He was not quite ready, Darrow realized. In his reasoning mind he understood who Farr had been in secret. Murder was nothing to him. And yet this same man had saved Darrow from a life so dreary that it frightened him to recall. He could not make two decades of affection vanish in an hour.
Darrow kept climbing. The only sound he heard was the echo of his footsteps. He must not think of Taylor, or anything outside the Spire.
Why had Farr chosen this place, Darrow wondered. He kept expecting the provost to appear on the darkened steps above him. Surely he was near the top; the sound of Darrow’s breathing, more labored now, whispered against the stone. But there was no way of knowing where Farr was—the staircase kept winding upward, vanishing from sight. Darrow bent in a semicrouch, preparing to dodge or leap.
He suddenly stopped, the pit of his stomach hollow. At the top of the staircase he saw the door to the bell tower, slightly open. Farr had entered Angela Hall’s “chamber of stone.”
Darrow climbed the final steps. As before, his footfalls caused a thudding echo; the element of surprise belonged to Farr alone, a man who seemed to have retained his assassin’s skills.
Abruptly, Darrow pushed open the door.
He saw nothing but the brass bell and the chain from which Anne Farr had been suspended. Edging forward, Darrow looked to each side. The door shut softly behind him.
Flinching, he heard Farr’s mirthless laugh.
Darrow turned to face him.
Farr stood beside the door, his blue eyes glinting with keen appraisal. But for this, he looked disconcertingly the same. Something in Darrow’s expression caused him to smile slightly.
“You were expecting me to start speaking in tongues?” Farr inquired sarcastically. “Or perhaps a disjointed rant?”
He was utterly calm, Darrow realized. Mildly, Farr asked, “Are you afraid, Mark?”
Darrow found his voice. “You murdered at least four people.”
“Four?”
“I’m counting the prostitute in Vietnam.”
The trace of amusement vanished from Farr’s eyes, replaced by heightened attention. “I’ve underrated you, it seems.”
Once more, Darrow willed himself to feel nothing. “Maybe so. I’m the one you left whole.”
“Unlike Taylor, you mean.”
Darrow nodded. “At least she’s still alive. You must have always watched her, wondering if you’d be forced to choose between her life and yours.”
Farr stepped closer to Darrow, grasping the chain of the bell. Then he leaned against its metallic mass in a pose of relaxation that, to Darrow, seemed explosive in its stillness. “When did you divine all this, Mark?”
Darrow did not move. “I’m not here to impress you. I came to tell you that it’s over, and that killing me is pointless. I want you to come down with me.”
Farr’s eyes became a chill blue. “Then persuade me. Enthrall me with all you know.”
“What’s to say, Lionel? You’re a sexual psychopath. The rest followed.”
Farr’s expression became blank, almost bored. “Spare me the lecture on pathology. If we’re both to leave here alive, I want facts, not stereotypes.”
The explicit threat was so casually delivered that it made Darrow’s skin clammy. Against his will, he absorbed the gloomy shadows, the heavy bell, the dingy stones against which Angela had died. The sole light came from the four openings in the stone—through one of which, decades ago, a young man had fallen to his death. Finding his voice again, Darrow said, “Angela, then.”
“Yes,” Farr concurred. “Angela.”
“A bit at a time, you brought her close—saving her scholarship, taking a professorial interest, giving her grades she feared she hadn’t earned, reviewing her papers, then making revisions until she was no longer sure whose work it was. Pretending to help her, you eroded her sense of self. Whether or not she needed you to succeed, she came to believe she did. Helping her financially was part of the endgame. That, and the draft letter of recommendation you dangled.”
Watching Farr’s expression, keen with interest, Darrow stopped there. “Go on,” Farr demanded.
This, too, was a game, Darrow realized, its stakes obscure but perhaps lethal. He shrugged his assent, continuing with a casualness he did not feel: “Your psychic stalking had worked before. Whatever her reasons, Angela let you bring her here, becoming little more than robotic as she submitted to what you needed.” Darrow’s voice became cutting. “She wrote the diary to record what you were doing to her. By its end, she loathed you as deeply as you deserved.”
