He made sure that a photograph was taken of it, and he intended to seek advice about it the next day. The symbol might mean nothing, of course, or be entirely unconnected to the Faraday killing, but its presence at the murder scene troubled him. Even at the party, as he tried to put it from his mind, it came back to him, and with a damp finger he found himself tracing it upon a table, as if by doing so it might reveal its meaning.
By the time the party was over, it was after 2 A.M. Daniel Faraday, the chief decided, would have to wait until the morning.
Daniel Faraday and his wife died that night. The rings on their gas stove had been turned to high. The windows, and the front and back doors, all fit perfectly in their frames, for Daniel worked as a supervisor for one of the local utility companies and knew the cost of heat leakage in winter, so no gas escaped from the house. It seemed that his wife must have had second thoughts at some point (that, or there was the dreadful possibility that it was not a pact, but a murder-suicide on the part of her husband), for her body was found lying on the bedroom floor. On the kitchen table was a photograph of the Faradays with their son, along with a bunch of winter flowers. It was assumed that they had killed the
Emily finished packing her bags after leaving the Faradays. She had been preparing to leave town ever since Bobby had gone missing, sensing somehow (although she did not speak the words aloud) that Bobby would not be returning, that something terrible had befallen him. The discovery of his body, and the nature of his death, only confirmed what she already knew. She had been discovered. It was time to move on again.
Emily had been running for years from the thing that was pursuing her. She was getting better and better at concealing herself from it, but not good enough to hide from it forever. Eventually, she feared, it would trap her.
It would trap her, and it would consume her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I HAD THE NEXT day off, and it was the first opportunity I had been given in some time to see how unsettled Walter had become. He would paw at the door to be let out, then minutes later would beg to be let in once again. He seemed not to want to leave my side for too long, but struggled to sleep. When Bob Johnson came over to say hi while out for his morning constitutional, Walter would not go to him, not even when Bob offered him half a cookie from his pocket.
“You know,” said Bob, “he was like that while you were away in New York. I thought he might just be ailing that weekend, but it doesn’t seem to have gotten any better.”
I took Walter to the vet that afternoon, but the vet could find nothing wrong with him.
“Is he alone for long periods?” she asked me.
“Well, I work, and sometimes I have to stay away from home for a night or two. The neighbors look after him when I’m gone.”
She patted Walter. “My guess is he doesn’t like that very much. He’s still a young dog. He needs company and stimulation. He needs a routine.”
Two days later, I made the decision.
It was Sunday, and I was on the road early, Walter on the front seat beside me, alternately dozing and watching the world go by. I reached Burlington before noon, and stopped at a little toy store I knew to buy a rag doll for Sam, and at a bakery to pick up some muffins. While I was there, I bought a coffee at a place on Church Street and tried to read The New York Times, Walter at my feet. Rachel and Sam lived only ten minutes outside town, but still I lingered. I couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper. Instead, I stroked Walter, and his eyelids drooped with pleasure.
A woman emerged from the gallery across the street, her red hair loose upon her shoulders. Rachel was smiling, but not at me. A man was behind her, saying something tld T?hat was making her laugh. He looked older than she did, comfortable and paunchy. He placed the palm of his hand lightly against the small of her back as they walked together. Walter spotted Rachel and tried to rise, his tail wagging, but I held him back with his collar. I folded the newspaper and tossed it aside.
Today was going to be a bad day.
When I reached Rachel’s parents’ property, her mother, Joan, was outside the main house, playing ball with Sam. Sam was two now, and was already at that point where she knew the names of her favorite foods, and understood the concept of “mine,” which pretty much covered everything she had developed a liking for, from other people’s cookies to the occasional tree. I envied Rachel and her family the opportunity she had to watch Sam develop. I seemed to see it only in fits and starts, like a jerky film from which crucial frames had been excised.
Sam recognized me as I stepped from the car. Actually, I think she recognized Walter before me, because she called out a mangled version of his name that sounded like “Walnut” and spread her arms in welcome. She had never been afraid of Walter. Walter fell into the category of “mine” where Sam was concerned, and Walter, I suspected, regarded Sam in much the same way. He bounded up to her, but slowed down when he was a couple of feet away, so that he wouldn’t knock her over when he reached her. She threw her arms around him and, after licking her some, he lay down and let her fall upon him, his tail wagging happily.
If Joan had been gifted with a tail, I don’t think it would have been wagging. She struggled to put a smile on her face as I approached, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“We weren’t expecting you,” she said. “Rachel went into town. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
“I can wait,” I said. “Anyway, I came to see Sam, and to ask a favor.”
“A favor?” The smile wavered again.
“It’ll hold until Rachel returns,” I said.
Sam relinquished her grip on Walter for long enough to toddle up to me and put her arms around my legs. I lifted her up and stared into her eyes, as I gave her the doll.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said. She laughed and touched my face.
“Daddy,” she said, and my eyes grew warm.
Joan invited me inside and offered coffee. I’d had my fill of coffee for the day, but it gave her something to do. Otherwise, we’d simply have ended up staring at each other, or using Sam and Walter as a distraction. Joan excused herself, and I heard a door close and then her voice speaking in a low tone. I guessed that she was calling Rachel. While she was gone, Sam and I played with Walter, and I listened to her speaking a mixture of recognizable words and her own private language.
Joan returned and poured the coffee, then put some milk in a plastic cup for Sam, and we picked at the muffins while talking about nothing at all. After about fifteen minutes, I heard a car pull up outside, then Rachel entered the kitchen, looking flustered and angry. Sam immediately went to her, then pointed at the dog and said “Walnut” again.
“This is a surpr baás is a suise,” said Rachel, making it clear that, as surprises went, it was right up there with finding a corpse in one’s bed.
“A spur-of-the-moment decision,” I said. “Sorry if I disrupted your plans.”
Despite my best efforts, or maybe they just weren’t very good to begin with, there was an edge to my voice. Rachel picked up on it, and frowned. Joan, ever the diplomat, took Sam and Walter outside to play as Rachel removed her coat and tossed it on a chair.
“You should have called,” she said. “We might have been out, or away somewhere.”
She made an attempt to clear some plates from the draining board, then gave up.
“So,” she said. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been okay.”
“You still working at the Bear?”
“Yeah. It’s not so bad.”
She did a good imitation of her mother’s pained smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”
There was silence for a time, then, “We need to formalize these visits, that’s all. It’s a long way to come on a whim.”
“I try to come as often as I can, Rach, and I do my best to call. Besides, this isn’t quite a whim.”