The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  But it did to Taylor, Darrow sensed. “I want you to stay,” he affirmed. “Including for breakfast. That way you won’t pass your father as he’s going out the door for our squash game.”

  Taylor summoned a theatrical moan of horror. “God,” she said. “That’s absolutely Greek.”

  “I agree. So let’s deal with it later.”

  Taylor gave him the complicit kiss of a co-conspirator. Later, Darrow lay awake, absorbing what had happened to them. Taylor slept through the night.

  18

  I

  N AT 10:00 A.M., DARROW AND LIONEL FARR PLAYED SQUASH at Caldwell’s gym.

  They had never played before. The game was Farr’s idea: no quarter was given or sought; neither man liked to lose, Farr even less than Darrow. Punctuated by the quick, hollow thud of their tennis shoes, the green ball ricocheted off the white walls, pursued by an echo, a rubberized whine that carried into the next hit. Though swifter and younger, Darrow was less experienced; Farr’s grim determination was aided by the guile of a veteran who had mastered the tactics and geometry of the nearly claustrophobic rectangle. For an hour they fought for dominance, playing with a trapped intensity until Darrow felt propelled by reserves of adrenaline, half conscious. On the final point, Farr slashed a wickedly angled shot to Darrow’s right. With an instinct driven by the harsh lessons of the last hour, Darrow, anticipating this, lunged, skidding on his chest as he stretched to hit the rubber ball with a desperate flick of his wrist. The ball looped off the front wall just beyond Farr’s reach. Darrow’s point, Darrow’s game.

  Breathing deeply, Farr watched the ball dying in small bounces at his feet with a last rubbery whimper. Grimacing in disgust, he told Darrow, “You’ll never do that again.”

  Sprawled on the wooden floor, Darrow laughed. “I’m never playing you again. To quote the immortal Rocky, ‘No rematches.’ ”

  “Unacceptable,” Farr said curtly. “For someone who barely edged a man in late middle age—on a lucky shot, at that—you’re far too pleased with yourself.”

  “No triumph too small,” Darrow responded dryly.

  Farr managed a sour smile.

  There was no one waiting for the court. The two men sat, backs against the wall, drinking from bottles of mineral water. In a serious tone, Farr said, “There’s something we should talk about.”

  The subject, Darrow guessed, might well be Taylor. “What is it?”

  “The latest student contretemps—allegations of date rape, to be precise.”

  Shaking his head, Darrow turned to his erstwhile competitor. “What are the specifics?”

  “They’re fairly unsympathetic. Three nights ago, it seems, an inebriated sorority girl invited two guys back to her dorm room for a three-way. Both admit being quite enthusiastic—”

  “Jesus,” Darrow interjected. “Don’t our summer students ever go to class? Or even to sleep?”

  “Apparently not. As far as I can sort this out, one boy penetrated her to climax. Before the other could follow suit, her friends burst in and broke things up.

  “That was Wednesday. Yesterday, our venturesome young lady charged the one who didn’t penetrate her with rape, claiming that he’d intimidated her. I don’t see that as likely, but she’s becoming quite belligerent.” Farr’s tone became astringent. “No doubt some of this indignation reflects her assertion that the guy in question ripped her forty-dollar underwear.

  “Grounds for moral outrage these days, I’m sure. Whatever the case, I get to deal with this farce. As provost, I’m the final arbiter in charges involving student conduct.”

  “A neutral arbiter, I’m sure.”

  “Naturally,” Farr responded with weary disgust. “However unsympathetic the complainant, or incredible her charges.”

  “Maybe on the surface,” Darrow cautioned. “Likely this woman’s claims are meant to cover her own embarrassment. But, if not, she may have been too drunk to report this right away.” He paused a moment. “As both of us are well aware, in cases like this it’s hard to ever know.”

  “Not every case is Angela Hall, Mark.”

  Darrow turned to him. “Nonetheless, I don’t want to hang these guys for something too ambiguous to resolve. But we need to hear this woman out.”

  “Of course,” Farr answered crisply. “But there’s no guarantee she won’t go running to Dave Farragher. Absent his involvement, I’ll give our newly vehement complainant a hearing so dispassionate and thorough that your law professors at Yale would be proud.”

