Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion; if she loosened her grip for one second, she’d be screaming. Without looking down, Sarah reached for her notebook and eased it into position on her lap. “What was Graham like as a boy?”
“Smart. Resourceful. Never wanted much coddling, not even when he was sick. We used to talk about our clients’ problems − my husband is a lawyer − and by the time Graham was ten, he’d announced that they were all wusses and they should just get it together. In some ways, it was a relief that he was so tough, so self-reliant. We both worked long hours, and he seemed perfectly content on his own. Later, I worried that we should have insisted on more playtime, more family time. That maybe we’d made him cold.”
“Did he have a temper?”
“I’m not sure you’d call it that. He’d flare when he was little, get really angry, but in seconds it would blow over and he’d be totally calm, almost grown-up about it.” She laughed, caught off guard by a memory. “The best example was bubble bath. He got angry because the dispenser got clogged, and he swept water and bubbles all over the bathroom. I came running in, and he slid lower in the tub and said he thought it was time to discuss what the bath-time rules should be.”
Sarah grinned. “I’m surprised he’s not pre-law.”
“For a time he even considered the priesthood, if you can believe that. Don’t tell Father McAvoy, but we were relieved when that phase ended. We could just imagine people pouring out their sins and Graham saying . . .” − she did a fair impression of her son’s imperious tone − “You do realise you’re obsessing over trivia?”
They both laughed, and Laurel’s face relaxed a little. “Anyway, once he hit junior high, he calmed down a lot. Became more social, even charming, when he wanted to be. Overnight, he went from gangly to − well, you’ve seen him.”
“He’s striking. And obviously smart. Is he empathetic, do you think? I mean, you obviously are, or you couldn’t do this kind of work . . .”
“That’s what it all hinges on, isn’t it?” Laurel cut in. “I go over and over his childhood. I would have said he did know what people were feeling, and he just didn’t think they should let it overwhelm them. Now I get these flashbacks, like when Daisy, our golden retriever, was sliding around on an icy patch and couldn’t get her legs under her, and he couldn’t stop laughing. It scares me cold. Except − we laughed too. She had the goofiest look on her face, pure determination, and her big paws kept splaying out . . .” Laurel held her coffee mug in both hands and stared down at the dark liquid. “Do you see why this is such hell, Ms. Markham? I don’t know.”
Sarah had tucked a list of questions in the back of her notebook, but none of them seemed urgent anymore. She thanked Laurel Dennison, apologised to the bald guy, and left.
*
Colin was outside hurling cabers when Jimmy came up behind him and said, “We need to talk.”
“Talk away.” Colin picked up a rough-cut log and heaved. It dented into the frozen grass as it landed, and pieces of bark flew off. He wiped sweat from his forehead and reached for the next log. Just doing something, anything, felt like a release.
Jimmy put his foot on top of the log. “Now. Or you’ll do this until dark.”
As Colin straightened, pain seared his lower back and took his breath. “Right,” he gasped. “I’m done. You have my full attention.”
“Best I can tell, Luke’s the only one who’s shot up.” The name didn’t surprise Colin. In middle school, Luke had acted out regularly, testing every limit. “Ben doesn’t think he did it often,” Jimmy continued. “Maybe just that once.”
“You don’t use heroin just once.”
“Actually, it’s possible. All those studies of immediate addiction? They did another one where they took the rats out of their tiny cages and gave them a great place to live, full of . . . I don’t know, whatever rats like. Little Ferris wheels and garbage. The rats were so happy, they didn’t even go back to the heroin. Drank plain water instead.”
“So they were seeking pleasure, but it didn’t matter what form it took?”
“Exactly. Anyway, the point is, we can’t tell the police. Luke would come under suspicion right away, and he’s a good kid. There’s no way he killed Philip.”
Colin rolled the caber out from under Jimmy’s foot, but he didn’t pick it up, just rolled it back and forth while he thought.
“I hate the idea of hiding anything,” he said finally, “but I think you’re right. Make sure you talk to Luke, though. And get him some counselling − somebody decent, who’ll talk straight to him. Did you find out anything else about the girl in Philip’s room?”