Behind Farr’s opaque mask, Darrow sensed an anger he was fighting to control. “Is that what you think?”
“You read the diary,” Darrow retorted. “You killed Carl for it. Angela was so young, Lionel. Before you found her, she was filled with hope. Maybe that came back to her. Maybe sleeping with Steve Tillman, even drunk, made her skin crawl at the thought of you. When she left his room to come here, she was done with you.” Darrow softened his voice. “Fred Bender thought Steve killed her because she threatened to charge him with rape. Right theory, wrong man. Angela threatened to expose you to Clark Durbin. So you beat her, then strangled her to death where we’re standing now.
“After you carried her body down, the waitress saw you laying it on the ground. Even then, you’d had the presence of mind to lock the door behind you. No one but Carl Hall and Taylor’s mother ever imagined what had happened in this place.”
Farr’s glacial eyes remained on Darrow’s face. “Are you expecting me to comment? Or are you simply trying to dazzle me?”
The questions jarred loose Darrow’s anger. “We’re talking about murder and sadomasochism. If you still imagine I’m who you need me to be, you’re a fool.”
A flush appeared on Farr’s cheekbones. “It’s not that easy to insult me, Mark. Your story’s incomplete.”
“So’s your comprehension,” Darrow responded. “DNA lasts the longest in dark places. I’m sure there’s a genetic trace of both of you still here.”
Farr’s eyes narrowed. “And Carl?”
“Gazed into his sister’s coffin and saw dollars. I imagine he’d followed her here, no doubt on an earlier night, and seen you leaving. After her murder he came to you, asking to be paid.” Darrow paused. “You couldn’t risk a double murder that soon. Worse, you were married to a woman who was afraid you’d strangled Angela Hall. When Anne painted the Spire, you knew.”
Eyes cool, Farr shook his head, miming disapproval. “Your tale’s becoming gothic.”
“Gothic novels don’t turn on life insurance policies. Anne had one, I suspect, to help cover Taylor’s education. You killed her for the proceeds, eliminating the threat that she’d expose you and giving you money to buy off Carl Hall. But transfers of cash create a paper trail. Diamonds don’t.”
A moment’s surprise surfaced in Farr’s eyes. “Tell me the rest, Mark.”
“The other problem was Taylor. She loved her mother, and she was as sensitive and intuitive as she was bright. I wonder which of you frightened the other more—the remote father or the haunted child who knew in her subconscious that something wasn’t right. I suppose Taylor’s fortunate she didn’t ‘drown.’ ”
Farr crossed his arms, his face now pale in the fading light. “At least it’s fortunate for you. Or was.”
Darrow did not respond to this. “If you were to let Taylor live,” he went on, “you needed to separate her from her memories. But you had no money to send her away. So Anne’s parents paid for her education, and gave her a second home until they died. Only Carl was still in Wayne.”
The remark evoked in Farr a smile of contempt. “Yes, Carl. As Heraclitus once said, ‘Character is fate.’ ”
“Carl’s and yours. He kept wanting more money, and was too street-smart for you to kill easily—especially because he kept to a neighborhood where a white college professor would be conspicuous.” Pausing, Darrow watched Farr closely, both men tense and alert. “Over time,
you must have become quite desperate. Then you saw an opportunity to embezzle money and frame a man with severe financial problems, including a son whose heroin addiction was conveniently fed by Carl Hall. Everything Joe Betts could have done to implicate Durbin, you did. And everyone believed it. Which brings the story back to me.”
Farr’s expression changed again, betraying the faintest regret. “That was unfortunate for us both, wasn’t it.”
“Certainly for you,” Darrow retorted. “Your chief concern was that Caldwell’s next president be as malleable as Durbin. You couldn’t count on controlling a stranger, or even remaining as provost. I was young, presentable, well-known to the board and alumni, and, most ironic of all, sophisticated in criminal and financial fraud cases.” Darrow spoke quietly, reining in his anger. “But I had another qualification no other candidate could match: the admiration and affection you’d imbued me with since I was seventeen. You saw me as the person least likely to suspect you, the one you could deflect from any area of danger.
