“I don’t know,” Russ said. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Quinn’s eyes grew large. He bit his lip. He shook his head no.
“You sure?”
He nodded.
Russ stood up. “Then we’re done. Thank you for coming forward and telling Mrs. Ovitt and Mrs. Rayburn what you saw. I know it was hard for you. I’m grateful.”
The rest of the adults stood when Russ did. Quinn scrambled to his feet. Standing, his jeans hung low enough around his hips to give everyone a clear view of his boxers. The principal pointed, and he yanked the waistband up. A temporary state of affairs, Clare guessed.
“Quinn, you can join the tail end of your seventh-period class,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “I believe Mrs. Ovitt has a note for your teacher.” The guidance counselor nodded and retrieved a pale yellow slip from the top of her desk. The boy accepted it, stuffing it into one pocket and reexposing his underwear in the process. Before Mrs. Rayburn had another chance to bring him into compliance with the dress code, he mumbled a farewell and vanished through the door.
“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Ovitt commented. “Once he reconciles himself to the fact he’s a small-town white boy instead of an urban black gangbanger, he’ll be fine.”
“Who’s Aaron MacEntyre?” Russ asked. “I recognize the last name, but there are several MacEntyre families in the area.”
“His parents are Craig and Vicki MacEntyre,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “They have a farm in the valley, off Old Route 100.”
“Has Aaron been in trouble?” Clare blurted the question out before she remembered she was going to keep a low profile. “I mean… why would the Traceys forbid their son to see him?”
Mrs. Rayburn looked at Mrs. Ovitt. “As far as I know, Aaron’s never been involved in anything questionable. Have you heard anything, Suzanne?”
The guidance counselor shook her head. “To the contrary. He’s a fairly popular boy. Very self-confident.”
“He’s not a scholar, though,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “He’s bright, but he doesn’t see the use in applying himself. Perhaps the Traceys think that sets a bad example for Quinn.”
“And Aaron is very gung ho about joining the military. His parents and I had to talk him out of dropping out to enlist when he turned eighteen last month.” Mrs. Ovitt and the principal looked at each other with a melancholy understanding. “Not a thing that would endear him to the Traceys.”
“Yes, well… with this war on…” Mrs. Rayburn clasped her hands. “I can’t blame any of our parents for wanting to keep their children away from the recruiting office.” She looked up at Russ. “I hope at least some of this will be helpful, Chief Van Alstyne.”
Clare read one of the posters. Beneath a perfectly lit swimmer powering through the butterfly stroke, it said: IF YOU HAVE A PURPOSE IN WHICH YOU CAN BELIEVE, THERE IS NO END TO THE AMOUNT OF THINGS YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH. Fortune-cookie philosophy. She wondered how it held up in the real world.
Russ nodded. “I hope it will be, too.”
FOURTEEN
What did you think of Quinn Tracey?”
Clare looked away from the road for a moment. “Of him as a person? Or of what he said?”
“Either. Both.”
She returned her attention to driving. He watched her profile: Roman nose, sharp chin, her hair, by early afternoon, already falling out of its knot. His feelings, about her and for her, were too tangled and painful to contemplate, and he was pathetically grateful to have a mutual puzzle to fall back on. One of the first things that had caught him had been her mind, her easy questions and considered answers.
“I think he was hiding something.”
“More than hanging out with an unapproved friend, you mean?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good. That’s what I thought, but I wasn’t sure if I could trust my instincts.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m thinking calling him at home would be good. Let him know that one of us will be coming around to talk with him in a day or two. I’m betting his fear of Mom and Dad finding out is greater than his fear of spilling the beans.”
“Do you think he saw more than he admitted to?”
Russ sighed. “No. Chances are the deep dark secret he’s hiding is a six-pack and a fake ID. It’s just… I want it to be more.” He touched his coat pocket, where he kept his small notebook. “I want this license plate and description to lead me straight to a car with the murder weapon in the trunk. That’s what I meant when I said I couldn’t trust my instincts.”
She flicked on her turn signal and swung her car onto Route 57. “Do you have a working theory? About… the crime?”
“Lyle thinks it was someone lashing out at me. That my wife was just an incidental target.”
“Does that mean you might be in danger?”
“I wish. Just let the son of a bitch get within fifty yards of me.”
“Don’t joke about stuff like that.”
“Who’s joking?” He saw her expression and relented. “It’s just a working theory, anyway. A way to organize the investigation. It could be complete bullshit, for all we know.”
“Do you have any other possibilities?”
“You know what I really regret?” It had nothing to do with her question, but he suddenly had to unburden himself. “All those times I discussed cases, like this, without ever really giving a crap. I mean, beyond wanting to catch the bad guys. All those times I talked about the victim as an object. Like a mechanic talks about a broken- down carburetor. For me, the murder or the overdose or the car accident was a piece of the workday. But for somebody else, it was the end of the world.”
“Russ, you’ve just lost your wife. Most people in your circumstances are still popping Prozac and crying their way through a box of Kleenex.” She sounded faintly exasperated, which had the odd effect of cheering him. It was a dose of normal in a world gone strange.
“I just could have been-”
“You’re plenty sympathetic to families and victims. I’ve seen you in action. Don’t start making yourself feel inadequate for no reason.”
He hiccupped a laugh. “Don’t beat yourself up, honey. That’s my job.” He smiled. “Linda used to say that to me.” Suddenly, a black bubble of grief rose up out of his chest and he let out a barking sob. Clare took one hand off the wheel and held it out to him. He clutched it in a bone-cracking grip, his chest heaving as he fought to regain some control.
“Jesus,” he said, when he could speak again. “Jesus Christ. I’m losing my mind.”
Clare shook her head. Her eyes were wet, too, although from sympathy or from the pain where he was grinding her knuckles together, he couldn’t tell. He released her hand.
“You’re not losing your mind. Grief makes us all crazy at times. You read those Kubler-Ross theories and you think grief has all these recognizable levels, like going through school. Once you pass all the tests, you get to leave. But day to day, moment to moment, grief is more like…”
“Losing your mind?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. She drove on in silence. He could feel when her car climbed the hill running into town from alongside the river. Could feel the tug of gravity as they swung around the circle and came to a stop. Must be a red light on Main Street. He opened his eyes and twisted in his seat to look through the rear window. Past the circular city park, where the abandoned pavilion lay half buried in drifts like a forgotten dream of summer, the square central tower of St. Alban’s rose to the ice-pale sky.
