“Why would someone do that?” Claire asked as she followed Sherry back down the hall.
“I dunno. No reason I can think of. Well, see ya.” Sherry disappeared into the kitchen as Claire went back upstairs.
Later, after Meredith’s shower, Claire agreed to join her in a game of chess. On the way downstairs, they heard voices coming from the porch.
“Why can’t you admit the possibility of redemption?”
Claire recognized Camille’s smoky voice, raised in anger. Her impulse was to avoid entering the fray, but Meredith swung open the porch door and marched out. To Claire’s sunrise, the person to whom Camille was speaking was Jack Mulligan.
He was leaning indolently over the porch railing, an unlit pipe in his mouth; he removed it and tapped it on the porch railing. “Redemption is a myth propagated by the Catholic Church,” he announced.
Camille put down her coffee cup. “And sin? Is that a myth, too?”
Jack smiled and let a puff of air escape his nostrils. “Of course. Religion exists for two reasons only: people’s refusal to accept the finality of death and the need of the reigning powers to control the populace. The Catholic Church is especially guilty of that.” He replaced the pipe in his mouth. “Do you know that abortion is illegal in Ireland?”
Camille leaned forward, her coffee cup clutched tightly in her well-groomed hands. “I’m not defending the Catholic Church,” she declared impatiently.
Jack continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “In Ireland, teenage girls can be thrown in prison for becoming pregnant. Now you tell me the Church’s definition of sin makes sense.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Catholic Church!” Camille answered angrily, the color rising to her face. “What I’m talking about is sin as a moral reality—”
“But the whole idea of sin is an invention of religion.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make it wrong.”
“What I’m saying is that you can’t talk about sin without bringing religion into it sooner or later,” Jack said with conspicuous patience, as though explaining himself to a child.
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong! Both sin and redemption are possible outside any church—without the intervention of organized religion of any kind.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “If you want to believe that, I can’t stop you. All I’m saying is that the whole notion of sin and redemption is a religious construct. How can sin exist without the presence of a watchful God?”
“It can exist in the eyes of other peoples—or in the eyes of the sinner.”
Jack shook his head. “Then it isn’t sin.”
“Oh? What is it, then?”
“Bad behavior.”
“And redemption? What is that if there’s no God?”
Jack opened his palms up as if he were making an offering. “Like I said before, it doesn’t exist.”
“So without religion there’s no redemption?”
“You got it, sister.”
Camille stood up and shook nonexistent coffee-cake crumbs from her lap. “I’m not your sister, fortunately for me. Frankly, I can’t think of anything worse than that.” She turned and stalked across the porch toward the front door. Her dramatic exit was somewhat hindered by Ralph, who lay directly in front of the door. She was forced to step awkwardly over him; he ignored her, eyes half-closed, tail flicking lazily. To Claire’s great relief, he had appeared as soon as she got up that morning, apparently none the worse for wear.
Jack laughed softly. “It never fails. You can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl.”
Just then Marcel LeMarc’s pickup truck pulled into the driveway, sending a thin white spray of dust behind its thick tires. He climbed out of the cab of the truck, his long legs stretching to the ground as he heaved himself down from the truck. Claire noticed that he was walking with a limp as he ambled up the path to the house.
“Came to fix the water heater,” he said as he climbed the porch steps. “Seems there’s a faulty valve.”
“What happened to you?” said Jack, indicating Marcel’s left leg, which he was favoring.
“Oh, this?” Marcel said. “Ellie ran off again last night and I went looking for her and tripped and fell over a root, kinda twisted my leg a bit. I had a flashlight, but . . . well, it was dark last night.”
Jack nodded and looked at Claire. “Yes, it was.” Claire wondered if he meant anything by the look. Had he been out in the woods last night, too? she wondered. Or maybe it was Marcel’s dog she heard crashing through the bushes after her.
“Did you find her?” said Jack.
Marcel brushed a fallen leaf from his shoulder. “Well” he said, ignoring Jack, “I’d best get to work before someone comes out here yelling about no hot water again.” He sauntered into the house with the wide-legged gait of a man who just got off a horse.
As if reading Claire’s mind, Jack muttered, “Who said there are no more cowboys?”
Claire heard a movement in the bushes and turned to see Ralph staring up at her, eyes wide, a small grey mouse in his mouth. The mouse dangled limply, as though there were no bones in its lifeless body. Repulsed, Claire turned away, only to see that Jack was watching her.
“Not a pretty thing, nature, is it?” he said, then turned and strolled into the house.
