Catherine nodded.
“So maybe something—”
But Henry cut him off.
“Can we just focus on one thing at a time here?” His eyes were on Catherine. “You said you ran into Pechman? Did he say anything to you?”
“Like what?”
“Like, about his jacket. Was he suspicious that you had it?”
She didn’t answer right away. She was remembering how quickly she’d run into him after leaving the bathroom, how she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t seen her leave the bathroom with his jacket. Had he bought her story? Maybe. But the way he looked at her, spoke to her—mischievous…or are you still?—it made her wary, like an animal confronted with an unfamiliar scent.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s hard to get a read on him.”
“That’s true,” Henry agreed. “But…Catherine, this is good. I mean, you didn’t need to do it alone, we could have helped, but still—a meeting with Ken Itoh this Wednesday. That’s got to be something.”
“Are you sure it’s Ken Itoh?” Andrew said.
“Who else would K.I. be?” Henry said. “Odds are, it’s him. Especially the arrow thing you mentioned. I wonder…like, if right after Ken heard about Amy, he called up Pechman and demanded a meeting. That would explain why it was added, right? Because you said otherwise everything in the planner was really organized.”
Catherine nodded. “It stood out. Like it had been added after everything else.”
“But where’s it going to be?” Andrew asked. “Where are they going to meet? Did it say?”
Catherine shook her head. “No. But neither did the Wednesday-night meeting, and that’s going to be at the church.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll meet Ken at the church, does it?” Andrew said.
“No, you’re right,” Henry agreed. “They could meet…” He trailed off. “Actually, there’s only a few places.”
“Where?” Catherine asked.
“Pechman’s house,” he said, ticking off a finger. “Or Ken’s. The church, obviously—”
“It won’t be at Pechman’s,” Andrew said.
They both turned to look at him.
“What?” he said. He seemed embarrassed. “Okay, you know how I was, like, waiting in the front of the reception hall? I couldn’t see you all right away, so I kind of hung out there….”
“Lurking,” said Catherine, with some amusement.
“Anyway,” he continued, disregarding this, “there’s this bulletin board by the front door and I was sort of reading it and there was this bright yellow paper that stood out. Baby Bible Study. Wednesdays at eleven a.m. It said something like, between naptimes. Excessive coffee provided. You were supposed to email Kathleen Pechman. She runs it. That’s why I remembered, because that’s his wife, right?”
“But what if the Bible study is at the church?” Catherine asked.
“It’s not,” Henry chimed in. “Bible studies are almost never at the church. It’s not intimate enough or whatever. People host them at their houses. Community building, et cetera.” He gave Andrew an approving look. “Okay, nice. So if Pechman’s wife is hosting a bunch of moms and babies at their house an hour before the meeting, it probably isn’t going to be there.”
“You said Ken Itoh’s house too,” Catherine reminded him.
Henry shook his head. “Actually, now that I think of it, I don’t think he would let Pechman into his home. Not with his kids there.”
“Plus, they’re trying to move, right?” Andrew said. “So it might be full of boxes.”
“Maybe.” Catherine was still unsure. “But actually, this meeting could be anywhere. Starbucks, or they might grab lunch—”
But Henry was already frowning. “No. Not something like this. Nowhere public. Not where they could be overheard.”
“Then maybe they’ll drive around in a car and talk.”
This time it was Andrew who looked unsure. “I…don’t know about that. If I were going to meet with someone about something illegal or horrible or whatever, I wouldn’t get in a car with them. I’d want more control than that. A way to get out, at least. No, I think it’s the church.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because it’s his,” he said simply. “That bulletin board. I thought it was really interesting. He was all over it. Even his wife’s Bible study thing, his email was listed too. His name was on every single flyer, and it’s not like he can be a part of all of those things. It was more like he wanted his mark on everything that happened inside the church. Because it’s his. All of it.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be a police officer anymore,” Henry said.
“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t notice things.”
Catherine said nothing to that. She was thinking about what Andrew had just said, about the flyers. Pechman’s name had been on the soup kitchen one as well. Then she remembered the way Pechman had stood behind the podium just an hour before. She’d had a public speaking class in high school. The teacher had shown them videos of different people talking—presidents and motivational speakers and also speeches gone wrong, meltdowns, and nervous tics—trying to illustrate what was good and what wasn’t. What was best, and what was worst.
Pechman was best. He didn’t hide behind the podium. He walked around it, in front of it, not pacing nervously, but more casual, his voice never wavering, but not shouting, either. He had a cadence that made you want to listen, even if you didn’t necessarily agree with everything he was saying. His tone was measured, polite, but firm, too. It couldn’t be clearer that Pechman felt at home at the church, speaking before his congregation, slightly elevated on that stage, a small mic clipped to his lapel. Even at the reception, he milled around and talked to everyone, including her. The only time she saw him flustered was when she’d messed with the temperature. He was an organized man, from church to a pocketbook planner, and as long as things were kept a certain way, he was fine.
