In the Dark aka The Watcher

18

Clark Biggs looked stiff and uncomfortable in a straight-backed wooden chair pushed against the living room wall. His hands sat limply in his lap. His eyes were fixed on a bookshelf across the room. Maggie followed his stare to a picture frame with a photograph of Clark and Mary in the backyard. They were playing in the fall leaves. Mary tossed colored oak leaves in the air, her smile big and wide, her blond curls flying. In the photograph, Maggie could see the contentment and pride hiding behind Clark’s solemn eyes. Today, that happiness had been vacuumed away, leaving his heart empty.

“Mr. Biggs?” she asked again softly.

He broke out of his trance. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was asking if you had ever seen a silver RAV4 parked around the neighborhood, or whether anyone you know owns a vehicle like that.”

“Oh.” He put his hands on his knees and studied the faded pattern in the carpet at his feet. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Neither do I,” Donna Biggs said. “I’m sorry.”

She sat beside Maggie on Clark’s sofa. Every few seconds, she stole nervous glances at her ex-husband, as if she were struggling with her desire to comfort him. Donna’s eyes were red-ringed and moist.

“The bad news is that there are hundreds of vehicles like that in the Duluth and Superior area,” Maggie told them. “That’s a long list. However, we’re cross-referencing vehicle ownership with criminal records to see if we can narrow down the suspect pool. We’re also going back to the other neighborhoods where the peeper struck to reinterview people who may have seen something, now that we have a specific vehicle type. We’ll also be checking the vehicle ownership records against the list of people and organizations you’ve given us, to see if there’s anyone who was part of Mary’s life.”

“No one who knew Mary could have done this,” Donna said.

Clark bobbed his head. “Yes, it was a stranger. If it was anyone she knew, Mary’s reaction would have been different.”

“I understand, but we have to cover every angle,” Maggie said. “Remember that this could be someone who had little or no direct contact with Mary. Peepers and stalkers often develop elaborate fantasies about their victims based on nothing more than their physical appearance or a minor encounter. To a girl, it may be no more than saying hello to a clerk at a store. To a maladjusted mind, that simple conversation can trigger an obsession.”

“Mary was a child,” Donna protested. “Who could possibly think of her that way?”

Maggie sighed. “Mary was also a pretty girl.”

“She was vulnerable,” Clark said. “How could you leave her alone, Donna? How? Tell me that.”

Donna’s cheeks turned bloodless and white. “What could I do, Clark? I mean, for God’s sake, what could I do?”

“You call 911, and you sit there with Mary. That’s what you do. She was your responsibility.”

“And leave that boy bleeding in the street?”

“You should have locked Mary in the car.”

“There was no time! I didn’t have time to think!”

Maggie put a hand on Donna’s knee. “Mr. and Mrs. Biggs, I know you’re both upset, and I understand. Whatever you both think, you are not to blame. Mrs. Biggs, you almost certainly saved that boy’s life, and you had no way of knowing that anything like this could happen to Mary. Mr. Biggs, I know you’re devastated, but the best thing we can do right now is try to find the man who terrorized your daughter and make sure he doesn’t do this to anyone else. Okay?”

Clark Biggs got out of his chair and paced. Some of Mary’s plastic blocks were littered across the living room carpet. He bent down, picked up one of the blocks, and squeezed it inside his meaty fist. His eyes were closed. He was unkempt, with dirty hair and blond stubble on his face.

“Mr. Biggs?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Maggie said.

“Why did it have to be water?” Clark murmured.

“Oh, Clark, please don’t,” Donna said.

“Was God pissed off that we saved her the first time? Did He think she hadn’t suffered enough? How could He put her back in the water? Tell me that, how could God let her die in the water?”

Maggie expected to see tears on Clark’s thick cheekbones, but his sun-cracked face was dry, and his eyes were empty. On the sofa, Donna moved to go to her ex-husband, but then she stopped herself. Maggie could see that the love between them wasn’t dead, but they might as well have been on opposite edges of a canyon, with no way to cross.

“Did you find anything in the woods?” Donna asked quietly. “You said they were going to search the woods for clues.”

“I wish I could tell you we had more luck,” Maggie replied. “We found some trash on the path, in the trees, and on the side of the highway, but nothing with any obvious connection to the peeper or his vehicle. Later, when we identify him, it’s possible that something we found will help us place him at the scene.”

Clark let Mary’s block fall out of his hand. “When you find this man, will you charge him with murder? Will he have to pay for what he did to Mary?”

Maggie hesitated. “That’s not my decision. The county attorney will make that call, based on the evidence we gather. I assure you, I will do everything possible to make a case that we can bring to trial. I want to see justice for Mary.”

Donna shook her head sadly. “If you can’t find corroborating evidence, then it’s just my word, isn’t it? I work in a law office, Ms. Bei. I know that’s a problem.”

“Why is that a problem?” Clark asked. “If Donna says she saw him, then she saw him.”

“But I didn’t see him,” Donna said. “I saw a car and a man I can’t identify. I know how defense lawyers work. They’ll say it could have been anybody. Or they’ll say I made it up.”

“Made it up?” Clark asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I was the only one who saw the RAV on the highway, Clark. They’ll say I felt guilty because I left Mary alone, and I was just trying to protect myself by blaming someone else. They’ll say I knew about the peeping, so I used it as a convenient excuse.”

“That’s bullshit,” Clark said.

“It’s way too early to be thinking about any of this,” Maggie said. “Once we identify this man, we’re likely to find much more evidence in his house and car. If we can find something that ties him to Mary, then your testimony will carry a lot of weight with a jury, no matter how much smoke a defense lawyer tries to blow at them.”

She tried to sound convincing, but she knew Donna was right. Stride was right, too. The most they were ever likely to do was convict the man of interference with privacy. A two-year felony for peeping on minors. Two years was a lousy trade for losing a daughter.

“The first thing we have to do is find him,” she added. “This man stalked Mary. Somewhere, somehow, their lives intersected.”

“You said it could be as simple as Mary saying hello to someone on the street,” Donna said. “If that’s true, how will we ever narrow it down?”

“Well, we have to hope it wasn’t quite that simple,” Maggie told her. “Mary wasn’t the first girl he peeped, but something about Mary was special. He hooked onto something about her that made him come back to Mary. The question is what. Her physical appearance isn’t really distinctive compared to the other girls. If you lined them all up, you wouldn’t pick out Mary as being different.”

“She was mentally handicapped,” Donna said.

Maggie nodded. “Yes, but you wouldn’t necessarily know that just by looking at her. I think there had to be some kind of interaction between Mary and this man, however minor. I’ll talk to the people at Mary’s school again, but if the connection didn’t happen there, then the chances are that you were with Mary when it did happen. Because she was hardly ever alone, am I right?”

She knew as she said the words that she had accidentally jabbed another needle into Donna’s guilty conscience. The one time she had left her daughter alone, Mary died. Donna wiped her eyes.

“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “We were always with her.”

“Mr. Biggs, you told me that you think the peeper was at Mary’s bedroom window the week before the incident you reported.”

Clark nodded. “It was Saturday night.”

“Do you think that was the first time?”

“That was the first time Mary saw him,” he insisted.

“I’m sure of that.” “I’m trying to nail down a time line here,” Maggie said. “I’d like to know when this man first met Mary. So I’d like you both to think hard about the days just before that Saturday. I want you to remember if anything unusual happened during that period.”

“I’ll check my calendar at work,” Donna said. “Mary was with me until Friday evening.”

“Nothing happened on that Saturday,” Clark said. “Mary and I were home all day. I ordered a swing set, and it was delivered that morning. After I set it up, I couldn’t get Mary off the swing for the rest of the day. The two of us spent all afternoon outside, and then I grilled hamburgers for dinner.”

“Did anyone stop by the house while you were outside? Or did you notice any unusual activity? People circling the neighborhood?”

Clark shook his head. “I keep a close eye out for that kind of thing.”

“Mary was sick for a couple of days that week,” Donna added. “She didn’t go to school on Wednesday or Thursday. I had to take her to the doctor’s office.”

“Did you see anyone new while you were there?”

“Yes, there was a male nurse in the lab we hadn’t met before. Mary liked him.”

Maggie jotted down the name of the clinic in Superior where Mary’s doctor was located. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s exactly the kind of information I need. If you remember anything else like that-any kind of casual contact Mary had with a stranger-please let me know immediately.”

Donna and Clark Biggs both nodded.

“Tell me, Ms. Bei, do you think that-well, is this man violent?” Donna asked. “Did he intend to do some kind of harm to Mary?”

Maggie knew what she was thinking. Maybe, somehow, it was better this way. Death by drowning was a better fate than to be kidnapped by a predator. God was actually being merciful.

“I just don’t know,” Maggie replied. “He hasn’t shown any inclination to violence yet, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have crossed the line eventually. He still may.”

“It doesn’t matter what his intentions were,” Clark growled. “He killed her. This pervert killed my little girl.”

19

The lake breeze made the water choppy out beyond the lift bridge. Dozens of seagulls placidly rode the swells. The small harbor tour boat bobbed in the white-tipped waves, and Tish Verdure grabbed hard to the red steel railing near the bow. She zipped up her leather jacket to her neck, but the cold made its way inside her clothes. Beside her, Finn Mathisen swayed with the rolling motion of the deck. He looked as tall and lean as a flagpole. His shirt billowed in the wind. He tilted his head back and finished his can of Miller Lite.

“You look really cold,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Come on, let’s go sit inside.”

He took her hand and led her back to the enclosed lower deck of the ship. Tish almost sang with joy when the door closed behind them, cutting off the wind and leaving her under the hot air vent from the boat’s furnace. She shivered, warming up. Most of the other passengers were here, seated on benches by the windows, soaking up the view. Finn found an open stretch of bench on the starboard side, where the boat looked out on the lake, and the two of them sat down.

“I’m going to get another beer,” Finn said. “You want something?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him head up to the bar. His dress clothes looked a size too large, as if he had dropped weight since he wore them. He was in his late forties, like her, but he wore his age hard. She noticed a tremor in his hands. A yellowing in his skin. He was ill. She wondered if his shaved head was voluntary, or whether he had lost his hair to some kind of cancer treatment.

When he came back, he noticed her eyeing his bare skull. “I was losing most of my hair anyway.”

“The shaved look is trendy now,” Tish said.

“You don’t have to say that. I figured bald was better than having a forehead that went halfway up my head. My hair used to be so thick it was like an Afro, but I started finding blond curls on my pillow in my twenties.”

He popped the top of his beer can.

“So how are you, Finn?” Tish asked.

Finn drank down half the can on his first swallow. He wiped his mouth with the cuff of his shirt. “How am I? I guess you can see how I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Self-inflicted wounds,” he said. He held up the beer can. “This is the enemy. Back then, I was mostly into grass and coke. Not that I have to tell you that, huh? I finally kicked drugs and took up booze instead. The docs say my liver is hoisting the white flag.”

“But you’re still drinking.”

“If I’m going to die, I’ll die happy,” Finn said. “I’ve been in and out of rehab for years. I’d get sober for a while, but I couldn’t kick it. A few months ago, they said the damage was permanent. So what the hell.”

“You shouldn’t give up.”

“I don’t think of it as giving up. It’s more like suicide for dummies. If I had any guts, I would have killed myself years ago.”

“Finn, for God’s sake,” Tish said.

“What, does that shock you? I’m sorry. Laura never wanted to see me as a lost cause, either. She was the only one who ever tried to help me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like this.”

“Hey, at least I’m not blaming anyone but myself anymore. For years, I blamed my mother. Even after Rikke and I got out of North Dakota, I figured that I was who I was because of what my mother did to us. That didn’t change anything, though, so I started blaming Rikke. It was all her fault that I couldn’t stand on my own two feet. I even moved away for a few years. But after another stint in rehab down in the Cities, I realized the only person that fucked me up was me. So I came back here. Nothing changed.”

