Boy in the Water

Hawthorne climbed her snowy steps and rapped on the glass so it rattled. First Tommy came to the door, then his mother. “Jim, what’s the matter? You look awful.”

“Do you have a cellular phone?”

“No . . .” Betty wore a dark skirt and a dark long-sleeved blouse.

“What about a gun?”

“Of course not. What’s wrong?”

“Frank LeBrun’s killed Roger Be

“Oh, no.” Betty put one hand over her mouth. Her son looked at her quizzically, then his face took on a worried expression.

“I don’t know what to do. You’re the last person I can talk to.” Hawthorne felt exhausted. “People are scared. Understandably. And there’s no way to get out of here, because of the snow. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

“But you can’t let Jessica stay there. God knows what he’s doing to her.”

“He’s trying to get up his nerve to kill her.” It was warm in the hallway. The snow began to melt on Hawthorne’s jacket. He took off his gloves and ski cap.

Betty’s round face seemed to shrink with distress. “Is he the one who killed Scott?”

Hawthorne nodded.

“I can give you a knife. I have an old hunting knife of my husband’s.”

Hawthorne imagined trying to attack LeBrun with a hunting knife and almost smiled. “I wouldn’t stand a chance fighting him. Maybe I can talk to him. I don’t know. I don’t even have a light.”

“Wait a minute,” said Betty. She hurried off. Tommy stayed in the hall gri

“No lights,” said Tommy. “They went out.”

“That’s true enough,” said Hawthorne.

“No lights,” Tommy repeated and his grin widened.

Hawthorne tried to look affable, but he was tired and fear filled his heart. He had to talk to LeBrun, convince him to free Jessica and Skander. He had to take advantage of LeBrun’s own instability. He had to try, even if he had no chance of success.

Betty Sherman hurried back into the hall. Going to the table, she put down a flashlight, a hunting knife, and a crowbar. “That’s the best I can do. I’d go with you but I’d be more of a hindrance than a help. And I’m afraid of leaving Tommy . . .” Her sentence trailed off.

Hawthorne looked at the knife. “That’s okay.” He felt that if he touched the articles on the table, there would be no turning back. He remembered his wife calling his name from the burning hallway at Wyndham. Although faint, the sound filled his mind. Hawthorne picked up the crowbar and the flashlight. Then, after a moment, he took the hunting knife as well. “I guess I’ll go back,” he said. “If the telephone starts working again, make sure you call the police.”

—

Jessica lay on her stomach in the attic of Emerson Hall, hog-tied with a torn-up sheet. It was dark except for a sputtering candle near the door to the bell tower, but Jessica didn’t mind the dark. It meant that LeBrun was someplace else, someplace where he couldn’t terrify her. Earlier that day when she had seen LeBrun and Tremblay together in Plymouth, she had understood something that she had suspected ever since she had heard them talking in Exeter. But that wasn’t exactly true—she had known earlier without wanting to know. And yet he hadn’t killed her, had he? In some strange way of his, he must have liked her. But LeBrun had her money and soon he’d have Tremblay’s too. How could she have imagined that he liked her? He didn’t like her, he hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Now, though, he still didn’t seem able to kill her. At least that’s what he had been storming about.

But he had murdered other people—it was one of his favorite subjects. He had killed his cousin and Scott and at some point he would kill her as well. Jessica was certain about that. No wonder Tremblay had agreed to let her come home for Christmas. He had meant for her to be dead long before Christmas arrived. And Jessica thought what a piece of trash she must be if everyone wanted her dead. Not everyone. Her brother loved her. Lucky loved her. Even Dr. Hawthorne had been nice when he had every reason to hate her. And he didn’t want to have sex with her either. In fact, nobody did and maybe that was because Tremblay had already used her so badly. That was another reason why Tremblay wanted her dead, to keep her mouth shut. Jessica thought about heaven and if it existed; surely that’s where her father was and if she went there she would see him. But if there was a heaven, then there must also be a hell and when LeBrun killed her he’d probably be sending her there.

The building was quiet now except for the sound of the wind. Earlier there had been shouting, even screams, and the sound of ru

Jessica was cold and the dust on the floor kept getting in her nose. It was almost fu

The door to the attic banged open and there was the sound of feet on the stairs. Jessica’s body clenched and a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. LeBrun was coming up again. She tried to move but her hands were tied behind her back and her left foot was tied to her hands. She could hardly even wriggle, and when she pulled, the torn sheet hurt her wrists.

“How’s my little girl?” came LeBrun’s voice from the dark. Then she saw the beam of his flashlight as he came up the stairs. “How’s my snuff cake? Did I tell you what they call a Canuck girl with half a brain?” LeBrun chuckled. “Skander didn’t like that one, he didn’t even laugh.” Then LeBrun shouted, suddenly furious, “What the fuck’s the answer?”

“Gifted,” said Jessica, but she didn’t laugh either.

LeBrun cackled. “Don’t you love it,” he said, “don’t you love it?”

The beam of the light focused on her face and she tried to turn away. LeBrun’s footsteps got nearer. “How’s my girl? Answer me!”

“I’m all right,” said Jessica.

“That’s better. I don’t like people who’re rude to me. I mean, it’s one thing to die and it’s another to die with a lot of pain.” LeBrun sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Let me go,” said Jessica.

“Fat chance. Hey, I need the money. I need some legs to get out of here. Don’t take it personal. It’s a job, that’s all. Like the American way of life. I get paid for it and that makes it okay.” LeBrun laughed again, an ironic bark.

“Then why haven’t you killed me already?”

LeBrun was silent for a moment, then he raised his voice. “Because I’m preparing myself, that’s all. And the money’s not here. Don’t worry, it’s on its way. Your dad’s having a little trouble with the snow, but he’ll get here soon. I just talked to him.”

“He’s not my dad.”

“Yeah, what a shame. Did I tell you why Canucks wear hats?”

Jessica didn’t say anything. Whatever was going to happen, she wished it was over.

“Did I?” shouted LeBrun.