yellowed, dusty, mildewed. Shards of a heavy ceramic object, elaborately decorated on one surface, as of an Oriental vase. More magazines. A tangle of wicker, as of a chair seat.
He worked through the knee-deep debris all the way to the floor without finding anything definitive. The best observation he could make dealt with strata of mouse droppings, scattered like rice at a wedding: There was the top layer, then another heavier concentration about midway down in the heap, and another near the floor, suggesting that those levels had been exposed at one time and later covered by a successive layer of debris. Paper gave good clues too: Pages left exposed turned yellow and puckered, their ink faded.
Totally involved, he conducted another dig nearer the southeast corner, with similar results. The most suggestive object was a New York City white pages, which lay open below the corner window on the east wall. Phone book paper was infamously poor in quality, moisture-absorbent, prone to yellowing. From the condition of the paper and the places the book fell open, he couldn't help but feel it had lain open at three places, maybe four, during the last few months. A vague and inconclusive suggestion of three or four periods of disturbance.
He stood up, knees aching and hamstrings stiff. For the moment, short of a comprehensive workover with high-tech forensic support, he couldn't think of anything else to do. He'd neglected to eat breakfast, and it was after noon. The comfortable glow of coffee in his stomach had worn off, leaving an empty, acidic hollow. Time to head down the hill.
Mo was picking his way across the big room when a dull whump! echoed through the house. Immediately, adrenaline flooded his body, his hands tingled, glass dust in his blood. After several seconds, another thump and a faint crash. The sound seemed to come through the floor: Someone must be breaking into the downhill basement door or windows.
He moved quickly across the room to squat behind the remains of a couch. The position gave him a view of the whole north wall and the doors from the library and the kitchen. If someone came up from the basement or in through the kitchen door, they'd have to come through one of those doors. Don't you want to know what happens to the detective? Heather Mason had asked. He was surprised to see the pistol that had materialized in his two hands, leveled at the kitchen door.
He waited, breathing only minutely despite his pounding heart. For a time he heard only a few very faint sounds, someone's progress through the basement. Then silence. Then a loud crash. Someone had thrown something breakable against the wall in the kitchen. Too chilly only a moment ago, Mo felt a drop of sweat roll down his temple. Fear sweat.
It wasn't the intruder he was afraid of. It was Mo Ford and the gun he held in his hands. It was the lesson of White Plains. Inside him, almost with a life of its own, was a lethal, mindless thing which would strike like a snake, reflexively, unless he could control it.
Take it slow. Hold off. Mo made his arms bend, brought up the barrel of the gun. He made himself breathe slowly and steadily. Keep the finger on the trigger guard. Take a good look. You'll have plenty of time. The important thing was to stay conscious, deliberate.
Then there was another crash from the kitchen, and the light shifted in the dining room as someone filled the doorway and then there was a shape moving into the main room. Mo's arms straightened and his finger slipped into the curve of the trigger and the sight on the barrel tracked the left ear of the person as he took two steps and stopped. And then with a conscious effort Mo bunched his biceps and pulled the gun up again.
"Stop right there!" he shouted.
The boy's jaw dropped. He started to bolt, then froze.
"What the fuck you think you're doing?" Mo said. He stood up from behind the couch.
The kid's face was a mask of fear. He was about sixteen, dark longish hair, wearing an expensive leather jacket. He couldn't say a word.
Another shape emerged from the dining room door, a girl. "What?" she said, then "Oh!" when she saw Mo. She put her hands up, just like in the movies. She had a pretty face framed by long, golden hair that fell in two smooth curves onto the shoulders of her jacket.
"We didn't know anybody was here," the boy said.
"This your house? Does it matter if somebody's here?" Mo walked toward the pair. His approach caused them to move their limbs with considerable restlessness, as if their arms and legs would run off without permission if they could. He realized he must look like a demon of sorts, gun in hand, panting slightly, sweating. "Put your goddamned hands down."
The girl's hands flew down to her sides. "We're sorry, we didn't know anybody lived here anymore."
"You didn't notice the nice new gate at the bottom of the driveway?"
Again it was the girl who spoke. "We came through the wood
s—there's a sort of a path. To where we live."
