Borderlines

The entire state of Vermont was in the same financial straits, but few places were in Gannet’s extremely tenuous position. Its gradual decline had been kicked into high gear by the arrival of the Order. And as Buster had pointed out, resentments had been given ample time to become properly misdirected. I wondered now if that resentment was burning hot enough to kill five people and turn their home into a crematorium.

I recognized Laura through her car window as she drove by, looking for a parking space. I was standing on the Rocky River’s porch, having left behind the noise, the smoke, the heat, and the stench inside. The cool, fresh air felt wonderful. It was warmer than last night, well above freezing for a change what Buster would call “a warm snap.” I stepped off the porch and met Laura on the sidewalk. “Hi.” She smiled, her face softly lit by the light from the Inn’s windows.

“Hi, yourself. How’s your ear? I thought you’d be in bed by now.”

I made an involuntary gesture toward my ear. “It’s feeling better. I took a nap earlier. What’re you up to?” “I got bored at home. Are you leaving?” She moved, as if to step aside.

“No, no. I just needed a little air.” I nodded back at the Inn.

“You sound like a hunted man.” “Well, maybe hounded a little. People are curious think I have all the answers.” She laughed. “You’re kind of famous around here, ‘cause of that Ski Mask case in Brattleboro.

Buster’s got a scrapbook of everything you’ve done.” “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I know you fought in Korea and got a bunch of medals, and that you went to college at Berkeley for a while… He’s got your letters stuck in there, too.” “And you’ve read them.” She was suddenly quiet, obviously embarrassed. “I don’t mind.” Her voice was muted. “You sure?” “Hell, I wrote ‘em to be read.” I had settled on the fender of a parked car. Now she joined me.

“You spend a lot of time with Buster?” She nodded. “Why?” She took her time before answering. I felt she was deciding there to trust me or not, whether to respond with a social nicety or eveal something quite personal. “He helped me when I was in able.” That was about as much as Buster had told me. Still, her admission an obvious token of friendship, the sharing of an intimacy. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.

Buster was the only one who figured t. Or maybe he was just the only one who cared.” I remained silent.

“That was about three years ago.” “How did he and you get together?” She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, you know how he is at the ge; it’s almost like he holds court there sometimes. And a lot of the he hires have had problems. I don’t guess they’re real good meics.”

I laughed at that. Buster’s employees were notorious for putting in the wrong holes, or the wrong-sized tires on cars. She was it was less a garage than a halfway house. “Anyway, I used to pull in there for gas or an oil change or tever, so we got to know each other over time; he’s real easy to talk first, it was just general stuff-who’re your folks, what’s your job. ned out he used to know my grandpa pretty well in the old days; ess they used to go hunting together. But he found out a lot more ut me pretty quick; it’s not like he asks much, you know? You just up telling him everything.” She laughed suddenly. “At least I did-real blabbermouth. AnyI got busted for DWI once; I don’t know how he found out about guess everybody finds out that kind of stuff in a small town like sooner or later. But they usually don’t say anything. He was rent. I pulled in there for gas one day, and he asked me to get out have a Coke with him, and that’s how it began.” “Did he get you into AA or something?” “No, it was just the two of us. We talked a lot; spent a lot of time there. I’d cook for him or I’d hang out at the garage.

Somehow he me out of it-out of depending on the booze.” “Must have had its moments, especially seeing him drink like a She looked straight at me, her face fresh and open. “That was one of the amazing things about it, though. He got me to focus enough on me that it didn’t matter that he drank. He did that for his reasons, and they had nothing to do with me. At least that’s how I ended up seeing it. I guess at first that bothered me some. But he’s a wonderful man. Not everyone seems to know that.” A small pause grew. I was worried it might present a pretense for ending the conversation.

“So you have family here.” “Oh, sure. I’m a local girl, well, kind of-from East Haven. My husband’s family is from here, though.” “Was that who picked you up this morning?” “Yeah. Tommy.” Her tone was not endearing. “Problems?” It was none of my business, but professional habits are hard to break.

“Well… I don’t know. He’s a nice man. It’s just… Maybe I’m not cut out for marriage. Buster makes it sound good when he talks about his wife… or when he talks about yours, too.” That came as a shock.

Ellen, my wife, had been dead almost twenty years, after a long, painful fight with cancer at an unfairly young age.

To have this sudden reference to her from someone I barely knew, especially in the context of marital relations, was a little disconcerting.

I guess it showed. Laura quickly put her hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” I put my hand on hers. “No, that’s all right. I forgot you know all about me. You shouldn’t give too much credit to the ramblings of old widowers, you know. No one can compete with the dead, and there’s usually no saint quite as holy as a departed mate. It’s probably compensation for all the fights you had when she was alive. I don’t know… the older I get, the more I question the sanity of any marriage.” She smiled wanly. “I can believe that. I might as well live alone. I hardly even get laid anymore.” I burst out laughing at her bluntness. “God, now that I don’t understand.” She stared up at me then, and I felt my face turn crimson. “You’re blushing.” I laughed again, feeling thoroughly embarrassed now. “I mean, you’re very attractive.” I felt suddenly hot. I also felt like a total jerk.

She reached up and put her cool palm against my cheek. “It’s sweet. Thank you.” She folded her arms across her chest and sighed.

“It’s my own fault. I could do something about it. We don’t have any kids. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m stuck; have been for years.”

“What does your husband do?” I asked, happy to change the ubject.

“He works nights in St. J. at a lumber company. When he gets ome, I’m getting ready to go to work; when I get home, it’s his turn to head out. We could probably share a twin bed and never bump into ach other.”

“I could see where that wouldn’t do much for a relationship.” “I guess.”

She paused. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I smiled but kept quiet.

“I didn’t embarrass you again, did I? I’m sorry. “No, no, not at all. Yes, I have a girlfriend; I just never thought f her in that light. I’m surprised you didn’t already know about her. he scrapbook must get thin at the end.” “What’s her name?” “Gail.” It felt awkward saying her name here. With all the recent xcitement, I hadn’t paused to think about the primary reason I was p here-to ponder just where Gail and I were headed.

“And?” “She’s a realtor in Brattleboro.” “Is she pretty?” “I think so.” I was distracted, suddenly wondering just what it was that had caused things to cool between Gail and me. “Skinny?” “Pretty thin, yeah. Why do you ask?” “I just thought she would be. Skinnier than me, I bet.” She slid off the car and opened her coat. I looked at her, again startled by her spontaneity. She was, in fact, remarkably attractive in a close-fitting sweater and the perennialjeans”full-bodied,” as the ads say, but with a flat stomach and nicely rounded hips. I found myself thinking old Tommy must be out of his mind.

“Very nice.” She looked down at herself. “That’s it?” I could feel my cheeks flushing again. “You like doing this to me.” She grinned and swiveled her hips.

I leaned over, took her hands and brought them together, closing her coat. “You know damn well what I think.” Like a burst bubble, her mood darkened. She hugged the coat about her and stared at the ground.

The suddenness threw me off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” She shook her head. “You didn’t. Just the opposite.

You’re one of the nicest men I’ve met.” Her voice lifted, regaining an artificial brightness. “So, do you love Gail a lot?” Her frailty was infectious, and her ability to turn the tables uncanny. I found myself suddenly quite at a loss for words.

She gave me a sidelong glance and a sad smile. “You, too, huh?”

“No. It’s different. Well, for one, we’re not married. We don’t even live together.” “Oh.” A silence grew between us. I looked up at the stars. What a surprising conversation to be having, especially with a woman I’d only known for a day. Not to mention the fact that she was half my age. But I felt I owed her as much honesty as she’d shared with me. “Gail and I are a little like seesaw riders trying to stay level with each other.

It only works if we’re both at the same emotional height, and at opposite ends of the board.” “I never would have thought of a relationship that way. I thought about it for a bit. “It’s accurate, though. And right now we’re off balance.” “Seriously?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m up here.” “So what’re you going to do?” “Damned if I know. Try to work it out when I get back to Brattleboro.” Another pause. “And what do I do?” I didn’t answer at first, confused by the way she’d phrased the question. “I don’t know that I’m the one to ask.” I thought for a moment. “Talk to him, maybe change your schedules, look in the mirror and decide what you want from each other. It’s very hard. I can only tell you the answers don’t get any easier the older you get.” She nodded and slowly straightened up, her hands in her pockets. “Thanks, Joe.” She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. Then she walked down the sidewalk to her car, got in, and drove away with a small wave of her hand. I waved back and watched her taillights. Maybe it was the empty feeling she’d left behind, or the uncomfortable yearnings she’d aroused in me, but in that moment of Laura’s departure, I don’t think I’d ever missed Gail more.

