“Then congratulations,” Darrow said, raising his glass. “When do you plan to start?”
Taylor touched her glass to his, looking more serious than pleased. “I’ll try to get another six weeks here, to finish my dissertation.” She sipped her wine, adding, “And to spend more time with you while I can.”
Despite his worries, Darrow felt relieved. “I thought you couldn’t wait to blow this particular pop stand.”
“In most ways, I can’t. Wayne isn’t a good place for me.” She hesitated, the doubt on her face replaced by candor. “We haven’t had much time together, and I’m not sure what either of us is ready for. But I like you very much, Mark—more, at this stage, than I’ve ever cared for anyone.” As though to cover her embarrassment, Taylor finished lightly: “Of course, you had a head start on anyone else. You’re the only guy I had a crush on even before I knew what sex was.”
Darrow laughed. “We met when you were seven, Taylor. I had to wait for you to catch up.”
Taylor’s smile did not quite reach her eyes. “So how do you feel about long-distance relationships?”
Darrow pondered the question. “Lee and I had one, every election cycle. Maybe she needed that. I didn’t, really.” Reading the disappointment on Taylor’s face, Darrow took her hand. “I wasn’t looking for someone who lived in another city. But the way I feel about you may end up mattering far more.”
Taylor tilted her head. “It might be hard—me in Boston, you here, both of us with demanding jobs.”
Still holding her hand, Darrow shrugged. “We’re two smart people who seem to be able to talk pretty openly. I’ve already had one career, and I’m into my second. Launching yours is pretty important. We’ll figure out what’s right to do.”
“Then I guess we’re taking this as it comes.”
“Starting now,” Darrow said. “Have your dad’s permission for an overnight?”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “That’s still a little strange,” she answered, then continued in a musing tone: “When I came back to Wayne, I thought Dad and I might become closer. Instead there’s this weird constraint between us, partly because of what’s happening with me and you. Sometimes I feel guilty, as though the energy I should be putting into healing my relationship with my father is going to you instead.” She managed a smile. “I guess the truth is that you’re just easier.”
Darrow felt regret that this three-sided relationship had become more complex than he wished. “At one point,” he replied, “I had this illusion that I might help things. In the end, I hope I can.”
“I hope so, too.”
Dusk had come, Darrow noticed, and with it a surprising coolness in the air. “So things are no better between Lionel and you?”
“A little, I suppose—I think he appreciates that I came home. But there’s something Olympian about my father, a distance.”
“That’s not just with you, Taylor. Lionel is a man of his time—even with the people who most admire him, and that’s pretty much everyone around the place.”
A corner of Taylor’s mouth turned down, lending her expression a trace of sadness and frustration. “But shouldn’t it be different with a daughter who’s also an adult?” Taylor’s voice sharpened with annoyance. “He still treats me like a child, Mark, sometimes even in the smallest ways. The other day, I found him struggling with something on his computer. It’s painfully obvious that the Internet is like a foreign country to him. But he absolutely refused to let me touch his dinosaur of a laptop.”
Darrow smiled, recalling the many times when some contemporary had complained that a personal computer had reduced a parent to their babbling infant. “Once a child,” he said, “always a child. And never more so than when a parent resents you for knowing more than they do.”
Taylor did not smile. “Maybe so. But he was that way with my mother, I’ve begun to remember. Like he couldn’t trust anyone but himself to do things right.”
“Maybe that’s one reason you’ve been so slow to trust.”
“With men? I admitted that, didn’t I.” Taylor thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s my father. But probably that’s too simple. I loved my mother completely. But I realize now I never wanted to be as passive as I thought she was.” Taylor shook her head, as if to clear away confusion. “Maybe she was just worn out, from a heart that had never worked right. A child’s perspective is skewed by the limits of a child’s perceptions.”
“Speaking for my own childhood,” Darrow agreed, “that’s true enough. To me, my parents weren’t human. Even now, it’s hard to sort them out.” He paused, then added simply, “At least Lionel’s still alive. The two of you have time yet.”