“How is Rikke?” Tish asked.

Finn downed the last of his beer. He was wobbly. He leaned forward and pressed his face against the glass window of the boat. They were in the ship canal now, heading back toward the harbor. The bridge was up, and Finn bent his neck back to look at the span suspended above them.

“She’s like me. Bitter.”

“Is she still teaching?”

Finn swung his head back and forth. “She left the schools years ago. She was fired for having an affair with a student. These days, you do that, you go to jail. Back then, they just swept that kind of thing under the carpet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Laura liked Rikke, but you didn’t.”

Inside the harbor, Tish felt the wavy rocking of the boat diminish. She saw the ribbon of land on the Point and thought about Stride and Serena living there. Ahead of them, she saw the towers of grain elevators and the giant docks for the ore boats. They looked darker and larger in the evening gloom.

“Why did you want to see me, Finn?” Tish asked.

He shrugged. “I think about the old days a lot.”

“Sometimes I wish I could forget them.”

“I’ve forgotten way too much already. I’ve had blackouts all my life. Big gaps where nothing’s left. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Tish said nothing.

“I hear you’re writing a book about Laura’s death,” Finn continued.

“That’s right.”

“Why would you want to do something like that?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, why dig up the past? Wasn’t it bad enough as it is?”

“I guess I felt like I owed it to Laura,” Tish said.

Finn’s hands twitched. He eyed the bar, but he stayed on the bench. “You know I was in love with Laura back then.”

“No, she never told me,” Tish murmured.

“That’s okay. I knew she didn’t feel the same way. I never told her how I felt, because I didn’t want to hear her say it. But like I said, she was the only person who ever gave a shit about me. Other than Rikke.”

Finn put his hands on top of his skull and squeezed. He closed his eyes and opened them, blinking rapidly.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. As okay as I’ll ever be.” He added, “What happened between you two?”

“What do you mean?”

“That May, Laura hung out with me a lot. You weren’t around. She was really upset that you were gone. She needed someone.”

“Things happen between friends,” Tish said.

Finn nodded. “Do you feel guilty for leaving her behind? I mean, maybe if you’d stayed, she’d still be alive.”

Tish felt as if she’d been struck. She opened her mouth to deny it, but she couldn’t. “Yes, I think about that.”

“Me, too. I wanted to be the one to save her. Instead, look how it turned out.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No?” He hesitated. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. There are some things I need to get off my chest.”

“About what?”

“Laura’s murder.”

Tish held her breath. “What is it?”

“A lot of it is missing, you know? Gone. I only remember bits and pieces. I was high, out of my mind, like usual. I just thought, maybe this would help you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I was in the park that night,” Finn told her. “The night Laura was killed.”

Tish’s hands clenched into fists. “What did you see? Did you see who killed her?”

“No.”

“Why were you there?” Tish asked.

“When I saw Laura and her sister in the park, I began following them. I was watching them down by the lake.”

Marijuana, Tish thought. “Why follow Laura?”

“Because I loved her. I told you.”

“Were you stalking Laura? Did you send her those letters?”

“What letters? What are you talking about?”

She looked for guile in his face and didn’t see any. “Never mind, what did you see that night?”

“I saw her leave her sister and her boyfriend by the lake. I followed her along the trail until she got back to the softball field.”

“Then what?”

“Someone attacked her in the field.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. It was too dark. I couldn’t see him. All I could see was the guy jumping her, pushing her to the ground. She screamed.”

“What did you do?”

Finn stared at his feet. “Nothing.”

“My God, Finn, how could you? You just let it happen?”

“I thought about shouting for help, but I didn’t want anyone to know I was there. Anyway, it didn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“While I was watching, I heard someone behind me. Someone came running when Laura screamed. I ducked into the woods, and this guy ran out into the clearing. It was a big black guy. I didn’t know who he was.”

“What did he do?”

“He saved her.”

“How?”

“He picked up a baseball bat in the field and swung it into the guy’s back. Then he pulled the guy off Laura and beat the crap out of him. Laura ran the opposite way, into the woods, toward the north beach. You know, where they found her body.”

“What did the black guy do?”

“He followed her.”

“With the bat?”

Finn shook his head. “No. The bat was still lying in the field.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure. I saw the black guy throw it away.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing. I don’t remember any more.”

“Did you go home?”

“I told you, I don’t remember,” Finn snapped.

“This is important,” Tish said. “You have to think.”

Finn’s face twitched. “Don’t you think I want to remember? After that, it’s all black. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember anything at all.”

20

Stride watched the face of the county attorney, Pat Burns, as Tish recounted Finn’s story. Her brown eyes were intense and focused behind her half-glasses, but he couldn’t see belief, disbelief, surprise, or worry. When Tish was done, Pat reclined in her swivel chair behind her desk and slid the end of her glasses between her teeth. She considered Tish without saying a word.

“You’re a writer, Ms. Verdure,” Pat said. “What’s your interpretation of what Finn told you?”

Tish glanced at Stride, who was seated beside her in front of Pat’s desk. “I think this changes everything,” she said.

“How so?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious? The whole theory behind Dada committing the crime was that his fingerprints were on the bat. Now we know why. It wasn’t that he attacked Laura, it was that he rescued her by fighting off Peter Stanhope. Peter was trying to rape her. They weren’t dating. There was no secret meeting planned. He assaulted her, and then this black man Dada broke it up.”

“According to Finn, Dada was the one who followed Laura toward the beach where her body was found,” Pat pointed out.

“Yes, but without the bat. That’s important.”

Pat nodded. “Isn’t it odd that he would remember a detail like that so clearly?”

“He remembered it, that’s the main thing.”

“So he says.”

“Are you saying he’s lying?”

“I have no idea, but why didn’t he come forward back then? Why wait thirty years to tell this amazing story?”

“He told me that he blacked out the entire night. For months, he didn’t remember a thing. He didn’t even remember being there. It’s only come back to him in flashbacks. Recovered memories.”

“Recovered memories aren’t very reliable. Juries don’t like them.”

“Except his story fits the facts.”

“Yes, you’re right. It does.” Pat looked at Stride. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“I’d say that Finn was telling the truth, up to a point,” Stride said. “His story about what happened in the softball field with Laura and Dada makes sense. His motive for coming forward now is another question. I also don’t know whether he’s telling us everything he remembers.”

“Why do you think Finn chose to come forward now?” Pat asked Tish. “Did he say anything about that?”

“I think he felt guilty for keeping it secret for so long.” Tish hesitated. “Also, I don’t believe he’s well.”

“You think he’s ill? Is it serious?”

“He told me his liver was failing. He has a long history of drug and alcohol abuse.”

“The perfect witness,” Pat said, with a thin smile. She added, “If you don’t mind my asking, Ms. Verdure, what exactly do you hope to accomplish by writing this book?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, is your motive to make a lot of money? Is it to get publicity and headlines?”

“I want justice for Laura,” Tish said. “That’s all.”

“In other words, it’s important to you that your book somehow ‘solves’ this case.”

Tish nodded. “Mark Fuhrman wrote a book about the Martha Moxley murder in Connecticut, and now someone’s finally in jail for the crime.”

“I have to tell you, Ms. Verdure, if that’s your goal, you’re setting yourself up for a big fall. I’m sure Lieutenant Stride has explained the challenges of conducting a prosecution on a case where we have so many missing witnesses and so much missing evidence.”

“Yes, he has,” Tish replied, “but I’m bringing you material you’ve never had before. New evidence. New eyewitnesses. I want to know what you’re planning to do about it.”

Pat folded her hands together. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to seek a motion compelling Peter Stanhope to provide a DNA sample that the police can match against the evidence on the stalker letter and at the crime scene.”

“No,” Pat said.

“No? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Tish pushed the chair back and stood up. “I can’t believe this. We have a witness who proves that Stanhope was lying about what happened that night. If we can match his DNA, we can prove that he was stalking Laura. That’s not enough?”

Pat shook her head. “No, it’s not. For one thing, Finn never mentioned Peter’s name. He admits he couldn’t identify the boy who was with Laura.”

“But Peter already placed himself with Laura in the softball field with his own statement. He never denied he was there. He blamed Dada for the assault, but Finn’s statement proves that’s not what happened.”

“Not necessarily. Finn says it was dark. He could easily have misinterpreted what was happening between Laura and the boy in the field. He could have misconstrued Dada’s actions, too.”

“You want to bury this because Peter is one of your political allies, right? I know how the game is played.”

“You don’t know a thing, Ms. Verdure,” Pat snapped. “I’m not going to seek a motion based on fragments of recollection from a notorious drug addict who has remained silent about this case for decades. It would be an abuse of my authority, and no judge would even consider it. In addition, I’m not going to seek a motion because it would not further a prosecution in this case. Even if I could prove that Peter Stanhope was stalking Laura, I wouldn’t have nearly enough evidence to sustain a murder charge. Until I am convinced we have something to prosecute, I’m not going to go out on a limb. Is that clear?”

“What kind of catch-22 is that?” Tish asked. “You can’t get evidence unless you’re ready to prosecute, and you’ll never be ready to prosecute without evidence. In other words, you’re going to do nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It sure sounds like it.” Tish added, “You know, I haven’t talked to the national press yet, but maybe it’s time I did.”

“If you bring in the national news media, you lose control of the story,” Pat replied. “That’s not going to help your book. Media pressure often has the opposite effect of what you intend.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Tish said.

“Ms. Verdure, you’ve given us a new angle to investigate in this murder, and we will investigate it. Just not the way you may want us to.”

“What do you mean?” Tish asked.

Pat gestured to Stride. “Lieutenant, do you want to explain?”

“We’re going to take a close look at Finn’s story,” Stride told Tish.

“That’s good. That’s what I want.”

“But this isn’t just about Peter Stanhope,” he added.

“What do you mean?” Tish asked.

“I mean that Finn put himself at the scene of the murder with his statement,” Stride explained. “We had no idea he was there until now. He admitted to you that he was following Laura that night. So yes, I want to know what Finn thinks he saw. But the reality is, he just made himself a suspect, too.”

21

Stride took a left exit off the interstate and headed for the steep span of the Blatnik Bridge. The narrow crossing over Superior Bay was also known as the High Bridge, a nickname held over from the days when the second bridge between the cities of Duluth and Superior was the lowly Arrowhead Bridge. Ever since the Bong Bridge had opened in 1985, and the Arrowhead Bridge was torn down, the two bridges had provided identical clearance for ships, about 120 feet from the roadway to the cold waters of the harbor. But for locals, the Blatnik Bridge would always be the High Bridge.

Police on both sides of the bay hated the bridge. Fog, ice, and snow caused numerous accidents. Wind blew cars and trucks across the lanes. Jurisdiction was always a headache, because the state line cut right through the center of the bridge. Then there were the citizens who used the High Bridge like the Golden Gate, as a favorite spot for suicides. The Blatnik offered no pedestrian walkway, only a gravel-strewn shoulder and a three-foot concrete barrier. Leave your car at the height of the span, get out, and take a three-second journey to neverland.

Stride had seen the bridge from both sides, helping untangle wrecks on the highway in the fog and sailing under the bridge in Coast Guard boats as they trolled for bodies. To him, the bridge meant death.

He drove fast in the left lane, crossing under the blue steel arch of the bridge and descending into the decay of northern Superior. He made his way off the highway onto Tower Avenue, driving past shuttered storefronts, where the main street was a ghost town. The two cities were known as the Twin Ports, but Superior was the poor sister, its population declining, its economy staggered by industrial decline. No one made money here. No one built houses. Everyone looked for work and staved off the wolf at the door.

Stride drove south, past the city’s small retail strip into the low, empty land. He turned onto a dirt road that led across a series of railroad tracks. The home that Rikke and Finn Mathisen shared was on a two-acre lot at the end of the developed land, where the road ended in waste and fields. The grass on the square lot was long. Oak trees yawned over the three-story Victorian house. Blue paint chipped away from the siding.

