So it is a case, Devin thought. And McCabe was aware of it, which meant the investigation had gone beyond confiscating Simon’s PC. The police were probably checking out the school computers as well.
“Maybe I can help?”
“Help how?” He was beginning to look annoyed.
“I don’t know. Simon and I are friends. I know him pretty well.”
“Do you know something about this?” He had sat down again, much to Devin’s relief, and even looked interested.
“I know his sister,” she said, dodging his question. This wasn’t entirely true. She had met Courtney only a few times and had never really said more than hi to the girl. “Maybe I could talk to her, find out how much she knows. That’s if I knew what to ask.”
Mr. McCabe’s frown returned. He had thick, bushy eyebrows the color of his mustache, which made the frown seem more menacing. “I’m sure the police have already questioned his sister to their satisfaction.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Look, Devin, if you know something, I suggest you tell me. Otherwise, please don’t waste my time. I have students who need my help.”
Devin assumed he was referring to the jocks, most of whom, from what she could tell, didn’t even seem to be working. They were talking and clowning around.
Mr. McCabe leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his large belly. He eyed her suspiciously. “Just how much did Simon’s sister tell you?”
Stupid stupid stupid. She was digging herself in deeper and deeper. Devin clutched the sides of the chair. All she’d been trying to do was find out how far the investigation had gone and if the police had found anything in the school computers. Or if they had other suspects. It seemed obvious that the investigation was still under way, and that was about all she’d discovered. It wasn’t much to take back to Kyle, but she didn’t know how to get any more information. She just wanted to leave.
Mr. McCabe was watching her. Waiting for her answer. “Not much, only about the police taking his computer. I thought you might know why.” She bent over to pick up her backpack, then got up to leave. “It’s like I told you, Simon’s a friend. I was worried he might be in some sort of trouble.”
“I’d worry more about whether he’s going to come out of that coma,” Mr. McCabe called after her as she headed for the door.
Her lame encounter with Mr. McCabe was a disappointment. Kyle wouldn’t be too happy about how it had gone either. But what did he expect? She’d warned him she wasn’t good at this Mata Hari stuff.
With the police involved, it could mean possible criminal charges for whoever was arrested. Right now it appeared Simon was their man. As far as she could tell, they weren’t investigating anyone else. Not at the moment, anyway. So why did she feel so rotten?
Debra Santino opened the window behind her desk and stared down at the small mounds of melting snow by the curb in front of the county courthouse. They were almost black from the gravel and dirt heaped on them, magnets for gum wrappers, paper cups, garbage tossed from car windows and by pedestrians. The snow, dirt, and trash formed bleak sculptures—collaborative artistic efforts.
A cool spring breeze washed over the room, bringing welcome relief. She needed a clear head. It was late Friday afternoon and technically she had the weekend off. But she knew she would be in here again first thing Saturday and maybe Sunday. As long as it took.
On the desk in front of her was Simon Gray’s PC. On the monitor was a poem. So far she had found dozens of poems and short stories on the boy’s computer. Although these were not what she was looking for, she found herself reading them anyway, telling herself she might find a clue. Maybe one of the stories would be about a teenage hacker. But she knew that was unlikely. Simon didn’t seem the type to leave such obvious evidence behind.
Over the past few days she had learned quite a bit about Simon Gray from Barbara Schroder, the principal of Bellehaven High. What she didn’t understand was why Dr. Schroder wanted the police on this case. True, if it involved hacking, that would be a criminal offense. But Debra had handled enough of these cases in the public school system to know that one or more students had probably managed to get the teacher’s password. Using someone else’s password, while unethical, wasn’t a crime.
She couldn’t understand why Dr. Schroder didn’t let George McCabe handle the situation. Not only was he the computer science teacher, he maintained the school’s network. If anyone was in a position to search the log on the server for any suspicious activity, it would be McCabe. That way the school could keep this whole business under wraps. Debra had said as much to Barbara during their phone conversation a week earlier.