"You can call my dad," the boy volunteered. Mo felt embarrassed for him: Moments ago, he'd no doubt been a real cowboy hotdog daredevil. Now he was a cringing piece-of-shit juvenile.
"You're trespassing. What were you doing in there, throwing things?"
"I'm sorry," the boy said. He looked more frightened than the girl.
"Everything was like this already." He gestured around at the chaos, guiltily, as if Mo wouldn't believe him. "Are you going to arrest us?"
Mo couldn't help himself. The little shits deserved it: "What makes you think I'm a policeman?" he asked, smiling evilly.
Their eyes widened as a new gust of fear blew into them.
"Relax," Mo said, putting his gun away. "You're in luck. I'm with the New York State Police. No, I'm not going to arrest you. But I want your full names and addresses, and your parents' names."
He wrote down the information. They lived in the new yuppie development down the hill toward Golden's Bridge. Mo felt sorry enough for the boy that he decided to spare him the embarrassment of asking what they had come to Highwood for. She was a pretty girl, doe-eyed, sweet sixteen. No point in rubbing the boy's nose in shit in front of her.
"How often have you kids come up here?"
They looked quickly at each other. "We never did before," the boy said.
"Yeah? Then how come you thought nobody lived here anymore?
How'd you know it was already like this?"
"It's just, we live not far away," the girl said. "In Briar Estates. All the kids know."
"Fine. So, how often have you come here before?"
They looked at each other again. "Once or twice."
"Which is it? Once? Or twice?"
"Just once," the girl said decisively.
"When was that?"
"I guess September," the boy said.
"We just started going together in September," the girl explained.
She was looking for sympathy. A smart kid. Knew her resources well.
"Was it like this when you were here before?"
They looked around the room. "Yeah," the boy said. "Maybe.
Yeah."
"I think it's worse now," the girl said. She flipped her golden hair up and back, seeming to gain confidence. "Are you trying to figure out who did it?"
Mo didn't answer but continued probing them for a few minutes more. They didn't know anything else useful. They just wanted to look around. Other kids at school knew about it. Who? Everybody. Nobody in particular.
He was escorting them outside, around the house toward their path, when the girl gave him something to think about.
"Are you the same policeman who was up here the other time?" she asked.
Mo stopped walking. "What other time? The one time you were here?"
The boy rolled his eyes, exasperated with her, but the girl didn't miss a beat. "One other time we were going to come up, up the driveway, but we didn't because we saw the police car there. At the bottom."
"When was this?"
They thought about it. "Like a week or so after Halloween," she said. Rizal? Mo questioned them some more but got nothing. No, they hadn't seen the policeman. Yes, maybe it was a State Police car, but it might have been a Town of Lewisboro police car. The boy had gone mum, the girl was willing to talk all day even if she had nothing to say. At last he walked them to the edge of the woods, where they headed down a small ravine.
Mo waited for a moment, then walked to the top of the driveway. The tension had left him, and now he felt drained. Conclusions, none. Maybes, two. Maybe three cycles of damage. Maybe Rizal had been up before, maybe around the time of the hypothetical third cycle, in early November.
Not worth it, considering how close he'd come to the ultimate fuck-up. He'd come within one motor nerve impulse, a tiny shock of electricity down his arm, of blowing two kids away.
"Fuck," he said out loud. He kicked at the gravel. He told himself he'd managed to master the impulse, he'd made progress, he should feel good. Instead, he felt like shit. The Rizal thing was a major headache. Also, the girl had been very pretty. Her confidence had come back as she'd recognized something in Mo. Disgusted with himself, he spat and started walking down.
44
JANET, IT'S PAUL. I'm here at the farm. I want to see Mark today."
It was eight-thirty Sunday morning.
"I thought you wouldn't make it back until tonight."
"Yeah. Well, I was able to leave earlier than I expected."
"Well, fine. But not knowing the whimsy of your schedule, we've already made plans. Mark has Tommy Clarke coming over at ten to play."
"Okay. So give me a time this afternoon when I should pick him up."
"I never agreed that you were going to see him at all."
Fight back, Paul reminded himself. "I'll be there at two. Have Mark ready to come back to the farm with me."
"And if I disagree?"
