Ashley pulled on a pair of sneakers and cut across the campus toward the mansion. Her bodyguard followed her at a discreet distance. The morning was spectacular. The sky was bright blue and decorated by fluffy white clouds, the air was fresh with the smell of pine and roses and birdsong filled the air. The very perfection of the morning was pure torture for Ashley. Every bird that sang, every heavenly scent, and every multicolored flower garden made her remember what she had lost.
Ashley heard the hum of a lawnmower, and the mansion came into view. A crew of gardeners was mowing the grass, edging the bushes, and tending the flower gardens. To get to the kitchen Ashley walked between a pool and a large flagstone patio furnished with lounge chairs and glass-topped tables shaded by sturdy umbrellas. Ashley caught a glimpse of the main dining room through a leaded-glass window. It was paneled in dark woods, and a crystal chandelier hung over a polished oak table that looked as if it could seat her soccer team.
Ashley knocked on the kitchen door, and a woman dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, khaki slacks, and an apron let her in. The woman was in her forties and her brown hair was starting to streak with gray.
“I’m Mandy O’Connor. I cook for Mr. Van Meter. You must be Ashley. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
The kitchen was huge and dominated by a cooking island over which hung racks of copper pots and pans and cooking utensils. To one side was a table already set for two.
“Sit down while I fix you something. I can whip up oatmeal, a batch of pancakes, or bacon and eggs with some toast. What would you like?”
Ashley was ravenous and just the mention of the food made her mouth water.
“Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast sounds great.”
“Milk, coffee, orange juice, tea?”
“ Orange juice and milk, please.”
Ashley sat at the table, where she found a copy of the morning paper. The headline was about a crisis in the Middle East, but there was a story about the manhunt for Joshua Maxfield below the fold. Ashley turned over the paper so she couldn’t see that story and searched for sports. In the back was an article about a summer league soccer playoff. Ashley had been on the winning team last year. She could only read part of it before she had to stop.
The door connecting the kitchen to the interior of the house opened and Henry Van Meter shuffled in. He was not using his cane, and each step looked tortured. He spotted Ashley and smiled.
“Miss Spencer, welcome,” he said, his speech slurring slightly. “You are joining me for breakfast?”
Ashley stood. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Van Meter. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“You have been in my thoughts constantly for the past few days.”
It seemed to take an eternity for Henry to reach the table. Ashley pulled out his chair and he sat down slowly, with a great effort.
“My usual, Mandy,” Van Meter said. Then he looked at the page in the sports section that Ashley had been reading.
“You would be playing today, no?”
Ashley was surprised that he knew that. She nodded. He patted the back of her hand. His touch was cold.
“You will play again. You are young, so this tragedy consumes you, you believe that you will be as sad for the rest of your life as you are now, but time will make your pain fade. Trust me. I have suffered tragedies and outlived the pain. Nietzsche said, that which does not kill us makes us strong. I have lived the truth of that philosophy. The strong survive and you are strong.”
“How can you know that?” she asked.
“There is one unalterable fact. Life goes on whether we wish it or not. I was wounded in the war, in my leg. Badly wounded. The doctors amputated it.”
Ashley’s lips parted, her eyes widened. Henry laughed.
“You are shocked. It’s the right leg below the knee. They do wonderful things with prosthetics nowadays. But back then…” Henry shook his head.
“Can you imagine, twenty-two years old and looking at life as a young man with one leg? What girl would have me? I would be a cripple, the subject of pity. But I woke up one morning and accepted the fact that I was a man with one leg. Some people had bad eyesight, others were uncoordinated or stupid-I had one leg. So be it. I never let my grief overwhelm me again. I rejected self-pity. When I returned home I courted and married the most beautiful and talented woman in Portland society, I improved the business that my father started, I traveled to far-off places instead of sitting in the dark, brooding.” Henry tapped his temple. “It is force of will. You must make your will like iron. It is the only way to conquer life, which can be unremittingly cruel at times.”
Henry’s words stirred Ashley. She remembered how different she’d felt this morning when she made her decision to get out of the bed in which she had been hiding and do something as simple as taking a shower.
Mrs. O’Connor laid a plate of crisp bacon, steaming eggs, and hot, buttered toast in front of her. The smell banished all thoughts except those connected with food. Henry ate a bowl of oatmeal. Ashley took a drink of orange juice and dug in. Henry watched her eat. He smiled.
“Have you thought about what you will do with your life?” Henry asked.
“I was planning on college, if I can afford it,” Ashley answered. She was still uncertain about her financial situation despite Jerry Philips’s assurances.
“Ach, college. That is something you will not have to worry about. I have seen your grades, young lady. I know about your athletic scholarship possibilities.”
Ashley looked surprised.
“This is my school. My daughter is the dean,” he said, as if Casey were still in her office, hard at work, “but I know everything that goes on here. So you have no worries where college is concerned. I am talking about after college. What will you do with your life?”
Ashley’s tragedy had made it hard to think beyond the day. The rest of her life seemed as far away as the jungles of Africa.
“I don’t know. I was interested in medicine, I’d like to travel,” she answered vaguely.
“Travel! That is important. To see things, to have experiences. My trips gave me some of my best memories.”
Ashley had visions of Saharan pyramids and snow-covered Himalayan peaks.
“Where did you go?”
Henry began his answer but a knock on the kitchen door interrupted him. Detective Birch walked in with a determined look on his face.
“Mr. Van Meter, Ashley, I have good news. We caught him.”
“Joshua Maxfield?” Van Meter asked.
Birch nodded. “They ran a piece on the case on the national news. The Omaha police got a citizen tip and picked him up in a motel. Maxfield has a court appearance in Nebraska, tomorrow. If he waives extradition he’ll be in custody in Oregon by the end of the week.”
Ashley had been badly frightened while Joshua Maxfield was at large. She felt relieved now, knowing he was in custody. But she didn’t feel joy. Her mother and father were still dead and nothing the state did to Joshua Maxfield would bring them back.
Chapter Eleven
Before Barry Weller entered the jail reception area, he went to the men’s room in the Justice Center to calm his nerves. As he washed his hands, Barry studied himself in the mirror. His reddish-brown hair had been cut two days before and was neat and crisp, and his suit hung just right from his lanky frame. Behind his contacts his eyes were a piercing and decisive green. When he left the restroom Barry believed that he was the very picture of a successful and dynamic attorney.
Weller had barely been able to contain his excitement during the crosstown walk from his law office to the jail at the Justice Center, a sixteen-story concrete-and-glass building a block from the Multnomah County Courthouse. The jail took up the fourth through tenth floors of the building, but the Justice Center was also the home of the central precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the Multnomah County district attorney’s office, several courtrooms and, currently, Joshua Maxfield, the country’s most notorious serial killer.