No one on the Bellehaven police force was trained to handle computer crimes. And the county did not have a computer crimes division. Ordinarily, if the police had to be involved, Lieutenant Santino, who worked in the county prosecutor’s office, directed the problem to the High Technology Crimes and Investigation Support Unit in Trenton. But the situation at Bellehaven High didn’t merit that kind of attention.
Barbara Schroder had called her not only because she had known Debra for years but because, as she told Debra, she was the most computer-savvy person in the county, with maybe the exception of Roger Garvey, a computer consultant who maintained the system in the prosecutor’s office.
Debra hadn’t missed George McCabe’s obvious annoyance when she and Roger showed up at the school to download the server’s log. And she couldn’t blame him. There was no reason he couldn’t handle the matter on his own.
But she had to admit, it was McCabe who had tipped her off about Simon Gray. He had told her that if anyone had the skill and knowledge to hack into the system or secure someone else’s password, it was Simon. Although he’d quickly added that he couldn’t imagine the boy doing such a thing. It wasn’t in his nature.
Obviously there was more to Simon Gray than his knowledge of computers. Debra glanced at the monitor. A poem she had come across a few minutes earlier was still on the screen.
BAT WINGS
On nights with air so heavy a single breath
could drown us all
bats drink their fill of mosquitoes
swelling their bellies
on the graceful downswoop sail leeward,
their wings like shark fins, black on black,
invisible except for the brush
of air against the brow,
unlike us
their dark blades never
paperslice other wings
with bloodless cuts.
The lieutenant leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen. What was she to make of this? Did the “us” refer to people Simon Gray knew? Suddenly she was thrust back into her sophomore year of college and a literary analysis class she’d hated. The teacher, whose name she couldn’t even recall, was always nagging her students to look beneath the surface of the stories they read, hinting they would find deeper meaning in the symbols, in the metaphors. It amused her to think her career as a police officer required her to do just that—look beneath the surface for what was rarely apparent at first glance. She wished now she had paid more attention in class.
Could the answers she was looking for be hidden somewhere in these poems, these stories? Maybe, but she needed to know more about the boy and his friends and family before she could make any connections.
And there was something else that bothered her: the accident. She wondered if it was possible that it wasn’t an accident at all, wondered if Simon Gray had been desperate enough to attempt taking his own life. If that was the case, then what had made him that desperate? Had he committed a crime that could ruin his reputation, stain his permanent record? The question brought her back to where she had started—was Simon Gray a probable suspect or not?
Only an inch of thick lukewarm coffee remained in the glass pot of the coffeemaker. Lieutenant Santino sloshed it around, trying to decide whether to dump it and start another pot or just drink the sludge that was left. She would probably be there
until late into the evening. So she opted to make a new pot of coffee. Then she went back to the computer sitting on her desk. Simon Gray’s computer.
Later, when she reached for her coffee mug, the few swallows left were cold. As she got up to refill the mug, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost seven o’clock. She hoped her husband, Steve, had found something in the freezer to microwave, something he could make for himself and the girls. Well, it was too late to worry about that now, she thought, pouring another mug of coffee. She would call Steve in a few minutes.
But the few minutes turned into two more hours as she diligently opened documents within files that were tucked away within other files, hoping against hope that one of these documents would yield some sort of evidence.
The first thing Debra had checked, once she was able to access Simon’s e-mail account, was his recent mail. The screen was blank. Not one e-mail remained, not even in his trash file. Not a shred of evidence. She would try to retrieve the messages later. But right now she searched his files, hoping to find some other revealing document, notes or letters, illegal software, or perhaps a journal.
If she couldn’t find anything, she would turn Simon’s computer over to Roger Garvey, who was currently going through the information they had downloaded from the school server, a daunting task, given the amount of data.