I paused in front of the burned house, still contained by the thin, ging yellow Police Line, anemically reflecting the rising sun. This worked the start of the hunt, the point where seemingly random vioce yields to the search for an explanation. I wanted to begin that rch with the real owner of this house, Edward Sarris, and I wanted begin it early, before a scheduled morning meeting between Potter the State Police investigators.

It was a warm morning, or at least warm for November in Vernt. The earth, just twenty-four hours ago crystalized with ice, was w softened and muddy. The tracks of dozens of heavy trucks had lost ir definition as if, slowly, they too were melting. I walked north up Atlantic Boulevard. There still wasn’t much ivity; sunrise had been but twenty minutes before. I’d been told all houses at this end belonged to the Order, something I could easily ve guessed. For one thing, there were no electrical wires running to y of them. They were all peculiarly blotchy in appearance, as if, after aping, they’d been repainted with a wash. None of the lawns were wed. Indeed, seen from a low enough angle, especially from the dirt d, the houses looked like museum-quality prairie homes, originally les apart, which had been gathered together in one overgrown field anthropological preservation.

There was something else that struck me, but it took a while to k in: There were no cars. In fact, there were no trucks, or motorcys, or even tricycles anywhere to be seen. This entire end of town ked transported from the previous century. The paint, upon closer utiny, was indeed whitewash-what Tom Sawyer had applied to his nt’s fence. The clothes lines, the piled split wood, the occasional ss-saw seen leaning against a wall-all harked back to preindustrial es. Aside from a glimpse or two of a woman or child in the ubiquicotton Mao suits, all of it could have served well at Williamsburg Sturbridge Village. Except that all this looked real, including the odd ap of antique garbage.

I saw a woman hanging laundry by the side of a house partway the street. “Hi. Excuse me.

She turned and looked at me, her initial smile fading. She didn’t swer.

“I’m looking for Edward Sarris’s house.” Without a sound, she pointed across the street at the narrow side road where the Wingates had waited for their daughter the night before last, the one that led off into the wooded hills east of town. “Up that street?” She nodded, now looking quite grave.

“Thank you very much.” I followed her direction, looking back just as the tall grass and the corner of the opposite house were about to hide me from view. She was still looking at me. I waved, still to no effect.

From Atlantic Boulevard the road looked more like a driveway than a road, but once on it, past the houses and across the wooden bridge spanning the Passumpsic, I felt myself suddenly in the country, surrounded by nothing but tall frostbitten grass, underbrush, and a growing number of gray, bare trees.

The road led upward for only a third of a mile, but became increasingly steep, so I soon found myself stripping off my coat and dangling it over my shoulder, despite the dabbled shade the now dense trees were supplying. I wasn’t hot, just pleasantly warm, and with the absence of any bugs this late in the year, I discovered I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

The house first appeared as more of a suspicion-something dark and solid amid the dark and distant tree trunks. Its substance grew quickly, however, along with its obvious size. It was built of logs, was no more than a few years old, and was truly gigantic, not quite the Rocky River’s three stories, but almost. This sense of size was reinforced by the fact that it was built out from the hillside, its front supported by a small forest of pillars, making it look much like a dock approached at low tide in a small boat.

The road, which turned out to have been a driveway after all, ran past the house, circled around, and ended in a large parking area that had been cut out of the hill to the rear. Several cars and vans were parked there, only one of which-a new Jeep Cherokee-was obviously used with any frequency. The others were all aligned at the back of the lot, and covered with dust and leaves. There were about twelve of them. The license plate of the Jeep spelled “ORDER,” a word I’d always found had ominous undertones.

I walked up to what was obviously a handmade cherry door quite beautiful in its detailing-and knocked. Edward Sarris opened up almost instantly. “Hello, Lieutenant. I thought you might be next.” He was immaculately attired, as when I’d last seen him, making his cotton garb look like custom-tailored silk. I hoped to find him at a disadvantage, dripping wet from the shower aps, but he either kept ungodly hours, or had already locked into ychological war plan. “State Police beat me to it?” “Yes. Yesterday afternoon.” “Well, I can’t promise I’ll be the last.” “I’m familiar with the system.” His tone reflected the thrill of it I tilted my chin at the building. “This is quite the eagle’s nest.”

He smiled and ushered me in. “It suits us.” What I entered was one huge room, easily one hundred by fifty ,and extending two floors up to a web of heavy wooden supports, ss braces, and rafters. The downhill wall, leading out to an equally e deck, was a mosaic of windows-squares, rectangles, rounds, and f-rounds, which salted the room with multi-fractured light. There a church-like stillness to it all, enhanced by a view that encomsed the slope I’d climbed, all of Gannet, the hills opposite, and far ond.

“This is beautiful.” “Thank you. We built it ourselves.

I walked to the middle of the room, which had little furniture, and mostly benches lining the walls, and looked around. My footsteps oed majestically on the uncarpeted hardwood floor. “How long did ake you?”

“Not long. We’re a very dedicated clan, and we work hard at what love.”

“Well, I tip my hat. You did an amazing job.” He walked by me and threw open a set of French doors to the deck. ome outside.” I followed him and felt I was stepping aboard an aircraft carrier.

e deck was in fact longer than the room, extending a good twenty more to the right, and revealing there was more to the building than one room. It was surrounded by a simple rail, thin enough to be almost invisible from a distance, giving me the impression of being held it, above the trees, as on a huge magic carpet. If the intent was to inspirational, it was a sure-fire success. “You guys don’t fool around with tight quarters.” “Our goal is to be as one with Nature, Lieutenant.

Depending on ur viewpoint, that is either a practical or a romantic ambition, but either case, we have tried to capture the poetry of that mission here our place of worship.” Again, I was struck by his diction and vocabulary. He spoke with precision like a highbrow radio announcer, and had a nice baritone voice to boot. He must have been hell on the pulpit-or whatever he used.

“So this is your church?” “We choose not to use that term. This is simply our place of worship.” “And what do you worship?” “Nature.” “It’s my understanding that for the average cause to work it has to have not only an appealing goal, but something to unite against as well.

What is it you’re against?” He looked at me in silence for a moment before smiling. “Have you always been a Brattleboro policeman?” “Over thirty years.” “But you went to college.” I smiled back. “Why?” Now he chuckled, rubbed his chin, and wandered toward the outside rail. I followed him. “Because you display more intelligence than I have come to expect from the local constabulary.” “That’s pretty faint praise.

There is no local constabulary.” He smiled and waved that away. “I meant the State Police.” “So who are the bad guys in your world?” He didn’t duck it this time, nor did he bother to argue semantics. “The materialists.” “The head of General Motors or the woman buying groceries at the P&C?” “Both. They both contribute to the erosion of those parts of life that are healthy, benevolent, and in harmony with nature. They are the water that cuts away at the sandy bank of our existence, making our foothold on this planet increasingly precarious.” I leaned against the rail. From the edge of the deck, overlooking a good twenty foot drop, I felt like a bird at the top of the trees. I chose to avoid a philosophical debate, by which, I was quite sure, neither one of us would be satisfied. “Did the materialists burn your building?” His face clouded. “I don’t know. I have no reason to think so yet.

Do you?” “No. What about Bruce Wingate?” “Bruce Wingate has chosen not to look in the mirror. He blames us for his errors and attacks us for putting his wrongs right.” “But did he kill your people?” I could see he was wrestling with his composure. I had hit a button with Wingate’s name. “I’ve already answered that.” “I understand Fox was one of your lieutenants.” “We have no such ranking: We are as one. “You’re the leader.” He hesitated. “I am.” “You must need people to help you run things.” He made an impatient expression. “Very well, as you see things, was a lieutenant.

An Elder, perhaps, more accurately.” “One of many?” “Fox was a friend and an advisor. He was among a small group imilarly trusted individuals. We shall all miss him, as we shall miss people who perished with him.” His tone was final. I switched tack.

“What does Julie think about all this?” “Julie?” “Cute. Julie Wingate.”

I could just hear a small sigh. “I cannot speak for other members he clan.” “Can I speak to her, then?” “No.” Now it was my turn to smile.

“You want to expand on that a bit?” “No.” “You’d be good in court.” “I have been good in court.” I laughed at that, and he joined me after a moment’s hesitation.

ere was an appeal to this guy. He used the language well, he had e wit, and although dogmatic, he lacked that self-righteous tone always made me want to strangle the likes of Tammy and Jimmy kker. “I bet. I tell you what. Right now, we’ve got your man Fox ing head over heels downstairs, knocking over the stove, getting ned to death and killing the rest of the people in the building with smoke.” “So I gather.” “But I don’t swallow that.” He was staring out at the distant mountains, his hands resting on rail. He nodded. “All right.” “And you don’t swallow it either.” “I don’t?” “I’d like to know if I can have your cooperation on this investigan.