Had Amy challenged that order in some way? Turned the heat up around him until he’d had to find a way to turn it back down again?
Or was the perpetrator someone else? A man from the streets? A teenager just houses away?
Can we just focus on one thing at a time here?
Henry was right. Bob had the sketch of Eric Russell, and Matt Walsh’s tears were proof of nothing more than sorrow. Pechman was their suspect right now. If that came to nothing, then they could look elsewhere.
“We have to get into that meeting,” she said. “We have to be able to hear what they’re saying. Everything. Can we listen outside…wherever it’s going to be?” She directed this last question toward Henry, who eyed her doubtfully.
“Probably not,” he admitted. “If it’s in the church, it’ll be in Pechman’s office, guaranteed. He loves that office. I think he’s redecorated it three times by now. Anyway, there’s no window on the door. Ken’s office has one, and that made it easier, but Pechman has this thick door—mahogany or whatever—and I don’t think you can eavesdrop through it, especially not if you want to hear everything. Eventually they might argue and yell, but even then…”
“What about bugging?” Catherine suggested. “Recording devices.”
“Buy and learn to use them in three days? And we’d have to get in anyway just to plant the stuff.”
“My cousin had a friend who did stuff like that,” Andrew added. “It’s expensive—we’re talking hundreds, maybe thousands, for something like that, and it’s not like in the movies. It’s glitchy as hell unless you pay for it not to be.”
Henry nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I don’t think that’ll be the plan.”
“But you have one,” she said. She was watching him closely, noticing that glint of intelligence behind his blue eyes. She’d seen it before.
“I
do,” he said. He was watching her just as closely as she was watching him. “But you can say no, if you want.”
The plan was this: Pechman’s office had no closet, no alcove or wardrobe or anything relatively simple like that. But it did have a large bookcase—with cabinets.
“It’s really like two connected bookcases, with these cabinet doors at the bottom,” Henry explained. “But when you open them up you see the two cabinets are connected inside to form one bigger area. He stores his old seminary books in there; they’re not as nice as the ones he keeps on the shelf for people to see.”
“How do you know all this?” Andrew asked, and Catherine didn’t need his crossed arms and tense jaw to know he was against every word now coming out of Henry’s mouth. It was kind of strange. Andrew struck her as almost meek at times—someone who hovered at church entrances and put on his hazards just to park—but there was something about Henry that seemed to change that.
“Because I’ve been in his office.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s writing me a letter of recommendation,” Henry said, and then, to Catherine, “No, I don’t plan on staying at Falls forever. I do eventually want to go to a four-year school. So Pechman said he’d write me a recommendation and since then I’ve literally said yes to anything he asks.” Henry gave a long-suffering sigh. “I actually put that cabinet together and organized the books inside it. By publication date. After this, if you all want to steal the cabinet and burn it in a field or whatever, I’m game.” Then his expression became more serious, his eyes traveling up and down her body. Catherine felt her cheeks flush. “I think you could fit,” he told her.
“No,” Andrew said. “No way.”
Henry shot him an irritated look. “Why not?”
“Because you could get her killed. But not only that, how do you even think she’ll get in? I’ll bet he locks his office, am I right?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” Henry admitted. “But I also know where he keeps all the keys, including the master, which can open anything.”
“I know what a master key does,” Andrew said, and to his credit his voice was calm. “But you said the cabinet was full of old books.”
“We’ll take them out.”
“And put them where?”
Henry waved one hand. “Anywhere. It’s a big church.”
“When are you going to move them?”
“Before the meeting.”
“And if, during this meeting, he decides he wants one of those books?”
“I don’t think that’ll happen.”
“But you don’t know.”
“No,” Henry said. “I don’t.”
Silence filled the car. The two boys reminded her of animals placed together in a pen—tense, almost combative—but when Catherine spoke, they both moved, following the sound of her voice.
“Can you be sure,” she said slowly, “that I’ll fit?”
Henry blew out a breath. “You know I said he remodeled his office a bunch of times? Well, Pechman got all his stuff from this place in Seattle. High-end stuff. Really high-end. He kept asking people to try out his chair and stuff. Roche Bobois.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“Roche Bobois. We could go and look at the cabinet.”
“Assuming they still have it,” Andrew pointed out.
“We could call,” Catherine said, not quite believing what she was saying. “Before we drive two hours. Call and see if they have it there. And if they’re even open on Sundays.”
Andrew turned to Henry. “You said it’s in his office. Why not try now?”
Henry didn’t answer, but Catherine knew what he was thinking and spoke for him.
“Because it’s risky. If we get caught now, that ruins our chances for Wednesday. He’d move the meeting. He’d know something was up.”
Henry looked at her. “That’s why I said you could say no.”
But she didn’t say no, and Henry called Roche Bobois and described the bookcase, then gave them a thumbs-up and disconnected. Moments later, Andrew was pulling out of the church parking lot and they were on their way to Seattle.