Taylor gazed at him, and then her expression softened. “Whatever else, I like the way we are. You and me.”
“Does that mean you’re staying over?”
Leaning across the table, Taylor kissed him. “Of course.”
THEY LAY TOGETHER in the dark. The shared warmth of lovemaking and the comfortable talk that often followed had begun to feel familiar to him.
“You never told me about your day,” she said.
Darrow composed his thoughts. “It’s not so much about today. Or any particular day. It’s much bigger than that, and much more draining.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“I’m not sure.” Darrow paused, then repeated softly, “I’m just not sure.”
Something in his tone caused Taylor to sit up, leaning on her elbow as she looked at him. “You’ve been holding something back, haven’t you? I could feel it in Boston.”
“I had no choice, Taylor. For many reasons.”
“Is this about Steve Tillman?”
Darrow weighed his answer. “And Angela Hall. And several other things, all of them pretty volatile. I don’t want you to become part of this.”
“You’re sounding like my father.” She caught herself, then said more evenly, “Maybe that’s not fair, either. Even lovers are entitled to zones of privacy. I know I have mine. But, spoken or not, they still affect the other person.”
“Like your nightmares, you mean.”
“Exactly like them. You may not always know what they’re about, Mark. But they’re still with us, as you’re well aware.”
Darrow fell silent. Though he could not see her expression, he could read it in Taylor’s voice—serious, intent, unwilling to let this go yet. “So I’ve begun to tell you things,” she continued. “That’s not easy for me. But I felt that you wouldn’t exploit my candor, and that what goes on with me really matters to you. So, okay, this isn’t a transaction. But what goes on with you really matters to me, too.”
Darrow tried to unravel the mix of fact, intuition, and suspicion that ate at him. “Some things I’m not free to reveal, Taylor. Others could badly damage at least one man’s reputation. But here’s the essence: I don’t think Steve killed Angela, in part because I believe the same man killed her brother.”
He felt Taylor sitting up straighter. “Carl died from an overdose, I thought.”
“True. But I don’t think Carl did that to himself.”
“Then you believe Angela’s murderer is still out there.”
“He may be, yes.”
Taylor absorbed this. “How much have you told my father?”
“Most of it.” Darrow hesitated. “A lot of this bears on Caldwell, in the present as well as the past.”
“What can you tell me, Mark?”
Darrow hesitated. “Angela kept a diary,” he said. “After she died, no one could find it. Now it turns out that Carl made a copy. The contents were pretty disturbing.”
“How?”
“It suggests that she may have been involved in a fairly pathological relationship with an unnamed man. If he’s real, he may know more about her murder than anyone still alive. The last page ends abruptly, and quite strangely. A single sentence: ‘There is such darkness in the chamber of stone.’ ” Darrow paused. “I can’t make sense of it. But I’ve started relating
it to the Spire, maybe because I found her body there. Of course, I’ve never forgotten climbing to the top on the day she died.”
“I remember, too. I was standing between my father and mother, looking up at you.”
“I’d rather have been where you were. I’m pretty claustrophobic and don’t much like heights. The stairway was so dark and gloomy I half-expected to encounter druid priests.” He touched her arm. “But enough about the Spire. About my worries, I’ve told you all I can. At least for now.”
Taylor did not answer. She lay on her back, staring into the darkness, toward the ceiling. “What is it?” Darrow asked.
Taylor’s voice was muted. “I was recalling childhood fears. At some point I became terrified of the Spire.”
Darrow rolled onto his side. “Because of Angela?”
“Before then,” Taylor said softly. “Don’t ask me to explain it. Maybe it’s a child’s imagination. For better or worse, I had quite a vivid one, and frightening fairy tales often feature stone towers.”
She asked him no more questions. Nor, Darrow sensed, did she wish to talk. He held her until he fell asleep.
