“Emma told us what happened. Nothing.”
He said, “Emma’s eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d been
crying. Maybe she and Bob had an argument while Mark was there. Rya might have come to the door at the height of the shouting. She might have misunderstood what was happening; she panicked and ran.”
“Emma would have told us.”
“She might have been too embarrassed.”
As the traffic light turned green, Jenny said, “Panic? That sure doesn’t sound like Rya.”
“I know. But is it more in character for her to fabricate extravagant lies?”
She nodded. “You’re right. As unlikely as it is, it’s more likely that she was confused and that she panicked.”
“We’ll ask Mark.”
According to Jeremy Thorp’s wrist watch it was 10:22 when Paul Annendale drove his station wagon up Main Street and into the alleyway beside the theater. As soon as the car was out of sight, the boy left the church. He went down the front steps, stood at the curb, and waited for the station wagon to reappear.
During the last hour the sky had come closer to the earth. From horizon to horizon, a solid mass of lowering gray-black clouds rolled eastward, driven by a strong high-altitude wind. Some of that wind had begun to sweep the streets of Black River, just enough of it to turn the leaves on the trees-a sign, according to folklore, of oncoming rain.
No rain, please, Jeremy thought. We don’t want any damn rain. At least not before tonight. This summer a dozen kids had organized a series of bicycle races to be held every Friday. Last week he had placed second in the main event, the cross-town dash. But I’ll be first this week, he thought. I’ve been in training. Heavy training. Not wasting my time like those other kids. I’m sure to be the first this week-if it doesn’t rain.
He glanced at his watch again. 10:26.
A few seconds later, when he saw the station wagon coming back down the alley, Jeremy started walking east along Main Street at a brisk pace.
* * *
As the car nosed out of the alley, just as Paul was about to turn right onto Main Street, Jenny said, “There’s Jeremy.”
Paul tapped the brakes. “Where?”
“Across the street.”
“Mark’s not with him.” He blew the horn, put down his window, and motioned for the boy to come to him.
After he had looked both ways, Jeremy crossed the street. “Hi, Mr. Annendale. Hi, Jenny.”
Paul said, “Your mother told me you and Mark were playing basketball behind the theater.”
“We started to. But it wasn’t much fun, so we went up to Gordon’s Woods.”
“Where’s that?”
They were in the final block of Main Street; but the road continued to the west. It rose with the land, rounded a bluff, and went on until it reached the mill and after that the logging camp.
Jeremy pointed to the forest atop the bluff. “That’s Gordon’s Woods.”
“Why would you want to go up there?” Paul asked. “We’ve got a tree house in Gordon’s Woods.” The boy read Paul’s expression accurately, and he quickly said, “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Annendale. It’s not a rickety old place. It’s completely safe. Some of our fathers built it for all the kids in town.”
“He’s right,” Jenny said. “It’s safe. Sam was one of the fathers who built it.” She smiled. “Even though his daughter is a bit too old for treehouses.”
Jeremy grinned. He wore braces. Those and the freckles that peppered his face disarmed Paul. The boy clearly didn’t have the guile, the dark personality, or the experience to take part in a murder conspiracy.
Paul felt somewhat relieved. When he hadn’t found Jeremy and Mark at the basketball court, that icy hand had settled once more, if briefly, on the back of his neck. He said, “Is Mark up at the treehouse now?”
Yeah.
“Why aren’t you there?”
“Me and Mark and a couple of other kids want to play Monopoly. So I’m going home to get my set.”
“Jeremy. . .” How could he possibly find out what he wanted to know? “Did anything-happen in your kitchen this morning?”