Both she and Roger suspected that whoever printed out the English test might have installed a keystroke recorder program they’d downloaded from the Internet, using it to record Abel Dodge’s password when he logged on. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used such a program illegally. Lieutenant Santino was glad they had Roger working on the case. If there was anything suspicious in the server’s log, Roger would find it.
In the meantime, she would keep prodding away at Simon’s PC, because all her instincts told her there was something there. Something she normally wouldn’t be looking for. Something that would give her a clue, something to go on, maybe even the evidence she needed. She didn’t expect this to be easy, and she was willing to put in as much of her own time as necessary.
She knew from what George McCabe had told her that Simon Gray was bright. Knew he probably had a brilliant future ahead of him. Knew from questioning some of the other teachers and a few of Simon’s neighbors that he was practically the poster boy for the perfect son, the one they all wished they had. And that was the problem, as far as she could tell. Simon Gray was just too good to be true.
Liz had spent all Saturday afternoon scrounging through stacks of dusty cardboard boxes in the basement of the building that housed the local historical society. She had all but given up when she pulled an old leather-bound book from one of the unmarked boxes. It had been buried beneath junk from someone’s attic, or so Liz had decided—the kind of stuff you might find at a rummage sale. The leather binding was worn and cracked.
The overhead lights were so dim, Liz could barely make out the ink on the pages of what appeared to be someone’s journal. On the first page, in elegant cursive and ink faded to a pale brown, were the words:
An Account of My Life from 1797 to 1800
by
Lucinda Alderman
If nothing else, this old journal, donated to the historical society along with countless other documents and objects by well-meaning families who wished to preserve their family history and its deep connections to the town of Bellehaven, was written during the time when the Wildemere trial and hanging took place. Liz ran her hand over the page, as if she could somehow make a connection with Lucinda Alderman.
Overhead, the muffled sound of crepe soles crossed the floor. The basement door opened and Mrs. Neidermeyer’s gravelly voice floated down to her, alerting her that they would be closing the building in ten minutes.
Liz clutched the journal as if she expected Mrs. Neidermeyer to come tearing down the stairs and rip it out of her hands. After spending the entire afternoon in this musty basement, going through dirty boxes that had turned her fingers gray, she wasn’t about to let her discovery be taken from her.
The upstairs rooms were already filled to overflowing, and it seemed unlikely that any of this stuff would ever see the light of day. At least not anytime soon, not until the society found a larger building. All these boxes of donated information had yet to be cataloged—mostly by senior citizens who volunteered their time. It would take years.
That was what Liz told herself as she unzipped her backpack and slipped the journal inside. Mrs. Neidermeyer would never allow her to take anything from the building. And the thought of waiting until Monday after school to read through this latest find, the only thing she’d discovered that was even remotely related to the period she was investigating, was agonizing. The journal had probably not even been cataloged. They would never miss it. She would return it in a few days, and no one would ever be the wiser.
SIMON HAD RETURNED TO THE LIBERTY TREE. THE streetlights cast eerie shadows on the road and sidewalk. At first he saw only a dark filmy cloud at the base of the oak. There was something familiar about the shape, something unsettling. But as hard as he tried to remember, he drew a blank.
The shape seemed to take on solid form, and that was when Simon realized he was staring at Jessup Wildemere. Again. Only now Jessup sat beneath the tree, his knees drawn to his chest, his head bowed, as if he were asleep. He wore the same clothes as before. Simon wasn’t sure how much time had passed since their previous encounter. It seemed like only seconds since he’d last been there.
When Jessup looked up, Simon watched his expression change from hopeful to disappointed. He wondered if Jessup was still waiting for someone. “What are you doing out this time of night, lad?” Jessup asked.
“Nothing. Just walking.” Simon didn’t know what else to say.
Jessup held out his arm, pointing a finger at him. “In your nightshirt? And not much of a nightshirt at that.” He laughed.
So Jessup Wildemere could see what he wore. Simon wondered why Jessup hadn’t mentioned it before. Maybe he had been embarrassed for Simon and pretended he didn’t notice.
