by Jane Langton
Sergeant John Ordway, October 8, 1805,
on the Clearwater River
“Clear the house,” cried Chief Pratt, throwing open the glass doors of the West Portico.
Gail Boltwood and her group of tourists were in the parlor, where she had been naming the portraits on the wall. At once she shepherded her charges into the greenhouse and out to the South Terrace Walk, leaving no one in the parlor but John Locke and Benjamin Franklin, Christopher Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci.
Another group of visitors, in the entrance hall, was whisked out of the house the other way, leaving only the white busts musing on their pedestals—Voltaire and Turgot dreamily aloof, Alexander Hamilton frowning across the room at his old enemy Thomas Jefferson.
By some miracle, Homer was right behind Chief Pratt. “This way,” he said breathlessly, gasping in the direction of the stairs, hoping to give Tom and Fern a little warning. But the stairs were too steep and Homer was too fat. He had to stand aside on the landing, puffing and blowing, while everyone thundered past him.
Henry Spender was gasping too. He limped up the stairs, nodded at Homer, and took refuge in his office on the second floor, just as Fern leaned over the railing and cried, “Hey, what is this?”
By the time Homer reached the top, Tom was already in custody.
He looked dazed, but Fern spoke up angrily. “What’s he accused of?”
The arresting sergeant said smoothly, “Suspicion of arson and murder. Will that do for now?” He looked at Tom, whose skinny sunburned arm was handcuffed to the wrist of one of the detective sergeants. “Where were you, say, half an hour ago?”
Homer grasped the sergeant’s shoulder and muttered, “Miranda warning?”
“Right,” said the sergeant, and he began to recite it mechanically.
But Tom broke in. “I was in the woods. I left here about four o’clock. I’ve got a tent down there.”
“A tent in the woods?” said Chief Pratt softly. “That’s your tent? Did you meet anyone while you were there?”
“Oh, Tom, just shut up,” snarled Homer.
“Yes, I did. Flora Foley followed me. I invited her to come in.” Tom looked around at the circle of expressionless faces. “Was it Flora? Flora Foley? Is she dead?”
The little regiment of police officers took him away. Fern watched from the top of the stairs. Among the heads and shoulders descending below her she could see only a tuft of Tom’s carrot-colored hair. Bringing up the rear, Homer Kelly glanced at her over his shoulder and raised his fist, meaning, Don’t give up, we’ll fight back.
Fern walked into the great chamber, shut the door softly, and looked up at the inner surface of the dome. Over her head the painted progress of the Lewis and Clark expedition had hit a snag in the rapids of the Columbia River.
Chapter 37
… at 2 oClock PM the flood tide came in accompanied with emence waves and heavy winds, floated the trees … and tosed them about.… Every exertion and the Strictest attention … was scercely sufficient to Save our Canoes from being crushed by those monsterous trees maney of them nearly 200 feet long and from 4 to 7 feet through.
Captain William Clark, November 9, 1805,
on the Columbia
George Dryer always watched the news on the TV in the bedroom of his house. Today he turned it on too early, and he had to sit through the commercial. While the cute children ate their breakfast cereal and said cute things, and a shining car sped at ninety miles an hour along a curving mountain road, he noticed that the top of the set was dusty. He took a wet cloth from the bathroom and cleaned off the dust, giving the screen a good wipe at the same time. He arranged the rabbit ears just so.
When the news anchors came on at last, smugly declaring the end of the serial-killer ordeal in Charlottesville, George was electrified. He stared at the film clip of a redheaded guy in a Laurel and Hardy sweatshirt being shepherded in handcuffs into the magistrate’s office in the Charlottesville-Albemarle Regional Jail.
Who the fuck was this son-of-a-bitch, Thomas Arthur Dean? Well, apparently he was the guy the tent belonged to, but who did he think he was, taking all the credit? Shit like him couldn’t do what George could do, not in a million years. Oh, sure, this jerk had been to college, he wanted to go to med school and dissect cadavers. Motherfucking shit!
