“Where are we going?”
“To the basketball court behind the theater.”
“To check up on Emma?”
“No. I’m sure she’s telling the truth.”
“Why, then?”
“I want to ask Mark exactly what
“Emma told us what happened. Nothing.”
He said, “Emma’s eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d been crying. Maybe she and Bob had an argument while Mark was there. Rya might have come to the door at the height of the shouting. She might have misunderstood what was happening; she panicked and ran.”
“Emma would have told us.”
“She might have been too embarrassed.”
As the traffic light turned green, Jenny said, “Panic? That sure doesn’t sound like Rya.”
“I know. But is it more in character for her to fabricate extravagant lies?”
She nodded. “You’re right. As unlikely as it is, it’s
“We’ll ask Mark.”
According to Jeremy Thorp’s wrist watch it was 10:22 when Paul Annendale drove his station wagon up Main Street and into the alleyway beside the theater. As soon as the car was out of sight, the boy left the church. He went down the front steps, stood at the curb, and waited for the station wagon to reappear.
During the last hour the sky had come closer to the earth. From horizon to horizon, a solid mass of lowering gray-black clouds rolled eastward, driven by a strong high-altitude wind. Some of that wind had begun to sweep the streets of Black River, just enough of it to turn the leaves on the trees — a sign, according to folklore, of oncoming rain.
No rain, please, Jeremy thought. We don’t want any damn rain. At least not before tonight. This summer a dozen kids had organized a series of bicycle races to be held every Friday. Last week he had placed second in the main event, the cross-town dash. But I’ll be first this week, he thought. I’ve been in training. Heavy training. Not wasting any time like those other kids. I’m sure to be the first this week — if it doesn’t rain.
He glanced at his watch again. 10:26.
A few seconds later, when he saw the station wagon coming back down the alley, Jeremy started walking east along Main Street at a brisk pace.
As the car nosed out of the alley, just as Paul was about to turn right onto Main Street, Jenny said, “There’s Jeremy. ”
Paul tapped the brakes. “Where?”
“Across the street.”
“Mark’s not with him.” He blew the horn, put down his window, and motioned for the boy to come to him.
After he had looked both ways, Jeremy crossed the street. “Hi, Mr. Annendale. Hi, Jenny.”
Paul said, “Your mother told me you and Mark were playing basketball behind the theater.”
“We started to. But it wasn’t much fun, so we went up to Gordon’s Woods.”
“Where’s that?”
They were in the final block of Main Street; but the road continued to the west. It rose with the land, rounded a bluff, and went on until it reached the mill and after that the logging camp.
Jeremy pointed to the forest atop the bluff. “That’s Gordon’s Woods.”
“Why would you want to go up there?” Paul asked.
“We’ve got a treehouse in Gordon’s Woods.” The boy read Paul’s expression accurately, and he quickly said, “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Annendale. It’s not a rickety old place. It’s completely safe. Some of our fathers built it for all the kids in town.”
“He’s right,” Jenny said. “It’s safe. Sam was one of the fathers who built it.” She smiled. “Even though his daughter is a bit too old for treehouses.”
Jeremy grinned. He wore braces. Those and the freckles that peppered his face disarmed Paul. The boy clearly didn’t have the guile, the dark personality, or the experience to take part in a murder conspiracy.
Paul felt somewhat relieved. When he hadn’t found Jeremy and Mark at the basketball court, that icy hand had settled once more, if briefly, on the back of his neck. He said, “Is Mark up at the treehouse now?”
“Yeah.”
“Why aren’t you there?”
“Me and Mark and a couple of other kids want to play Monopoly. So I’m going home to get my set.”
“Jeremy…” How could he possibly find out what he wanted to know? “Did anything — happen in your kitchen this morning?”
The boy blinked, a bit perplexed by the question. “We had breakfast.”
Feeling more foolish than ever, Paul said, “Well… You better get your Monopoly set. The other kids are waiting. ”
Jeremy said good-by to Jenny and Paul and to Buster, turned, looked both ways, and crossed the street.
Paul watched him until he turned the comer at the square.
“Now what?” Jenny said.
“Rya probably ran to Sam for sympathy and protection.” He sighed. “She’s had time to calm down. Maybe she realizes that she panicked. We’ll see what her story is now.”
“If she didn’t run to Sam?”
“Then there’s no use looking for her all over town. If she wants to hide from us, she can with little trouble. Sooner or later she’ll come to the store.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, across from his mother, Jeremy recounted the conversation he’d had with Paul Annendale a few minutes ago.
When the boy finished, Salsbury said, “And he believed it?”
Jeremy frowned. “Believed what?”
“He believed that Mark was at the treehouse?”
“Well, sure. Isn’t he?”
Okay. Okay, okay, Salsbury thought. This isn’t the end of the crisis. You’ve bought some time to think. An hour or two. Maybe three hours. Eventually Annendale will go looking for his son. Two or three hours. You’ve no time to waste. Be decisive. You’ve been wonderfully decisive so far. What you’ve got to do is be decisive and get this straightened out before you have to tell Dawson about it.
Earlier, within twenty minutes of the boy’s death, he had edited the Thorp family’s memories, had erased all remembrance of the killing from their minds. That editing took no longer than two or three minutes — but it was only the first stage of a plan to conceal his involvement in the murder. If the situation were any less desperate, if a capital offense hadn’t been committed, if the entire key-lock program didn’t hang in the balance, he could have left the Thorps with blank spots in their memories, and he would have felt perfectly safe in spite of that. But the circumstances were such that he knew he should not merely wipe out the truth but that he should also replace it with a detailed set of false memories, recollections of routine events which might have happened that morning but which in reality did not.
He decided to begin with the woman. To the boy he said, “Go into the living room and sit on the couch. Don’t move from there until I call for you. Understood?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy left the room.
Salsbury thought for a minute about how to proceed.
Emma watched him, waited.
Finally he said, “Emma, what time is it?”
She looked at the clock-radio. “Twenty minutes of eleven. ”
“No,” he said softly. “That’s wrong. It’s twenty minutes of nine. Twenty minutes of nine this morning.”
“It is?”