“That was a miscalculation, Lionel—quite a bad one. Not just because I was also the most likely to sense that something was wrong. You still can’t believe that anyone else is as smart as you, can you?”
Farr gave the brass bell a shove, propelling it toward Darrow. “You did alter the balance of things, Mark. You got a man killed.”
“Carl got Carl killed,” Darrow said flatly. “He became too greedy and told himself you were too old to be a threat to him. He didn’t know you’d murdered people as a vocation. Once you grasped my doubts about where Caldwell’s money went, you couldn’t risk letting him live.
“That left only Taylor. You never expected that she’d return. And the last thing you wanted was for me to spend much time with her.” Darrow’s voice softened again. “Maybe she suspected you, Lionel. But maybe she just hoped to know you better. Thanks to me, she does.”
“Meaning?”
“She took your ‘family pictures’ to Garrison. You couldn’t be more finished.”
Farr shoved the bell again, swinging it closer to Darrow’s face. “When I snatched you off the football field,” Farr told him, “I chose well. It was almost like choosing my own son.” His voice became oddly gentle. “You claim there’s little point in killing you. Instead, you’ve persuaded me you shouldn’t live. If you’re the one who’s ruined me, why give you the pleasure of watching me come to an inglorious end? One victory celebration in the Spire is enough for a man’s lifetime.” Pausing, Farr shook his head. “The sad part is that I loved you. More than anything, that’s why I brought you back. Now both of us are finished.”
Shaken, Darrow backed away from the swinging bell. “What about Taylor, Lionel?”
Farr smiled in disbelief. “Even if you lived, do you imagine your relationship could possibly survive this?”
“If how I feel counts for anything, it will. Taylor’s the one woman you didn’t destroy.”
“Do you really think so?” Suddenly Farr gave the bell a violent shove toward Darrow. Reeling backward, Darrow reached for the wall, trying to brace himself. To his horror, he found himself framed against an opening in the tower.
Farr came swiftly toward him. Frozen, Darrow crouched as Farr grasped his shoulders with both hands. Swinging behind them, the bell tolled sonorously.
Farr looked deeply into his eyes, as though trying to hold a memory. In a tone tinged with regret, he said, “Good-bye, Mark.”
Darrow wrenched from his grasp and staggered sideways.
Farr let him go, staring at him with the thinnest of smiles. Softly, Farr said, “You still don’t understand.”
The bell kept tolling. As it echoed through the tower, Darrow watched Farr move to the opening, turn, and sit on the ledge. For a last moment he gazed back at Darrow. Then Farr closed his eyes and toppled backward into space.
Shocked, Darrow stared at the opening, seconds before filled by his friend and mentor. Then, despite his fear of heights, he willed himself to peer down at the grass below.
Farr lay on the grass, his body crumpled. Much as Darrow had knelt over Angela, Taylor knelt beside him now, her raven hair almost touching her father’s face. Only then did she look up toward Darrow.
12
T
AYLOR HAD HER FATHER CREMATED. SHE LET THE CREMATOrium dispose of his ashes as they chose.
The museum gave her an extra month. She would visit friends in the East, she told Darrow—she could not stay in Wayne. Darrow understood this. She had suffered the greater loss; he would have to deal with his own confusion and grief alone. For now, it was enough that Taylor had survived.
There was much for Darrow to do. At his direction, Joe Betts and the investment committee filed a claim against Carl Hall’s estate. Assisted by George Garrison, Dave Farragher petitioned for Steve Tillman’s release; days later, Farragher postponed his run for Congress. When his friend was released, Darrow drove him away from the prison.
Though Steve thanked him, he said little about Farr. The whiplash of his emotions, combined with sudden freedom, had left him troubled and confused. “What will I do now?” he asked Darrow.
“There’s a room at my place,” Darrow said. “Seems only fair.”
Steve managed to smile. “Football season’s starting,” Darrow told him. “Caldwell needs a receivers coach. If you want the job, it’ll give you some time to sort this out.”
Steve considered this. “I haven’t seen a game in sixteen years.”
“Nothing’s changed. Our team is still white; the receivers are still slow. You’ll catch up.”