He parked his Expedition across the street and got out. He was immediately adjacent to an unguarded railroad crossing, where nothing but a white X marked the tracks. Tilting poles of telephone wires paralleled the railway. Stride could see a train rumbling between houses a quarter mile away. Its whistle blasted through the quiet in several staccato bursts. When it stopped, he noticed the calmer noise of wind chimes tinging from the Mathisen porch.

It was nearly eight o’clock on Thursday evening. On sunny summer nights, there would be more than an hour of light left, but the clouds overhead were thick and gray, making the dusk look like night. A steady breeze blew dust off the dirt roads. Hot, humid air came with it. Stride walked up the sidewalk, where green grass pushed between the squares of pavement. He noticed a driveway leading to a detached garage behind the house and saw a 1980s-era tan Impala parked in the weeds.

The wooden steps to the porch sagged under his feet. He went up to the front door and peered inside, seeing lights downstairs. When he rapped his knuckles on the door frame, he saw a tall, stocky woman emerge from the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She answered the door, and Stride saw an older version of the woman who had taught him math during his junior year in high school.

“Can I help you?” she asked, drying her hands on the flowers of the apron. Under the apron, she wore a collared white knit shirt and shorts. The windows were closed, and the air from the house was stale and warm.

“Ms. Mathisen?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Stride. I’m with the Duluth police. You wouldn’t remember me, but you were my math teacher for a year back in high school. That was longer ago than either of us would like to admit, I think.”

Rikke didn’t smile. “Police?”

“Yes, I was hoping to talk to Finn.”

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.”

“Well, do you mind if I come in? I’d like to ask you a few questions, too.”

Rikke didn’t rush to invite him inside. “You said you’re with the Duluth police? Shouldn’t you have someone from Superior with you? This isn’t Minnesota, you know.”

“I know, but that’s not actually necessary,” Stride told her. “This won’t take long.”

Rikke shrugged and opened the door. Inside, the old house was decorated with worn throw rugs woven in diamond patterns and half a dozen clay pots of drooping philodendron plants. He noticed two skinny cats wandering across the wooden floors. A fine layer of cat hair had settled over the living room furniture, and he caught a whiff of ammonia. He sat down in an uncomfortable Shaker chair. Rikke untied her apron and sat on the sofa opposite him. She picked at the fraying fabric and pulled white foam from the arm of the sofa. An orange tabby walked across her lap.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He tried to picture the twenty-something teacher inside her. Back then, she had been tall and fit, with wavy, flowing blond hair and Nordic good looks. She had intense blue eyes and large circular glasses propped on her high cheekbones. Full, ripe breasts swelled underneath her white sweaters and defied gravity. Her fleshy, strong thighs bulged out of her jeans. She had a severe way about her in the classroom, like a dominatrix. They joked about it in the locker room. “Teacher, I’ve been bad.”

Thirty years had taken a toll on Rikke. She was heavier, with cellulite dimpling her legs. Her blond hair was short and came out of a bottle. Her face was rounded and jowly. She no longer wore glasses, but her eyes were as fierce as he remembered, like two globes of azure ice. He noticed that one breast sagged like a melting snowman across her chest, and where the other breast should have been, the fabric of her shirt puckered over empty space. A pink ribbon was pinned to the pocket.

“You taught algebra, didn’t you? Or was it geometry?”

“Geometry.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not in a very long time.”

“I have it right, don’t I? Finn lives here with you?”

“Yes, he does.”

“He’s your brother?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s unusual to find a brother and sister who have stayed together so long,” Stride said.

“Finn’s had a hard life,” Rikke replied. “He’s seven years younger than I am, and he’s always needed someone to look after him.”

“Why is that?”

“Why do you care? Do you suspect Finn of having done something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Finn provided some information that’s pertinent to one of our investigations,” Stride told her. “Candidly, I’m trying to assess his credibility as a witness.”

“What investigation?”

Stride didn’t reply.

Irritated, Rikke pushed the cat off her lap and pulled at her shirt. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about his background. You said he had a hard life.”

“Finn and I grew up in North Dakota,” Rikke replied. “Our father was killed in a car accident when Finn was ten. Our mother died five years later. I had just graduated with my teaching license at the time. I took Finn, and we moved here. I got a job. I bought this house with the money we got from selling the farm. I was hoping to give us a fresh start, but for Finn, the wounds went too deep. He spent years on drugs. He’s still drinking himself to death. Sometimes I think I should have kicked him out and let him stand on his own two feet, but I was the only family he had. I wasn’t going to turn my back on him.”

“That can’t have been easy.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Do you remember a girl named Laura Starr?” Stride asked.

The muscles in Rikke’s face tightened. Her cheeks bloomed with pink circles. “Yes, of course.”

“A journalist named Tish Verdure is writing a book about Laura Starr’s murder,” Stride said.

“So I hear. I read the papers.”

“Finn told Tish he was in the park the night Laura was killed.”

Rikke shook her head. “Finn said that? No, that’s not right.”

“You think Finn is lying?”

“He may be making up a story to impress this woman, but more likely, his mind is pulling together bits and pieces of things he’s read about the murder over the years. Finn’s mental state is highly unreliable, Lieutenant. Drugs and drink have fried his brain since he was a boy. He doesn’t have a solid grasp on what’s real and what’s not, certainly not after so much time has passed. I assure you, he wasn’t there.”

“It was a long time ago,” Stride said. “How can you be so sure?”

“You think I ever let Finn drive back then?” Rikke asked. “He never had a car. The only way he got anywhere was if I drove him. That night, we were both at home watching the fireworks.”

Stride leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Did Finn know Laura?”

“Yes, we both did.”

“I understand Finn was in love with her.”

“Finn? Puppy dog love maybe. Nothing more. Laura was one of my favorite students-a sweet girl, very pretty, very quiet. She wanted to be a counselor for teenagers in dysfunctional families. She was passionate about it. I encouraged her to spend time with Finn, because I thought it would help them both. To her credit, she really devoted herself to Finn. I think she made a difference with him, and I’m sure he was grateful to her. To him, that was probably love.”

“What else can you tell me about Laura?”

“You should probably talk to Tish about her,” Rikke said. “The two of them were best friends for a while.”

“For a while?”

Rikke cocked her head. “Yes, they certainly weren’t friends at the end.”

“Oh?”

“God, no. They broke up very badly. Laura came to me in tears.”

“Did she say what happened?”

“She told me they had a fight.”

“What was the fight about?”

Rikke steepled her fingers together. She spoke slowly. “It was about a boy. Tish was insanely jealous. She demanded that Laura stop seeing him.”

“Who was it?”

“Laura didn’t tell me his name, but I always assumed it was the boy from that rich family in Duluth. The Stanhopes. I read in the papers after her death that Laura and Peter were seeing each other.”

Stride didn’t like where this was going. It made him wonder again about Tish’s motives in pursuing Peter Stanhope.

“Did Finn talk to you about Laura’s murder after it happened? Did he ever say he knew something about it?”

“Of course not. Like I told you, he wasn’t there.”

“I do need to talk to Finn,” Stride said, getting to his feet. “How do I reach him?”

Rikke waved her hand dismissively. “He comes and goes when he pleases. I’m not my brother’s keeper. Call the delivery company, and maybe they can help you find him somewhere on his route.”

Stride nodded. “I appreciate your time.”

Rikke didn’t reply.

“You know, I do remember something from your geometry class,” Stride added.

“Oh?”

“I think it was called the parallel postulate.”

Rikke shrugged. “If two lines cross a third and form less than two right angles, then eventually the two lines will meet if extended far enough. Why on earth do you find that so interesting?”

“It’s something I find in most of my investigations,” Stride told her. “Sooner or later, the lines always intersect.”

After Stride left, Rikke Mathisen stood at the living room window that looked out on the street. Holding aside the lace curtain, she watched Stride retreat into the dusky gloom and climb into his truck. His headlights burst on like two staring eyes, and then gravel scraped as he sped down the dirt road back to the highway, jolting across the railroad tracks. She watched until the red taillights disappeared and kept watching as night fell outside like a black cloud enveloping the house. Her orange tabby cat rubbed against her legs and mewed, but Rikke didn’t move. In the distance, coming from the northeast, a train screamed. Even at this distance, she felt its vibration under her feet. It didn’t matter how long she had lived here. She heard every train.

Rikke turned away. Hung on the foyer wall by a steel wire was a mirror, framed in heavy brass, laden with dust. She caught a glimpse of her dark reflection, and her breath clutched in her chest, because it was her mother’s face staring back at her like a mean-eyed ghost brought up from the earth. Fate was cruel. Thirty years had passed, and she had become the person that she and Finn had hated for so long. You can run and run, and when you think you’ve escaped, you realize that all along you’ve been running in a circle.

She switched off the downstairs light and felt her way with her hands, like a blind person, toward the mahogany steps that led upstairs. At the top of the stairs, she stared at the closed door in front of her. Finn’s room. She jiggled the metal knob, but it was locked. He always kept it locked. He didn’t realize that Rikke kept a key. She let herself inside and turned on the light, not caring if Finn saw the glow from his bedroom window when he drove home. The room was messy. Soiled clothes were strewn across the bed and draped over the closet door. Crushed cans of Budweiser littered the floor like silver hockey pucks. She smelled urine from his sheets. He still wet the bed.

The top drawer of his black lacquer nightstand was open. She yanked it out and overturned the drawer onto the floor, where the contents rolled and clattered. She did the same with the bottom drawer. She got down on all fours and pushed through the pile of junk with her hands. Finn saved everything. Old cell phones and computer cables. Half-completed tax forms. Dried-up pens and pencils snapped in half. Thumbed porno magazines, bottles of lubricant, and rubber strokers crusted over with discharge.

An old photograph.

Rikke held it up and stared at it. The picture was four inches square, with a narrow white border, its colors faded and unnatural. She recognized Finn in the backyard of their house, sitting next to Laura at a picnic bench, with his arm around her shoulder. They were young and smiling. Laura wore a tank top. Finn was bare-chested, his blond hair curly and big. Rikke remembered taking the photograph. She held it, her hands trembling, then tore it in half, and tore it in half again, and again, until the pieces were too small to rip. She scattered them like pinches of coarse salt over the mess on the floor.

Back then, Finn had given up his room for Laura on those nights when she stayed over. She had slept here in his twin bed, while he slept on the sofa downstairs. Except when he would creep upstairs and watch. Rikke knew all about it. She had seen him hovering in the blackness of the doorway to his room, staring at his bed, where the stars glowed faintly and illuminated bare flesh. They never talked about it. Some things were just understood.

She went to his desk next, pulled out all the drawers, and poured them out like jugs of water. She sifted through the debris without seeing what she wanted, but she knew she would find what she was looking for eventually. She knew Finn. With her face sober and emotionless, she pulled all of his clothes off the hangers in the closet, pulled the board games down off the dusty shelf, and felt along the grainy surface of the wood with outstretched fingers. When she found nothing, she dragged the mattress off Finn’s bed and then flipped the box spring off the frame.

Nothing.

She toppled the black nightstand to the floor with one hand. The lamp came with it, crashing and breaking. She bent over and peered at the underside of the nightstand and nodded grimly to herself.

There it was.

A bulging manila envelope was taped to the unfinished wood with duct tape that was losing its stickiness, because it had been pulled off and resealed countless times. Rikke grabbed the envelope. Slabs of tape came with it. She ripped the flap and extracted the dog-eared sheaf of papers inside. She went through each one carefully, studying every picture. They were grainy color photographs, printed on the inkjet on Finn’s desk. Blurry images, taken at night. It didn’t matter. She could see clearly enough what they were.

Teenage girls.

