There was knowledge in her eyes. Daniel saw it.
“What do you know?” he said. “What do you know about my boy’s death?”
He reached out to her, but she pulled away from him. He heard his wife say something, but it meant nothing to him. All of his attention was focused on the girl. Her eyes were huge. They were staring not at him but at the window behind him, where her face was reflected in the glass. She looked confused, as though the image that she saw there was not the one she had expected to see.
“Tell me,” he said. “Please.”
She did not speak for a time. Then, softly: “I caused this.”
“What? How?”
“I’m bad luck. I bring it with me. It follows me.”
Now she looked at him for the first time, and he shivered. He thought that he had never before seen such desolation in the eyes of another human being, not even in his wife’s eyes when he’d told her that their son was dead, not even in his own as he looked in the mirror and saw the father of a dead child.
“What follows you?”
The first of the tears began to fall from her eyes. She continued speaking, but he felt as though their presence in the room was immaterial to her. She was talking to another, or perhaps only to herself.
“There’s something haunting me,” she said, “someone haunting me, following in my footsteps. It won’t give me peace. It won’t leave me alone. It hurts the people I care about. I bring it down on them. I don’t want to, but I do.”
Slowly, he approached her. “Emmy,” he said, using his son’s pet name for her, “you’re not making any sense. Who is this person?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her head low. “I don’t know.”
He wanted to hold her. He wanted to shake her, to pummel the information from her. He did not know if she was talking about a real person or some imagined shadow, a ghost conjured up to explain her own torment. He wanted her to clarify it for him. An unknown entity had killed his son. Now here was his ex-girlfriend talking about someone following her. It needed to be explained.
She seemed to sense what he was thinking, for as he moved to take hold of her, she slipped away.
“Don’t touch me!” she said, and the ferocity with which she spoke caused him to yield to her.
“Emily, you need to explain yourself. You have to tell the police what you’ve told us.”
She almost laughed. “Tell them what? That I’m haunted?” She was in the hallway now, backing toward the door. “I’m sorry for what happened to BobbyrhaÑned to Bo, but I won’t stay here. It’s found me. It’s time to move on.”
Her hand found the door handle and twisted it. Outside, Daniel felt snow coming. This strange spell of warmth was coming to an end. Soon, they would be lost in drifts, and his son’s grave would gape darkly amid the whiteness like a wound as they lowered him into the ground.
He began running as Emily turned to leave, but she was too fast for him. His fingers touched the material of her shirt, and then he stumbled on the porch step and dropped heavily to his knees. By the time he got to his feet, she was already running down the street. He tried to follow, but his legs hurt and he had been shocked by the fall. He leaned against the front gate, his face contorted in pain and frustration, as his wife held his shoulders and asked him questions that he could not answer.
Daniel called the police as soon as he was inside the house. The dispatcher took his name and number and promised to pass his message on to the chief. He told her that it was urgent, and demanded that she give him Dashut’s cell phone number, but she informed him that the chief was out of town and had given orders that, for this night at least, he was not to be disturbed. Eventually, she promised to call the chief as soon as Daniel was off the line. With no other option, Daniel thanked her and hung up.
The chief did not call back that night, even though the dispatcher had informed him of Daniel Faraday’s call. He was having a good time with his family at his brother’s fortieth birthday, and he believed that he had earned it. He had not told Daniel Faraday and his wife of all that he had learned. That morning, one of his men had called Dashut’s attention to the base of the tree to which Bobby Faraday had been tied. Initials had been carved into its bark by the kids who had gone there to make out over the years, transforming it into a monument to love and lust, both passing and undying.
But something else had been hacked into the bark, and recently too, judging by the color of the exposed flesh beneath: a symbol of some kind, but unlike anything that Dashut had seen before.
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.