  “I never doubted it.” Pausing, Darrow wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Speaking of Farragher, he called me at home this morning. Now that I’ve settled in, he said, he’d like to buy me a drink. You wouldn’t happen to know what might have spurred this.”

  Farr sipped some mineral water, gazing at the opposite wall. “I think I do, actually. I imagine you do, too.”

  Darrow turned to him again. More sharply than intended, he asked, “ ‘Think,’ Lionel? Or know.”

  Farr kept his own voice casual. “Ray Carrick called me yesterday. To paraphrase his bluster, he wonders why you’re more concerned with exhuming a sixteen-year-old corpse than with prosecuting Clark Durbin for stealing Caldwell’s money.”

  Darrow was irritated. “Setting aside Ray’s characterization, who told him that I was?”

  “It seems Dave Farragher’s tumbled to your bedside reading. As you well know, once you asked for the transcript, Dave was bound to hear about it. What you may not have known is that Ray is one of Farragher’s closest friends.”

  “Terrific.”

  Farr placed a hand on Darrow’s shoulder. “Caldwell’s small, and so is Wayne. So’s the core group of men who run our board of trustees.” His tone became avuncular. “For all our sakes, it’s not the time for your interest in the Hall case to become a focus of their attention. Please treat Farragher with the exquisite tact you’d have me lavish on our female complainant. Like her, Dave may feel a little aggrieved. Perhaps for better reasons.”

  Unsettled, Darrow wondered whether Farr’s involvement in this matter ended with Carrick’s phone call. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

  For a moment, Farr was quiet. “Nothing important, Mark. Once you consider your options, you’ll know what to do.”

  IN THE EVENT, Darrow’s hour with Farragher was mainly pleasant; Dave Farragher was an amiable man, with a ready smile and a forthright air, burnished by fifteen years spent shrewdly tending the political capital engendered by the conviction of Steve Tillman. The venue, Wayne’s country club, was unpretentious and relaxed, a rambling white wooden structure from the twenties where everyone knew everyone else. Sitting near the bar, for a half hour the two men talked about predictable subjects—how much Farragher admired Darrow’s athletic and professional successes; how the community and college had changed and not changed; the shock of Clark Durbin’s misconduct, now so evident; the resulting challenges Darrow faced as president. Only during the second drink did Farragher mention the murder of Angela Hall.

  “Look,” he concluded with an air of puzzlement. “I know Steve Tillman was your closest friend. But what in particular has caught your eye? You’re a smart guy, Mark, and I’m wondering if there’s anything I missed.”

  With his ruddy, open face and clear blue eyes, Farragher was a portrait of candor. But the question was so disingenuous that Darrow repressed a smile. Amiably, he answered, “I don’t think you missed a thing, Dave.”

  A flicker of relief showed in Farragher’s eyes. “Really?”

  “Really. In fact, there are two things I don’t doubt at all. That you and the police were extremely thorough, and that you’re a way better lawyer than Griff Nordlinger.”

  Farragher chuckled briefly. “You give me too much credit.”

  “Not at all,” Darrow assured him. “In fact, if Nordlinger had been the prosecutor and you’d been Steve’s defense lawyer, I think he might have walked.”

  Farragher picked up his scotch, then
put it down unsipped. “The court of appeals,” he responded, “upheld Steve’s conviction. So did the Ohio Supreme Court. Both rejected inadequacy of counsel as grounds for a reversal.

  “I know what you’re thinking—that doesn’t make Griff adequate. But the case against Tillman was there, and the appellate courts so found.”

  Darrow nodded. “I’ve read both opinions. But, as a practical matter, why do you think the jurors found Steve guilty?”

  The thrust of the question, directed at third parties, seemed to make Farragher relax again. “You can tick them off,” he said. “Tillman and Angela Hall had sex. There were scratches on his back, a bruise on her face. If you believed Joe Betts—and the jury did—Steve lied to them on the witness stand.