“I’ve always cooperated with the police.” “Why do I think we’re beginning to kid around a little here?” He turned toward me. “Lieutenant Gunther, we are not on the e side. You would like to believe that you are preserving peace and maintaining rationality in a society that occasionally runs amuck. In our view, you are the chief engineer in the belly of an aging, leaking tramp steamer caught in the middle of the storm that will mark your demise. You are not in control, your crew is not in control, and the ship in which you ride is doomed. The sea controls you, the winds control you, and when you die, you will rot, and Nature will repossess your carcass. Nature will out in the end, Lieutenant, regardless of how you might choose to see things. My cooperation with you and minions like you is pragmatic-the price of survival in this society. But do not think for a moment that I will allow you voluntarily to come among us and spread your diseased philosophies. You are the plague to us, the enforcer of the greedy, the corrupt, the polluter, and all those who would take this planet and reduce it to a poisonous wasteland. I will cooperate. I will not embrace.” I smiled and gave him a mock applause.

He turned away in disgust and took several steps-I wondered if he ever wore a cape; the gestures would have gone well with one. He turned back to face me. “I was hoping for better from you.” “From the enforcer of the greedy, the corrupt, and the polluter?” “You are being flip.

Surely that cannot be your intention.” “Look, I don’t really care what you and your little band believe in. You could spend all day worshipping cucumbers and painting yourselves green, for all I care.

That’s your right. I’m not here to swap philosophies or to measure up to your expectations. I’m here to investigate the deaths of five of your members.” “I said I’d cooperate.” “But only kind of.” “Lieutenant, I do not trust you or anyone else of your ilk. You may believe what you will about us-or me-but I have not reached my conclusions without serious contemplation. You do not impress me with your self-assessed role in all this; you have long been duped into thinking the way you do.

You are blind to reality, even as bright as you are, which is a shame.”

He began to walk purposefully back toward the house, clearly intending to show me the way out. “However, your societal placement allows you a certain power over me, which I must practically recognize and to which I will occasionally bow. But that’s it. Do not expect me to be awed by your office or to view your coming with anything other than dread.” We had reached the front door. He opened it wide to let me pass.

“I guess I’ll never get to call you Ted.” He gave me a disappointed teacher’s look again. “You may call me thing you please, as long as it isn’t libelous.” I shrugged and walked away. I’d liked him better when he was wing my socks off.

The room was stuffy-too small, with too many smokers. It rended me of Chief Brandt’s office in Brattleboro, where he and our James Dunn, dueled regularly with pipe and cigarettes as if the n who passed out last would win the debate. It was a contest I could ly rarely witness to the end. We were at the State Police barracks in St. Johnsbury, and the der of the band was Lieutenant Mel Hamilton, the local Bureau of iminal Investigation Chief. Sitting around in his small, bland office, th tiny rectangular windows irritatingly placed six feet up on the Il, were myself, Ron Potter, Dick LeMay, Steve Wirt, and a secrery. In addition, there was Anson “Apple” Appleby, from the Derby rracks upstate, and another plainclothesman whom I guessed was pple’s sidekick.

Apple, whom I knew from his earlier career as a eputy Sheriff in Windham County-where Brattleboro is located a twenty-year State Police veteran.

He had been called in to head e arson deaths investigation. Crofter Smith, the chilly BCI investigator LeMay told me was amilton’s Number One man, was not there. As yet, despite the pletha of questions we all had, the house burning was still being officially ted as “an accident pending the accumulation of further details.” Hamilton was obviously not a smoker, but polite-he didn’t ask yone to crush their butts. “I’m sorry we had to meet here. The nference room is tied up. Does everyone know everyone?” “Nope.” I pointed to the sidekick. “Sorry. Mike Churchill-Joe Gunther.” We waved feebly at each other.

Hamilton sat on the corner of his metal desk. He was a tall man with a pudgy middle, a pleasant, uninteresting face and, judging from zs office decorations, a stickler for keeping things clutter-free, neat, d tidy. To me, that was not necessarily a good sign.

“I’ve invited the SA and his investigator to sit in so they can get it straight from the horse’s mouth.” He smiled a tiny smile. “No offense.” The joke landed like a dud. Although he had Waterbury-based bosses who outranked him, as far as we were concerned, Lieutenant Hamilton was the top cop here-the State Police equivalent of Ron Potter.

It was he who would be most influential in deciding just how smoothly things traveled between the SA’s office and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I was becoming worried he might be as guarded and rigid as Potter was skittish and uncertain. If he was, I’d be in a hell of a bind, dangling in between them.

“Dick, what’s the arson report?” LeMay shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, the playful, nonstop manner he’d displayed in the burned house reduced to an official drone. “No better than yesterday-can’t prove willful and malicious.

What we got so far from the lab shows nothing unusual: no accelerants, no misplaced matches or candles. From what we can tell, nothing of value was removed from the building prior, and nothing was there that looked out of place. There wasn’t much in there period, really.” He held out his hand and began counting off his fingers as he went.

“There was no sign of violence except the window, which we know about.

I didn’t get anything unusual out of the firefighters involved no suspicious smoke or flame color or noises. The spread, evolution, and speed of the fire were natural. The building didn’t have any wiring or gas lines or even plumbing, for that matter. The explosion that almost got Joe and his pal was superheated air caught in a natural dead airspace in the attic. Turns out they ventilated the wrong place when they cut through the roof, the attic was partitioned and they entered the space that was fire-free.” He put his hands down. “The building is owned by something called The Elephant Clan, which is a corporation listed under Edward Sarris’s name. The insurance was legit for the value of the house, and PILR didn’t come up with anything when I ran Sarris, Elephant, The Elephant Clan, the Natural Order, or Jesus Christ through their computer.” Hamilton’s face tightened slightly.

“Sorry. Anyway, the whole thing looks clean as a whistle.” “Thank you.” “What’s your gut reaction?” I asked. “I hate it.” Hamilton gave me a baleful look that wasn’t neat and tidy. But his tone was utterly neutral. “You hate what?” LeMay shifted again and flopped his hand over, palm up on his “Lot of things. The bullet, the locked door, the way that body’s g on the stove, among other things. Just doesn’t look real. I don’t w… I’m stuck with a lack of evidence, but I smell a rat.” Hamilton nodded.

“Okay. That’s good. Appleby?” The one man who wouldn’t call him Apple.

Still, I was pleased at way he’d accepted what LeMay had just said. I began to hope I was ing him short, maybe his mind wasn’t as restrained and unimaginaas his exterior had led me to believe.

“We’re not getting much help from the Order on this. Churchill ed to Sarris and asked him to get his people to open up. He said wasn’t in a position to do that, gave us some crap about their dom to interact or something.” Hamilton frowned again and glanced at Churchill, but Apple n’t even pause. These weren’t his barracks; he’d be back in Derby ore too long.

Besides, he was an old-time street cop, less inclined to id crude language, and considerably less concerned with impressing superiors.

“The local who pulled the alarm outside the firehouse said he woke hearing shouts in the street, looked out his window, and saw people ning around the house. Said it didn’t look like they were doing much d, and he hadn’t heard the siren yet, so he ran off to sound the alarm self.”

“Did he recognize any of the people in the street?” Hamilton ed.

“Nope. Says they all look the same to him and it was too far away way. His house is pretty far off.” “How involved was the house when he stuck his head out the dow?” “He said he saw flames downstairs; he’s a little vague about upirs.

Says he might have seen a flickering.” Apple opened a file he’d been holding in his lap. “I got the autopback from Hillstrom. The four upstairs died of smoke inhalation.

e guy downstairs-Fox is a different matter.” He nodded in May’s direction. “Dick’s gut is right on the money: Whatever the y died of, it sure as hell wasn’t smoke. Hillstrom says she has no ubts he was dead before he hit the stove. The fire did a pretty good on him; so did moving him from the house to Burlington, for that tter. His neck was pretty well burned through; lot of bone breakage e to heat-” “Any guesses what killed him?” Hamilton interrupted. “She can’t say for sure; she’s mostly ruling stuff out, like no bullet le, no depressed fractures, no poison in the system, no bloody knife found nearby, etc…. She did find something interesting, though-a feather in the neck.” Hamilton’s brow furrowed. “Where in the neck. I thought you said it was burned through?” Apple closed the file with a small slap.

