The two caskets lay side by side at the altar.
Rachel sat between Martin and Sheila MacPhearson. They had left Dylan with a sitter for the morning. However, Sheila had brought Lucinda, who was pressed beside her and working on a small computer—probably calculating the flaws in the unified field theory, she thought sickly. Rachel felt the urge to grab the damn thing out of her hands. She also was irritated that Sheila let her click and poke away at the keys while people filed in solemnly.
Rachel was sick at the sight of the two caskets with the twin wreaths of white roses. Such a tragic waste. Last week the world appeared to be Vanessa’s oyster. Then, in a matter of hours it was all over. Apparently the public humiliation had driven her to the brink. But why take Julian with her? How could she kill her own son? And a son she had been so proud of. Something clearly had snapped—and now there was a dead mother and son. Nothing was as it seemed.
Nobody could explain where the incriminating videotape came from or how it had gotten switched for the original. Apparently no fingerprints were found on the cassette. A Hawthorne policeman had come by to ask if Rachel knew of any enemies of Professor Watts since it was clear that somebody had been out to get the woman. Rachel knew of none. In fact, she barely knew Vanessa. He also asked if she knew any possible motives for her killing of her son. Rachel had no idea.
The newspapers had carried an interview with Joshua Blake who said he had been alerted to the plagiarism anonymously while on sabbatical in Western Samoa. He said that he had been encouraged to make the videotape to discourage Professor Watts from going ahead with the publication. He explained that he had just set up his own video camera, taped the interview, then overnighted the cassette to an anonymous post office box in Boston. He had also sent a copy to Vanessa’s publisher by airmail, which explained why her editor at the party was unaware of the plagiarism. He added that he had no idea who was behind the expose.
Sheila was sniffling into her handkerchief and checking her watch as the service began. When Rachel could see that she was not going to stop Lucinda from playing with her Palm Pilot, she leaned across to her and in a dead flat voice said, “You can put that away now.”
Lucinda looked up at her with chilling menace. Before another word was exchanged, Sheila snapped the thing out of her daughter’s hand and stuffed it in her purse.
While her parents were huddled by the gravesite, Brendan nodded to Nicole to come over. When she disregarded him, he started toward her—and that got the expected reaction. She came over not out of interest but because she did not want her parents and all their friends to think that golden-girl Nicole DaFoe was pals with the local weirdo—which is how everybody saw him: a creep to shield their children from, a schizoid basket case who talked to himself and suffered poetry seizures; the idiot savant who could recite the script of any movie he had seen. The kid nobody wanted their kids hanging with. Brendan LaMotte, goblin of Cape Ann.
“Make it fast. I’m going back to camp.” She followed him to a spot behind a large gaudy obelisk that blocked the view of the others.
From his backpack he pulled out a folder, saying how he had found it buried in his cellar. “I-it’s a WISC standard intelligence test taken when I was five.” He pointed to some numbers. “My IQ was seventy-seven.” Then he showed her another test taken two years later. “Same test, but intelligence quotient one hundred thirty-nine. That’s practically double. My verbal went from forty-three percentile to ninety-nine.”
Something slithered across her face. “I have to go.”
“N-no, there’s more.”
He then pulled out a photocopy of two canceled bank checks for three hundred thousand dollars each, made out to cash and signed by Brendan’s father, Eugene LaMotte. The dates were two weeks apart and about six months before the date of the second WISC test.
Nicole put her dark glasses on and started away.
“Wait. I also found MRI scans of my b-b-brain,” he said. “They operated on me. They did s-something to make me smarter.”
In the distance, her mother was waving her over. “Be right there,” she called.
She walked away, but Brendan caught up to her. “Nicole, listen to me. They did the same thing to you.”
She looked at him, her face appearing as rigid and white as the nearby headstone.
“Here, look.” In his hand he was holding a slip of paper—a piece of personalized stationery with the address and name of her father, Kingman DaFoe. Written in pen on it was a telephone number with an old exchange.
And the name Lucius Malenko.
Greg sat through the double funeral service at the Hawthorne Unitarian Church. He had removed his weapon and badge from his belt and he tried not to look conspicuous as he made mental notes of family members and close friends. He also tried not to think of what T.J. Gelford would say if he knew Greg was here. But that wouldn’t happen.
At the cemetery, he receded into the background and watched through dark glasses. It was a tasteful and dignified event, where a woman minister gave a moving eulogy before the matching bronze caskets poised above their plots. A large hushed crowd of mourners surrounded them, and a niece read a poem she had written. Greg spoke to no one.
From the newspaper obits, he got the names of the immediate survivors—Bradley Watts, the husband, and Lisa, the daughter. Watts was a tall patrician-looking man in his fifties with streaks of white around his ears, and a tanned angular face. His daughter was a pretty sandy-haired girl with a white full face and red eyes. The girl was not doing well and kept breaking down, so that Watts kept his arm around her throughout the ceremony.
When the service was over, people laid flowers on the coffins and paid their final condolences.
Greg pulled closer. At one point he overheard somebody agreeing with Brad that getting away was the best thing. He thought he heard someone mention Oregon.
Because of the awful circumstances of their deaths, there was no postfuneral dinner. That was unfortunate, because he wanted to speak to Bradley Watts in a more appropriate venue. The gravesite was definitely not the place, but he and his daughter could be departing for Oregon tomorrow, maybe even that night.
As Watts and his daughter started away from the grave toward the limousine, Greg pulled him aside. He expressed his sympathies and introduced himself. The daughter, whose eyes were still wet, stood there limply.
Watts thanked him and looked at the card. “Zakarian, good Albanian name.”
Greg didn’t bother to correct him. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m wondering if we could set up a time to ask you a few questions.”
“What about? I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I realize that, but there are some things I’d like to ask about Julian that may shed light on other cases I’m investigating. Maybe we can meet tomorrow or the next day, at your convenience?”
“I’m taking my daughter to camp tomorrow, and I’m going to the West Coast and won’t be back for a few weeks.” He again glanced at Greg’s card. “Sagamore?”
“I can explain,” Greg said. The daughter looked distraught. So, to show her some interest, he asked, “Where are you going to camp?”
“Allegro Music Camp outside Toronto.” She seemed to perk up a little.
“You must be quite a musician. What do you play?”
“Violin,” she said. Then she added, “Julian was supposed to go to the Nova Children’s Center camp at Lake Tarabec, but …” She trailed off into a choke.
“I’m very sorry,” Greg said. “From what I read, he was a very bright young man.”
Watts gave her a comforting squeeze. “Maybe when I return,” he said.
“I’d rather we talk before you left,” Greg said.
Mr. Watts sighed and told his daughter to get in the limo, that he’d be right there. The girl slumped away to