But the thing that most infuriated George was the claim that this son-of-a-bitch was an expert on Lewis and Clark. Jesus fucking Christ, Lewis and Clark belonged to George Dryer. Nobody understood those men the way George did. What did this jerk know about the lusty fornicators, the bloody butchers, the wrestlers with grizzly bears? They were George’s own personal property. And, Jesus, what did the asshole know about the bravest man of all? George was sick and disgusted. He felt violated and brushed aside.
“Homer, what on earth is this?”
Homer was pulling a T-shirt over his head. He uttered a muffled “Just a sec.” When the inside of his shirt gave way to a view of the dark bedroom, his wife Mary was looking at him accusingly. She stood beside the dead fern with a book in her hand.
He winced. It was The Mind of the Monster, the grisly report loaned to him by Chief Pratt. It had been squeezed into the bookcase beside the complete works of Sir Walter Scott. Unfortunately, Homer had tucked his notes into the pages.
Mary read one of them aloud. “Serial killers, gratification from killing, desire to repeat, taking of mementoes, victims turned into zombies, sex toys.” She looked at Homer and shook the book at him. “Homer, this is sick. It’s really sick.”
“Of course it’s sick. But it explains what’s been happening. You know, the serial killer.”
“Oh, of course, of course, I should have known. Oh, Homer, dear!” Mary lifted the book to the ceiling as though appealing to God. “You just can’t keep away from it, can you? This sordid murder case, you’ve just got to get mixed up in it, isn’t that right?”
“Well, I suppose so.” Homer was overcome by a feeling of wounded pride. His wife was scolding him for helping in the pursuit of a genuine monster. “But, Mary dear, they’re accusing that friend of Fern’s. I’m trying to help that young kid we met the other day. You know, Tom Dean. They’ve clapped him in jail.”
Mary was scandalized. “But, Homer, how do you know he’s not guilty? You don’t know anything about him.”
Homer could think of a couple of unsatisfactory answers—I just feel it in my bones, or He has such an honest face. Instead he growled stubbornly, “Well, I like him.”
Mary stared at Homer, and then she dropped the book on the bed and burst out laughing. “Oh, Homer, I do too, I like him too. But, oh, damnit, Homer.”
Of course Chief Oliver Pratt would not be open to any feelings in Homer’s bones nor to his trust in honest faces, and he would certainly have no faith whatever in Homer’s amiable fondness for young Tom Dean.
Therefore Homer abandoned any thought of pathos. In setting out to prove Tom’s innocence, he pounded on the Chief’s desk and asked an urgent and rational question. “Listen here, Oliver, what about Tom’s DNA? You gotta test it. It won’t match the real killer’s DNA. So you’ll have to release him. Hurry up. This is a wrongful arrest.”
Pratt looked at him balefully. “We already got Dean’s DNA. First thing they do at Intake.”
“Well, fine. How does it compare with the weirdo’s DNA?”
“Whaddayou mean, the weirdo’s DNA? We ain’t got no DNA.”
“You ain’t got—but, Christ, Oliver, he raped all those women.”
“Correction. He made it look as if he’d raped all those women.”
“You mean he didn’t? He strangled them and tore off their clothes and then he didn’t do it? He just carved them up and that was all?”
Pratt gazed at the ceiling and twiddled his thumbs. “Apparently so.”
“But—!” Dumbfounded, Homer flapped his hands.
“So maybe the guy’s incapable—you know, impotent.”
“Then why does he molest these wo
men at all?”
“Damned if I now. Those FBI profilers at Quantico, they’re looking into it. These sleazeballs hate women for some reason. Usually it’s the mother. They’ve got it in for the mother, so they take vengeance on the entire female sex.”
Faintly Homer said, “Oh,” and sank back in his chair.
Pratt smiled. “So your young friend is the best news we’ve had so far.”
Homer was surprised to see that the Chief looked altogether different. His face was pink and healthy, his eyes were no longer hot coals smoldering deep inside his skull. “The kid admits inviting the woman into his tent, her body was found nearby, his motorbike chain was the murder weapon.” Pratt stretched his neck and pretended to strangle himself, bulging out his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
Homer gasped and recoiled.