“Well, that’s what makes it iffy. I mean, we’re talking about a piece of meat that’s been cooked right down to charcoal almost. There’s a photo in here, but you can’t tell squat from it, so I drove over to see it all for myself. What she’s got is all burned and microscopic, but she swears it’s the remnants of a feather. What she can’t swear to is whether it was on the guy when he burned, or in him.” “Like swallowed by him?” LeMay asked.

“Swallowed, inhaled… You know as much as I do. Maybe the guy ate raw, unplucked chickens or something. I hear they’re pretty strange.” LeMay spoke up. “We found a feather on the landing upstairs.”

There was a pause. Nobody apparently could make much of that.

The mention of the landing, however, made me think of the four other victims. “Dick, you said the fire smoldered for quite a while before it finally took off, but Rennie and I found the four victims upstairs all huddled together on one bed. Why didn’t they open the window if they smelled smoke? Why didn’t they shove a blanket under the door?” I hadn’t meant to put Dick LeMay on the spot. He shrugged and looked over to Appleby, who shook his head. “Beats me.” “Maybe they were all huddled on that bed for some other reason.

When we first went in, and I saw them under the blanket, I thought it was there to block off the smoke. But I’ve been thinking-the blanket was around them, not over their heads. They were all crunched up like they were afraid of something.” Apple frowned thoughtfully. “You’re saying they were frightened by something before the fire even started, something that may have distracted them from smelling the smoke before it was too late.” “Right,” I said. “Like when kids get scared of lightning in the middle of the night, or they hear something creaking outside. They get together; they huddle up. Maybe the woman was playing along, lending them comfort; or maybe she was scared, too.”

“Wouldn’t the smoke have stunk the place up?” Potter asked, as if pained by the possibility this might all be more than a simple accident.

LeMay answered him. “The stove was a cob job-held together with baling wire, literally. It must have stunk all the time-they were bably used to it; if all of a sudden there was more smoke, and if they e seriously distracted like Joe thinks, they might not have noticed it was too late. Besides, depending on what’s burning, the gases can you before the smoke is even noticeable.” Hamilton nodded from his perch on the desk-the benevolent derator.

“It’s purely speculative, but we should keep it in mind. at about the hose line that went flat? I gather that turned out to be hing.” His last sentence stunned me. I’d heard with everyone else that the had been drained from the portable pump that had supplied water the river to the tanker, and thereby to Rennie and me, but that dly sounded like nothing. On the contrary, it had struck me as a cidence too great to ignore.

Apple nodded. “Apparently Buster Chartier got a little tense at time, but it turns out it was human error. One of his people forgot efill the oil pan after he serviced the pump last time.” “Definitely accidental?” Hamilton pushed.

“Anything’s possible, but in my book, the guy screwed up. He did job last month there was a bill for the oil. Another guy helped him ing the initial breakdown and cleaning of the pump, but had to leave ause it was getting late and he had to go home for dinner. I found oil, unopened, and the guy thinks that in the rush-now that he was alone and late for dinner himself-he just forgot to put the damn if in.” I thought back to Buster’s odd behavior following the fire. Now made more sense. He held himself accountable for risking my life ause he hadn’t checked the pump. His anger at Rennie had been pounded by his own guilt. I now regretted not bringing the subject at the time.

My mixed feelings were not unique. There was a perceptible sense isappointment in the room. Had the pump been sabotaged, as most had thought, then premeditation and possibly conspiracy became ts of the recipe. That meant a more organized, complicated scheme, which in turn meant more potential rocks lying around for us to look er. Apple’s report put an end to all that, and introduced the possity that the pump wasn’t the only thing that merely looked suspius. Like bloodhounds suffering cabin fever, none of us looked ward to being told the hunt was off.

As if to stem that very possibility, Apple almost cheerfully turned nother sheet in his folder. “I got the report back from the crime lab the shell casing found in the house. It is 9 mm, like we thought, from automatic, but they can’t say what kind, nor can they say how long ago the bullet was fired. But,” here he held up his hand theatrically, “it does have a nice clear, single print on it.” “Belonging to…?” I asked.

“Unknown. Hey, you can’t have it all.” Hamilton looked a little irritated. “They couldn’t match the casing to anything in their files?”

“Nope.” Hamilton checked a sheet of paper lying beside him, presumably an agenda. “What about the identities of the deceased?” “Ah. There, Sarris is being more helpful, but that’s Mike’s territory.” We all looked at Mike Churchill, who hadn’t said a word so far, no surprise with a partner as voluble as Apple. He cleared his throat.

“Yes. We-I mean, I-showed him photographs and he identified everyone including the burned guy. I pushed him a little there, since the guy’s such a mess, and at first he seemed to hesitate a little. But then he said definitely there was no doubt the burned guy was Fox. His real name was Ed Sylvester, by the way. Sarris said he’d known him for years; he’d been one of his trusted advisors and one of the original members of the Order. Plus, he said, Fox-or Sylvester hadn’t turned up, and the burned house was where he’d lived. Gave me addresses of next of kin for everybody, too. I’m still working on it, but so far, they’re checking out. It’ll take a few days for it all to get back to us.” “Did he get those from a file or something?” “What?” Churchill seemed startled at a question from me. “The names and addresses.” “Oh. Yes. A filing cabinet.” “He keeps pretty substantial records, I think,”

Hamilton clarified.

“About six months ago, they had an accidental death over there a small child fell off a bridge into a dry stream bed. Sarris gave us all the information we needed.” “Were you able to look into his files?” “No. He wasn’t that cooperative, but what he gave us checked out.” Hamilton smiled ruefully. “I can’t deny I would have liked a look, but he made it clear we’d have to get a warrant, and we had no grounds.” “How old a child was it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. Hamilton paused a moment, thinking. “He was a little guy-had just learned to walk-fourteen months comes to mind, but I’d have to check the case file.” “And he was walking across a bridge?” The other man’s brow furrowed at my persistence. “He wasn’t e.

There was a group of them, supervised by a couple of adults. The dren were all holding hands when this one either broke away or was 0 and ran to the rail. He was over in a flash. Nothing they could As far as we could tell, it was a straightforward accident; tragic, unavoidable.”

Hamilton picked up the agenda before him and referred to it. “I ss that’s about it. So our primary thrust right now is to see if rchill and Appleby can establish a willful and malicious fire.” “What about Julie Wingate?” Hamilton stared at me for an instant.

“Has anyone talked to her?” “I’d like to,” Apple admitted.

“I asked about her,” Churchill added, “but got nowhere with is.” “I didn’t either,” I told them.

“Nor will any of us,” Hamilton said, “unless we prove she did ething to warrant getting a court order.” “How did Wingate do on the lie detector?” I asked. “Inconclusive; and his wife refused to take one.

Ron Potter spoke up again. “Is there any feeling he might have ted that fire?” Apple answered. “Too early to tell, but I agree with Dick. Someg stinks here, and I think old Brucie’s right in the middle of it.” “I agree,” I said. “His reaction following the fire was odd, and he ainly had motive and opportunity. I take it he has no real alibi for whereabouts that night?” Apple smiled. “They were in bed together all night-supposedly.” “Did you go with them to take the lie detector test?”

“Yeah, up to Derby. That’s what bothers me. I know those maes are supposed to be pretty good, but they can be beat. To me, an nclusive result might just mean we were asking the wrong ques,s. I mean, I know in my gut Wingate ain’t playing straight.” “Where’re they from, by the way?” I asked. “Natick, Mass. He’s a bank manager; she’s a legal secretary. eaky clean on the outside.” Hamilton held up his hand at that. “One word of caution. This stigation is just beginning. We have some leads; we have a lot of ork to do. Let’s not jump to conclusions and go after the wrong pIe. We don’t have an arson here-we have an accidental fire. And don’t have a homicide. Right now, it’s an unexplained death, quite sibly also accidental. The press is going to have a good time with this, so let’s keep them as bored as possible.” He looked at Potter and me. “I want to thank you two gentlemen for coming today. We will, of course, keep you up to date on everything we find out.” “In other words,” Apple laughed, “bye-bye; we have private stuff to talk about.” This time, Hamilton showed his anger. “That’s enough.”

Potter got to his feet. “No-absolutely. Thank you one and all. We appreciate the invite. I’d like Joe here to be a part of all this, and we’ll let you know what he digs up, too.” “So, what do you think?”

Potter asked me as we stepped outside the building and headed toward our cars. His voice was falsely jaunty, as if he were whistling past the graveyard.

“Like I said in there, I agree with LeMay and Apple; the whole thing stinks to high heaven.” His obvious reluctance to acknowledge the more suspicious aspects of the case made me sound harsher than I intended. “I also wish I could get hold of Julie Wingate and ask her where she was when the house burned down.