When she had seen them all, she shoved them back into the envelope. On the opposite wall, beside Finn’s desk, was a metal trash can. She emptied it of garbage and then put the envelope inside. She hunted for a box of matches amid the chaos she had created on the floor, then lit a match and dropped it inside the trash can, where the wispy fire smoldered on the paper and grew into a widening torch of flame. Smoke and orange lightning belched from the can. The envelope and all the photographs curled into flakes of black ash that floated in the room like coal-colored snow. In the hallway, the smoke alarm honked in protest. Rikke ignored it.

When it was over, the metal inside was scorched. She took a ruler, got down on her knees, and hacked at the warm ashes, turning them into dust. Her skin was streaked with soot. She got up and wiped her hands on her shorts, leaving black fingerprints.

The computer was next. And the camera. They would all go in the river sometime during the middle-night hours. You couldn’t erase things like that. Someone who knew what they were doing could always find them again.

Rikke heard a noise in the hall and looked up.

Finn was in the doorway.

22

Tish parked in an alley behind the Kitch, where it was dark except for a soft yellow glow from inside the club windows. A diagonal rain swept the street as she climbed out of her Civic. She unfolded an umbrella, held it at an angle like a flag, and splashed through the puddles in her heels around the corner of the building toward the high door. The four-story clubhouse towered above her, regal and imposing in red brick, like a rich man’s mansion. Hollow-eyed Indian gargoyles guarded the entrance and stared at her disapprovingly. By the time she slipped inside, her white dress was speckled with rain spots. She flipped her hair, and water sprayed onto the wine red carpet.

The sprawling main corridor was lined in dark wood and sconce lights and bore the club’s logo in gold on the floor. Tish took a few tentative steps, expecting someone to stop her. Instead, the hallway was empty. She had never been here before, but she remembered people talking about the Kitch the way people on the East Coast talked about Skull and Bones. The faces of members had changed in 125 years, but admission was still by invitation only. To Tish, it felt like a secret society for the privileged. A place built stone by stone on money and tradition.

On her left was a lounge with thick beams lining the ceiling and deep paisley carpet on the floor. A wood fire burned in a brick fireplace, and two leather recliners were carefully placed on either side of the hearth. She was cold from the rain, and she approached the fireplace, putting out her hands to warm them and feeling heat on her dress. As she dripped on the carpet, she noticed an oil painting on the west wall with a familiar face. It was an old man in a three-piece suit. His head was almost bald. He looked tough and prosperous. When she approached the portrait, she saw his name inscribed on a brass plate on the frame.

Randall Stanhope. Former president of the club.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from behind her. Tish turned and saw a tuxedo-clad attendant in his fifties with a clipped mustache.

“I’m sorry,” Tish said. She squared her shoulders and gave the man an engaging smile. “I’m supposed to be meeting Peter Stanhope here. Can you tell me where to find him?”

She had no meeting scheduled. Peter hadn’t seen her in thirty years. But everyone told her that the Kitch was where he spent most of his evenings. Like his father.

“Mr. Stanhope is in the pool room downstairs,” he told her. “Would you like me to tell him you’re here?”

“No, I’ll just join him there.”

“Do you know the way?” the man asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Let me show you.”

The attendant led her downstairs, where the ceilings were lower and the walls felt as if they were closing in. Tish heard raucous male laughter. The pool room was smaller than she expected, with lapis color on the walls and in the checkerboard carpet. Half a dozen men in white shirts and loosened ties gathered around a pool table lined with burgundy felt. They drank scotch from crystal lowball glasses.

The conversation stopped when they saw her. Tish recognized Peter Stanhope immediately. He had a custom pool cue in his hand and was bent over, taking aim on a shot down the table. He was the only man still wearing a suit coat. She was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath and see the overhead lights shining in his silver hair. As she watched, he struck the cue ball with a sharp crack and thunked the solid purple four ball into the far pocket.

“Mr. Stanhope?”

“Yes, George?” Peter asked. He looked past the attendant and sized up Tish.

“I believe you have a meeting with this woman.”

Peter straightened up and propped his cue against the table. He folded his arms and rubbed his sunburned chin with his left hand. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity behind penny- colored glasses. “Do I?”

George’s smile evaporated. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Peter replied pleasantly. He eyed Tish. “Is there?”

“My name is Tish Verdure,” she said quickly.

Tish heard a rumble of displeasure among the other men in the room. They knew who she was. Peter didn’t react, other than to flick his tongue quickly across his upper teeth. “Ah.”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Stanhope,” George said, stepping in front of Tish. “This woman told me she had a meeting scheduled with you. I’ll see her out immediately.”

Peter waved his hand. “No, no, it’s fine, George. I’ve been anxious to speak to Ms. Verdure, as it happens. Boys, carry on without me, all right?” He approached Tish and extended his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were smooth, except for the dust of pool chalk.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her.

“Some red wine, I guess.”

“George, a bottle of the Alphonse Mellot pinot that I had last night, all right? Is anyone in 306 tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Take it up there, will you?”

“Of course.”

Peter refilled his own tumbler from a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and then took Tish’s arm by the elbow. “Shall we?”

He guided her to a turn-of-the-century elevator that was uncomfortably small. They were shoulder to shoulder. Peter didn’t say anything as they rode upward. He just smiled, showing beautifully white teeth, and smoothed down his hair. She noticed his eyes straying over her body. When the doors opened, he led her to a room painted in cream, with an off-white sofa, an armchair, and a square glass coffee table. Through a doorway, Tish saw a queen-sized bed with an elaborately flowered comforter. She backed up.

“This is a bedroom,” she said.

“A guest room,” Peter said. “Members outside the city stay here sometimes. Or men whose wives have kicked them out for the night. That’s why I prefer the single life.” He added, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to assault you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I just thought we would both like some privacy.”

“Leave the door open.”

“Whatever you want.”

Peter took the armchair and worked on his drink. Tish sat uneasily on the sofa, her knees squeezed together. A few minutes later, George entered the room with a balloon-shaped wineglass and an open bottle. He set them on the table in front of her and poured, then gave her an imperious look and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Do you want me to open it again?” Peter asked, nodding at the door.

Tish shrugged.

“Well, here we are,” he continued. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking good, Tish. Do you mind if I call you that?”

Tish shrugged again.

“You were sexy then, and you haven’t lost your appeal,” he told her, his eyes roving. “Real beauty matures with age, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to repay the compliment,” he said.

“You know you look good, so why do you need to hear it from me?”

Peter laughed. “Try the wine, Tish. It’s excellent.”

Tish did, and it was.

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve changed?” she asked.

“We all change. You’re different, I’m different.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care who you are now or how much money you have. It’s what you did thirty years ago that concerns me.”

Peter nodded. “You think I murdered Laura. You think I took a baseball bat and beat her head in.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I didn’t do that. How can I convince you I’m telling the truth?”

Tish took another drink of wine. It was fruity and light as helium. “You can’t. I already know you lied back then.”

“Oh?”

“Finn Mathisen saw you,” Tish snapped. “He saw you attack Laura in the field. The black man, Dada, he saved her. When Laura ran off, the bat was still in the field. It was still with you.”

“Finn Mathisen,” Peter murmured, shaking his head. “I haven’t thought about him in years. Him and his sister, Rikke. She was one of those tasty young teachers we all lusted after. Please, Tish. We both know what kind of witness Finn is. Pat Burns is never going to put someone on the stand who probably can’t remember most of the 1980s.”

“I don’t care what kind of witness he would make,” Tish said. “I’m writing a book, not doing a dance for a jury. What matters is that he’s telling the truth.”

“Say he is. That doesn’t mean I killed Laura.”

“Are you admitting you assaulted her?”

“I’m not admitting anything. However, even if I was stupid enough to think that no from a girl really meant yes just because my name was Peter Stanhope, do you think I would kill her over something like that?”

“Over not getting what you want? Yes, I do.”

“Well, you’re right, I don’t take rejection well,” Peter admitted. “You said no to me, and I called you a queer. As I recall, I kissed you and grabbed your tits. I was a pig.”

“Yes, you were.”

“But I didn’t kill you, did I? Because here you are.”

“Maybe you wanted Laura more than me.”

Peter’s smile faltered. His full lips twitched.

“Maybe you were obsessed with her,” Tish continued. “Maybe you were enraged that she didn’t want you.” She met his eyes and whispered, “Are you going to be alone tonight, you whore?”

His fingers clutched the tumbler so tightly that she thought the crystal might shatter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But he did.

Tish knew that she was right. She swallowed down her loathing and drank more wine.

Peter stood up, stretching his legs. He caught his reflection in a brass mirror and dusted the broad lapels of his suit coat. His grin returned, more brightly than before. “I always wondered if you were upset that Laura found me attractive.”

“She didn’t.”

“You’re wrong about that. All the girls back then were interested in me. You were the exception. Or were you just playing hard to get?”

“Oh, please.”

“Is that why you didn’t like me dating your best friend?”

“Laura broke it off with you. She told me she did.”

“Ah, but are you sure she wasn’t lying? Maybe Laura didn’t want you to know what was really going on between us.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Tish snapped.

“I wonder what you would have done if you’d found out the truth,” he said. “I imagine you would have been very upset.”

“Are you finished?”

“I haven’t even begun. Don’t tangle with a lawyer, Tish.”

“I’m going to get you,” she insisted.

He laughed. “You know that’s not going to happen.”

She cringed, feeling on display as he watched her. His eyes glittered with lust that he didn’t bother hiding.

“The sad thing is, I’m telling you that I think you’re a murderer, and you still want to sleep with me.”

Peter sat down next to her on the sofa and took an oversized swallow of his scotch. Their legs touched. “True.”

“Are you that desperate?”

“I’m not desperate at all.”

“I picture you with a harem of twenty-something models,” Tish said.

“Sometimes.”

“So why come on to a woman in her late forties who thinks you’re the devil?”

“I’m not the devil. I thought you were finally beginning to find me charming.”

“Hardly.”

“Believe it or not, I like women who are mature. Strong. Independent. I don’t find many women who stand up to me.”

“So you’re saying that having a woman accuse you of murder turns you on.”

“I’ve heard worse accusations than that.” He grinned. “I think you’re lying, Tish. You do find me attractive. You always have.”

“You find yourself attractive enough for both of us.”

“There aren’t many women who get to reject me twice.”

Tish felt a shiver of fear. “What does that mean?”

“Not what you think. I just mean you’ve managed to deflate my ego, not to mention my manhood, in two separate decades.”

“You’ll live.”

“I already told you that I don’t take rejection well. It just makes me more determined.”

“Do I need to scream?”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of ravishing a woman who doesn’t want me to ravish her.”

“Good.”

“I am going to kiss you, though,” Peter said. “I think you owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“So slap my face if you want.”

He leaned across the sofa. Tish stared into his eyes and didn’t turn away. His lips were rough as they moved against hers. She felt nothing but responded as if she did. She put her hands around his neck and held him to her. He smelled like a man. She felt his fingers stroke her breast with a feathery touch, testing the waters. It was now or never.

Tish bit down on Peter’s fat lower lip. Hard. Warm blood sprayed onto their faces, and she mashed her cheek against him and held on tight. Peter bellowed in pain and fought to disentangle himself. He shoved her away and leaped to his feet. His chin was a messy cherry river dripping onto his shirt.

“You crazy bitch!” he shouted.

“Get the hell away from me, Peter,” Tish told him calmly.

He ripped open the guest room door. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

Tish watched him go as she dabbed smears of blood from her face onto the sleeve of her white dress.

She was thinking: I’ve got you.

Two hours later, a noise woke Tish out of a dead sleep in her condominium.

She bolted up in bed, the blanket bunching at her waist. She listened to sounds from the open window, where surf slapped at the base of the bluff. The air horn of a truck blared on the freeway. That was all.

She climbed out of bed and grabbed her robe from the closet. Her white dress was wrapped in plastic on the shelf.

She stopped. Waited.