"You and I have a prior and established agreement about the disposition of Mark." Paul was trying to invent some plausible legalese, as if he knew what he was talking about. "Until such time as a court decides otherwise, that agreement stands. If you prevent me from seeing him, I will call the police and claim you've abducted him."
"They won't believe you."
"Oh? I'll have them ask Mark if he'd like to see me. If he routinely does see me. In any case, I don't think having an abduction charge pending will help your custody action, or whatever it is you're planning. Have him ready at two."
His hands shook as he hung up. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee, spilling some on the counter, when Lia came into the kitchen. Her eyes were still puffy from sleep.
"What was all that about?"
"No more Mr. Nice Guy." Paul sipped his coffee and bared his teeth at the heat of it.
"Oh—-Janet," she said. "Got a cup for me?"
They sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and planning the next few days, calendars open on the checked tablecloth. Lia's work at school would take most of her time. Paul's priority would be to sort out things with Janet, consult a lawyer if necessary, and spend time with Mark. He also had a lot of calls to make: Kay, Aster, Vivien. Especially Vivien. He jotted notes to himself, then remembered an additional errand: Call M. Stropes.
"Kay, this will sound weird, but bear with me, okay? Royce was an only child, right?"
"Of course! Why would you think otherwise?"
Paul had caught her up on events at Highwood, ending with Royce's visit, and now he debated how much to tell her. He decided on a compromise: "We keep running into pictures of Vivien with two kids. There's a family resemblance."
"Maybe some cousin? I seem to remember there were a few other branches of the Hoffmanns around."
"Do you know any of them?"
"No. Never did. Especially after the divorce there wouldn't have been much contact. What does it matter?"
"Royce handed me one of the photos, implied it was in my best interest to find out who the other kid was."
"That's just Royce, jerking your chain."
"Maybe. But he seemed sincerely, if that's a word one can apply to Royce, pissed off when he said it. He'd lost his cool a bit."
"Good work Paulie!"
"I've got another question. Do you remember a room that opened into Vivien's bedroom?"
"Can't recall. I remember wondering what was in there—that whole wall of the balcony. I guess I figured Vivien had a suite. It wouldn't surprise me if that house had lots of hidden closets and nooks, though. Why?"
"It's just an odd room. Just very strange."
"Paulie." Kay's voice took on her warning tone. "Are you getting into something you shouldn't?"
"Like what?"
"Like trying to unravel the Hoffmanns' family problems and intrigues? Because, talk about the Augean stables, there's no end to it. Tar-baby city. Of course the Hoffmanns would love to get you entangled."
"Why would either of them want me to get en
tangled?"
"Never underestimate the power of sheer narcissism. It's a kind of an exhibitionistic thing: 'Aren't my knots and tangles just so scandalous and fascinating?' You make a great audience."
"I'll bear it in mind," he said. "But I have a couple of other questions for you."
"Go ahead. Not that you'll listen to what I say."
"Vivien—if she's as conniving and rotten as everyone says she is, why were she and Mother and Ben such good friends? There's got to be more to her."
"Oh, of course there is. She's human. More or less. I think she's a very smart woman, with strong and interesting perspectives on things. I think that's the side Ben liked, a challenging intellectual companion. But I remember other sides of her too. I don't think she was always such a calculating, manipulative person. I think that came later. I think there's a powerfully sentimental person there too. Deep personal loyalties. Or there was, anyway."
"What changed her?"
"I think Hoffmann's leaving her was a crushing blow. She was only about eighteen when she married him, and I think she was really in love with the son of a bitch. Practically a child bride, the only man she'd ever loved, right? Big disillusionment. After the divorce, around 1952, her world started collapsing. First the divorce, then Freda's death, then Royce being such a pain. And then all those years of sohtude. It's as if she had to become as calculating and cynical as she had been innocent and hopeful. If she wanted to survive. Ben's death probably didn't help, either—they were pretty close."
"Which brings up another question. Kay, why do you think Ben did it? Why'd he kill himself?" He didn't mean to sound so morose.
She whistled quietly. "Boy, you are getting put through the wringer by this Highwood job, aren't you?" There was sympathy in her voice. "Listen, Paulie. If you feel you've got to work through this, fine. But don't ask Mother any of these questions, okay? Don't dredge it all up for her. She seems particularly fragile now. Will you promise?"