“You think she had something to do with it?” “I don’t know. But it’s quite a coincidence the house went up in flames only hours after Wingate broke in fighting mad looking for his daughter.” “Shit. You know goddamn well this whole thing’s going to blow up in our faces. The news guys are going to have a ball. I mean, look at this mess: a cult, five deaths, possible arson, a flunked lie detector test.” “Enough to drive you out of politics, huh?” I couldn’t resist needling him. This was, after all, his big chance to act out his grand ambitions.

“Enough to get me evicted from politics-damn straight.” “Relax.

Island Pond was a big deal because people fucked up.

You’re just doing your job.” He shook his head and got into his car.

We both drove to his office-the first time I’d been there since my arrival-and he introduced me to his secretary, Florence Ginty. She and I made up his entire staff. For the rest of the day, I set up shop, establishing a filing system to absorb the mountain of paperwork I knew the State Police would soon produce on this case, and getting Flo used to me. Potter stayed in his office most of that time, and then later disappeared “to court,” a catchall phrase I’ve always envied.

Flo left at about six, having thoroughly impressed me with her organizational wizardry. An investigator can either translate police reports and files into something usable for his boss’ day in court, or he have others do most of that for him while he hits the street to fill he blanks. In the best of worlds, he does a little of both. I hate the erwork, so my particular joy was discovering that Flo was my ect counterpart. She had no interest in the war stories of how rmation was gathered; her delight was in seeing it all properly filed, otated, and thereby transformed into legal data. She would be the ect bridge between me and Potter, and I promised her that whatextra help she might need down the road, she would get-guaranLater, however, sitting in my corner of the office alone, writing and timetables of things done and things to do, a feeling of dread an to take over. I sat back and looked out the window onto the street w.

Tony Brandt had asked me back in Brattleboro why I didn’t just on vacation, instead of taking a leave of absence. I’d told him I ded a change of pace, not a vacation. The truth was I hadn’t taken cation since Ellen had died. I didn’t know what to do on a vacation. dn’t hunt, didn’t fish, didn’t collect butterflies or slides of exotic es. I ate, slept, read, watched TV, worked, and-these past few rs spent time with Gail.

That, of course, was the nub of it. If I had gone on vacation, it rally would have been with Gail. But that hadn’t been an option time, not with the chill that had descended on that friendship. I reached out and turned off the desk lamp, allowing the lights the cars below to filter through the misty window panes and er across the ceiling in silence. I was truly between a rock and a d place. Instead of staying put in Brattleboro and tearing down the ive, half-seen barriers that had grown in silence between Gail and I was now arm wrestling with the ghosts of my childhood memowhile being sucked into a case that threatened the very serenity been seeking.

It made me wonder if there was anything left for me in Brattro, beyond the very job which had helped cause my dilemma in the place, a rather morose perspective, even from my own presently r point of view.

I decided it was time for a short break, before I ted checking the ceiling for good places from which to hang a rope. In the end, I found myself wandering the neighboring streets. The y night weather was still holding against all odds. I concentrated clearing my head, enjoying the same St. Johnsbury sights I’d reld as a kid on the town with a small pocketful of cash. Then, St. J. been jt-“The Maple Capital of the World,” home of most of the ustry in the area, and all of the nightlife.

For once, things didn’t look too different. It was still an upscale town, with lots on the ball, at least in comparison with the rest of the Northeast Kingdom.

I paused at an odd kind of bric-a-brac store on my way back to the office, and then went inside with no purpose in mind. A pretty girl behind the counter chatted with me as I wandered up and down the empty aisles, picking up objects and replacing them without thought.

I ended up back on the street with a small bag in my hand, containing a twenty-dollar green stone necklace I’d bought for Laura.

I’d done the same kind of thing for Gail in the past; purchased gifts on impulse, just things to make her smile. It felt suddenly awkward to have made the same gesture, but for the wrong person.

I stuffed the bag in my coat pocket and returned to Potter’s office, determined to stop wracking my brain and to get on with what I was being paid to do. I picked up the phone and dialed the Rocky River Inn.

I found the Wingates’ room on the second floor of the Rocky River, directly opposite the stairs. Greta stood in the open doorway, waiting for me. That came as no great surprise. When I’d called to arrange a meeting with the Wingates, Greta had answered the Inn’s only public phone, and while I hadn’t told her I was inviting myself over, I figured she would grill them to find out my purpose. “You took your time.”

There was some irritation in her voice, but not what I’d feared, given my hasty retreat from the cafe during our last encounter. “Sorry, Greta, I was in St. J.” She reached out and touched my shoulder, an unexpectedly maternal gesture. “Are you all right?” I looked at her in surprise. For all her cranky ways, I was fond of Greta we went back a long way together. She was loud-mouthed, unpredictable, thin-skinned, and always convinced she was right; but to my knowledge, she had never told a lie and she never let you wonder where you stood. She was getting old, of course, along with the rest of us, and I seriously doubted she would age with any grace whatsoever, by now I knew my affection would overcome anything she could w at me.

“You look tired,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She stood aside to let me enter the room. I was touched by her ative concern for my psyche, and privately amused by her typical ility to really let it show.

There were only two pieces of furniture on which one could sit bed and a single hard-back chair. Ellie Wingate was sitting on the er; Bruce Wingate, naturally, was perched ramrod-stiff in the r. The room had a single window, rendered milky white by the old, tIe plastic sheet that sagged across it to cut the drafts. A single bulb g above the peeling white wrought-iron bed. The floors and walls e blotchy with an artistic assortment of earth-colored stains. A ked, balding velour painting of a toreador was the sole decoration, ging over the battle-scarred dresser where a mirror should have I parked myself against that wall, with my elbow on the dresser Ellie Wingate was staring at the floor, like a penitent in church. bulb hung behind her, so her face was in shadow. Not so her band’s, across the way. The harsh light endued his face with the niness of a news photo. “So what do you want?” I was silent for a moment, wondering how much good this would e, now that I was here. “I just wanted to talk about a few things.” Greta jumped right in. “Good. We’d like to do that, too.” I raised my eyebrows at her, interested. It didn’t bother me if they ted to get the ball rolling. It might prove more educational. “What are you doing to locate their daughter?” Greta asked. “Specifically?”

“Well, yes, specifically. That’s why they came up here, after all.” “We aren’t doing anything.” Wingate nodded and stood up, as if I’d just cranked his handle one too many. “I knew that. I kept telling you.” I wondered for a moment if he was going to march right out of own room, but he stayed put, immaculate as always in a V-neck ater and slacks, like a J.C. Penney catalog version of a Brooks thers model-barring the Band-Aids on his face. Greta’s voice was firm. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Don’t you k you owe these people an explanation?” I was, as usual, awe-struck by her grasp of reality. I’d also sudly decided I needed her out of there. “Wait, stay put,” I told the gates, and escorted Greta back out into the hallway, speaking in a low voice.

“Greta, I will talk to them-I want to talk to them, in fact.

But neither I nor anyone else in this investigation owes them anything.”

I held up my finger to silence her. “It’ll be on an even footing, okay?

They can ask me questions, too. We’ll go back and forth. But I want to do it alone. You’ve got to butt out.” Her voice was an angry hiss.

“What do you mean, ‘butt out’? I’m their only friend in this stupid town.” “Exactly. I need some neutrality.” “I won’t say a word.”

“Because you won’t be there.” “Dammit-” She glared at me, but then finally shrugged. “Okay, Greta?” “All right.” “Good. Get some sleep.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I returned to the room and closed the door behind me. Wingate was standing by his wife, trying to coax her to stand also, as if I would then take the subtle hint and dash for the street. Instead, I crossed the room casually and sat in his chair, placing him awkwardly between us. “Sorry about that. I just thought we might be able to talk more freely without her.” I gestured to the bed.

“Please, have a seat.” Reluctantly, as if being asked to sit in a puddle of cold water, he bent his knees and perched next to his wife.

“Do you like Greta?” They looked at each other, surprised. “She’s been very nice,” Mrs.

Wingate said.

“A little overbearing?” Wingate’s face was set impassively, his voice purposely neutral. I had a sudden image of him refusing bank loan extensions to people right and left. “My wife has already answered that. We appreciate all that Mrs. Lynn has done for us, that everyone has done for us.” “How did things go at the State Police?” “Fine.” “I gather your wife refused to take the lie detector test.” Ellie Wingate stared at her hands. “I wouldn’t let her.” “Why not?” “It was inappropriate. No one knows how much she has suffered through all this-for years. That test calls people a liar. It was an insult.” “You took it.” “I wanted to cooperate. I know you have to rule me out-that’s of what you do but pulling her over the coals wouldn’t have mplished anything.” ‘We haven’t ruled you out, though.” “I passed, didn’t I?” His voice quickly bordered on belligerence.

wife reached out and gripped his hand. “Not really. The test was inconclusive.” It was a tiny gesture-a quick shift of the eyes, right and left-but ruck me as odd, as if something else was struggling with the show utrage. Right now, Bruce Wingate was very high on my list of icious characters, and I was loath to edit out his little mannerisms.

e sunspots, they appeared to me as signs of a body in turmoil.