Suddenly he awakened. Crying out, Taylor struggled in his arms, trying to break free. “Taylor,” he said urgently. “It’s me—Mark.”
She twitched and then was still. He felt new dampness on her skin. “You all right?” he whispered.
She seemed to shiver. “Just hold me.”
For the moment, Darrow realized, that was all he could do.
8
F
OR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, DARROW KEPT HIS THOUGHTS TO himself. When Taylor left, still preoccupied, Darrow called his assistant, asking her to clear his schedule and then track down every file concerning Angela Hall’s time at Caldwell and to deliver it to his home. “Do it yourself,” he told her. “It’s absolutely critical that nobody else know about this. No one at all.”
After hanging up, he telephoned George Garrison. “Got anything for me?” Garrison asked bluntly.
Once again, Darrow thought of all he was concealing. “I was hoping you did.”
Garrison grunted, refusing to answer. “Why do I feel like you’re still playing games with me?”
Darrow considered the risks of antagonizing a policeman who could, whenever he chose, place him at the scene of Carl Hall’s death. “What I’m sitting on,” Darrow said slowly, “is theory, not facts. If my theory’s wrong, it could be very damaging to Caldwell, and at least one innocent person. I’d like to feel more certain about this before I come to you.”
“If you even think you know something new about Angela or Carl,” Garrison said, “we should sort it out. How you ‘feel’ about that isn’t my priority.”
His time was running out, Darrow knew. “Watching out for Caldwell is one of mine,” he answered. “Just give me until Monday. Six more days isn’t a lot to ask.”
STEVE TILLMAN STUDIED Darrow through the Plexiglas window. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said. “They don’t make it easy to visit on short notice.”
“This wouldn’t keep.”
Something in Darrow’s voice caused Steve’s gaze to harden. “I guess this isn’t a cheer-up-the-prisoner visit.”
Darrow watched his face. “There’s something I’ve never told you—or the police. The reason I avoided your trial.”
Surprise stole through Steve’s eyes. With unconvincing sarcasm, he said, “At last I get to know.”
“Yes. Then I want the truth from you.”
“About what?”
“The night Angela was murdered,” Darrow said flatly. “I called you from the fraternity house at about three A.M. That’s roughly when the waitress saw someone laying Angela’s body by the Spire. The same time, basically, that Joe claims to have seen you outside the dorm. You didn’t answer the phone.”
The smile Steve deployed at last was a movement of lips. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”
“Only Lionel Farr.”
To Darrow’s surprise, Steve laughed aloud. “So you and Lionel covered for me?”
“Lionel thought you were guilty,” Darrow said succinctly. “He stayed quiet for my sake, and helped keep me away from the trial.”
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t know. But I couldn’t be part of putting you away for life. Tell me where you were that night.”
Steve’s bitter smile returned. “Maybe you should have asked me then.”
“I’m asking now.”
Steve shrugged. “If I don’t remember screwing Angela, why would I remember that? I was pretty fucked up that night. Maybe I was just passed out.”
Darrow leaned closer. His face and Steve’s, now inches apart, were separated by Plexiglas. Under his breath, Darrow said, “Bullshit.”
Steve’s smile vanished. “The phone was right by your bed,” Darrow went on. “I called twice—fourteen rings, then fifteen. Anyone but a dead man would have answered.”
Given Steve’s blood alcohol level, Darrow was not sure of this. But Steve’s gaze broke. “Like I said, maybe I went outside to breathe.”
“But that’s not really what you said, is it. What you keep on telling me was what a fucking liar Joe Betts was.” Darrow’s tone became cutting. “You’re the liar, Steve. You were outside the room.”
A vein in his friend’s temple throbbed. “Maybe I was,” he allowed. “Even then I couldn’t tell real from unreal.”
“So why accuse Joe?” Darrow snapped.
“Because I didn’t kill her.” Briefly Steve’s eyes shut. “At least I know why you didn’t visit all those years.”
“That’s not the reason.”