“Only that she snuck in a few more times. Steven asked if I thought they were ‘having sex-u-al in-ter-course.’”
“Well, were they?”
“Highly doubtful. Although I think she was doing her best to convert him.”
*
Sarah slid inside the Miata and called Colin.
“I talked to Graham’s mother. Don’t worry, she’s not going to run to the bishop. But she’s completely torn. She doesn’t know if her son’s a coldblooded murderer or a misunderstood kid.” She revved the wheezy engine, wondering what could be worse than doubting your own child. “Can you imagine living with that kind of uncertainty?”
“No. I can’t.”
They were silent for a minute. “Anyway,” Sarah said, “I don’t think she’ll call your bishop. And I think it was a risk worth taking.”
“You said the same thing about going out at three in the morning during the worst electrical storm in a century to interview linemen while they climbed the poles.”
“And Kat’s photos were amazing,” she replied, backing out of the parking space. “Which reminds me, I need to talk to her. I’ll see you tonight. Meanwhile, try not to worry so much. It’s hell on your immune system.”
She had Kat on speed dial. “Hey. Don’t you have a friend who works at Faith Hospital’s ICU?”
“Angela Pagonis. She’s Greek.” Kat said this as though it was all Sarah needed to know. Not for the first time, Sarah envied her friend’s permanent network of support. Kat knew exactly where she belonged.
“You think she’d talk to me about a patient, if I promised total confidentiality and it was entirely off the record?”
“She’d talk to you even if it wasn’t. Angela loathes the federal privacy rules. She likes being able to tell people’s relatives that they’re missing sex or having trouble with their bowel movements. You want to run over there now? I can meet you at the entrance. It’s on my way to my next shoot.”
“Perfect.” Sarah moved her car over to the hospital lot and waited until she saw Kat pull in. Angela met them in the hallway outside the ICU and, after raving about the almond kataifi Angela made for the church festival, Kat introduced them and let Sarah take it from there.
“Oh, I remember that one,” Angela said. “The alarm went off and we all raced in. The respiratory tech didn’t stop to check where the dial was, just took her up to one hundred per cent.”
“Where was it supposed to be?” Sarah asked.
“Pretty close to full oxygen already, maybe ninety per cent. Her lungs had collapsed with the Legionnaire’s. By the time we got in there she was really struggling for breath.”
“Wouldn’t you have known right away if the boy had changed the setting?” Sarah asked.
“Not necessarily. He could have taken her all the way down to twenty-one per cent without the default alarm going off. But don’t you be printing that.”
“No, no, of course not. I’m not even writing a story; this is just for a friend’s sake. But tell me one more thing, was she fragile enough that her breathing could have stuttered on its own?”
“Not without some kind of distress. And we had her pretty cocooned, arms fastened so she couldn’t pull the tube out. There was no way for her to fall, no cords to tangle, nothing that might have panicked her.”
<
br /> “What about just seeing or hearing something upsetting? Hospitals are scary places.”
Angela shook her head. “Not a chance. We were keeping her in a twilight state, drug induced. She wouldn’t have been aware of what was going on around her.”
Kat started to say something, then broke off. Which wasn’t like her. The minute they got outside, Sarah said, “What?”
“Twilight isn’t what they pretend it is. George’s father was in one of those induced comas and, when he recovered, he told us all about these bizarre dreams he had. In one, a white tiger was chasing him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And what the tiger was saying was − almost verbatim − what I remember the nurse yelling one night after the previous shift screwed up his meds. They just like to think the person is completely unconscious, because that makes it easier to do whatever they have to do and say whatever they want.” Kat paused for air. “That doesn’t mean your kid didn’t do it. Just don’t count on twilight making the mom oblivious.”
*
As she walked into the dining room, Sarah’s phone made the typewriter-keys clatter she’d thought − wrongly − would be amusing. A text from Rob. “Your priest friend isn’t calling me back. Could you tell him I’m on deadline?” She hit delete. Rob could fend for himself for a change. If she were doing the story, she’d be working around Colin right now, calling Jimmy and other priests who knew him, getting context and background and knowing they’d alert Colin, who would call back fast to head off any further inquiries. Rob’s stories had as few sources as possible, because Rob was always the real subject.