“Those tests don’t mean anything anyhow,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t be quite that categorical.” I was impressed by both his nsiveness and the fact that neither he nor his wife had asked me ngle question about their daughter. Had they been as genuine as ta thought they were, it seemed to me they’d be brushing aside my stions and grilling me for updates on their daughter’s whereabouts. I stared at him hard, forcing him to look at the floor. I wanted to advantage of whatever it was that was chewing at him. Convenally, that would mean giving them both the third degree on their vities on the night of the fire. It occurred to me, however, that in r eyes, the fire was not the monumental event it was to the police. ething else had brought this couple here, far from the decent dIe-class values they supposedly espoused back home, something had torn their moorings and had possibly forced them to desperate emes. It was that something I wanted to learn more about. “Tell about your daughter.” “What about her?” Wingate’s voice sounded like he was muttering out moving his lips. It wasn’t at all like the anger I’d seen explode ennie, but it revealed a brooding moodiness totally at odds with the appearance, and one which I’d already come to expect. I wond what he was like to work with or live with. Presumably, as a ker, he had to present the stereotyped blandness we’ve come to ect of that profession.

What outlet did he have for his other side?

did he blow off that excess steam? I doubted the answer was lthy-or harmless. “How old is she?” “Twenty-one.” “What kind of person is she?” “She’s very sweet,” her mother almost whispered. “Ever have any troubles with her?” “Like what?” Definitely a nerve there.

“Oh, I don’t know. Drugs, sex, hanging out with people you didn’t approve of-” “We didn’t permit that. We are a hard-working, God-fearing family.

Those things never crossed our threshold. Julie was a very. obedient girl.” “The threshold works two ways.

“My daughter didn’t do those things.” Ellie Wingate’s voice attempted to match her husband’s, an impressive show of dual indignation. I was now quite content to push this line of questioning to whatever limit it might reach.

“Then how did she end up here?” She pursed her lips. He answered.

“She was duped.” “Duped?” “At college by her supposed ‘friends.” They brainwashed her.

She was naive, just a freshman.” “Where?” “Boston College.” “Was she happy?” “Of course she was,” said Ellie, gaining strength.

“Brainwashing’s pretty difficult unless the subject is receptive, at least to a degree.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I raised my eyebrows.

“How did the Order approach her? How did you hear about it?” “We talked on the phone every week,” Ellie Wingate answered. “The three of us.

Just a few weeks after she got there, she started to talk about her new friends. It sounded nice at first.” “How long ago was this?” “When she entered college? Three years ago.” “And there was no mention of the Order?” “No. Just friends. We thought they were college friends.

People she was going to school with.” “How did she describe them?”

Wingate shook his head contemptuously. “You obviously don’t have children. They don’t describe their friends.” “They do talk about them, don’t they tell you what they’re doing?

Did they dance, go to the movies, attend religious services, protest in the streets?” “No, no. They were just friends-” Ellie’s voice trailed off.

“They talked. Bull sessions-typical college stuff.” “What about?” “I was hardly there, was I?” “You talked every week. She mentioned these new friends. What the context?” Wingate rolled his eyes. “I don’t see that it matters a good godn what the context was.” From the quick accusative glance Ellie e him, I gathered cursing was considered among the social diseases. n the other hand, found his increasing brittleness encouraging. “I think she mentioned these new friends and you told her to dump m sight unseen. So she stopped talking about them, and then pped talking to you altogether.

When did you last communicate with daughter?” It “vas a long shot. As Wingate had said, I didn’t have children of own. On the other hand, I had dealt with more troubled kids than ever would, and I knew that the bridges from children to their ents were among the first to be burned.

There was an embarrassed silence before Ellie Wingate murmured, wo and a half years ago.” Her husband gave her an angry glance.

Six months after she entered college. “How was that? A phone I?”

“A letter.” “And what did it say?” “A bunch of crap,” Wingate burst out.

“She was babbling about ing a higher plane and needing to cut her ties with her past. It was er nonsense.” “And it took you this long to find her?” They both looked at the floor and didn’t answer immediately. en Ellie finally did, it was in a whisper. “We didn’t look at first; we d to honor her wish to be treated as an adult. Later we tried to locate on our own, but we both work, and… there were some other ubles. We finally joined FTC, and Mr. Gorman introduced us to a ate detective. He found out last week that she was here, in Gannet.” I interrupted.

“What’s FTC and Mr. Gorman?” Wingate sighed, the impatient executive dealing with a dull-witted ordinate. “FTC stands for Freedom to Choose and Paul Gorman it. It’s a Boston counseling group for parents of children who have n brainwashed by cults. He’s like a deprogrammer and counselor bined he’s had a lot of experience in these matters.” I made a mental note of both names. The sudden introduction of programmer was significant, I thought, especially given their lessn-pristine reputation.

“Did you tell the State Police about Gorman?” Wingate’s tone was indulgent. “They didn’t ask.” **skip**I certainly would, but a little later. Right now, I wanted to get them back to the present. “And you saw your daughter for the first time two nights ago?” Mrs. Wingate was becoming almost conversational. “Yes. Mrs. Lynn has been letting us sit in her cafe so we can watch the street. We hoped we’d see her that way. We asked around at first, but those people wouldn’t talk to us.

Then the night before last, Bruce saw a large group of them headed into the woods. We figured there must be a meetingthey have a kind of church up there in the woods-so we waited by that small bridge near the street.

That’s how we found Julie. She just walked out in front of us.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t talk to us, wouldn’t even look at us. It was as if we weren’t even there. All I can think is that they must have brainwashed her. It was as if she didn’t recognize us. Then her friends all grouped around and crowded us out. It was so frustrating…

after all this time.” She shook her head again. “She looks terrible.

We followed her to that house, but the others wouldn’t let us enter.

Finally, Bruce decided to go in anyway.

Wingate’s face tightened. “But Julie was gone?” “She must have gone out the back,” he answered. I thought of Fox’s self-confidence when he’d offered to let us search the cellar. I was pretty sure now I’d been outmaneuvered on that one. I also imagined Wingate being confronted by that same arrogant confidence, being denied access to the house, and to the daughter he’d been hunting for years.

It wasn’t hard to see how any father might have exploded. What hung in my mind, though, was his punching Rennie. Despite forcing his way into the house, and being forcibly ejected, Wingate’s punch had showed his rage to be still hot, and still uncontained. It made me wonder what he might do to quench that anger, and what he had done in the past when similarly denied. Wingate was by now struggling for self-control.

“This is nonsense. We’ve been all over this with your colleagues.” I stood up, walked to the window and sat on the sill, changing tack somewhat. “Look, Mr. Wingate, I’m trying to find out how the Natural Order ticks, not just what happened two nights ago. Sarris says he won’t talk for his members, and they won’t talk at all, probably because he’s got them under his thumb. So that leaves you two. I’ve got to understand how their system works, at least that part of it you’ve witnessed.” This wasn’t strictly true. I was enlisting their alliance less for what they knew than for how they expressed their knowledge, or their prejudice.

“Paul Gorman calls it love-bombing-” “I’ll talk to Gorman later.

What I need to know now is what you not what you learned from him.”

Wingate slapped his knees in exasperation. “What’s the point of is? Who cares how it happened? It happened, that’s all they stole only child, they turned her into a freak. I want my daughter back. at so unreasonable?” Maybe not, I thought, but the means might have been. I rememd Fox’s blackened skull gritting its teeth at me, and the pale-faced ren, huddled together on the bed. “Did Julie have many friends as a kid?” “Of course,” he answered just as she shook her head.

In the embarrassed silence that followed, I asked, “Since you both did you have someone stay with her after school?” “No. I began working after Wingate stood up, not angrily, but determined. “I’ve had enough is. Unless we’re under arrest, we don’t have to submit ourselves ese questions. I’d like you to leave.” “Tell me about Gorman. How did you find him?” He tugged at her arm, in an attempt to make her stand.