“Well now you’ve got a good one. Please don’t feel obligated.”
Darrow stood. Softly, he said, “But I am, pal. We’re not done yet.”
DARROW DROVE HOME, doubt and depression seeping through him.
On the way, the only call he took was from Lisa, his assistant. Retrieving Angela Hall’s records, she wanted him to know, had required a trip to a storage facility on the outskirts of Columbus. But the files would be inside his door when he got home.
They were. Opening the package, Darrow found Angela’s application to Caldwell, memos of scholarship committee meetings, transcripts of grades, and the beginnings of graduate school applications prematurely interrupted—a draft letter of recommendation, a list of prospective law schools. Feeling spent, Darrow spread the files on his dining room table.
He had no idea what he was looking for. From his first conversation with Fred Bender, Darrow knew that he would not find obvious signs of emotional problems—behavioral issues or plummeting grades. Sorting the files, he tried to clear his mind.
Angela’s first year, he discovered, was like that of many freshmen. A stellar student at Wayne High, she had struggled to maintain the 3.0 GPA necessary to retain her scholarship. Like Darrow, she had difficulty with the required science and math courses; unlike Darrow, her expository writing, though adequate for high school, had necessitated extra work at Caldwell. Nor had her choice of a prospective major, political science, seemed to suit her. None of this surprised him. Nor had it alienated the scholarship committee headed by Lionel Farr. Instead, the committee had allowed her to achieve the minimum grade point average by taking, without charge, a summer school classics course known as an easy mark.
For a moment, Darrow paused, imagining the challenges she’d faced.
Money was a constant problem. Unlike the full scholarship Lionel Farr had obtained for him, Angela’s package covered tuition but not room and board. Darrow was not forced to work during the school year; Angela was compelled to, and the thinness of her resources required her to live at home. The necessity of a scholarship, and her trouble in maintaining a 3.0 average while working, had her dangling over a precipice as she entered her sophomore year.
Scanning her transcript for the fall semester, Darrow felt an odd relief. Three B’s and an A in Farr’s entry-level philosophy course had left Angela with some margi
n for error. The second semester enhanced this—along with two B’s in basic courses she had received a B plus and an A minus in two philosophy classes, the latter taught by Lionel Farr. Darrow wondered if Farr, a stickler for high standards but a man with his own sense of justice, had, as with Darrow himself, responded to Angela’s effort and ambition by reading her exam papers with a merciful eye. By the end of sophomore year, Angela had made Farr her academic adviser and had switched her major to philosophy.
This, too, evoked a memory in Darrow. Finding a kindred spirit in the head of the history department, he had switched his major from economics and made Dr. Silberstein his adviser, taking every possible course from him. Only an honest self-evaluation—and Charlie Silberstein’s amusing but caustic description of academic life—had helped dissuade Darrow from considering a career in academia to parallel that of Farr, still his principal mentor. Farr’s own judgment had proven definitive: “You’re not cut out for our cloistered world, Mark. You have the mind and instincts of a lawyer.”
Darrow closed the folder. He was tired, he realized, his concentration wandering. After brewing a strong cup of French roast, he turned to Angela’s junior year.
From its beginning, she blossomed as a student. Her skills in composition improved exponentially: an A in an expository writing class was accompanied by a B plus in advanced Spanish and two A’s in philosophy courses—one based on a take-home essay exam; the other, taught by Farr, on a rigorous final exam concerning Friedrich Nietzsche, a topic with which Darrow was all too familiar. Angela’s second semester, almost as strong, was topped by another A, in Farr’s Philosophy of the Enlightenment class. By the end of the spring semester her GPA was just shy of 3.5.
Her reward, as Darrow now recalled, was a summer job as Farr’s research assistant. From the file, her contribution to his scholarship was unknown. Darrow smiled at this a little: that same summer Farr had helped secure Darrow a job at the admissions department—the compensation for which, combined with modest work hours, had allowed him to do some remedial carousing.
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