A few seconds later, she heard it again. Sharp and musical. From somewhere outside came the sound of glass breaking.

Tish ran into the main room of the condo and hunted for her phone. The room was black with shadows. She was alone, no one lying in wait for her, no one charging her out of the corners. She didn’t hear the noise again.

A car peeled away on the street, its loud engine growing faint as it roared toward the curve leading back to the city. Tish crept to the front door and peered through the spyhole. Outside, the sidewalk and street were quiet. She opened the door carefully and watched tendrils of fog drift through the glow of the streetlight. When she stepped outside, sweat began to grow on her skin like a fungus.

Nothing moved.

The pavement scratched her bare feet. She took tentative steps toward the curb. When she saw her rental car, parked near the trees, she ran.

Half of the windshield was caved in, the other half frosted with starbursts of white glass. Scissor-sharp popcorn littered the seats. Jammed between the spokes of the steering wheel was a wooden baseball bat.

23

The asphalt in the parking lot of the delivery company where Finn Mathisen worked was wet, with steam rising from pools of water. Rain showers had dodged in and out of the city all day, leaving behind a moldy smell of worms. The humid air made Stride’s black T-shirt cling to his skin, and the charcoal sport coat he wore over it felt damp. A line of sweat traced his forehead. It was Friday night. He wanted to go home and jump in the shower, but Finn was an hour late returning from his delivery route.

The parking lot was filled with cars left by delivery drivers for the day. Vans and trucks backed up to docks around him, loading and unloading. The company substation was less than a mile from the Duluth airport, making it easy to feed packages to outbound flights. He heard the thunder of a jet overhead, which he knew was the evening Northwest flight from the Twin Cities. It would suck up passengers and cargo and then roar back south.

A dirty yellow van rumbled off the highway. Stride caught a glimpse of the driver and recognized the narrow face and shaved head of Finn Mathisen. Finn didn’t see him. Stride waited while Finn backed up his truck to an open dock and watched him clamber out of the truck, climb the steps of the platform, and disappear inside the building. Even from twenty yards away, Stride could see that Finn’s uniform was soiled from a day in the heat. These were the days in Duluth that leached away everyone’s energy.

Stride waited half an hour before Finn strutted out of the building’s front door. He had showered and changed and was now wearing cutoffs that made his legs look like matchsticks and a gray tank top with gaping sleeve holes. He wore old sneakers with no socks.

“Finn,” Stride called.

He pushed off his Expedition and met Finn where the sidewalk ended and the parking lot began. Finn was three inches taller than Stride, but he looked as if he would blow away when the wind came off the lake.

“Who are you?” Finn asked. His eyes danced nervously.

Stride introduced himself. When Finn heard the word “police,” he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other and stared over Stride’s shoulder at the row of parked cars as if he wanted to bolt. Mint breathed out of Finn’s mouth like fire from a dragon.

“You got a date tonight, Finn?” Stride asked.

“Huh? No. What do you mean?”

“You’ve got sweet breath. Like you brushed your teeth fifty or sixty times.”

“I have halitosis, and I need to use those breath strips,” Finn said.

Stride nodded. “It’s funny, when traffic cops smell mint, they immediately think DUI. You wouldn’t be late because you stopped for a couple cold ones at a bar, would you?”

Finn glanced back over his shoulder at the company door. “Hell, no.”

“I’ve got a Breathalyzer in the car,” Stride told him. “You want to have a go at it?”

“I wasn’t drinking!”

“Okay, Finn. Whatever you say. I have some questions for you.”

“Yeah, my sister told me you came by the house. She said you were asking about Laura’s murder.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It was thirty years ago. It was a shitty time in my life.”

“Is your life any better now?” Stride asked, eyeing the man from top to bottom. Tish was right. He looked as if he were dying.

Finn flinched. “Yeah, all right, I’ve spent my life sitting in a park with God flying overhead crapping on me. Is that what you want to hear? I’m a loser.”

“What I want to hear is whether you told Tish the truth.”

“Man, what do you care? I mean, what are you after? Everyone from back then is old or dead.”

That was true. Stride didn’t really have an answer. He hadn’t asked himself why he cared so passionately about this case, thirty years after Ray Wallace called it solved. It wasn’t about Tish. It wasn’t about Pat Burns asking him to turn over rocks, in case the national press started asking questions. He had begun to realize that Laura’s murder had changed the course of his life, and it was disturbing to discover that he knew much less about the case-and about Laura-than he had ever believed.

“If the guy who killed Laura is alive, then he still has a debt to pay,” Stride said.

“You don’t need to be behind bars to pay a price. You think living with something like that for thirty years doesn’t eat you up?”

“Is there something you feel guilty about?” Stride asked.

Finn swallowed hard. “I just want to go home. I don’t want to get involved.”

“Talk to me, Finn.”

“I already told the whole story to Tish.”

“I don’t like getting stories secondhand. Tell me again.”

Finn rubbed sweat off his bald head. “All right, all right.” He repeated his memories of the night Laura was killed in the park, which followed the story as Tish had recounted it. He skimmed over the details, but Stride let him continue without interrupting him. Finn ended with his claim that Dada had followed Laura into the woods, leaving the bat in the softball field.

“Is it possible you misunderstood what was happening between Laura and the boy in the field?” Stride asked.

“What do you mean, misunderstood?”

“Maybe they weren’t fighting. Maybe they were making out.”

Finn shook his head. “No way.”

“You’re certain that the black guy, Dada, left the baseball bat in the field?” Stride asked.

“Yeah.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I saw him throw it away, okay?”

“What else do you remember?” Stride asked.

“Nothing. I don’t remember a thing.”

Stride watched Finn’s eyes. The man was lying.

“You told Tish there are gaps in your memory,” Stride said.

“There are gaps in my life,” Finn replied.

“Sometimes people aren’t sure what’s real and what’s a dream, you know what I mean? Are there things like that?”

“I said I don’t remember, okay? Nothing means nothing.”

But it didn’t. Finn was keeping something from him. Stride was sure of it.

“Why were you following Laura?” he asked.

“I liked her.”

“Did you follow her to the park?”

“No, she wandered by. Her and her sister.”

“Did you know someone was stalking Laura? Threatening her? Sending her obscene messages?”

“No,” Finn replied.

“It wasn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. All I did was follow her.”

“You knew Laura pretty well, didn’t you? Why not tell her you were there? Why spy on her?”

Finn opened his mouth and closed it. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“I didn’t-I mean-I just liked to watch her. I was embarrassed.”

Stride nodded. “Is any of this story true, Finn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister says you weren’t in the park at all that night.”

Finn shook his head. “Rikke doesn’t think I can fight my own battles. I’m still just a kid to her.”

“So she lied.”

“Hey, she said we were watching fireworks, right? Well, you were there that night. It stormed. There weren’t any fireworks.”

Stride remembered. Finn was right.

“Why would she say that?” Stride asked.

“To protect me.”

“Do you need protection?”

“Back then, yeah, I probably did.”

“Did you kill Laura?”

“No.”

“How do you know? You said you don’t remember a thing. You said Dada left without the bat, and the boy who attacked Laura was unconscious in the softball field. That leaves you and the bat, Finn. Maybe you picked it up. Maybe you did what you’d been doing all night. You followed Laura to the north beach.”

Finn squeezed his head with big hands. His fingernails were chewed and bloody. “No.”

“How do you know?” Stride repeated.

“Leave me alone,” Finn said. His yellowing skin burned crimson. He covered his eyes.

“I think Rikke lied for you because she thinks you killed Laura.”

“No.” His voice was muffled. Sweat dripped down his face like tears and spilled off his chin.

“How can you be sure?”

Finn clutched his fingers into fists and beat against his forehead. “I’m not sure! Does that make you happy? I don’t know! I don’t remember! For all I know, I took that fucking bat and beat her into a pulp. Okay? You try living with that. You try not knowing if you murdered a girl. See what that does to your life.”

He shoved his way past Stride and ran for his car.

As Stride watched Finn climb into his vehicle, he remembered talking to Rikke about geometry and realized he was seeing the parallel postulate at work again. He was watching two lines intersect.

Two lines he would have preferred remain parallel, never touching, so that the past didn’t infect the present.

Finn drove a silver RAV.

24

There was no escape from the heat.

Even on the Point, which usually enjoyed a cool breeze off the lake, the evening air was stifling. Stride parked in the mud near his cottage. Heat radiated off the dirt, and the leaves drooped in the trees around him. Serena wasn’t home. He didn’t bother going inside but instead climbed the shallow dune in order to watch the dusk descend on the lake. He and Serena kept two chairs in the sand at the crest of the hill, where they often sat to drink coffee in the mornings.

One of the chairs was occupied. It was Tish.

She didn’t look at him as he took a seat next to her. Her eyes were locked in the distance, watching sailboats on the water. She had a plastic bag in her lap, which she protected with both hands, as if it were a child that might squirm away and fall. They didn’t say anything. The lake was still, like pale blue china, and the line where the sky and the water met was lost in a sticky haze.

“I went to the wrong house,” she said finally.

Stride didn’t reply.

“It was the house where you and Cindy used to live. The people there told me how to find you.”

“I haven’t lived there in a long time.”

“I know,” Tish said, turning to study his face. “Cindy showed me a photograph of your house once. I never forgot it. I recognized it as soon as I saw it. I guess I never really thought about all the time that had passed. Somehow I thought you’d still be there. Cindy, too. I suppose that sounds crazy.”

“No, it happens to me, too,” Stride said. “But Cindy’s gone. So is Laura. So are their parents. It’s almost as if the whole family never existed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s just the way it is.”

“I understand how you feel,” Tish said. “I lost my mother. I lost Laura. In a strange way, when Cindy died, I felt orphaned again. Like she was the last link to my past and my family. But I’m not comparing my loss to yours.”

Stride said nothing.

“There’s something I need to tell you about my book,” Tish said. “I’ve written the early chapters in Cindy’s voice. I tell the story through her eyes.”

Stride’s face tensed with dismay. “Why did you do that?”

“She was there. She was the witness.”

“You don’t have a free pass into her life,” he snapped, his voice getting louder. “Or mine.”

Tish looked flustered. “I’m sorry. She’s part of the story. So are you.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to walk on her grave.”

“I’m not doing that at all. I swear.”

Stride shrugged. There was a weight on his chest.

“I didn’t realize this would make you so uncomfortable,” she said.

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. Forget it. This isn’t about you or your book.”

He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. He wanted to tell her how angry he was that his grief came alive every time he saw her. He wanted to confess to someone that he felt guilty, because he had allowed Cindy to slip back into the daily beating of his heart, where Serena belonged now. Instead, he pushed away his emotions and changed the subject.

“After what happened to your car, I’d like to keep an officer outside your condo overnight,” he told her.

Tish blinked. He knew she could hear the sudden coolness in his voice. “So this time you don’t think it’s just kids.”

“I don’t know, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

“Okay, sure, whatever you want.”

Tish took the bag on her lap and passed it across to him silently. Stride looked inside and saw a white dress, neatly folded. “This is for you,” she said. “I’m not sure you’ll understand what I did. Or why I did it.”

He grew concerned. “What is this?”

“You’ll find a sample of Peter Stanhope’s DNA in a bloodstain on the dress,” Tish said.

Stride closed the bag and stared at the sky. “What the hell did you do?”

“What I had to.”

“Son of a bitch, Tish, are you out of your mind?”

“Look, Peter is guilty, and you told me flat out that there’s no way the courts can force him to give us a sample. So I took it. I hope I left a scar, too.”

“You just confessed to battery.”

“He started it when he tried to kiss me, the bastard. I know what you think, but I got us something we never had before. A way to confirm whether Peter was stalking Laura.”

Stride shook his head. “It’s not that simple. There’s a reason why a court wouldn’t compel a DNA sample. We don’t have any probable cause. Even if we run the test and find out that Stanhope was sending Laura those notes, that doesn’t change anything. It’s not like Pat Burns is going to put him in front of a jury. It’s not going to happen.”

