covered in it, without legs sinking into the softness of whatever collection of half-dissolved things it was that settled on the bottom. How could Tripp have deposited the girls here without having them float in the exact spot he'd left them? There wasn't enough current in this place to shift a fallen branch six inches, let alone take two loads of 120- pound human being out to the middle. Did he get in there up to his armpits himself, swim out a bit to where it got deep? That would explain the first one maybe, but not the second waiting patiently on the rock for Tripp to paddle back and send her off the same way. And what if he had to carry them down--
My thoughts are cut off by the idea of a sound just behind me. Turn, but there's nothing there. A rush of blood past the eardrum. A lick of wind sounding as a whispered name.
I jump off the rock and land funny on the pebbles below, the bolt of pain from a twisted ankle shooting up to my crotch. Then I'm rolling to the ground while some woodland rodent chatters down at me from the network of trees overhead. Wait there on the poking stones for the throbbing to pass to the point that I can get to my feet. But there's the voice again. Blown thin through the clacking branches. Not a name at all but the first call of alarm, startled and high.
Lift myself as much with arms as legs and hop back up to the path. Wishing I could move a little faster but both the hill and my useless ankle hold me back. Although I know there's nothing but the water cut off by the trees behind me I don't turn around, keep my eyes on my feet stubbing over roots and stone, the wind now a distant laughter in the remaining leaves. By the time I reach the Lincoln and scrabble for the keys in my pocket I'm surprised by the choking tightness of my lungs.
The road is too narrow to turn around so I'm forced to reverse to the first cottage driveway and on the way I scrape the passenger side past a fence post that, with a sound like clicked fingers, neatly lops the mirror clean off the door. Watch it scuttle down into the ditch, sending back a glimpse of my own blanched face. Consider stopping to pick it up but my foot doesn't move from the pedal. Add it to Mr. Tripp's disbursements.
It's only on the main highway back into town that I check my watch. Eleven-forty-two. Nearly two hours from start to finish.
When I get back to the honeymoon suite I pull out a blank legal pad with the intention of taking down a physical description of the crime scene to help with cross-examination somewhere down the line. But nothing comes, and instead I find myself writing the heading SPECULATIVE HYPOTHESES at the top of the page and beneath it the following three theories:
The first would suggest that Tripp is in fact a man possessing remarkable (however hidden) physical strengths as well as extraordinary patience in carrying out the transport and disposal of his victims. The second theory admits some degree of voluntariness on the part of the girls, who perhaps up until the final moments were under the impression that they were on a field trip out for an inspirational gazing over still waters.
The third theory is that he had some help.
chapter 9
After a breakfast of toasted bagel discovered deep inside the pocket of my overcoat I head back up to the courthouse for my conference with a Mr. Goodwin, the Crown attorney assigned to the trial. I'm feeling a little sluggish, having limited myself to only a single line of wake-up coke, but the fatigue seems to come from a different source. Since arriving in Murdoch my sleep has been degraded to a series of five-hour toss-and-turn marathons. Waking lacquered in sweat or balled up in shivers, eyes opening at the imagined scrape of the window lifting open. A rattling breath joining my own in the dark room.
I make a mental note to buy pills.
When I find Goodwin's office I take a second before entering to finish a heaving yawn and guess at what sort of opponent I'm about to meet. ''Never heard of him,'' Graham had e-mailed back when I'd asked if Goodwin was a known quantity. ''They assign the weird ones up there.''
And he is weird, if being startlingly fat satisfies the definition. A peony-faced water retainer jammed behind a desk occupied by neatly arranged columns of documents. He's still straightening them carefully from top to bottom when I come in, fingers rolling down their sides as if sculpting pottery on a wheel.
''Hay-lo, you must be Bartholomew Crane. Pete Goodwin,'' he says, his mouth sounding as though there's something in it but there's not, just his thick tongue banging up against the inside of his teeth.
''Good morning, Mr. Goodwin,'' I say, and try at a brisk smile. There's a moment when a handshake is mutually considered, but because it would be a stretch for me to reach him across the broad desk and because his position there appears more or less permanent, I simply take a seat.
''So, this is it?'' I nod toward the fondled papers.
''That's right. Of course, you'll have to review all the materials in whatever detail you deem fit, but I thought in the meantime I might provide you with a summary. The main highlights, as it were. By way of courtesy.''
''Sure, yes. Courtesy. Give me your best shots.''
Goodwin pushes his chair back and stands, revealing his full immensity. Panting a little, he takes a black marker from his jacket pocket and begins to make point notes on the white presentation board on the wall behind him.
''First, there's the fruits of our search of Tripp's apartment. Not sure if you've seen the place--it's your standard one-bedroom above the corner store at Brock and King-- and pretty tidy when the police arrived. Your typical single-guy setup, I guess.''
''Was he always that way?''
''Tidy?''
''Single.''
''I would've thought you knew.''
''No, I don't. That's why I'm
Goodwin pauses as his brain registers my sarcasm, but for the moment he does nothing more than file it away.
''Tripp was divorced three years back. We've provided a list of witnesses, among whom are people who knew him before and after the split who will testify as to the terrible strain the whole thing put on him. Stopped calling friends or going out, noticeably distracted at school staff meetings, diminished performance in the classroom, things like that.''
''So he was depressed. The wife left him. Is that considered unique up here?''
''Not on its own. But he didn't just lose his wife. The man lost his family.''
''What family?''
''Well, his wife left in something of a hurry--I really would've thought you knew this--and took their daughter with her. Then a prolonged custody hearing over the girl, Melissa I think her name was.
''Still, I don't get--''
''There's a bit more to it, Mr. Crane.'' He smiles uncertainly, little teeth huddled beneath a glistening lip. ''Melissa was only ten years old when she left, and the accused's only child. That's bad enough. And then a year later he lost all his visitation rights after she told her mother that Daddy wanted her to bring her big suitcase and passport next time because the two of them were going to go on a long trip. Mother went to court, changed address, got a restraining order, and all of a sudden Tripp's totally out of the picture. After that he dropped everything and kept to himself. Except for some of his favored students, of course.''
This last bit isn't meant as provocation, you can tell just by looking at the basset hound arc of Goodwin's brow. But I clear my throat threateningly anyway to let him know I've taken notice.
''Next on the list are the photographs of the accused's bedroom that show the catalog pages he'd ripped out and plastered over his wall,'' Goodwin continues, adding a long dash and PICS to the list on the board. ''All girls, aged ten to eighteen. And as the photographs indicate, Tripp selected pages showing their subjects in underwear, pajamas, or revealing sportswear.''
