Julian stayed right there, smoking his cigarette. Ruby hung on, soaked with sweat under her jacket and heavy clothes. The pressure of his mind pushed and pushed. Then the cigarette, half smoked, landed down there with the other butts, still smoking. Smoke rose. It was going to make her cough.
The shoe tops shifted, turned with a grinding sound, moved out of sight. Ruby held her breath, keeping that cough inside. Step, step. Then down the stairs, little quick ones. More stepping on the level below, movement of objects, then fainter sounds on the level below that. After that no sound at all. Smoke rose. The cough was coming and there was nothing she could do.
The car door slammed.
She coughed. Her feet slipped.
The engine started. Ruby lost her grip, crashed down in the pile of cigarette butts. The car drove off.
Linda watched through the living-room window. A DPW truck went by, spewing sand; the oil man; a visiting nurse; and then the Triumph. She hurried into the kitchen.
Scott came through the garage door. Her first thought was that he’d caught it too, whatever Ruby had. His face was bloodless, even the lips, and there was a tiny tremor in his hands.
“Are you all right?” she said.
He didn’t answer, gazed around the room as though it were a strange place instead of his own kitchen.
“I’m worried,” she said.
He nodded.
“I got the strangest call from Ruby.”
“Ruby? Isn’t she here?”
“She’s out looking for Zippy.”
His voice rose suddenly, scaring her. “She’s got to stop that.”
“I know. Julian’s gone to find her. But she sounded so frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“Of Julian. She said to warn you about the stock.”
He turned to her, the muscles in his face all slack. “Warn me about the stock?”
“Scott. Are you all right?”
“Warn me what?”
“I don’t know. Is there some connection between Julian and Codexco?”
Scott put his hand to his forehead, rubbed it till it reddened, a red patch on his colorless skin.
“What’s wrong, Scott? Has something happened with Codexco?”
Scott took a deep breath. Red spread from the forehead patch all over his face. “I lost it.”
“Lost what?”
“Everything.”
“Every—” The door opened and Julian came in; she hadn’t even heard the car.
His eyes went to Linda, Scott, back to Linda. “Well, well,” he said. “What good parents, home to check on the invalid. Back safe and sound, thank goodness.”
“No,” Linda said.
“No?” said Julian. “What can you mean by that?”
“She’s not here.”
“But you said she was.”
“She’s afraid of you,” Linda said.
“Afraid of me? What makes you say that?”
“She called, half scared to death.”
“She called?” Julian backed toward the door, the car keys in his hand. “The poor little thing,” he said. “Feverish, of course. I’ll go get her. We can straighten this out after I bring her home safe.”
“You know where she is?” Linda said.
“Search for her, more accurately speaking,” Julian said.
“Wait a minute,” Scott said. “What do you know about Codexco?”
“The stock you bought, or sold, or whatever you did? How is that relevant?”
“Linda says you know something about it.”
Julian glanced at her. “I’ll go get Ruby now.”
“No,” Linda said. “I want you to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Why Ruby’s afraid of you. What you know about the stock.”
Julian turned to Scott. “I know you’re both under stress, Ruby sick, dog missing, other possible concerns depending on the relative acuity of your perceptions, but I appeal to you, Scott. Please make Linda see reason. I should be out looking for Ruby. She’s not well.”
“Linda has good judgment. Give me the keys.”
Linda loved Scott then, at the very moment she knew for all time that her judgment was bad.
Scott held out his hand for the keys. Julian’s hand closed around them. “Good judgment? Did she show good judgment the day Adam broke his leg?”
“Adam?” said Scott. “What do you mean?”
Julian turned to Linda. “Why have you allowed it to come to this? You might as well tell him. Probably best, in an air-clearing sense.”
Linda couldn’t speak.
“Tell me what?” said Scott.
“About Tom,” said Julian.
“Tom? What about him?”
“A minor indiscretion, on the scale of things,” said Julian, “but it’s really not my story.”
Scott took a step toward him, grabbed the front of his shirt. “Tell me.”
“But it’s so tawdry,” Julian said, his face close to Scott’s, appearing in no way alarmed by Scott’s hold. “Footsie in the whirlpool, two tipsy people, one thing leading to another. Why don’t you fill in the blanks while I get Ruby?”
Scott let go. He swayed back a little, as though he might faint. The big, thick-glass jar of strawberry jam lay on the butcher block. Linda picked it up and brought it down on the back of Julian’s head with all her strength.
Ruby went to the desk, got the notes for the living novel. She opened the damper on the fireplace the way he’d shown her, lit one of his matches, burned the papers. They were no one’s business.
She left the little house by the bulkhead doors, same way she’d entered, made the same wide circle back to her bike. She raised it out of the snow, brushed it off, started riding, down the lane, right on Trunk Road. On her way home, but not directly: she was going to pull a little surprise on Julian.
Snow still fell, that same light snowfall, like the beginning or the end of a storm except it just stayed that way. Ruby rode through Old Mill, into West Mill, turned right on Depot. The police station was on Depot; she’d passed it many times. But not this time. She rode and rode, shivering now, over the tracks, very tired and very slow. Main? Depot turned into Main? And there was the Shell station. She went inside.