“Are you saying you won’t run the sample?”

“Do you think I just snap my fingers and get these things done? There’s a backlog. There are other priorities. It’s one thing to compare DNA in a stalker note against a database to try to break a cold case open. It’s another to test one specific individual just because you’ve got it in your head that he’s guilty.”

“Don’t make it worthless, Jon. Tell me I didn’t do this for nothing.”

“I’ll talk to Pat Burns. That’s all I can do.”

“I can’t believe you’d ignore this,” Tish insisted. “I can’t believe you’d walk away from the one chance we have to find out what really happened. You heard Finn’s story. Peter assaulted Laura that night. He was in the field with the bat after Dada rescued her.”

“Finn has no credibility. If there’s one person whose DNA I’d like to run, it’s Finn.”

“What are you talking about? You think Finn killed Laura?”

“I think it’s a damn strong possibility. Finn is deranged, Tish. It’s not a big leap to think he was capable of murder.”

“You’re giving Peter Stanhope a free pass. Is it because of his money? Did you learn your lessons from Ray Wallace?” She stopped. Her eyes widened as she realized what she had said. “God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“No one gets a free pass from me,” Stride said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re the one who can’t see past Peter Stanhope,” Stride said. “There are plenty of other people who are hiding things about Laura. Including you.”

“Me?”

“Rikke said you were jealous of Laura’s relationship with Peter.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It looks to me like you’re obsessed with him,” Stride said.

“This isn’t about Peter. No one else was standing up for Laura, so I decided it was up to me.”

“Why?”

“She was my best friend.”

“So why were the two of you fighting that spring?”

“We weren’t. We were past it.”

“What was the fight about?”

“I told you that I don’t remember. It was thirty years ago.”

“You’re lying, Tish. Don’t lie to a cop and think I won’t know. Were you fighting about Peter Stanhope? Is that why you’re so focused on Peter? It makes me wonder whether you had a motive to kill Laura.”

“That’s crazy. You don’t honestly think I would go through all this trouble if I had anything to do with her murder, do you?”

“Where were you that night?” Stride asked.

“I already told you. I was living in St. Paul.”

“No, what specifically were you doing that night? Where were you? Who were you with?”

Tish shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“That’s strange. I’d think you’d remember what you were doing the night your best friend was brutally murdered.”

“You’re making too much of this,” Tish said. She stood up, and the chair toppled backward into the sand behind her. “Laura was killed by a stalker. You’ve got Peter’s DNA. It’s up to you now.”

“I have one more question,” Stride told her. “And you’d better answer this one.”

Tish folded her arms in annoyance. “What?”

“When did Cindy show you a photo of our house?”

Tish’s mouth fell open. Stride thought she had slipped, that she had said something she never intended to share. “I don’t know. It was probably something she included with a Christmas card.”

“Stop lying to me. You said Cindy showed you a photograph. She didn’t send it to you. She was with you. When was this?”

“A few months before she died,” Tish admitted.

“Where?”

“She visited me in Atlanta.”

Stride searched his memory. In those last terrible months, Cindy had begun to wrap her mind around the fact that she was dying, that the treatment options had finally run out. The only time he could remember her being gone was a weekend where she went off by herself, vanishing from his side for three long days. To make peace with the past, she said. She never told him where she went or anything about her trip. Back then, he had been afraid that she might commit suicide to spare him and herself the agony of a slow death. He now knew that she had gone to see Tish.

Someone she had never mentioned to him in her entire life.

Why?

“You owe me the truth,” Stride said.

Tish picked up the fallen chair and steadied it in the sand. She sat down again but didn’t look at Stride.

“Cindy first wrote to me about fifteen years ago,” Tish said. “It was shortly after her father died.”

“Did you know William Starr?”

“Enough to despise him.”

Stride nodded. He remembered the long weeks in which Cindy had sat at her father’s bedside while he waged a losing battle with cancer. William Starr had always been a hard man to like. Judgmental. Rigid. Obsessed with righteousness and punishment and all the while terrified of going to hell for his own sins. Death has a way of softening even the toughest of men. Stride remembered Cindy holding her father’s hand, listening to him weep, giving him absolution in a way that no priest ever could.

“Cindy had no illusions about her father,” he said.

“Neither did Laura. She loved him despite everything he did to her, but I knew he was a gutless piece of shit. He cheated on their mother, did you know that? Multiple times. Laura heard them arguing about it.”

“Why did Cindy contact you when he died?”

Tish hesitated. “I guess when she lost him, it brought up all her old emotions about Laura. It’s that aloneness you feel when your family is gone. So she thought of me. She knew how close Laura and I were, and she decided to rekindle a friendship with me.”

“Then what?”

“We wrote back and forth for years. Not often, but enough that we became close.”

“She never told me about you,” Stride said.

“Well, we had a bond because of Laura. Cindy and I both lost someone we loved. Neither one of us ever put it behind us.”

“Why the visit in Atlanta?” Stride asked.

Tish’s voice was soft. “Cindy knew she was dying. She wanted to see me. To say good-bye. And to tell me things. She told me everything that happened to her that night in 1977. With Laura. With you. In the lake. Everything. Things she had never told anyone else before. That’s why I chose to put so much of the book in her voice.”

Stride shook his head. He felt as if he were falling, fast and hard. “Why would she do that?”

Tish took his hand.

“Because she didn’t want me to let it go. She wanted me to do something. That’s why I’m obsessed. That’s why I have to see this out and do whatever it takes to get to the truth. Don’t you see, Jon? That’s why I’m here. I’ve resisted it ever since Cindy came to me, but I couldn’t resist it anymore. Coming back after all these years wasn’t my idea. Writing a book about Laura’s murder wasn’t my idea. It was Cindy’s.”

25

When Serena arrived home after midnight, she found the door to their attic hanging open. The unfinished space had an Alice in Wonderland feel to it, like crossing over into a different dimension. The stairway was built right into the cottage’s great room, with five dark walnut steps leading up to two narrow locked doors. Behind the doors, a single lonely bulb gave light, and the old wooden beams climbed to a high ceiling. Several more steps ended in another set of doors, where century-old paint flecked off the finish. Tonight the upper doors were open, too. She continued to the attic level.

Up here, the heat gathered like a cloud during the warmer months, and during the winter it was frigid, and the old chambered windows collected frost. The space was wide open. The sharp peaks of the roof rose above her head. The unfinished floor was a minefield of splinters and nail pops. Spiderwebs hung like draperies from the beams. There was nothing but unpacked moving boxes strewn on the floor. They had plans to convert the upper floor into a master suite someday and take advantage of its quirky angles and lake views, but for now, it was a dumping ground for remnants of both of their pasts.

“Hey,” she said.

Jonny was seated on the floor in the middle of the attic. He wore only black boxers. His feet were bare, his hair damp and wild from the shower. The contents of two open boxes were scattered around him. She saw shoe boxes filled with photos, rubber-banded stacks of letters and postcards, and other paraphernalia from his marriage that he had long ago packed away.

He didn’t reply.

“God, it’s hot,” she said. She sat down near him and reached for a stack of photographs that showed Jonny and Cindy on the strip of lakeside beach on the Point. Both were young. Jonny’s hair was dark. One picture, slightly off center, had obviously been taken on a self-timer, with the camera balanced on a tree stump. It showed the two of them kissing. The kind of kiss you felt down to your toes. Serena couldn’t help herself; she felt a pang of jealousy. She put the photos back, not wanting to look anymore. She felt as if she had intruded on something sacred.

“You okay?” she asked.

Jonny looked lost. He didn’t share his memories easily. Serena had made it a point never to push him, because she had spent years dealing with the ghosts in her own past, and she knew that you couldn’t open up about them on anyone else’s time. Every now and then, he opened a window to her. Only a crack. Only when he was ready.

He lay back, propping himself up on his palms. When he looked up into the shadows of the high ceiling, she saw dark stubble on his face. For a man in his late forties, he was fit and strong. His stomach was taut. He worked out ferociously, as she did. It was only a stall, of course. Age was catching up to both of them, in their skin, their eyes, their muscles, their hair, and their bodies.

“Did I ever tell you about the day I found out Cindy had cancer?” he murmured.

“No, you didn’t.”

She could almost see his mind traveling back, retrieving the memory from among the cobwebs. She knew she was about to learn something important.

“I was investigating a girl’s disappearance,” he told her. “You remember the Kerry McGrath case? I was working on it sixteen hours every day. Cindy had been having unusual pain and vaginal bleeding, and so she had an MRI scheduled. I was supposed to go with her, but I totally forgot. She had to go alone. I didn’t get home until nearly midnight, and I never even remembered the appointment. She was sitting on the bed, smiling at me. This fragile smile, like glass. I didn’t notice. I was talking about the investigation, going on and on, and Cindy just smiled at me.”

“Oh, Jonny,” Serena said softly.

“It was like I never took a breath, you know? I was so caught up in it. And then finally, I looked at her, and I still didn’t get it. I didn’t have a clue what was wrong. So she said, still smiling, ‘It’s not good, baby.’ Just like that. Her smile broke up into little pieces, and I knew. I knew what was coming. I knew that every plan we had made for the future had just evaporated. I looked at this little jewel of mine on the bed, and I watched her start sobbing, and I knew I was going to lose her.”

His voice caught. He closed his eyes.

Serena felt tears on her cheeks.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

He exhaled a long, slow breath. “No, I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to you.”

“You don’t have to keep things from me,” Serena told him. “It took me a long time to be vulnerable around you. I was so busy protecting myself that I forgot that you had demons of your own.”

“It’s this case. It’s brought it all back.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know. I spent years getting over Cindy. Now I feel like the stitches have been ripped open.”

Serena wondered whether to say anything. “Is it making you question things?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Me.”

She saw his face cloud over.

“Don’t think that,” he said. “That’s not it at all.”

She thought he was trying to convince himself.

“There are days when I feel like I’m competing with a ghost,” she admitted. “Someone who’s always perfect, who’s always young.”

“There’s no competition. I apologize if I ever made you feel that way.”

“No, this is my problem, not yours.”

“It’s not that this case makes me miss Cindy any more than I do already,” Stride told her. “I always will, you know that. The hard part is that I’m learning things that make me question my whole life. Cindy was keeping secrets from me. I never would have thought that was possible.”

He told her about meeting Tish on the beach and about everything she had shared with him. He gestured at the boxes and said, “I’ve been through all of Cindy’s old papers. There isn’t a word about Tish anywhere. She was hiding something, and for some reason, she decided not to share it with me. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be too quick to believe what Tish tells you,” Serena warned him. “This woman has her own agenda. I’m worried that she’s playing with your head, Jonny. I don’t know what her game is, but I don’t like it.”

“If she wanted to get me hooked, I’m hooked,” Stride said. “All I can do is keep following the trail.”

“Just don’t start doubting your past because of her. Maybe there’s a reason Cindy never mentioned Tish to you. Maybe Tish is lying.”

Stride nodded. “I know. I thought about that, too, but there’s a casualness in how she talks about Cindy. I really think they knew each other. She may be lying about other things, but not about that.”

Serena wasn’t convinced. “I think you should let this case go.”

“You’re probably right, but I can’t.”

“You’re not going to get the satisfaction you want. Pat Burns is right, and you know it. This case isn’t going to trial unless someone decides to confess, which isn’t going to happen. So exactly what do you hope to accomplish?”

Stride began to gather up the leftovers from Cindy’s life and put them back in their boxes. He handled each item delicately, as if it were an antique that might break apart in his hands if he was too rough. “I’m not sure.”

He reached inside one of the boxes and extracted a leather-bound Bible, its cover rubbed and smooth. With a puff of his lips, he blew dust off it. Stride turned it over in his hands and then flipped through the tissue-thin pages. The corners were worn and well thumbed.