* * *
—
It was a quiet drive.
Catherine spent most of it looking out the window at the passing landscape: gray sky and gray roads, the industrial skeletons of bridges over Andrew’s car, the steel curving over them like a rib cage. Henry and Andrew spoke cordially to each other in the front seats, talking vaguely about college, majors and classes and professors. Several times, Henry half turned to her, trying to get her to talk, but she didn’t really try, and soon enough Henry pulled up Radiolab on his phone, but the most recent episode was about assisted suicide. After a few minutes of it—digestive tract paralysis…feeding tube…Switzerland—Andrew switched on Spotify, and a song she’d never heard before filled the car. She slowly tuned it out.
She felt as though she should be panicking, as though any moment something would snap home in her mind and she’d lean forward and say, “You know what? This is totally crazy and I’m not doing it. Turn around.” But minutes and miles passed, over and over, and then they were pulling into a parking lot near Roche Bobois and she still hadn’t done it.
They found the cabinet toward the back of the showroom, Henry brushing off eager salespeople as politely but firmly as possible. “Don’t want anyone hovering for this,” he said, and they both nodded. Catherine realized she hadn’t said anything in a while and wanted to comment that it was a good thing they had come on a Sunday, especially so near to closing; there could have been a lot more than the few customers she saw now. But her throat didn’t seem to be working.
The showroom was massive, with a lower ceiling than she’d expected, and a generous amount of space between the furniture. It wasn’t crowded at all, and the general feeling of the room was that it was trying to promote relaxation, though the effect was tempered somewhat by the furniture itself: leather so shiny it gleamed, couches too plush for comfort, and glass lamps perched like delicate birds on spindly, polished nightstands.
The cabinet was part of a larger room set, complete with a long desk, a high-backed chair, and an ornate rug with a spiraled design of brown and gray and white. She stepped onto the rug, closer to the cabinet, one hand trailing the length of the desk, which was so smooth it felt oiled.
“That’s it,” Henry said. He ducked down and opened one of the cabinets. “At least this one’s not filled with books. Look: empty.” He opened and closed one cabinet door a few times, then glanced at her for a reaction.
“I won’t fit,” she said.
She was sure of it. The cabinet was gray and tall, the top two-thirds devoted to open shelves and the bottom comprised of the cabinets: two doors, each with a narrow drawer above it. The doors had black knobs and opened to show an unobstructed cabinet space, except for one thin piece of wood in the middle of the opening, where the doors met. She looked at the darkness of that space and took a step back, picturing herself crawling into it, unable to get out.
“Can I help you all with something?” A skinny man wearing a suit had appeared out of nowhere, looking determinedly pleasant.
“Not right now,” Henry said, straightening from the cabinet. “Just looking.”
“I can see why,” the man responded at once. “Such a great piece.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “Thinking of a late Christmas gift for my dad, actually. Something for his office. But again, just looking for now.”
The man seemed to take the hint. “Well, my name is Tim. I’ll be at the front if you need me for anything at all.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that.”
He smiled at each of them in turn and departed, making his way smoothly around the furniture; Catherine had a feeling he could have navigated the showroom blindfolded if needed.
“Okay,” Henry said in an undertone. He was scanning the area around them. “Quick, it has to be now.”
And when she didn’t move, he took her by the arm and walked her to the cabinet. “Just try,” he said.
She said nothing. She wasn’t in her body. Her body only existed where he was touching her—those three inches on her forearm—and when she felt the pressure of his hands pushing her down, she dropped.
Down to the spiral-patterned carpet, arms braced under her, crab-walking into the cabinet, feet going in first and then her upper body twisting to get around the piece of wood at the opening.
The cabinet space was slightly elevated from the floor, and she worried for a second the wood would give way under her weight, cracking in half to drop her down an inch or two, but it held. She pushed her way in deeper, scraping her ballet flats against the wood and pressing her shoulders back. Without warning, the cabinet doors shut and she snatched her hands away just in time as the world went black and small and cavelike.
“Perfect,” she heard, muffled, and then light came back as the doors opened and Henry was pulling her out by one arm, dragging her upright, and she half fell into him, dazed.
“Perfect,” he said again. “Breathe. You’re done.”
She nodded into him for a moment. Henry smelled like the store: expensive and polished, but also of cold air from outside, and a little of Molly, which should have been unpleasant but wasn’t because it was a scent she knew. He pulled back a little to look at her. He asked her if she was okay. She said she was and then withdrew, trying not to look at the bookcase, trying to force a smile, but then she caught sight of Andrew’s face.
He looked…worried wasn’t the word for it. There was something else in his features she couldn’t place, something between anxiety and fear and…disapproval.
Almost—but not quite—jealousy.
She arrived back home before eight. Having told her parents the three of them were going to the mall to walk around and see a movie, she made up a very dull story about shopping and vague references to a film she was fairly sure was still playing—superheroes and an apocalypse and the world in danger.
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