“And get this. A silver cigarette lighter engraved with the initials ‘FF’ was found in Dean’s tent. It shows a clear imprint of the fingers of his right hand.”
“‘FF?’ You mean ‘FF’ for ‘Flora Foley?”
“Right you are. ‘FF’ for ‘Flora Foley.’” Pratt smiled blissfully. “‘Flora’—such a pretty name.” Then his forehead creased with puzzled wrinkles. “Was Flora a goddess or something? Wait a sec, I’ll look it up.”
Homer addressed the Chief’s back as Oliver reached for the FAL–HIL volume of his Oxford English Dictionary and began riffling the pages. “So where is he?”
Pratt was in a trance, mumbling, “Flambeau, flicker, flossy—where is who, Homer?”
“Tom Dean! Where have you put Tom Dean?”
Pratt rammed his forefinger down on the book and cried, “Flora, goddess of flowers. Well, naturally, she was the goddess of flowers.”
“Well, she didn’t look like the goddess of flowers to me,” said Homer testily. “With or without her wig. Tell me, did you find it anywhere, her wig?”
“Wig? No, what wig?”
“Aha, you see? When we saw her that day, up in the Dome Room, Flora was wearing a bushy black wig. So, if Tom Dean killed her, what did he do with it?”
Pratt stared blankly at Homer. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again to pick up the ringing phone. Homer sank back, his mind whizzing in circles and spirals, as the Chief muttered, “Pratt,” and then fell silent, listening. Homer was amused at the gradual change in his expression. Pratt smiled, then grinned, then beamed, and at last, putting down the phone, he laughed out loud.
“DNA! You want evidence from DNA? Well, you’ve got it. That note, did you see the note? You know, like he always puts one on the bodies, sort of like adding bells and whistles? Well, as usual we don’t know what the hell the crazy message means, but this one came from an envelope, a licked envelope. And we just got the lab report.”
Homer groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s the same as—”
“Precisely the same. The DNA in the saliva on the envelopes exactly matches your young friend’s.” Pratt smiled triumphantly. Homer closed his eyes in pain.
Then Pratt’s vainglory faded a little. “It’s true, I have to admit, the voiceprint doesn’t match the one we got from Dean.”
“Voiceprint?”
“New electronic technique. There was this 911 call, some nut, we recorded it, the way we always do. We assumed it was the UNSUB—I mean, this nut said where to find the body, and he was right.”
Homer was all at sea. “UNSUB? You mean the suspect?”
“Of course. The Unknown Subject. This guy talked really crazy. But his voiceprint doesn’t match Dean’s. So maybe it was just some crank on the phone.”
“But you said he directed you to Flora’s body?”
“Nutty hiker, maybe, came across it, rushed to a phone, called 911.” The Chief frowned more deeply. “And there was the apple core. Spittle on that didn’t fit either.”
“Apple core? What apple core?”
“Somebody threw a half-eaten apple on the ground. Tom Dean had a bag of apples in his tent. Same kind of apples. You know, Macs. Only this time the saliva doesn’t match.”
Homer grinned, and burst into the last line of a comic song, which was all he could remember—“I can prove that I’m the guy that ate the core.”
“What’s that, Homer?” said Pratt.
“Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The guy in the song was an eyewitness and he’s got the apple core to prove it.”
“Very funny.”
Homer was feeling better. He rose to his feet. “Tell me, Chief, where’s the jail? Is it okay if I pay him a call?”
“It’s out Interstate 64. You can’t miss it. But I don’t know if they’ll let you in. Visitors are strictly limited.” Pratt thought it over. “But I suppose as a district attorney from Massachusetts you won’t have any trouble. Here, I’ll write you a pass.”
Chapter 38
Great joy in camp we are in view of the Ocian … this great Pacific Octean which we been so long anxious to See. and the roreing or noise made by the wave brakeing on the rockey Shores … may be heard distictly.…
Captain William Clark, November 7, 1805
Soon after he had met Fern Fisher for the first time, a gush of affection for the girl had filled the heart of Augustus Upchurch. His aging glands had swelled with youth. He was like a dying oak that drops a thousand acorns on the ground.