“Did that belong to Cindy?” Serena asked.

“Her father.”

He tried to remember a time when he had seen William Starr without this Bible in his hand. It was always there, propping him up like a crutch.

“Cindy was different after he died,” he said.

“We all are.”

Stride nodded, but he didn’t put the Bible down. “This was something else. I saw a change in her. Back then, I thought it was grief, but now I realize it was more than that. It was Tish.”

26

Maggie stopped in the town of Gary on Saturday afternoon to visit Clark Biggs, but the house was empty. His truck was gone. She left a handwritten note wedged inside the screen door and used a cell phone to leave a message on his answering machine. She was worried about him. This was the worst time, in the days after a child died. More than once, she had witnessed a double tragedy, when a child was killed and a parent committed suicide soon after.

At the highway, she turned south toward Fond du Lac, rather than heading north to the city. It was her day off, but she wanted to go back to the park where Mary Biggs had died. There was nothing more she could learn from the scene, but she often returned to places where crimes had occurred, as if echoes of what had happened, or what the victim saw, could still make their way into her brain. It was superstition, but she believed in it. It was also the perfect day to wander on the trails near the St. Louis River.

The heat hadn’t broken. The afternoon sun blistered the pavement. She kept her Avalanche ice cold as she drove, shivering in her spaghetti-strap top and white shorts. Her small feet barely reached the pedals. As she neared the gold reflections of the river at Perch Lake Park, she could see a flotilla of multicolored sailboats squeezed into the narrow inlets. Motor-boats dragged teenagers through the waves in old tires. On the shore of the nearest island, she spied rows of near-naked bodies, their bare flesh baking on beach towels.

Maggie got out of her Avalanche and adjusted her burgundy sunglasses. She took a seat on the nearest bench, pulled her legs underneath her, and tilted her face to the sky, relishing the sunlight. When she opened her eyes, she realized that, like Mary, she was alone here. Everyone else had someone with them to share the day. Husbands had wives. Mothers had sons and daughters. Boys had brothers. Even the old men walking by themselves had dogs on a leash.

Maggie thought it again. She wanted a child. Someone to raise, take care of, and be with. It was easy to wish for something when you couldn’t have it.

She pushed off the bench and headed along the dirt trail leading up the shore, past birch trees and lowland brush. This was the route Mary Biggs had walked, innocent and unknowing, from the safety of the little gray bench to a place where strangers and deep water took her away. From where she was, Maggie kept an eye on the highway. Donna Biggs, running to rescue her daughter, could have glimpsed a tall man through the trees as he climbed into a silver SUV, but at this distance, she wouldn’t have been able to identify him. She knew that Donna was right, because she believed that Finn Mathisen had been here. Stalking Mary. Driving a silver RAV. What she knew and what she could prove, though, were two different things.

When she reached the point in the trail where Mary had run for the river, Maggie veered off the path into the woods. She knew the ev techs had been over this ground thoroughly, and she didn’t expect to find anything they had missed. Even so, she wanted to put herself in Finn’s shoes. Mary is screaming, running away. The noise terrifies him. He escapes back into the trees, heading for his car, pushing through spindly branches that claw at him, hearing his own breath and the squish of wet leaves beneath his feet. It isn’t far, but it must have seemed far, wondering if he would be caught. Maggie saw the road ahead of her. She emerged from the trees, as he would have done, and found herself on the gravel shoulder of the highway. The silver RAV4 would have been parked right here.

He got in; his tires spun on the loose rock; he sped away.

Maggie stared down the curving stretch of road. She could see the flat area near the parking lot where the young boy had spilled off his bicycle. From there, Donna could see clearly up the slope. She would have seen the RAV parked here as she called out for help. It all must have happened quickly. Mary wandering up the trail. Donna noticing she was gone. The man spying Mary, realizing she was coming closer, stepping out onto the trail to confront her. Mary wailing, Donna running to find her, Finn-if it was Finn-pushing through the trees.

Maggie realized that Finn couldn’t have predicted that Mary would wander up the trail alone. That was a bonus. He knew that Donna and Mary came down to the park most Fridays and that they spent time sitting on the bench by the river. So the most he could have hoped for was to spy on her. Watch her. Where would the best place have been to do that? Maggie didn’t think he would have risked sitting in his car, with traffic coming and going. He would have taken binoculars and staked out a spot near the trail, closer to where they sat.

She wandered down the slope, looking for a place where she could duck back into the trees. She kept an eye on the parking lot, as Finn would have done, trying to find a hiding place with the best vantage. Twenty yards away, she found a slim trail, where the foliage was beaten down, a shortcut for kids to hike and ride bikes off the highway on their way to the river. She followed it, certain that Finn would have used this route. Maggie reached the wider trail, the one Mary had used, and realized that if she continued down to the water, she would have a largely unobstructed view across the bend of the river toward the clearing where Donna and Mary sat, watching the birds fly.

Maggie scooted down the gentle slope to the water. There, she could imagine Finn tucked behind the brush, crouched down, binoculars in hand, zooming in on the pretty young face a hundred yards away. When she studied the area, however, she didn’t see any remnants of someone lurking there. She would get the ev techs to come back and examine the spot in detail, but she wasn’t optimistic.

Frustrated, Maggie retraced her steps up the slope. When she pushed her way back onto the main trail, she was surprised to find a man watching her, no more than ten feet away.

It was Clark Biggs.

“Oh!” Maggie exclaimed. “Mr. Biggs. I’ve been looking for you.”

Clark nodded but said nothing. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He hadn’t shaved, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept. Maggie thought that big men always took it hardest. The burly ones were used to thinking of themselves as strong, but when it came to something like this, a strong man was nothing in the face of disaster. His muscles didn’t matter. His courage didn’t matter.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Talking to Mary,” he said.

“I understand.”

“She loved the water,” he continued. “It’s so ironic, because the water is what killed her. I used to take her down to the Wisconsin Point, and we’d spend hours on the beach there. She hated to leave. It was her favorite place.”

Maggie said nothing.

“Tell me you found this bastard.”

“We’re pursuing some promising leads, but I don’t want to get your hopes up, because this could all come to nothing. But I do need your help.”

“Anything.”

Maggie took a breath. “If you don’t mind my asking, how are you? I can only imagine what you’re going through. And your ex-wife, too. I know that families are often reluctant to get help, but there are people you can talk to.”

“I don’t want that kind of help,” Clark said.

“If you should change your mind, call me. I can give you some names.”

“I know a little about you, Ms. Bei. I know you lost someone close to you earlier this year, too.”

“Losing a husband isn’t the same as losing your daughter,” Maggie said. She didn’t add that Eric’s murder had come at a time when their marriage was largely over, when their love had wasted away to contempt.

Clark shrugged. “Loss is loss. Just tell me, how can I help? I want to see this man rotting away behind bars where he belongs.”

Maggie reached into the pocket of her shorts and extracted an eight-by-eight postcard with six photos pasted in two rows. All the photos were from driver’s license records. All the men were bald, in their forties.

“I’d like you to look carefully at this photo array and tell me if you recognize any of the men here.”

Clark took the wrinkled postcard from her hand and held it up at arm’s length from his face. Maggie watched his eyes as he studied each photo. He hesitated at the man in the upper right corner, then moved on. When he was done, he went back to that photo and squinted at it for nearly a minute. Finally, he tapped the picture with his finger.

“This one,” he said. “I’ve seen him before. I don’t know where, but I know I’ve seen him.”

“He’s a delivery driver. On the Saturday that Mary first saw the man outside her bedroom window, this man delivered a package to your house. A swing set.”

Clark’s fingers tightened on the card. Maggie didn’t like what she saw in his eyes. She pried the card out of his hands and slipped it back in her pocket.

“So it’s him,” he said.

“We’re a long way from proving it, but we think so.”

“Does he drive a silver RAV4?”

“Yes, he does.”

“That should be it then, right? I mean, what else do you need? You’ve got the right car, and you’ve got him at my house. Can’t you arrest him?”

“Nothing would make me happier, but we don’t have enough evidence yet,” Maggie told him. “We’re going to be executing a search warrant, and we’re going to question him thoroughly. Depending on what we find, we may be able to charge him with interference with privacy. In effect, that’s the law against peeping toms. However, we’re a long way from a manslaughter charge, and to be honest with you, we may never get there.”

“So this guy harasses my daughter to death, and he gets a slap on the wrist.”

“Please, Mr. Biggs. The investigation is still in an early stage. If this is the man who harmed Mary, I will do everything I can to see that he’s punished for it.”

“Does he have a connection to the other girls who were peeped?”

Maggie nodded. “He made deliveries to three of the other houses. That’s significant, but not necessarily persuasive for a jury. We’re looking for ways that he might be connected to the remaining girls, but we haven’t found anything yet.”

Clark’s face twitched. He snapped a branch from a tree overhanging the trail and broke it in half again and again, dropping the pieces on the dirt. He stared down at the river, where the reflection of the sun was blinding.

“I was hoping you could remember what happened when the swing set was delivered,” Maggie said. “Did the driver have any kind of interaction with Mary? Did he see her?”

Clark closed his eyes and didn’t respond. Maggie waited for him without interrupting, and when Clark opened his eyes again, he nodded slowly.

“Mary and I were both outside,” he said.

“Did anything happen?”

Clark sighed. “Yes. Mary exposed herself. She lifted up her T-shirt and showed him her breasts. She did that kind of thing all the time. She was just a kid, she didn’t mean anything by it.”

“How did the driver react?”

“I apologized. He said it was no big deal.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you recall ever seeing this man around Mary before?”

Clark shook his head. “No. I don’t get many packages. He didn’t act as if he knew who she was.” He swore and added, “Is that really enough to set these guys off? I mean, could just seeing Mary’s breasts turn him into a freak?”

“It happens,” Maggie said. “To men like this, an innocent exposure of nudity by a girl-even accidentally-can trigger an explosive string of erotic fantasies. They literally build it up in their heads until they believe they have an actual relationship with her. It can become an obsession.”

“Son of a bitch,” Clark said. “I was always telling Mary not to do it, but she didn’t understand. She thought it was funny.”

“It’s not your fault. Or Mary’s.”

“Didn’t this guy realize she was retarded? I mean, how can anyone think that about a little girl?”

Maggie didn’t answer.

“Don’t let him get away,” Clark told her.

“We’ll do our best.”

Maggie walked away toward the parking lot, but Clark stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. His grip was surprisingly tender.

“There’s something else,” he said.

She turned back. “What is it?”

“He saw her tattoo.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The driver saw Mary’s tattoo. She was bent over, and her shirt rode up, and he saw the tattoo she had in the small of her back. Remember? You saw it. It was a butterfly. He was staring at it, and when I noticed, he looked away. He said something to her about it. Like how pretty her tattoo was. Mary loved that. That was when she flipped up her shirt.”

“A butterfly tattoo,” Maggie said. She did remember.

“Exactly. I don’t know if it means anything.”

“It just might.”

27

The interrogation room was small. From the door to the wall was barely six feet. When the door was closed, it felt as if the ceiling were coming down and the walls were squeezing against your shoulders. The fluorescent light was cold and sterile. You blinked when you looked up. You could smell each other’s sweat, farts, and belches. There was one metal desk-it barely fit inside-and one wobbly chair where the suspect sat, close to the ground. Stride sat next to Maggie on top of the desk, their hips touching. Finn squirmed in the chair, his long legs uncomfortably bent, like a spider’s.

“So what is it now?” Finn said. “I came down here like you asked. God, don’t you guys have anything else to investigate? Have all the criminals gone on vacation? Shit, it was thirty years ago.”

Stride nodded at Maggie, who read Finn his rights.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Finn exclaimed. “What the hell is this? Are you arresting me for something?”

“Not yet,” Stride said.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Look, I was just trying to help Tish. I didn’t have to say a word. Goddamn it, Rikke was right. I never should have gotten involved in this.”