  “Add to that the absence of any other plausible suspect. Disparage Griff as you will, but there was nothing anyone could pin on Betts—or, for that matter, Carl Hall. Nor, despite her nocturnal wanderings, could any of us locate a boyfriend in Angela’s recent life; at best, her mother remembered an anonymous white guy calling once or twice. No one found him, either.”

  “And the diary?”

  Farragher spread his hands. “Who’s to say it ever existed? And if it did, who in the world could have taken it from under her mattress?”

  “An excellent question,” Darrow concurred mildly.

  “We thought so.” Farragher took a gulp of scotch. “Believe me, we didn’t stop investigating just because we’d arrested Tillman. We even checked out whether there were any known stalkers in the area, although the idea that someone like that would be on campus at three A.M. was pretty far-fetched. Nothing.

  “In the end, Griff had no alternative killer. There was none. The jury had no choice but to return a guilty verdict.” Farragher looked squarely into Darrow’s face. “As for me, I wouldn’t have brought the case unless I was morally certain that Tillman strangled Angela Hall. Why, only he knows for sure.”

  Darrow held his gaze. “As I recall, you gave the jury a couple of possibilities to ponder. One was that, in high school, Steve had broadcast his racial bias. You pretty much clobbered him with that on cross.”

  “Tillman was a bigot,” Farragher said crisply. “And Angela was black.”

  “And Griff Nordlinger opened all that up by putting Steve on the witness stand, then not objecting to your questions.”

  “I don’t know that he could have objected. Once Tillman claimed to have cared so much about Angela, he opened up questions of credibility. I’d have been derelict not to bring out Tillman’s racism.” Farragher shrugged dismissively. “I’m sure the jury viewed all that as secondary. On closing argument, Griff argued quite vigorously that we’d never offered a motive.”

  Darrow sipped his martini. In an even tone, he observed, “Still, you had the last word on rebuttal, including with respect to motive. That was the first time you floated Fred Bender’s theory—that Steve strangled Angela Hall to stop her from reporting a rape. Maybe I missed something. But I couldn’t find any evidence in the transcript to support that. And the suggestion itself is lethal. Had you been Nordlinger, you’d have asked for a mistrial.” Matter-of-factly, Darrow finished: “Which makes my original point, I think. From beginning to end, you were a whole lot sharper.”

  Though blandly delivered, the double-edged compliment induced in Farragher a somewhat cornered look. “My statement on rebuttal implied facts that were before the jury—that Angela was a proud and assertive woman committed to women’s rights.” Farragher paused a moment, then added in a straightforward manner, “You were once a prosecutor, Mark. In a situation like that, wouldn’t you have been tempted to do the same?”

  “That’s hard for me to say, Dave. I never faced a defense counsel quite that bad.” Darrow finished his drink. “A cynical colleague once said that a trial is where twelve people gather after a performance to vote for who they thought was the best lawyer. If so, you won.”

  Farragher regarded him with a quizzical smile. “Seems like we’ll just have to agree to disagree. I wish you luck at Caldwell, Mark.”

  They parted with a civil handshake.

  19

  O

  N SUNDAY MORNING, DARROW AND TAYLOR PLAYED TENNIS. At Darrow’s invitation, Taylor drove them in his Porsche. On the way to the municipal courts, Darrow asked, “What is it with the Farrs and smacking balls with rackets?”

  Taylor kept her eyes on the road, a smile playing on her lips. “I heard you played squash with Dad. How was it?”

  “Brutal. Even worse was that I won. He’s not a happy loser.”

  Taylor’s enigmatic smile lingered. “How well I know it. When I beat him, he sulked for half a day. I’m hoping you’re a better sport.”

  Darrow stared at her. She did not seem to be joking.

  They parked beside an empty court. Taylor hopped out and walked ahead of him, eager to get started, long legs moving in swift, confident strides. She did not appear to have an ounce of body fat.

  Standing at the service line, she said, “Want to hit some practice serves?”

  “Sure. You first.”

  Darrow went to the opposite side, crouching behind the service box. Eyes narrowing in concentration, Taylor tossed the ball in the air and then, stretching her five feet eight inches until she stood on the tips of her toes, extended the racket high above her head and uncoiled a swing so smooth and powerful that the ball became a blur, skidding past Darrow before he could even react.

