The Lesson of Her Death (53 page)

B
ill Corde sat in the Auden University Library.

This was a musty Victorian building, latticed with oak dense as metal and wrought-iron railings that coiled through the balconies and stacks like ivy boughs. The structure might have been imported brick by brick from sooty London and reassembled on this grassy quad within sight of thousands of acres of stalky fields growing a green pelt of corn shoots.

This was the library of a university that Bill Corde would not be admitted to and whose tuition he could not have afforded if he had been.

He had just gotten off the phone with Sheriff Willars in Lewisboro and learned that Dudley Franks was in critical but stable condition. Whatever that meant. Willars had said, “I’m not a happy camper, Bill, no sir,” and Corde knew there’d be some hefty reparation payments between the two counties.

Gloom had settled on the New Lebanon Sheriff’s Department after the shooting. The manhunt that seemed so like a game several days ago had now turned rooty and mean. Gilchrist was both far crazier and far more savage than any of them had guessed and though those two adjectives were rarely if ever found in the vocabulary of modern law enforcement, Corde now felt the full pressure of their meaning.

Gilchrist, Leon David, b. 1951, Cleary, New York. B.A. summa cum laude, M.A., Northwestern University; Ph.D. English literature, Harvard University; Ph.D. psychology, Harvard University. Assistant Professor and Fellow, Department of English, School of Arts & Sciences, Harvard University. Tenured Professor, Department of English, School of Arts & Sciences, Auden University. Lecturing Professor, Department of Special Education, School of Education, Auden University. Visiting Professor, Vanderbilt University, University of Naples, Le Sorbonne Université, College of William & Mary
.…

There were two more full paragraphs.

Corde finished his notes then closed the
Directory of Liberal Arts Professors
. It contained no picture of Gilchrist—the main purpose of his visit here. Neither did the three books written by Gilchrist in the library’s permanent collection. They were books without author photos, books without jackets, smart-person books. Corde jotted a note on a three-by-five card to call the sheriff in Cleary, New York, to see if there were any Gilchrists still in the area.

He flipped quickly through the
Index to Periodicals
. He was about
to
close the book when his eye caught the title of an article. He walked to the Periodicals desk and requested the journal the article had been published in. The clerk vanished for a moment and returned with the bound volume of
Psyche: The Journal of Psychology and Literature
.

Corde sat at his place again, read the first paragraph of “The Poet and the Violent Id” by Leon D. Gilchrist,
Ph.D. He returned to the counter and borrowed a dictionary.

He tried again.

The poet, by which expansive term I am taking the liberty of referring to anyone who creates fictional modes with words, is himself a creation of the society in which he lives. Indeed, it is the obligation of the poet to deliquesce
…

“Deliquesce.”

Corde marked his place in the journal with his elbow and thumbed through the dictionary. The “levitate”/“licentious” page fell out. He stuffed it back between “repudiate”/“resident” and “residual”/“response.”

“Deliquesce, v. To melt by absorbing moisture or humidity contained in the air.”

Okay. Good.

…
obligation of the poet to deliquesce so that he might permeate all aspects of society
.…

“Permeate.”

Corde lifted the dictionary again.

For ten minutes he fought through the article, his sweaty hands leaving splendid fingerprints on the torn jacket of the dictionary, his stomach wound into a knot—not by what he learned about Gilchrist (which was hardly anything) but by the slippery obscurity of meaning. For the first time Corde truly understood his daughter’s predicament.

He paused, saturated by frustration. He breathed slowly several times and resumed.

…
does not the id of a pulp thriller writer encompass a lust to travel the countryside, strangling women
.…

Words.…

What did these words say about where Gilchrist was? What state he would flee to, what country? How he would try to escape? What kind of weapon he might use?

Letters syllables words sentences.…

What do they say about a beautiful young girl lying dead in a bed of hyacinths, swabbed with cold mud? What do they say about the man who closed his hands around her neck, felt her breasts shaking under his elbows, felt the slow, bloody give of her throat, felt the last shiver of her breath on his wrists as she lay down like a struggling lover and saw for one short moment the darkening glow of the half-moon?

…
the metaphors of violence abound
.…

Corde reached forward and ran a finger along
metaphors of violence
and seemed to feel heat coming off the ink.

“Metaphor, n. A figure of speech in which an object, idea or symbol is described by analogy.…”

WHAT
…

“Analogy, n. Correspondence between objects generally thought to be dissimilar …”

…
IS HE TALKING
…

“Correspondence, n. A similarity …”

…
ABOUT?

Corde leaned forward and pressed his eye sockets into his palms, hearing tiny pops of pressure.

The motives of the poet are the motives of us all. The mind of the poet is the collective mind. But it is the poet—whether his psyche be that of saint or murderer—who perceives the world by the illumination of pure understanding, while others see only in reflected light
.

Bill Corde turned to the last page of the article.

Oh Lord …

He stopped as if he’d been struck, feeling the throbbing as the blood pumped furiously through his neck. He reached forward and lifted the Polaroid from the binding of the journal.

The snapshot had been taken recently, perhaps when the family had cooked supper outside just two evenings ago. He noticed the garbage can had not been righted after a storm last week. Sarah and Jamie stood around the barbecue looking down at the glowing coals. The picture had been taken from somewhere on the
other side of the cow pasture in the forest. Almost the exact spot where Corde believed he had seen someone that night he’d kept his long vigil, shotgun-armed and shivering.

Written across the surface of the photo in smeared red ink were the words: SAY GOOD-BYE, DETECTIVE.

Diane Corde, feeling suddenly sheepish, told Ben Breck that she and the children were going to Wisconsin for several weeks.

