“I’d always believed the same thing,” said Horace Somerville, “until the Lipscomb boy got me thinking about it. I believe we have been jumping to conclusions, Kevin. Why should we assume that any one of those chimneys at the gym is the chimney in this diagram?”
“Only because of the label on the back. It says it’s the gym,” said Delaney.
“Aren’t we making one false assumption? Isn’t it possible that there could have been a fourth chimney, attached to a fourth fireplace, one that would be big enough to serve a provincial kitchen? A fireplace that no longer exists?”
Delaney said that was possible.
“I’ve seen photos from the time when that gym was being built,” said Somerville, “and I can still remember my brother Virgil talking about a huge pile of old bricks. What would stop them from taking down the chimney from the old fireplace and rebuilding it here, on the east end, where McPhee’s fireplace now is? All you have to assume is that the original fireplace for the kitchen was on the south side, on what’s now an inside wall. And if you do, you can take this diagram and see—”
“—that the pencil marks lead straight to the Homestead,” said Delaney. “So you think your basement is directly connected to McPhee’s apartment by this tunnel.”
“Actually, it would have to be the boiler room,” said Somerville.
“Angus’s lair,” said Delaney.
Exactly.
“It’s the coincidence of the smell that persuades me I’m right,” said Somerville. “I’m sure there’s a dead animal in there.”
“How does a dead animal get into this sealed tunnel, Horace?” asked Delaney.
“It burrows up through the ground. Or it slips in through a crack in the wall. Or some prankster drops it down a ventilator shaft.”
“That’s quite an assumption.”
“Of course it is,” said Somerville. He rerolled the diagram. “It’s only in the theory stage right now. We need facts.”
“And when are you going to get the facts?” said Delaney.
“Right now,” said Somerville, and he put on his coat and left.
SCENE 3
Toes on the line, two dribbles, face the basket, bend the knees, shoot.
“Follow through,” said Coach McPhee. “You aren’t following through.”
It was 5:30 P.M. McPhee and Thomas were the only ones left in the gym. The coach flipped the ball back to the shooter, who bounced it hard with both hands off the shiny floor in disgust. He was never going to master this skill.
“Come on,” said Coach McPhee. He had gone all the way through practice wearing his school clothes, a white button down with a loosened tie. His face was misty with perspiration. “You’ve lost your concentration. What’s the matter? We won, remember?”
After the death of Robert Staines, they had lost their next two games. But yesterday they had won by two points. It had been despite Thomas, however; he had missed two free throws in the last quarter.
Coach McPhee tried a different topic. “Not still woman trouble, is it?”
Thomas smiled briefly. His talk with Mr. Warden had helped with the woman trouble. “Not really,” he said. “I’ve accepted my doom. I’m always going to like girls, but they’re never going to like me.”
Coach McPhee said that plenty of them would like him. “You’ll have to keep them away,” he said. He held the ball for a second before he threw it. “How intimate were you and this lady friend of yours, anyway?”
“We didn’t do it,” said Thomas. “But almost.” It wasn’t so hard to talk about it since he’d confessed to Mr. Warden.
Mr. McPhee, however, did not want to hear any details. “Now you can concentrate on basketball,” he said.
But that was the problem. Basketball wasn’t Thomas’s game, and he figured he would try something else next year. Maybe wrestling on Mr. Carella’s team. Or maybe theater full-time. Basketball was too frustrating. But Thomas didn’t want to get into all that with Coach McPhee. He should change the subject.
“Hang on,” said Thomas. It was time to produce the Christmas present. He dropped the ball and ran over to the sidelines where his warm-ups were. He pulled out the small paper bag that he had hidden inside his sweatshirt and ran back to the coach. He’d bought the gift in the school store just this afternoon.
“I didn’t have any paper to wrap it or anything, and I didn’t want to give it to you in front of all the guys,” he said.
“I understand,” said Coach McPhee. He was touched.
He looked inside the bag, grinned, and pulled out a new coach’s whistle on a strong black cord. He blew one shrill blast and then put it around his neck. “And I was just getting used to yelling at you guys,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Practice just hasn’t been the same without your whistle,” said Thomas.
“Nothing’s been the same, has it?” said Coach McPhee. He folded the paper bag and put it into his pocket.
Thomas agreed that it had been a weird month.
“You know, one of the nicest parts of my life has been these times we’ve been able to spend together after practice,” said Coach McPhee. “My stepson, Michael, is gone, you know. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a son like you.”
This was getting embarrassing.
“Let me try ten in a row,” said Thomas.
Coach McPhee watched while he started his shooting routine. “You’re not exactly a natural, but you’re a fighter, I’ll give you that. Go for your ten, put the balls away, and then hit the locker room. I’ve got something to give you, too.” He blew one more quick jolt with the whistle and then departed.
Thomas remained to take the last free throws he would ever shoot in his life.
SCENE 4
The killing of Cynthia had supposedly been the last one. He had needed to kill her, she was on to him, he had had to protect himself. It had been easy to plant the evidence on Farnham and to let the police come to their natural conclusions. He was safe, safe from everyone but himself.
It