At first his affection had been a pure and innocent emotion, totally unlike his sexual fantasies. But now his feeling was more than affection. After the appearance in Fern’s company of that terrible young invader, Tom Dean, the separating wall between Fern and the sexy sluts had collapsed. Astonishing new images of the sweet, virginal young girl began to mingle with the others. His dreams grew more and more lurid.
How he had envied Tom Dean! Simply by being young, the boy had everything that he himself did not, including the sympathy and companionship of dear, adorable Fern.
But now Augustus was happy and excited. His fears for Fern’s safety had been justified. He had saved her from the beast who had been so dangerously close, the monster who was threatening her life. From now on she would be grateful, she would see him at last as her protector, she would wrap her arms around him, weeping, and whisper her thankfulness.
But to his bitter disappointment Fern failed to oblige. The next time he wheezed up the stairs to the Dome Room, he found her standing at the top of the ladder. She gave Augustus a wild glance, tossed out an arm holding a paintbrush, nearly throwing herself off balance, and whispered, “It’s not finished, you see. I’ve got to finish it.” A piece of paper fluttered down. “Oh dear,” wailed Fern, “I need it. Oh, please, Mr. Upchurch, would you pick it up?”
Alarmed, Augustus glanced at the paper as he handed it to her. It was a map. He gripped the ladder. “My dear, be careful. Oh, please, my dear, come down.”
Fern stared at the map, then dipped her paintbrush in a jar and stroked it on the ceiling. “No, no,” she said softly, “not now. I’m fine up here, Mr. Upchurch, I’m really just fine. I’ve got to finish the river. I’ve got to finish it for Tom.”
For Tom! Augustus couldn’t believe it. He was stupefied. The child was still deluded, she was still under the spell of that dangerous young snake.
But then Fern stopped painting and cried, “Oh, Mr. Upchurch!”
Hope returned. Augustus smiled up at her. His tie was red as blood, a pulsing scarlet. “Yes, my dear?”
“Those pins. They think Tom’s paper of pins proves he’s guilty.”
Augustus was bewildered. “Pins? What pins?”
“Do you know why Tom had pins? It was because he pinned his time line to the wall of the tent.” She glared at Augustus fiercely. “I mean, that’s why he had that paper of pins.”
“Oh,” said Augustus, “I see,” although he didn’t see.
“If they look, they’ll find the pinholes. Tell them to look for the pinholes, Mr. Upchurch.” Fern scrambled down the ladder, took his arm, and dragged him to the long strip of paper encircling the wall. “And lo
ok, there are pins here too. Ouch!” She waggled her pricked finger at him to show the drop of blood. “You see?”
What was the child talking about? Augustus left the Dome Room in a state of confusion. Descending the stairs with extreme care, he remembered to his horror something poor dear Flora had told him about murderers and their victims. Killers, lots of times they’re highly attractive to helpless young females. Some women are gluttons for punishment.
Chapter 39
The wind rose from the NW. and the swells became so high, we were compelled to return about 2 miles to a place where we could unld our canoes, which was in a small Bay on Driftwood on which we had also to make our fires to dry our selves as well as we could, the shore being either a clift of Purpendicular rocks or steep assents to the hight of 4 or 500 feet.… Nothing to eate but Pounded fish
Captain William Clark, November 10, 1805
Of course it took Homer several tries to find the Charlottesville-Albemarle Regional Jail—two or three high-speed plunges in different directions along Interstate 64. He was damp with sweat when at last he presented Pratt’s handwritten introduction and his own feeble credentials to the admitting officer at the desk.
He was not permitted to see Tom face to face. Four inches of tempered glass divided them. Tom sat on one side, Homer on the other. They were connected by telephone.
Monuments of catastrophe rose around them. Tom had been officially arrested on suspicion of murder, processed, and classified, and his DNA had been determined from a blood sample. He had been arraigned before a camera connected by fiber optics to a judge far away, and the judge had refused bail.
Tom’s face was blank. At first he said nothing.
But Homer had something important to ask him. It was an embarrassing question, and the telephone was an impediment to intimacy. He decided it could wait. “Do they let you have books in this place?”