“What?” Breck asked, frowning.

Diane lifted her hands to her eyes. Her burgundy nail polish was unchipped and her fingers, often red and leathery from the housework, were soft and fragrant with almond-scented lotion. “It’s the damn case again.”

She explained that there’d been yet another threat by the killer. “Bill thought it was best if we went to visit my sister.”

He hesitated and then whispered, “Two weeks?”

She shrugged. “At least. Or until they catch this crazy man. Or find out he’s left town.”

Breck’s downcast boyish face and his tone were identical to those of her first husband when she’d told him she had to spend a week with her mother, who’d fallen and broken her hip. It had been the first time they’d be apart and the young man’s face had revealed major heartbreak. Breck’s eyes now mirrored the poor man’s forlorn expression. This troubled and thrilled her.

They heard a voice outside.

In the backyard, Sarah Corde paced, speaking into her tape recorder like a Hollywood producer dictating memos. Tom, the familiar deputy guard, leaned against the fence rail, his head swiveling slowly like a scout’s in an old-time Western as he scanned the horizon for marauders.

Breck and Diane stood in the dining room and watched Sarah silently. They stood one foot away from
each other. Diane felt him touch her hair, the motion of his hand very gentle, as if he were afraid he might hurt her. She leaned her head against his shoulder then stepped away, both disappointed and grateful to hear him begin to speak suddenly about Sarah. “She’s coming along remarkably well. What a mind! The stories she comes up with are incredible.”

“I’ve given Dr. Parker four tapes already. Her secretary’s transcribing the last of them.”

He brushed his salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead in a boyish gesture.

“She’s fortunate,” Breck said slowly, his eyes playing over Diane’s face. “She’s got a superior auditory processing system. That’s how I’m approaching her lessons, and it’s working very well.”

Diane had recognized something about him. If he had a choice between a ten-dollar word and a twenty-five-cent word, he picked the big one. “Fortunate” instead of “lucky.” “Auditory processing,” not “hearing.” “Onerous.” “Ensconce.” With anyone else this habit would put her off; in Breck, she found it increased his charm.

No. His “charisma.”

He continued to speak about Sarah. This was unusual and she sensed he was propelled by nervousness. In most of these after-session get-togethers—usually in the kitchen, occasionally in the woods—they spoke not of phonemes or the Visual Aural Digit Span Test or Sarah’s book but of more personal things. The schools he had taught at, his former girlfriends, her first husband, Diane’s life as the daughter of a riverboat worker, vacations they hoped to take. Where they wanted to be in ten years, and five. And one.

Yet the nature of these minutes they spent together was ambiguous. Though they talked intimately Breck had not kissed her; though they flirted he seemed bashful. Their contact was plentiful but often seemed accidental: fingers brushing when passing coffee cups, shoulders easing against each other when they stood side
by side. She once shamelessly seated her breasts against his arm as she leaned forward to look at an article on learning disabilities. She thought he had returned the pressure but she couldn’t be sure. In any event he neither backed away nor prolonged the moment.

She didn’t know whether to expect a proposition or not.

A proposition she would, of course, refuse.

She
believed
she would refuse. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to leave. She now touched his arm and he swayed close to her and Diane sensed again the boundary between them that was continually being redefined. They were like teenagers.

Today she believed this barrier was clear and solid. Jamie was only thirty feet away, in his room, and although Bill was at work it wasn’t unheard of for him to drop by at this time of day, stay for dinner then return to the office. She and Breck looked at each other for a long moment and she was vastly relieved when he looked at his watch and said, “Must depart, madame.…” (She was also pleased that he said this frowning with genuine disappointment.) He gathered his notebooks.

That was when Diane kissed him.

Like a sly college girl, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Sarah was out of sight then pushed scholarly Breck into the corner of the room and kissed him fast, open-mouthed, then stepped away.

Ohmygod ohmygod
.…

Panic bubbling inside her. Terrified—not that one of her children had seen, not that word would get back to her husband. No, a more chilling fear: what if he hadn’t wanted to?

Breck blinked once in surprise. He put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her quickly to him. As he kissed her hard, his forearm was leveraged against her breast and his hand made one slow sweep along the front of her blouse then wound around to the small of her back. They embraced for a long moment then Diane willed herself to break away. They stood staring at each
other, two feet apart, in surprise and embarrassed defiance.

He whispered, “Can I see you before you go? I have to.”

“I don’t know. The deputy’ll be watching us like a hawk.”

“I have to see you. Let’s get away somewhere.”

She thought. “I just don’t see how.”

“Look, I’d like to tape Sarah taking some tests. If you’re not going to be back for a couple weeks I should do it before you leave. Maybe you could come with us to the school. We could have a picnic.”

“I don’t know.”

“I want you,” he whispered.

Diane stepped away, rubbed her hands together. She stared out the window at her daughter prancing about in the grass.

“Did I say something amiss?” Breck asked.

Oh, my. All these highfalutin’ words, all these snappy things he does for Sarah, all the places he’s been, and what is at the heart of it all—him being a man and me being a woman
.

Do I want this or not? I just can’t tell. For the life of me I can’t tell
.…

But she said nothing. She kissed him once more, quickly, then led him by the hand to the door. They walked out to his car and she said to him, “It’ll be a couple weeks at the most.” In a whisper intended to convey grave significance she added, “I think it’s for the best anyway, don’t you?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t.”

T
he big problem with the My-T-Fine Tap was the dirty plate-glass windows. They let in bleak, northern, cool light, which turned the afternoon patrons all pasty and sick.