Night Film

97

The drive back to the city was tense and mostly silent. I stopped at River Rentals Inc. in Pine Lake to pay in full for the missing Souris River canoe, explaining to the kid with dreadlocks behind the counter that it’d been destroyed.

“Seriously? What happened, man?”

I could only hand him a credit card. He definitely didn’t want to know.

We pulled onto the highway, and immediately Nora fell sound asleep in the seat beside me. I thought Hopper had, too, but every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, he was only staring out the window, his face unreadable, his thoughts probably somewhere back at The Peak.

Nora was absolutely right. Hopper had admitted he’d spent the night in Ashley’s room, and I couldn’t help but suspect something he’d seen there or encountered had changed his view of what had happened between them. It had somehow set him free. And he’d let it fly, that gorgeous blackbird of a love he’d been keeping in a cage. What was it like for him, every day standing outside in the wind and rain to stare at the ocean, yearning for some sign of her, never giving up hope? At The Peak perhaps she’d finally come into view, a ship coming neither toward him nor away, only riding that perfect line between heaven and earth, long enough for him to know that she had loved him, that what they had was real, before slipping out of sight, probably forever.

I certainly understood his anger toward me and his desire to protect Ashley. I’d even anticipated it, that the deeper we got into the investigation, the more disturbing the truth about her family, Hopper and I would inevitably clash over what to do with the information. But for me to let it rest here, not to go all the way, was not an option.

Hours later, at dusk, we were back in Manhattan, driving down its battered blocks of pedestrians and potholes. Hopper asked me to drop him off at his apartment on Ludlow, the only words he’d said during the entire ride.

He climbed out of the Jeep, pulling his backpack over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you guys,” he said curtly and slammed the door.

“Wait,” said Nora.

She hastily scrambled out and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him right on the sidewalk. He chucked her affectionately on the chin and moved up the steps to his building. When she climbed back in, I was surprised to see that she was crying.

“Bernstein. Hey. What’s the matter?”

“You don’t get it.” She wiped her eyes. “We’re never going to see him again.”

“What? Don’t be silly.”

She shook her head in disagreement, watching him disappear inside.

I was surprised by the pronouncement, to say the least, certain it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t end like this, not here, when so much was still unanswered, but then I remembered his apartment, the bare walls and the bag from South Dakota, the lyrics from “Ramble On.” Had he found all the answers he needed and he was finished with us — simple as that?

I didn’t know what to say, because abruptly Nora was heartbroken. She silently wept all the way out of the Lower East Side, down Houston Street, and well into the West Village. I tried comforting her, but ultimately was too drained to do more than concentrate on the simple task of getting the rental Jeep back to Hertz.

A hot Saturday night in the Village was detonating around us. As we walked back to Perry Street, negotiating the dense crowds and honking cars, Nora didn’t say a word. When I let us back into the apartment, she ignored my question about whether or not she wanted any dinner, fleeing upstairs to Sam’s room.

I headed to my office. It looked solemn, untouched. Gazing at the windows, the night, I actually wished Septimus was there on the windowsill to greet me. I could’ve used the company; he might be a parakeet, but he was reasonable. But we’d taken him to a kennel to be looked after. There was nothing and no one here.

I tried calling Cynthia — I had the overwhelming desire to hear Sam’s low voice, to hear that she was all right — but she didn’t pick up. I left a message. I went upstairs and took a shower, locked everything I’d taken out of The Peak in my safe, and climbed into bed. I’d stuck Brad Jackson’s coat on a hanger, hanging it on the back of my closet door. It looked oddly limp there, oddly lifeless. Had I gone far enough up there? Seen enough at The Peak to get to the bottom of it?