“Oh yeah,” said Theresa. “Who are you?”
The man smiled apologetically, as though he should have introduced himself to begin with. “My name’s Harwood. David Harwood? I knocked on their door just now, and was by earlier, and they don’t seem to be around.”
“They must have gone away for the weekend,” she said.
“Yeah,” the man said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. “I really need to get in touch with them. Sam is-well, Sam and I have been seeing each other, and I’m worried that I haven’t heard from her, that she isn’t answering her cell phone.”
Theresa heard a noise at the back of the house. Ron coming in. “Where are you?” he called out.
“Front door!” she said. When Ron showed up, a jar of weed spray in his hand, she said, “This man’s name is David Harwood. He was looking for Sam and Carl next door.”
“Hi there,” Ron said.
“Hi. I was worried, you know, because of the water scare, that maybe they were sick, but I looked in the windows, and it looks like no one’s home. And the car’s gone, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Ron said. “I saw them packing up a couple of nights ago.”
“Did Sam say where they were going?”
Ron shook his head. “I didn’t talk to them.”
“I did,” Theresa said. “Just for a second. All Sam said was they were going away. Just as well, considering what the town is going through today. Maybe she knows someone who has a cottage. That’d be the place to be this weekend.”
“Isn’t that the truth? Well, I thank you for your trouble.”
“It’s more likely they went to a camp-”
Theresa cut her husband off, saying, “You want to leave a card or something in case she comes back? Someplace she can get in touch with you?”
“No, that’s fine,” he said. “You have a good day, now.”
Theresa closed the door, then leaned up against it with her back and placed the tips of her fingers on her chest, just below her neck. She took several deep breaths.
“Are you okay?” her husband asked.
“Why did you have to say that?”
“Say what?”
“What you were starting to say. That they might have gone to a campground.”
“Isn’t that what you figured? They were putting sleeping bags and a tent into the car. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess they were going camping.”
“He might have heard you. I think he did.”
“So what?” Ron asked.
“So he might start checking campgrounds, that’s what.”
“So what if he does? He said they’ve been seeing each other, him and Sam.”
“Yeah.” Theresa nodded. “Sam has been seeing someone named David Harwood. I’ve seen him drop by the last week or so.”
“Okay. And?”
“And that wasn’t him.”
THIRTY-ONE
ONCE the coroner showed up-a woman named Wanda Therrieult-Joyce Pilgrim returned to her office.
That detective wanted her to review video from the college’s security cameras for the hours before and after the time when he believed Lorraine Plummer had been killed. One of the rooms in the small collection of offices that made up the security division was devoted to tech matters, including several computer monitors linked into the cameras posted around the campus.
It had been Joyce’s plan to head straight in there, but she felt there was something more pressing she had to deal with first.
She had to call Lorraine Plummer’s parents, Lester and Alma. It was their call, after all, that had prompted her to go looking for the student in the first place. They were probably still by the phone, waiting to hear back.
But wait. Was it her responsibility? Should she be the one to give them the horrible news? Or was that up to the police? If this was a murder-which it clearly was-wasn’t it more appropriate for the cops to break the news? Shouldn’t it be Duckworth’s job?
She knew what she was doing. She was looking for a way out. Joyce didn’t want to make the call. She wanted a legitimate excuse not to have to pick up that phone.
Should she call Duckworth and ask if he’d done it? Had he even taken down contact information for the Plummers? She didn’t think he had. The man was probably going out of his mind. How many Promise Falls families were getting bad news today?
Joyce knew this was something she had to do herself.
She picked up the landline, entered the number for the Plummers. The phone did not complete the first ring.
“Yes?” It was the mother, Alma.
“Ms. Plummer?”
“That’s right. Lester, get on the extension!”
A click, then, “Hello?”
“You’re both there?” Joyce said.
“Yes,” said Lester.
“Has anyone been in touch with you?” she asked.
“No,” said Lester. “You mean about the water? We’ve been watching the news. About the poisoned water. When did that happen? Has that been going on all week? Is Lorraine sick?”
“Is she in the hospital?” Alma asked.
“Dear God, did she drink the water?” Lester Plummer asked.
“No,” said Joyce. “She didn’t drink the water. The college is on a separate water supply from the town, so we weren’t affected here.”
She could hear both parents sigh in relief.
“I’m sorry,” Joyce Pilgrim said, “but the news is still bad.”
When she got off the phone, she did not immediately go into the tech room. Instead, she sat stone-still in her desk chair and felt herself start to shake. She gripped the arms of the chair.
I will not lose it.
She took several deep breaths, fought back tears. She’d managed to hold it together through the rest of that phone call. If she could listen to two people be overcome with grief and not start crying herself, she could do anything.
Right?
She thought about calling her husband. She wanted to hear Ted’s voice. But she was sure the moment he came on the line, she’d go to pieces.
She would talk to him later.
Joyce hoped the next time she talked with Duckworth, he wouldn’t ask whether she’d quizzed Lorraine Plummer’s parents about whether their daughter had ever mentioned a married man.
She couldn’t do it. The people were too distraught. She’d broken the news to them. Duckworth could ask them his questions.
Joyce seated herself at the desk in the tech room, moved the mouse around, entered in the time period. She wanted to see footage from 11:20 p.m. through to 1:20 a.m. Duckworth had said he believed Lorraine had been killed about twenty minutes past midnight.
Cameras were posted on the road near the library and the athletic center. There were other cameras, too, although none close to the dormitory where Lorraine lived. But anyone driving onto the Thackeray grounds, headed for that building, would have had to pass either the library or the athletic center.
She brought up the video that had been taken from the athletic-center camera first. Set it up to begin at 11:20 p.m.
There wasn’t a whole lot to look at. With so few students in attendance, there were no cars, and very few people walking about. At 11:45 a young man and woman, holding hands, walked across the screen.
At 11:51, a jogger. White male, late teens or twenties, pair of shorts, white T-shirt. Wires coming down from his ears. On-screen for maybe seven seconds. She made a note of his appearance, scribbled onto a pad: “runner 11:51.”
At 12:02 a.m., he reappeared, going the other way. Joyce made another note.
She was able to fast-forward through the stretches where there was no activity. And there was nothing after that jogger’s return trip on the athletic-center camera. At one point, she thought she saw something, rewound, started the video again at regular speed.
Something moving along the side of the road, up close to a building. Very low to the ground. Was it a person? Someone crawling? Was it someone who had been injured, or someone sneaking around?