Meredith went back upstairs to read, but soon fell asleep, sprawled out on the bed with Stephen Hawking’s physics book lying open on her stomach. Claire put the book on the bedside table and spread a blanket over the sleeping girl. Meredith murmured and turned over in her sleep, then was silent.
Claire sat down in the wicker armchair next to the bed and picked up a manuscript. She glanced at the title: Magic Societies. It was a sociological study of the use of magic and ritual in different cultures, and Peter Schwartz, who intended to bid on it, wanted her opinion. Claire read a passage about human sacrifice in the Mayan civilization and then put the book down and stared out the window. A couple of sparrows were squabbling in the tree outside the window, chirping and fluttering their tiny brown wings at each other.
There was no formula, no magic, Claire believed; in the end, there was only physics. If there was reality other than atoms and molecules, she had yet to see it. Feelings were not to be trusted, and the vague yearnings you experience on a fiercely starlit night are still just feelings, the chemical reactions of an organism.
She leaned back in the chair and dozed off. When she awoke, the sun was low in the sky and Meredith was gone. Claire looked at her watch: it was after six, and Ted Lawrence would be arriving soon. She went to look for Meredith, but couldn’t find her in the house. It occurred to her that the girl might be hanging around Two Joe, so she went to find him.
Claire found him in his studio, working on a sculpture of a miniature bronze buffalo. The animal was in mid-charge, head lowered, its thick shaggy mane glistening in the sun pouring down from the skylight overhead.
“Have you seen Meredith?” Claire said breathlessly.
Two Joe put down his polishing cloth and looked at her. “Not since this morning. Is she missing?”
“I can’t find her anywhere. Her father’s supposed to be here to pick her up in a little while, and she’s disappeared.”
Two Joe shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this. I will help you look for her.”
They left Two Joe’s studio and were heading across the lawn to Ravenscroft when they saw Liza coming out of her cabin. She waved at them.
“Have you seen Tahir?” she called.
“No,” said Claire. “We’re looking for Meredith.”
Liza walked toward them. “I saw her about an hour ago.”
“Where?”
“She was headed in that direction.” Liza pointed to the trail leading to Rock Hill Road. Claire shuddered. It was the same path she had taken the day she discovered Terry’s body.
“The woods is off-limits,” Two Joe said sternly.
“I know; that’s what I told her, but she said she was just going to pick some wildflowers that grow at the edge of the woods,” said Liza. “She had been talking about doing that for two days.”
Claire groaned. “She lied; oh God, what does she think she’s doing?”
“We must go after her,” said Two Joe.
Claire looked down at her flimsy sandals. “I’ve got to put on some shoes,” she said. “Wait for me here.”
She dashed into the house and tore up the stairs to her room. To her surprise, the door was open; she had cautioned Meredith always to lock the door. There, sitting on the dresser, was a note addressed to Claire in Meredith’s untidy, sprawling handwriting.
Gone to the summit of Guardian Mountain. I think I’ve zeroed in on the culprit. Meet me there—and you might want to bring the police—M.
Claire’s heart froze as she stuffed the note into her pocket. Kicking off her sandals, she pulled on her hiking boots, her fingers trembling as she struggled to tie the laces. She pulled the door shut behind her and ran down the stairs two at a time. Two Joe and Liza stood on the porch waiting for her.
“Get Sergeant Rollins and tell him to follow us up to Guardian Mountain,” she said to Liza.
“What? What is it?”
“No time to explain,” Claire said breathlessly as she bounded down the steps and took off for the woods, Two Joe loping after her.
Guardian Mountain was the highest Catskill peak overlooking Ravenscroft, and its summit was accessible only through a twisting, narrow hiking trail that began just off the wide path that began on Rock Hill Road. Claire remembered passing the entrance to the hiking trail the day she discovered Terry’s body. She ran down the path, Two Joe just behind her, until they came to the hand-painted wooden sign pointing up the trail toward the mountain. The trail to the summit, Claire knew, was over two miles long, a steep, crooked climb over rocky Hudson Valley terrain. The trail was well marked with a white blaze, but the day was growing late and soon the sun would sink. She cursed herself for not having brought a flashlight, but it was too late to turn back.
“Come on,” she said to Two Joe, and they began the long, arduous climb. Claire’s lungs burned as they climbed, stepping over fallen tree limbs left by the recent storms, pulling themselves up over rocky ledges. As the sky darkened and shadows deepened, the bent and twisted trees began to look like shape-shifters, dim and ghostly in the dying light.