“Enough. go after the people responsible for Julie’s abduction. We’re not the y party here. And if you’re tiptoeing around them because you’re d you’ll get sued, let me warn you-I’ll end up doing the suing and Il never know what hit you.” He looked down at his wife. “Godn it, Ellie, stand up,” he said, dragging her to her feet. It occurred to me that both Wingate’s sudden bluster and his handling his wife were reactions to his inability to control me; she become my surrogate.

Despite her obvious discomfort, I was quite fied with the way things were going.

I stayed put, my voice calm and my posture relaxed. “Mr. Winif we were to do our job the way you’d like, you’d be the one in ight now, not Sarris or any member of his organization. You seem rget that we are not investigating your daughter’s dropping out of ge, but the deaths of five people in a fire in which you are a primary ect.” “Oh, come on.” His mouth fell open in indignation, but his eyes back and forth again nervously. “You started the fight with Fox.” “He threw me out the fucking window.” “Bruce.” Ellie Wingate stared at her husband. “And you screwed up the lie detector test.” For a moment, he seemed disoriented by his own excessive lane. “You, you people-” “And you own a 9-mm, semi-automatic pistol.” Wingate’s expression froze. I couldn’t suppress a smile. I’d hit a home run to center field. I felt that if I’d leaned forward and sneezed just then, I could have dropped them like bowling pins-pure Hollywood.

“What?” he finally said in a strangled voice. “You’re a law-abiding man. I’m sure Massachusetts has a tile on it somewhere.”

Neither one of them moved. “Where is that gun right now?” “I… I don’t know. I lost it.” He was staring at the floor, as if mesmerized by one of the mysterious stains there.

“When?” “I don’t remember.” “How do you know you lost it?” “I looked for it. I couldn’t find it.” “At home?” “Of course at home.”

“Why were you looking for it?” He hesitated. “I was going to practice with it.” “When?” “A few months ago.. a year ago.” He scratched his head nervously.

“No… wait, several years ago.” I found the confusion interesting.

“When did you buy the gun?” “What’s the point of this?” he said, making a halthearted attempt to assert himself.

“The file will indicate when you bought it, Bruce.” “It… it’s been years. I don’t remember the dates. It’s got nothing to do with all this.” I noticed his forehead was shiny with sweat.

I let that sentence hang in the air for a while. “So, tell me about Gorman.” Ellie Wingate was looking bewildered, staring at her husband. I half-expected him to invite me out again, but he just set his jaw.

“What about him?” “How did you meet?” “An ad in the paper.” “And you called him up?” “No. He flew in the window.” He tried for a sarcastic smile with minimal results.

“Then what?” “We offered him lemonade.” “Steady, Bruce.” He glared at me, suddenly hot again. It reminded me of fishing a e tension, a little slack in the line-the fish alternately fighting and ding.

“Do you meet one on one?” “We meet in a group. I told the State Police all this.” “We repeat ourselves. It helps cover our tracks, keeps us from sing things, like the gun. How many were in your group?”

“I don’t know; maybe ten.” “All couples?” “No; some.” “What was Gorman’s role?” “He was the discussion leader.” “All the time, or did he have associates who ran the meeting, too?” “No. It was always him. “What did he charge?” There was a hesitation. “Two-fifty.” “Two hundred and fifty bucks a session? How long were the ions?” Wingate’s tone became a little defensive-the banker being called for spending too much. “Two hours, sometimes more. He didn’t it by the clock, and we could call him any time, day or night. And elped in other ways… He’s no con artist; we got our money’s th.” “What other ways did he help you?” “He put us in touch with the private detective who found Julie.” “What was the detective’s name?” “John Stanley.” “Out of Boston?” Wingate nodded, his resistance reduced to a sullen expression.

“Did he find Julie?” “He found out which group she’d joined, and traced her here.” “You definitely saw her?” He glared at me a moment before finally nodding. “When?” “We already told you.” “What about the second time?” He froze at the implication. “I only saw her that once.” Well, it had been worth a try. “What else does Gorman offer?” “He gives us support, emotional support…” His voice trailed off.

“Have you been in touch with him lately?” “Why?” That struck me as an odd response. “To bring him up to date.

Seems like you’d want to tell him you located Julie, ask him what to do next.” “No.” “When was the last time you spoke with him?” “By phone or in person?” Another strange answer. I could sense the interview winding down, but I still wanted to reel in everything I could-the trash fish along with the catch. “Your last contact with him.” “I called him when we spotted Julie, the night of the fight.” “And not since?” “No.” “Not after the fire?” He hesitated. “There was no point. Julie wasn’t in the house.” I was puzzled that he was so sure of that fact, even before his visit to the fire scene. “The State Police will be checking the Inn’s phone logs.” He smiled-bad sign. “Be my guest.” Ah, I thought, pay phone. “We’ll also be talking with Gorman.” “That seems to be what you do best.” I’d finally lost the edge here. I stood up. “We do what we have to do, Mr. Wingate. And we usually end up with the right people in jail.” I crossed the room, opened the door, and left on that note. Not a bad night’s work, I thought.

When I returned from the Rocky River, I found Buster in the kitchen, in his bathrobe, cleaning up the dishes before heading off the bed. For half an hour, I sat with him, nursing a coffee I knew would keep me up half the night, trying to get a feel for what was left of the town that had done so much for me as a kid. I was in better spirits than I had been earlier. My interrogation of the Wingates had made me keen for the task ahead. What I’d gotten from them hadn’t broken the case, or even changed things dramatically, but it had been progress-something valuable to be used later, like bricks for a future house. Now I was sitting in the near dark of the living room, seeing only the dim hall light upstairs, which filtered down the staircase around corner. Buster had left it on for me after he’d gone to bed, some o hours ago. I could hear him snoring in his room above. I’d been very touched when Laura had told me Buster kept a apbook about me. It had been tangible evidence of the affection I’d ays sensed was there.

The feeling was mutual, in fact, which exined why I didn’t find it odd.

Buster had been for me, even long fore my own father died, the man to whom I naturally looked for otional support.

My father had been a farmer. My first and last memories of him of an earth-soiled man, slightly stooped from his labors, working land. I used to stare at him at the table when we shared breakfasts d dinners, not only because he struck an impressive figure, which he with his huge, gnarled brown-stained hands, but because those were e only times I ever got to see him up close. The rest of the time he out there in the fields, in the barn, among the animals-working. worked consistently, constantly, mostly by himself, and mostly thout a word. Every year, there were times he hired extra hands to there the crop. Then, suddenly, briefly, the farm resounded with ghter and coarse voices, the kitchen was crowded with men and ise at mealtime. Leo and I tore around, watching, listening, helping mother, reveling in it the way other children revel in Christmas rols in late December. And theh the silence would resettle around the use.

It wasn’t oppressive, because there was nothing to fear in it. It was my father’s way. He was older-over forty when he married my other-supporting his family in the classic mold, through the Depresn, through the war, through the bad years and the good. He did so th the same metronomic doggedness as a cave drip building a stalagite. He never yelled at us, never lost his patience as he taught us our ores, never showed anything but quiet pleasure at our company. rely, I caught him glancing at Leo or me and smiling privately. But at was it-that smile was the extent of his emotional volubility. My mother picked up the slack, caring for our emotional needs, couraging us, nurturing us.

Realizing that we needed a father who also a friend, and realizing my own father’s limitations in that partment, she had merely substituted him with Buster during our mmers in Gannet.

It was a perfect example of her inborn genius at mothering. Father our father-the point was never denied nor denigrated. Indeed, we nsed she worshipped him, albeit from afar and without demonstran. But Buster was fun, and while as a year-round influence he proba bly would have ruined us, as a summertime dad, he was as necessary for us as the occasional candy-bar hinge is for a ten year old.

If my father had his fields to till and make flourish, Buster paid just as close attention to the human spirit. Nowdays, he was given to drinking too much and giving marginally coherent lectures on the human condition, but back then he was a hands-on soul massager, as eager as a young school teacher to expose his charges to the ins and outs of life.

He did so using his garage, the surrounding hills and streams, and his wife Liz’s tolerance at having their house and kitchen perpetually invaded by boisterous, ravenous kids. Under his guiding eye, we fished and hiked and worked on cars, painted and repaired houses, and worked as willing slaves at the fire department. We were taught the value of everyone’s private dignity.

Only when I was much older did I realize the price Buster had paid for his generous excess. Like a rich man desperate to make an impression, he had exchanged his wealth for friendship. By the time Liz died and most of the town’s younger citizens had either grown up or moved to greener pastures, Buster had found little left in his reserves with which to holster his own spirit. He’d begun to drink more, to reminisce, and to hold court among people who, barring a few exceptions like Laura, didn’t give much of a damn what he had left to offer.