At dinner, no-one said much. All the nervous energy had drained away. Surprisingly, the first person to brave the topic on everybody’s mind was Adriana. “Could Graham Dennison have done this?” she asked.
“Of course he could,” Jimmy said. “What do you think now, Sarah? First the kid in the wheelchair, then his mother, now Philip . . .”
“I’m still not sure,” Sarah said, feeling stubborn. “I’m not even sure he tried to kill his mother.”
Father Charron’s knife clattered against his plate, overloud in the silence. He drew in a long breath and exhaled fully. “The boy,” he said, using his deepest and most resonant lecture voice, “is possessed.”
“At least we’ve figured out motive then,” Sarah said lightly.
The look he gave her would have withered rosebuds. She shot Colin a look, but he’d picked up a wobbly candle and was holding it aslant, dripping hot wax into the holder to anchor it. His fingers would have to catch fire before he’d look up.
“You’re thinking that possession is medieval,” Charron said, his tone almost conversational. “There is a . . . syndrome, if you will, that affects troubled teenagers, especially boys. I’ve studied this for years. It enters when their minds are disordered, and it brings a sort of demonic energy. In some cases, things happen that seem ‘supernatural’. Other cases look like schizophrenia, but the illness doesn’t develop.” He left a long pause, a teacher’s trick to guarantee attention. “In rare cases, it leads to crimes of increasing violence.”
“I agree.” It was Jimmy’s voice, and Sarah shifted in her chair to stare at him. Had everybody gone mad? “Graham’s capable of killing,” Jimmy continued. “And there’s no doubt his mind is . . . disordered. But I’d guess we’re more likely to find the reason in his biochemistry or his childhood than in some kind of demonic takeover.”
“Call it what you will,” Charron said, his jaw set. “I know what I’ve seen.”
It was a long time before anyone spoke again. Sarah’s mouth had gone dry, and she had to wash down every bite with a sip of water. “Here’s a question,” she said carefully. “Lieutenant Morganstern says it would’ve been perfectly possible to put a syringe into Philip’s hand and wrap his fingers around it. So why didn’t the killer do that? We would have written the whole thing off as one more tragic teen suicide.”
“Until the next death,” Charron said. And the air went out of the room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Once again the tension was broken by the arrival of Mrs. Dalton. Sarah felt a nervous giggle rising. And we must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie. David Mamet could have written those lines for this very moment. Their little group would implode if the pies stopped coming.
Tonight’s was a rich dark chocolate, topped with toasted pecans and bits of coconut. Sarah watched as Charron slid the server underneath his slice. His veins mapped blue rivers across the tops of his hands, which trembled so hard, she moved the cream and sugar closer to him. How awful it must be, she thought, to believe your students were Satan’s prey. Especially when no-one around you would acknowledge it.
After dinner she carried the last dishes to the kitchen and handed them one by one to Mrs. Dalton, who slotted them into the dishwasher. “Even in these awful circumstances,” Sarah said, “that was the best chocolate pie I’ve ever had.”
“It’s Mrs. Ledbetter’s recipe. She runs a little teahouse up in Alton.”
“One of these days I’m going to learn to cook.” Sarah pulled a stool up to the high, zinc-topped prep table. “Right now, though, I’d rather figure out what happened to Philip. Or how to calm Father Charron down, or what’s up with Adriana . . .”
“She was a lonely little thing at first, nothing to keep her company but her books,” Jenny Dalton said, scouring a pot as she talked. Scrubbing powder puffed into the air and stung Sarah’s nostrils. “Pretended she liked it that way, but you can always tell. When we had our little cocker spaniel, my husband went on and on about how much trouble and mess a dog was. But when Puddin’ died, he broke up so bad I had to get him pills.”
Which was sweet, but what on earth did a departed spaniel have to do with Adriana?