“Sometimes I sleepwalk,” Simon said. To his way of thinking, this answer wasn’t all that far from the truth.
Jessup narrowed his gaze. He looked suspicious. “A body walking about while he sleeps?” He shook his head. “Sounds like the devil’s work.” Jessup got to his feet and brushed off the seat of his breeches. “Judging by those cuts and bruises on you, I’d say this sleepwalking is a dangerous pastime.”
Simon didn’t want to talk about his injuries. He wanted to leave this place. He didn’t want to talk to Jessup Wildemere, because none of what was happening made sense. He had no rational explanation for these encounters, and that made him uneasy.
Jessup had taken a few steps away from the base of the tree. He stared up into the night sky. “Did you ever see so many stars?” he asked.
All Simon saw when he looked up were a few scattered stars blurred by the ground light. The windows in the Neidermeyer house were dark. But the fluorescent lights inside the Gulf station across the street were on. Curious, he nodded toward the station and asked Jessup what he saw.
Jessup scratched the back of his neck and stared in the direction Simon had indicated. “That’s the road to the green,” he said. He eyed Simon suspiciously. “Did you not tell me you were from around here?”
“What else do you see?”
“What else? Why, the western portion of Joseph Alderman’s pasture, of course.”
Simon had begun to understand this much: he and Jessup were standing in the same place, but not in the same time. They were somehow together in space but with more than two hundred years separating them. Everything around them, everything they saw, except for each other, was part of their own time. Neither could see what the other saw.
Nothing in Simon’s experience or in his belief system had prepared him for such an incomprehensible situation. But then nothing had prepared him for the long blocks of time he spent in gut-wrenching
pain in the empty dark, either. Yet as much as he hated being in the hospital, being here with Jessup Wildemere, in this haunted place, by this tree, was equally disturbing, but in a different way, although he couldn’t explain why.
Simon closed his eyes and tried to will himself back into his body. But if there was one thing he had learned on these spontaneous out-of-body journeys, it was that he didn’t seem to be in control of when they happened, where he ended up, or when he returned.
When he looked over at Jessup, the man was watching him with curiosity. Simon crossed the grass by the sidewalk and sat beneath the tree. The back of his head rested against the tar-coated gash. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Jessup during their last visit, and staring up at the figure standing next to him, he asked, “Didn’t the person you were waiting for show up?”
A chill night breeze set the bare branches above them dancing. The glare of the streetlight covered the sidewalk and road in dappled, shimmering light. But no such light appeared on Simon, or on Jessup, whose face was bathed in the silvery blue light of a full moon, although Simon could see only a muted, cloud-covered moon in the sky. Jessup’s gaze seemed far away. “She’ll come,” he whispered, more to himself than as a response to Simon’s question.
Simon expected the ground beneath his thin gown to be cold and damp. But he felt nothing. And even there, outside, with the night air wafting about him, he could still detect the faintest odor of bleach.
He looked at the branches overhead and wondered which one Jessup Wildemere had dangled from the day the townsfolk hanged him. Did Jessup remember that day? Did he even know he was dead? Simon decided he wasn’t going to be the one to break the news. If Jessup Wildemere thought he was alive, that was fine with Simon. As long as he wasn’t stuck here with him for the rest of eternity.
Jessup reached into a leather pouch that hung from his breeches and pulled out a small object. He hunkered down in front of Simon and opened his hand. The object was a ring with a dark green stone. It shone in a pool of moonlight in Jessup’s hand. “It belonged to my mother,” Jessup said. “My older brother, Samuel, inherited my father’s farm when my father died last year. My mother wanted me to have something, too. So she gave me this when I left to strike out on my own. It belonged to her grandmother. It’s a fine emerald, wouldn’t you say?” Jessup gently rubbed his thumb back and forth over the green stone. “Do you think she’ll like it?”
Shades of Simon Gray Page 10