At length, Steve nodded. His reactions seemed delayed, Darrow realized, as though he could not trust his own perceptions of reality. “Then I guess I’ll take it,” Steve finally said.
The next day, over lunch, Darrow described Steve’s state of mind to Garrison. “If I’d come to you before,” Darrow added, “I’d have accused the wrong man. There’s been enough of that.”
Garrison sat back, hands folded across his stomach, his expression curious and not unkind. “Lionel Farr,” he said. “How are you dealing with that?”
Darrow shrugged. “It’s taking a while. But Farr made me responsible for Caldwell’s future. That tends to get me through the day.”
But not the nights. A few evenings a week, less often than he wished, Darrow called Taylor. Their conversations were halting; it was as though Taylor, like Steve, had been paralyzed by Lionel Farr’s death. “I can help you through this,” Darrow told her once.
“Can you?”
There was neither challenge nor hope in her voice, only a dispassionate curiosity that Darrow found disheartening. He said good-bye that night without knowing what else to say.
That weekend he flew to Boston and sat down with Jerry Seitz.
For several hours Darrow told him about Taylor and his own relationship to Farr. “This man didn’t make you,” Seitz responded. “Maybe Caldwell did. But you made yourself a very different man. That’s why you were finally able to see him as he truly was.”
Darrow was quiet for a time. “Farr killed himself, Jerry, instead of trying to throw me off the Spire. Explain that to me.”
Seitz shook his head. “I’m not a mind reader. But he didn’t kill Taylor, either. One could argue that he kept you alive for her.”
“Do you believe that?”
Seitz gave a short laugh. “Not really. Nor do I think for a moment that what he felt for her—or you—was ‘love’ as most of us define it. No doubt he saw himself in you, his quasi son; no doubt the admiration you gave him was a source of considerable pleasure. Still, even psychopaths have a subconscious. Maybe he wanted to be a better father than the one he had.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“He’d never tell you.” The light of new thought appeared in Seitz’s eyes. “Know what I think, Mark? Farr admired you. In your own way, you can be very cold-blooded. Maybe Farr saw in you someone almost as smart and ruthless as he.”
Darro
w’s own smile was bleak. “Are you saying that to make me feel better?”
“Don’t worry, Mark. You can turn that side of you on and off like a switch. You’ve learned to use it only when you need to. At your worst, you can never be as subarctic as Lionel Farr.” He paused. “The ultimate reason for Farr’s suicide, I think, is that he refused to let you win.”
The thought chilled Darrow; he still could not shake the image of Farr’s ruined body, Taylor kneeling over him. “What did the Spire mean to him, I wonder.”
“God knows. Theories abound—maybe he wanted to appropriate Caldwell’s most important symbol. I don’t need to dwell on the sexual imagery. But the Spire became his private realm; no one could stop him there. In terms of the subconscious, it’s also a place where a man can fall from the greatest heights. In the end, that’s literally what Farr chose for himself.”
Darrow became quiet. “Farr’s dead,” he said at length. “I can deal with that at leisure. But Taylor is still alive.”
“Give her time, Mark.”
“I know that. But how much time?”
“Whatever she needs.” Seitz’s tone was quiet and compassionate. “You have to face that it may not work out with Taylor. Before this happened, she admitted to her own issues with trust. Knowing that your father killed your mother has to be deeply traumatic, and you’re at the core of it.
“Maybe she’ll get through this once she sorts it out some more. Maybe you can help her. But she’ll always be more than a little cautious.”
Darrow nodded. Since Farr’s death, Taylor and he had barely touched each other.
This conversation, with its unanswered questions and sorrowful doubts, followed him back to Wayne, and into a meeting with Ray Carrick and the governance committee of the board of trustees.
In the wake of Farr’s death, Darrow and Carrick had agreed that, because of Darrow’s own involvement, Carrick would speak on behalf of Caldwell. The statement, largely drafted by Darrow, had traced Farr’s role in Angela’s death and the embezzlement, absolving Clark Durbin of wrongdoing. Carrick had added his own coda: “The shadow on our school is lifted. It was the work of a single man, and that man is gone from our community. Caldwell’s healing can now begin.” Darrow thought this utter horseshit.
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