Polishing until the copper gleamed, Mrs. Dalton hung the pot over the farmhouse sink. “Last fall she was sort of airy-fairy, never quite had her feet on the ground. So sensitive she’d wilt if you put one word wrong. But just after mid-term, something changed. Her cheeks got pink, and she went all dreamy in a different way, if you know what I mean. Started eating dessert, too.”
That, in Mrs. Dalton’s mind, was the clincher. “Mark my words,” she said, writing the pie recipe on the back of a grocery receipt and handing it to Sarah, “that young woman fell in love. And, for some reason only God knows, she couldn’t admit it.”
*
Overnight the weather turned balmy. Only a few shaded patches of snow remained, and the blizzard lost all reality. To Sarah, who’d finally gotten a good night’s sleep, the last three days felt just as remote, scraps of a nightmare she couldn’t piece together. Setting her laptop on the sunlit window ledge, she opened her email. ‘Back sooner?’ was Casper’s subject line. Groaning, she clicked and read the rest. ‘Stay put for now, and help Rob with his story. But once that’s filed, I need you back asap. Freelance budget’s shot, and I’m out of evergreens. Need to get some of your features in the pipeline again.’
After typing the reply she wanted to send, she deleted it and sent a bland, ‘Will do my best!’ Then she opened her mother’s email. ‘Hate to bother you, honey, but Dad’s bad again. Any chance of coming to dinner this week? You always cheer him up.’
The words fell like a heavy curtain. They wondered why she wouldn’t live at home after college? Because she had to stay sane. She’d spent years carving out a life that didn’t grind to a halt when somebody’s mood changed.
‘Absolutely,’ she wrote back. ‘How about tomorrow night?’
She closed email and tried to distract herself. Who was Adriana in love with? And why did she have to keep it a secret? Maybe it was a student. Or a priest. She thought back to Colin’s remarks about Adriana not dating anyone, being too fragile. What would it be like for a man, seeing such beauty every day at close quarters . . .
Colin wasn’t susceptible to beauty, she told herself. He barely noticed it. What about
Jimmy? He was almost as good looking as Adriana was beautiful. Sarah had always assumed he was gay, but she wasn’t positive, and he always paid warm attention to Adriana. Or maybe she was the Mrs. Robinson type, initiating a lusty teenager? That air of cool mystery would slay any of these boys.
Stop guessing and start working, she told herself, and stared through the window, trying to make the dead brown grass blur to green and dissolve into Haiti.
She was still staring when a figure left the school and crossed the lawn. The blur came into sharp focus − Colin, wearing a dorky cable-knit vest, jogging toward the dorm. As soon as he disappeared through the door, Sarah shut down her laptop and hurried over to his office. “It’s gorgeous out!” she told Connie, trying to sound like she was just popping in for a chat.
Connie nodded, her smile so wide it creased her face. Reaching for a thermal carafe, she poured coffee in a spare mug.
“You read my mind.” Sarah took the mug in both hands and sinking into the guest chair. “Listen, I wanted to ask your opinion about something.”
The inability to speak had intensified Connie’s expressions, and the animation was charming, in part because it was so easy to read. Now she tilted her head, quizzical as a terrier. Reaching for her notepad, she wrote, ‘C’s mtg w/ boys about a memorial Mass. Back in an hour.’
“No, no, I want your opinion. Mrs. Dalton thinks Adriana’s in love with somebody. I wondered what you thought.”
Connie’s nod grew more vigorous. ‘I think it’s Mr. Grant!!!’ she wrote. ‘She came in one day a few months ago and asked if she could see the file for Philip’s parents.’ Connie’s pen was moving so fast the paper nearly tore. ‘I let her − why not? And it says in that file, ‘Mother not available for contact’.’ She ran away, left him and Philip to fend for themselves.’
“No wonder Adriana was so upset about Philip’s death,” Sarah mused. “I mean, we all were, but her reaction seemed more personal, like she’d lost someone close.” She rested a knuckle against her lips, thinking. “Is Mr. Grant a nice man? I talked to him a bit, the day they found Philip, but I couldn’t tell.”
A Circumstance of Blood Page 13