“Hi, Manny,” she said. He was counting money at the cash register again, or still.
“Hey,” said Manny, looking up. “How’s that school project going?”
“Not good,” Ruby said. “Where’s the police station?”
“Ruby the Kid,” said Sergeant D’Amario, coming into the room where they’d asked her to wait.
“Ruby Gardner,” said Ruby, finishing her Sprite. She’d never needed one so bad. “Brandon’s sister.”
“I know,” said D’Amario.
“He’s not a druggie and you’re on the wrong track. I can tell you who’s bringing crack into West Mill.”
“Who?”
“But first I have to hear that tape.”
“What tape?”
“The anonymous caller tape,” Ruby said. “From the night you made the bust in the woods.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s all connected. Like the Musgrave Ritual.”
The cop leaning against the wall said, “Is it a cult thing? Like David Koresh?”
“What’s the Musgrave Ritual?” said D’Amario.
Ruby couldn’t believe that: a professional law enforcer, and he hadn’t heard of the Musgrave Ritual? Nothing had changed since Inspector Lestrade’s day. “It doesn’t matter.” She reached into her pocket, took out the evidence: Zippy’s tag, Jeanette’s Post-it, the letter from the master of Balliol.
“What’s all this?” said D’Amario.
“Look it over.”
D’Amario glanced at the tag, read the Post-it. “What does J stand for?”
“Jeanette.”
The cops in the room exchanged looks. D’Amario read the letter.
“What’s this got to do with anything?�
�� he said. “Is this Sawyer guy the dealer?”
Ruby handed him the magnifying glass. “Check that date,” she said.
He checked the date. “It’s been changed.”
“What time is it in England?” Ruby said.
“Six or seven hours difference, maybe,” said D’Amario.
“Earlier or later?” said the cop by the wall.
D’Amario ignored him. “What are you getting at?” he said to Ruby.
“Just trying to figure if this is a good time to call R. M. Simkins, K.B.E.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s all connected,” Ruby said. And if so—boom. A watery memory came in view. The last big block shifted in her mind. Everything locked in place. All she’d needed was inside her head, as she’d suspected: it just needed arranging right.
“I don’t get any of this,” said the cop by the wall.
“What if I told you there’s a ski pole at the bottom of the pond?” Ruby said.
He got that one. They all got that one. Ruby got it too, really got it. She buried her face in her hands so no one could see her.
Things started happening. D’Amario placed a call to the master of Balliol, left a message. Then they took Ruby into a room packed with electronic equipment. The guy at the controls popped a little disk, smaller than a CD, into some kind of player. After two or three seconds, a voice spoke.
“I’m calling to inform you of a very loud party in the town forest. I believe there was a gunshot, although I wouldn’t swear.” Click.
“That’s him,” Ruby said.
Ruby went home, riding up front in the lead cruiser, her bike in the trunk. They flashed their blue lights but kept the sirens off. The garage door was open at 37 Robin Road, the Triumph inside; Dewey’s car sat in the driveway, Fuck You You Fuckin Fuck visible for all to see.
“That David Brickham’s car?” D’Amario said.
“Dewey,” said Ruby. “No one calls him David.”
“Maybe they should,” D’Amario said.
D’Amario was smart; maybe not ten times as smart as Brandon and Dewey put together, but smart.
“And the Triumph?” D’Amario said.
“My dad’s.”
“What’s your mom drive?”
“Jeep Grand Cherokee.”
“Color?”
“Blue. Dark but not navy, with some purple in it.” Ruby opened the door.
“Stay in the car,” D’Amario said.
“But I want to see my mom and dad.”
“In a minute.”
A policewoman came to sit with her. She had a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, chocolate ones with sprinkles, normally irresistible.
“No, thanks,” Ruby said.
The cops took out their guns and entered the house, using Ruby’s key. D’Amario came out almost at once and waved her in.
They were in the kitchen: Brandon, Trish, and Dewey, with the remains of half a dozen Subway subs, and a few cops, guns back in their holsters. Dewey’s eyes were darting around, as though he was planning an escape.
“When did you kids get here?” D’Amario said.
“Going to slice up more of my clothes?” said Brandon.
“Don’t fool around,” said D’Amario. “Not the time.”
“Bran,” said Ruby.
“Four-fifteen,” said Trish.
“And it was just like this? No one home?”
“Yeah,” Bran said.
A cop poked his head in. “Mrs. Gardner left her office at eleven-thirty, Mr. Gardner left his a little after that, they’re not sure the exact time. Neither one went back.”
“The Jeep,” said D’Amario.
“Already on it,” said the cop.
“What’s going on?” Brandon said.
“Your sister’ll fill you in,” said D’Amario. “You other two can take off.”
Dewey flew out like a cartoon character. Trish gave Brandon a little kiss on the cheek and followed.
“Cars we can find pretty easy,” D’Amario said.
“Don’t forget eight forty Trunk Road,” Ruby said.
D’Amario gave her a look, then made a little motion with his index finger. A cop hurried out. Another hurried in with some blueprints.