In that, he’d become much like the land around him. Listening to him talk earlier, as I sat sipping my coffee and watching him do the dishes, I had my concerns for the Northeast Kingdom confirmed as he elaborated on what he’d said during the celebration at the Rocky River.

When I was younger, the Kingdom had been much as the name implies-a magical other world, removed from the mainstream and endowed with a specialness in the minds of those who knew of it. Its topography, both rugged and cursive, could reject and embrace, kill and nurture. It was a place where land and weather ruled, where the beauty came less from the majestic mountain views found farther south, and more from the perpetual surprises that lurked behind the low, ever-present hills.

Even at its harshest, the Kingdom was seductive, as when its omnipotent sky darkened with boiling blue-black clouds, low slung and pregnant with threat.

Its people, like those of Gannet, clung to this mercurial terrain mostly out of choice. It was not a place to come to work, for jobs were few and far between, and demanding on the body when found. It was not a vacation retreat, since it offered no glitzy ski slopes or lake-side spas. Even during deer season, outside hunters were forced to work for their kill, finding shelter in uninsulated hunting cabins or weather-worn motels with no TVs.

Native Northeasterners preferred it that way. They were indepen self-supporting, proud, and generally uninterested in what was ning outside their boundaries. Ignoring the police and social ies, they turned to themselves or their neighbors for help and e, and scorned whatever innovations the rest of the state touted aluable.

ut, obviously, the fabric of the Kingdom had begun to strain and The Gretas, Rennies, and Busters, with the modern world pressdemands, were no longer envied for their conservative selfiency, but rather seen as quaint and out of touch, even gullible. arketplace began to put a price on all they’d taken for granted, n many cases transformed an unimportant poverty into grinding y. It went a long way in explaining Greta’s anxiety about keeping n, and her xenophobic view of the Order and its practices. It also d to explain a new bitterness I sensed lurking beneath Rennie’s worn friendly exterior, working like an infection from the inside hat, of course, was purely an impression on my part; I hadn’t had I chance to sit down and talk with him. But he seemed tired, his ter was harsher and more brittle, and his eyes, once clear and mined, tended to look away. He struck me as a man running d.

I was sitting in Buster’s exhausted armchair in the living room, my clotted with thoughts of Gannet, before and now, with fire and I felt an overwhelming need to share what was bottled up inside espite the late hour.

The idea of calling Gail was instinctive, more natural to me than oncern about the present strain between us. This is not to belittle tter-it was real and painful and not to be taken for granted, but sis was in a friendship temporarily gone awry. I knew in my heart z n a time of need, even now, neither one of us would be unavailable e other.

I’d used the image of two seesaw riders to describe us to a. In my mind, it had gone without saying that a seesaw without people, no matter how out of balance, was a choice with no options. The only phone in the house was located in the hallway, as the phones had been of old. Buster had never seen the need for cy on the phone, especially since he rarely used one in the first I dialed in the gloom, the number known by heart.

The answering voice was sleepy. “Hi. It’s me.” “Hi.” There was a pause. I tried to gauge her mood from that one -just a sound, really-and got nowhere. “Sorry to be calling so late.” “It’s okay.”

Again, the brevity left me hanging. There was no hostility in the voice, but no encouragement either. She was letting me stick my neck out.

“How are you doing?” This time, a stunned silence preceded any words, and I rued the banality of my question. Her delayed response had the predictability of the pain following a slap. “How the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m angry. I feel like you walked out on me without ever telling me why. I thought grown-ups talked through their problems-you just ran away.” “I told you I wanted time to think.”

“That’s bullshit, Joe. What good is thinking in isolation? This problem belongs to both of us. I’m not interested in what you come up with on your own. Christ, we’re friends; you’d think this would be the time to work together.” Her precision undermined any defensive maneuvers I might have attempted. She had hit on the exact subconscious motivation behind my dialing her number in the first place.

“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do now.” Her frustration boiled over. “On the phone? I hate the goddamn phone. It’s a business tool, Joe, something you use to fire people you can’t look in the eye.” “I don’t want to fire you.” Only after I’d said it did I realize how idiotic it had sounded. The realization prompted a more accurate rejoinder. “But I’m not sure I want to look you in the eye, either.”

She sat on that for several long seconds. This was not an impulsive, highly charged individual. Gail had walked a long, experience-paved road, from the free-love, drug-stimulated sixties to a middle age of thoughtfulness and reflection. Her answer echoed that, and made me glad I had phoned. “That’s fair, but only if you’re coming back so we can talk properly.” I was surprised by the implication. “Of course I’m coming back. I won’t deny I ran for cover, but I didn’t run away. Your anger scared the hell out of me. It was like standing too close to a hot stove.” Again, the reflective pause. “I didn’t mean to put you down.” It was a classic Gail line, a little bit of psycho-talk, of I’m-okayyou’re-okay. It was an extraordinary and endearing trait, her ability to nail down unstable emotions so they wouldn’t run amuck and cause undue injury. She, unlike anyone else I knew, understood when it was time to put down the weapons and make peace long before I ever did.

“You felt I was that angry?” she asked.

“Weren’t you?” “I think it was more frustration. I felt totally cut off from you.

The time you left my house, I felt like a hooker who’d been underpaid.”

“Good Lord, Gail.” “Hey. You weren’t even there. You were God knows where, at the ce, feeling sorry for yourself, waiting for Tony Brandt to get back you could retrieve your freedom, or whatever the hell it was.

When said you were going up north, it was like hearing the other shoe p.

It was the predictability that made me mad you had totally cut off.”

“I’m sorry.” “I don’t want to hear that. I’m sorry, too, but is that going to get anywhere?” “I hope so. It’s a start.” The thoughtful pause. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry I’m sorry, or you’re sorry you’re sorry? Or are you ry you said we shouldn’t be sorry?” She laughed, and I realized I’d been clenching the phone. I relaxed grip.

“God, life is such a bitch.” She was right there, and by making the choices we had, we hadn’t de it any easier. We’d taken an ideal situation, one as potentially nsient as a burst of laughter, and had tried to freeze it in place. She single, as was I; she had a career, just like me; we both liked owing the other was there, available sexually and morally, but not endent.

How long, in a world crammed with other people and nts, could such a static emotional state exist? “So what do we do about it?” she continued. “I’d like to do something-have I done any permanent damage e?” She sighed, and I could hear the pillow rustling against the headShe was right again: Times like these are not good on the phone.

onged to be next to her. “No, and nor have I, at least I hope I en’t.”

I picked that up quickly. “I made the call, and you didn’t hang She laughed again gently. “All right. That proves something, but on’t want this to happen again. I can live with the fact that things ght change and we might choose separate paths, but not this way, y?” “Sounds good to me.” But she wasn’t going to let me off that lightly. “I thought it might, but I mean it, Joe. You’re good at talking to people in trouble, or giving them the third degree. You’re even pretty good at snowing the Selectmen, but you’re not that great talking to me. I think you hope all our little problems will just die natural deaths of their own.” Despite the urge to do so, I couldn’t deny it. “You know that’s not the way it happens, right?” The hint of maternal superiority suddenly irritated me. “I may not be the only guilty party here.” There was a long, dead silence, followed by, “Ouch.” This time I chuckled.

“This may work, after all.” “You are a bastard and I hate the phone and I wish you here.” “I love you, Gail.” “I love you, too, Joe, but it can’t stop there.” I had to give her high marks for persistence. “I know. I’ll try to do a better job. The Chief coming back is bound to help-at least my professional life will be back to normal.” “How’s your professional life doing now? From what I heard on the news, it sounds like you stepped into it again.” “Did my name come up?” “I could arrange for it to.” “Oh, please, spare me that. What did they report?” She told me what she’d heard, which didn’t vary much from what I’d seen on Greta’s TV. I told her the details and the cast of characters. I also told her of the changes that had come to Gannet, and of the damage they had wrought.

She listened and asked questions and heard the sadness in my voice and became again, as she had been for years, my best friend. She reminded me before we hung up that we had work to do, that things were going to change between us, for the better if we paid attention, and that she was looking forward to that.

So was I, although as I replaced the phone on its cradle, I thought of Laura, opening her coat to show me her curves. It made me doubly glad Gail and I had talked, before I’d been tempted to try something that was preordained to fail. But then, that had probably been my driving stimulus that in the midst of a complicated case, in a town whose memories were becoming at best bittersweet, I needed to connect with a person whose motives were clear and clean, and whose alliance was unquestioned. Laura had said of Gail, “Skinnier than me, I bet.”

Skinnier, more complicated, more intellectually demanding, more emotionally precise, but only a small part of me wondered why I’d reached out to Gail, when getting her back meant so much more work.