  “Guess I’m ready,” she said laconically. “Your turn.”

  Darrow walked to the net. “Anything more you’d like to tell me, Taylor?”

  Unable to contain herself, she grinned. “Okay, I was captain of the women’s tennis team at Trumble. I also played at Williams—which is probably why they let me in. So please don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  Darrow lasted two sets. Though fit, he was untutored; despite a little rustiness, Taylor covered the court like a greyhound, swift of foot and eye, settling into a rhythm, one smooth stroke after another speeding the ball to where Darrow was not. By the end of the second set—another 6–2 loss for Darrow—he was winded. Taylor met him at the net, the light of not-so-innocent triumph in her eyes. “You did great,” she told him generously. “It’s probably just the difference in our ages.”

  Darrow laughed. “You’re certainly a gracious winner. I can guess who first taught you how to play.”

  “Of course he did. Those were among our better moments, at least after I could hit with him—silent communication, like a dad and son playing catch. And my dad was a good teacher. But I could never shake the feeling that he wished I were a boy.”

  “That would have been a waste,” Darrow answered with a smile. “Think he knows what’s going on?”

  “With us? I’m not sure. But if we continue like we did the other night, he will.”

  Within this comment, Darrow sensed, lurked a question about their relationship and one unspoken aspect of it: in other circumstances, that Farr was Darrow’s provost would be inherently problematic. Tilting his head, Darrow asked, “What would you like to do tonight?”

  Taylor bit her lip in pretended thought. “Well,” she said at length, “I suppose I could always shower at the museum of bad taste you call home—there’s a change of clothes in my duffel bag. What do you want to do?”

  Leaning across the net, Darrow kissed her. “I was hoping for a rematch,” he told her.

  AS SHE STEPPED into the shower after him, Darrow gazed at her in open appreciation. Everything about her, he thought, was beautiful: her face, her elegant neck, rounded breasts with brown areolas, flat stomach, womanly hips that tapered from the black fur in the midst to long, slender legs. An athlete, he thought again, or a runway model—both and neither. She was uniquely Taylor Farr.

  She looked into his face, not shy. “Have you never showered with a girl before?”

  Not since Lee, he thought. “It’s as I said, Taylor. Sometimes you don’t leave room for anyone else.”

 
“For me,” she answered simply, “there’s no one else in the way.”

  After the shower, they slipped into bed.

  The sheets felt crisp and cool, Taylor’s skin warm. Darrow’s lips found her stomach, her nipples, the hollow of her neck. He could feel her breath catch, hear the soft murmur of desire in her throat. When at last he entered her, she spoke his name.

  After that, the only sounds were not speech but guides to the movements of their bodies, synchronized by instinct until both shuddered as one. Eyes opening, Taylor looked up into his face. “Mark Darrow,” she murmured. “So nice of you to find me after I grew up.”

  QUIET, TAYLOR LAY in his arms.

  As he held her, Darrow found himself remembering doing this with Lee, lazy Sunday mornings at their town house in Boston. He felt a moment of confusion: the tug of past loyalties, eroding the sweetness of this moment with Taylor; and yet the sense that, by replicating an act of tenderness he had once shared with his wife—and, at last, by wishing to—he was slipping further away from the past. “What are you thinking?” Taylor asked.

  “Many things. Including about you. I was also remembering Boston, and the place I used to live.”

  “And where all your things still are.”

  Not just his things, Darrow thought; as Taylor’s remark implied, the house was filled with memories. He supposed that was why he never brought another woman there. “Speaking of Boston,” Taylor told him, “I had some news yesterday. The Museum of Fine Arts has offered me an interview. Seems they’re developing an interest in post-modernism, after all.”

  Darrow was surprised. He propped his elbow on the pillow, cradling his head in his hand. “I thought you didn’t like Boston.”

  Taylor smiled. “Now that there’s some interest there, I’ve decided I just don’t know Boston. So I told them I’d come in.”

  “When are you going?”

  “I’m not sure yet. We’re still working that out.”