“You’re not under arrest,” Stride told him. “We just want to make sure you understand your rights. You can call a lawyer if you want. You can walk out that door. Got it? We want to clear a few things up, but that’s up to you. Of course, it’s going to be hard to clear things up if you’re not talking to us.”

Stride saw blue veins in Finn’s skull, twisting over his head like rivers.

“Yeah, sure, talk,” Finn said. “I don’t care. Can we open the door?”

“Maybe in a few minutes. This is the only room available.”

“How about some water?” Finn asked.

“This won’t take long, and then we’ll go and get some water and a little more air to breathe. Okay?”

“I just want to get this over with.”

Maggie grabbed a manila envelope from the desk. She opened it and slid out a photograph, which she handed to Finn.

“Does this look familiar?” she asked.

The photograph was a close-up of a monarch butterfly tattoo on a girl’s back, life-sized and detailed, with orange-and-black wings that looked as if they would flutter in the wind. The photo had been taken at the morgue. The girl was Mary Biggs.

“It’s a tattoo,” Finn said.

“I didn’t ask you what it was,” Maggie snapped. “I asked if it looked familiar. Have you ever seen a tattoo like this before?”

Finn turned the photograph over and refused to look at it. “No, I don’t think so.”

“No? On Saturday, May 24, you delivered a package to a man named Clark Biggs in Gary. His daughter, Mary, was in the front yard. She showed you her tattoo.” Maggie slapped the photograph. “This tattoo.”

“I don’t remember. I deliver hundreds of packages every month.”

“This girl exposed herself to you. She showed you her breasts. Does that happen every month, too?”

Finn smiled. “You’d be surprised. Women answer the door, and a lot of times, they’re not wearing much.”

“This is funny to you?” Maggie asked. “The night you delivered that package, someone was outside Mary’s bedroom window, watching her undress. He was there again the next week. And on Friday night, he was on a trail with her in Fond du Lac. Terrifying her. Terrorizing her. Mary was just a little girl inside her brain. She didn’t understand. She ran, and she fell into the river, and she drowned. A sweet, innocent girl. Dead.”

Finn’s skin was the color of dirty dishwater. He stared at his feet. “That’s too bad.”

“Is that all you can say? Let’s cut to the chase, Finn. Mary’s mother saw you. She saw the silver RAV you drive, too.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You delivered packages to three other girls who have been peeped in their bedrooms in the last month.”

“I told you, I deliver a lot of packages.”

Maggie reached into the envelope for another sheaf of papers stapled together. She folded the first page back. “This isn’t the first time, is it, Finn? You’ve been watching girls for a long time. According to DMV records, you lived in the Uptown area of Minneapolis for three years in the late 1990s. During that time, there was a string of eleven reported incidents of a peeper targeting blond teenagers. The peepings started a month after you moved to the city. They stopped right after you left.”

“Minneapolis is a big city. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Fifteen years ago, you were fired from your job as a custodian at a school in Superior,” Maggie continued. “I talked to the woman who was the principal back then. She said there were accusations that you had been going into the locker room at inappropriate times to watch the girls.”

“Oh, come on, like I’d be the first janitor who liked to sneak a peek now and then,” Finn said. “I’m not saying I did, but what’s the big deal? The teachers all do it, too. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“We’re searching your house right now,” Maggie told him. “There are officers tearing your place apart. What are they going to find, Finn? Photos? Maps? We’re going over your car with a toothbrush, too. We’ll find something that ties you to the girls you’ve been stalking.”

Finn’s bald head glistened with sweat under the hot light. “I think I should go. I thought you wanted to talk about Laura. I’m not saying anything else about stalking or peeping or whatever the hell you think I did.”

“You can go if you want,” Stride said. “But you brought it up, so let’s talk about Laura. She had a tattoo almost identical to the one that Mary Biggs had. Did Mary’s tattoo remind you of Laura? Is that why you focused on her?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You told me you saw Laura and Cindy in the woods that night by accident. Then we find out about Mary Biggs and all these blond girls with someone panting outside their bedroom window. You know what I think, Finn? I think you were watching Laura. I think you were stalking her. Sending her threats. I think you followed her to the park that night.”

“I didn’t stalk her,” Finn replied. “I never sent her any letters.”

“There’s something else,” Stride continued. “We never released this to the media. Someone masturbated at the crime scene where Laura was beaten to death. I guess the guy was so turned on by what he had done he had to jerk off. We still have the semen, Finn. What happens next is we get a court order to sample your DNA and we match it against the semen we found at the scene. I think we’re going to get a match, Finn. I think you were at the murder scene that night.”

“I told you, I don’t remember,” Finn said.

“Then let us help your memory. Give us a DNA sample right now. Let us run the test. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

Finn looked at them, horrified. “No.”

“You told me how hard it is to live your life not knowing if you killed someone. Maybe it will unlock your memory if you find out you were really there.” Stride paused and said, “Or maybe you remember already, Finn. Maybe you know what happened that night.”

“I can’t tell you anything. It’s gone.”

Stride shook his head. “It’s not gone. It’s still inside your head. You say you saw someone attacking Laura. Trying to rape her. Are you sure it wasn’t you?”

“No! That wasn’t me. It was someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who it was. I couldn’t see.”

“Then Dada broke it up. Laura ran into the woods. Are you sure you didn’t follow her?”

“No,” Finn told them. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs.

“You said you don’t remember. Isn’t it possible you did follow Laura into the woods? Toward the beach?”

“I wouldn’t do that.” His eyes darted around, looking for escape.

“That night didn’t end in the field. Someone went after Laura. Someone took the baseball bat and chased her up to the north beach. Someone killed her. Beat her to death. Hammered her until she was almost unrecognizable. If I did that, I’d probably black it out, too.”

“Oh, my God,” Finn murmured.

“Or did you just see it? You’re a watcher, right? Did you see who killed Laura? Because that’s what we need to know. We need to know what happened.”

“I don’t remember.”

Maggie leaned forward. “You remember Mary Biggs, though, don’t you? You remember what she looked like, right? Well, here’s what she looks like now.”

She spilled a stack of photographs onto the desk. Autopsy photos. She picked them up one by one and pressed them into Finn’s hands, watching him go blue, watching him swallow hard, watching his head bob back and forth like the ticking of a clock as he stared, unable to look away, at the swollen, lifeless remains of Mary Biggs, pulled from the water after she drowned.

“You killed her, Finn. You killed this wonderful girl.”

Finn squeezed his eyes shut.

“OPEN YOUR EYES!” Maggie bellowed at him. His eyelids sprang up in shock. She clutched a close-up photo of Mary’s face, her skin puffed and pale. She shoved the photo so close to Finn that Mary’s face was his whole world, and he couldn’t see anything else.

“Tell me why,” Maggie said. “Tell me why you did this to her.” Her voice softened. “Look, I know you didn’t mean to. Did you love her? Did you want a chance to tell her how you felt? But she didn’t understand. She was scared of you.”

Finn gulped air like a fish. He swallowed hard as if something were in his mouth that wouldn’t go down.

“Mary and Laura both deserved better,” Stride said quietly.

Finn was a rubber band that had been stretched until it was frayed and ready to snap. When Finn buried his face in his hands, Stride caught Maggie’s eye. They both thought the words would spill out now, like a dammed-up river seeping through sandbags and finally bursting free. He would talk. He would confess. He would throw off the anvil that had weighed on his conscience. He would seek absolution for the secrets that had made his life so miserable that he could only escape it into a numbed world of marijuana, cocaine, and alcohol.

“Let it go,” Maggie murmured.

Stride said, “It’s okay.”

Finn stared wildly at them. Tears ran from his eyes; mucus ran from his nose. He clapped a hand to his mouth, shoved them both aside with a stiff jerk of his arm, and bolted through the door, slamming it behind him. They heard the gasping, retching noise of his stomach spewing onto the marble floor of City Hall. When Stride opened the door again, the sweet stench of vomit made him cover his nose and look away.

Finn was gone.

Ten minutes later, the interrogation room still smelled of Finn’s body. Stride leaned back on the desk until his head banged against the wall. Maggie jumped off the desk, took the chair in which Finn had been sitting, and propped her feet up.

Her cell phone rang. She slid it out of her pocket and answered. Stride recognized the voice of Max Guppo, the overweight detective who had been leading the search team at Finn Mathisen’s house, along with cops from Superior. Maggie asked a few questions and then hung up. She didn’t look happy.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Come on.”

She shook her head. “They didn’t find a damn thing to link him to the peeping cases. His room looked as if it had been vacuum-cleaned of anything potentially incriminating. The computer had no hard drive, for God’s sake. Just a big hole in the tower. His shoes were all new. His clothes had been washed.”

“Rikke,” Stride said.

Maggie nodded. “She knows what he’s been doing. Maybe we can lean on her.”

“She’s been covering for Finn for thirty years. She’s not going to stop now. What about the car? The silver RAV?”

“Ditto. Cleaned and pressed. Even the tires had been hosed down.”

Stride sighed. “So where are we?”

“I think we’ll be able to make a charge of interference with privacy stick. If we can tie him to the other victims, a jury will make the leap.”

“If.”

“He had to find them somehow. We’ll track it down. Hell, he delivered to four out of the nine households where a girl was peeped. That’s a big coincidence right there.”

“Big, but still a coincidence,” Stride said. “If we can get six or seven, okay. Four’s not enough. Even with the silver RAV. He has no priors. We’ll never get the stuff from Minneapolis or his old janitorial job admitted in court. A defense lawyer can blow smoke and make a jury believe Finn is just a victim of circumstances.”

“And Mary’s murder?”

Stride shook his head. “You know that’s going nowhere. We’ll be lucky to pin the peeping charge on him. We can’t put him at the scene with Mary, and even if we could, we can’t establish what really happened.”

“At least we can charge multiple counts. He’s done it ten times that we know of. If we get the right judge, we can go for two years a count.”

Stride put a hand gently on Maggie’s leg. “I know this case means a lot to you, Mags, but you’re dreaming. With no priors? He’ll get a year for everything and be out in three months. If he sees the inside of a jail at all. That’s life.”

“That sucks.”

“I know it does.”

“What the hell do I tell Clark Biggs?”

“That we’re still working on the case. We’re not done yet. If we get the DNA test back and can prove that Finn was at the scene where Laura was murdered, we can take another run at him. Maybe he’ll confess. He might not go down for Mary’s death, but if we put him behind bars for Laura’s murder, that’s some justice.”

“If,” Maggie said, mocking him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stride rubbed his hands over his face and felt a bone-deep tiredness throughout his body. “Think they’ve cleaned up the hallway yet?”

Maggie reached over and pushed the door open. “Nope.”

“Shit,” Stride said. “I have to wash my face.”

“Is that what guys say when they have to take a leak?”

“No, we say we have to take a leak.”

“Do most guys wash their hands after?” Maggie asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yuck.”

Stride laughed. He left the interrogation room and covered his nose against the pungent aroma of puke. The hallways were empty. It was evening, and City Hall was mostly deserted. He found the frosted glass door that led to the men’s room, opened it with his shoulder, and started a stream of cold water running in the nearest sink on the long countertop. He bent over, splashed water on his face, and rubbed his skin hard. His fingers ran through his hair, leaving it wet and disheveled.

He smelled it before he saw it.

Blood.

His eyes were closed, and when he opened them, blinking, he saw the first toilet stall reflected in the mirror, its door ajar. Twin trails of fresh blood outlined the grout in the white floor tiles in ruby red squares. Stride ran for the stall and shoved the door open, where it bounced against the wall of the stall. Finn Mathisen was sprawled on the seat, his head lolling back, his mouth open and slack. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides, and a Swiss army knife lay on the floor where it had spilled from his hand.

The blood on the tiles dripped from two jagged, vertical gashes Finn had carved into the veins on both wrists.