“All set?” he said.
D’Amario went with him. Ruby ducked into the mudroom, saw that Mom’s gray coat with the fur collar and Dad’s leather jacket weren’t there, tagged after D’Amario.
They walked through the house, the blueprint guy, D’Amario, Ruby. There were cops all over the place but the three of them went into every room anyway, tried every closet, checked under every bed. The house was normal, nothing out of place, nothing broken, nothing missing but the parents.
“Don’t forget the chimney,” Ruby said. They looked at her funny but did what she wanted.
“There an attic?” said D’Amario in the upstairs hall.
“Shows one,” said the blueprint guy. “Only access is right here.” He pointed to a hatch cover in the ceiling at the top of the stairs, painted over and almost invisible.
“Anybody ever go up there, Ruby the Kid?” said D’Amario.
Ruby hadn’t even known there was an attic. “No.”
The blueprint guy pulled in a chair from Brandon’s room, stood on it, pushed against the hatch cover. “In solid,” he said. “Hasn’t been moved since the painters left.”
D’Amario nodded.
Another cop called up the stairs: “Ready down at the pond.”
“I’m coming,” said Ruby before anyone had other ideas. Jeanette was loyal to her and she was loyal back.
33
Ruby regretted that decision a few hours later.
They had a generator down at the pond and lots of bright lights. The snow, falling thicker and faster now, blackened as it passed through their beams. It was colder too, but the pond didn’t freeze, probably because of the divers going up and down. The divers wore dry suits and huge packs on their backs, bulky like spacemen. They brought up a ski boot, a pole, a pair of skis; then a couple of those weights, the kind that Brandon had in his room, with holes in the middle; finally something in bib ski pants, hair like seaweed. Ruby turned away, not fast enough, lost control of the shape of her face, and started crying. Brandon stepped between her and the pond.
D’Amario came over with another cop. “Take the kids home,” he said.
Ruby tried to pull herself together. “What about Zippy?”
D’Amario shook his head.
“He must be down there.”
“They didn’t see him,” D’Amario said. “We’ll try again in the morning.” The lights went out, one by one.
There was a cruiser in the driveway, another on the street, two cops in the backyard, one in the kitchen, one in the front hall. They went up to Brandon’s room, checked his weights. He couldn’t remember exactly what weights he’d had and how many. A couple looked less scuffed than the rest, like they were new, but Brandon wasn’t sure about that either.
The cop in the hall called up: “England coming through.”
“That phone have speaker?” D’Amario called back.
“Yeah.”
They went down. Ruby sat on the stairs. The cop hit the speaker button. D’Amario took the phone.
“Sergeant D’Amario?” An English voice, the upper-class kind that made everyone who had it sound brilliant; for some reason, this guy put the accent in D’Amario on the i, like Sergeant D’Amario pronounced his own name wrong. “This is Sir Ronald Simkins.”
“Yes,” said D’Amario. “Mr., uh, sir—what should I call you?”
“Ron is fine.”
D’Amario nodded, but he didn’t call him Ron, or anything. “I’ve got a letter it seems you wrote to someone named Julian Sawyer, on either November nineteenth, nineteen eighty-eight, or the same date in nineteen ninety-eight. We could use your help in sorting it out.”
“In what context?” said Simkins.
“A murder investigation.”
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“Can you read me the letter?”
D’Amario read him the letter.
“Nineteen eighty-eight,” said Simkins.
“How sure are you?”
“Absolutely,” said Simkins. “Julian Sawyer wasn’t even alive in 1998.”
D’Amario glanced at Ruby. “We’ve got a Julian Sawyer here, and he had the letter,” he said.
“I’m speaking of Julian Sawyer the elder,” said Simkins. “Or senior, as he called himself, in your style.”
“There’s a junior?” said D’Amario.
“Correct. A son of some notoriety a number of years back, but these incidents recur with such frequency nowadays most of them are forgotten.”
“What incidents?”
“Inexplicably violent ones. In this case, young Sawyer burned down the family cottage in Sussex, a kind of retreat they had for use between petroleum ventures. His parents died in the fire. I would have thought him still in prison, but perhaps not. Mitigating circumstances were brought out at the trial, if I recall.”
“What mitigating circumstances?”
“Psychological testimony. Justifiable resentments, perhaps? Something of a hothouse environment, parents never satisfied? Analysis of that nature, plus his relative youth at the time.”
“How old was he?”
“Early twenties, I believe,” said Simkins.
“Did you ever meet him?” D’Amario said.
“I did. He was a student here for several months—I believe that was one of the reasons his father gave that little speech, to smooth the admission process. Marked for greatness, his father said.”
“Several months?” said D’Amario.
“He was dismissed.”
“Why?”
“Mistreatment of laboratory animals, if I’m not mistaken,” said Simkins. “You say you’ve got him?”
“We’re looking for him.”
“Good luck.”
Sergeant D’Amario sat them down in the kitchen.
“Where do you want to go for the night?” he said.
“Nowhere,” said Brandon.
“What if Mom and Dad come home?” said Ruby.
The Tutor Page 34