About halfway up was a rock ledge the locals called Overlook Rock, a place where the scenic beauty of the valley was especially breathtaking. The HudsonValley lay below them, the river winding like a wide grey snake along the foothills. A panorama of the entire Catskill range stretched in every direction, the soft peaks purple in the setting sun. They stopped just below it, Claire pausing to catch her breath, totally indifferent to the beauty all around her. She stood with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily, wondering how much farther they had to go. In spite of his bulk, Two Joe seemed to be breathing no harder than normal; he stood, head erect, sniffing the air.
Suddenly the sound of voices cut through the air. Claire spun around to see Meredith standing on Overlook Rock, her orange hair blowing wildly in the wind.
“Meredith!” she yelled.
Meredith looked down at her and raised one skinny arm, her finger extended. With the sky turning grey all around her, she looked like the Ghost of Christmas Past. “Here’s your murderer!” she called over the wind that whipped up over the side of the mountain.
Claire turned to look in the direction Meredith was pointing, and to her surprise, there, standing almost out on the edge of Overlook Rock, was Tahir Hasonovic. His usually mild face was contorted with rage.
“You stupid little fool!” he hissed. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” He lunged toward her, and Meredith gave a terrified yelp and scrambled away on her hands and knees, crawling along the sheer rock face as best she could.
Claire turned to look for Two Joe, but he had disappeared. Just then she heard voices coming along the trail, and Sergeant Rollins appeared, puffing heavily, his round face red as a tomato. Behind him were Liza and another uniformed officer.
Claire looked up at Meredith and Tahir on Overlook Rock; he had crawled after her and held her by the ankle. She clawed at the smooth surface of rock in an attempt to escape, but his grip was firm. He pulled her to her feet and dragged her over toward the overhanging ledge.
Sergeant Rollins heaved himself up to where Claire stood. “Stop!” he called. “Come down off the rock now!”
Tahir just laughed at him. “Are you out of your mind? I may die, but at least I can take her with me,” he said, tightening his hold on Meredith, who whimpered like a frightened puppy, all the fight gone out of her.
‘‘Let the girl go and no one gets hurt,” Sergeant Rollins called, but Tahir laughed again bitterly.
“Do you know it’s ridiculous that you American cops seem to learn all your speech from the policemen in your movies?” he said. “America—land of opportunity,” he said sourly. “There is no such thing, a land of opportunity; that is just a myth. I came here to begin a new life, but you wouldn’t let me, would you?” He looked at Meredith, shaking her. She was crying now from fear, the tears streaming down her face. “Well, that’s too bad, because now you will have to die with me,” he said, pulling her closer to the rock edge.
“No!” Claire screamed, and Tahir looked down at her.
“It isn’t much to die, you know,” he said bitterly. “I have watched many people die. Oh, yes, many people, more than you can imagine. At first it is hard, but after a while it becomes easier . . . after a while you stop thinking about it, stop dreaming about it . . . until you can watch a person die as easily as you would kill a rat.”
At that moment Tahir stumbled and lost his footing, and Meredith slipped from his grasp. He lunged after her, but stopped suddenly in mid-stride, as if frozen. It was as though a film had suddenly stuck in the projector; he stood motionless, teetering on the brink of taking a step. He turned toward them, an odd expression on his face—not quite pain, not quite relief. It was only then that Claire saw what had stopped him: embedded up to the handle in his chest was a knife—a hunting knife, like the one Gary owned.
She turned to see Two Joe standing at the point where trees gave way to rock. She hadn’t even seen him throw the knife, but she knew it had come from him—that he had thrown it with chilling accuracy. Tahir staggered, clutching his chest, as a dark red stain began to flower upon his shirt. He looked down at the knife in his chest and then at Two Joe.
“You,” he said, and his mouth moved, but no more words came out. His eyes closed and his body swayed like a cobra. In slow motion, it seemed to Claire, he teetered on the edge of the rock, and then, his hands still clutching the knife, his knees crumpled and he plunged over the side, down into the valley below.
Claire buried her face in her hands as a low wailing sound filled the air. She thought it came from Meredith, and it was only after she felt Two Joe’s strong arms around her that she realized it had come from her own throat.
Chapter 24
By the time they scrambled down the trail, it was dark. Two Joe led the way, nimble as a deer, warning them of protruding roots and loose stones. It was almost as though he could see in the dark. She was glad to feel his big rough hand clutching hers as she negotiated a fallen tree trunk or a gully in the trail. The sky had turned midnight blue, and the stars were out over Ravenscroft as they trudged up the front porch steps. Detective Hansom met them at the door, and a look of relief washed over his craggy face when he saw they were all right.
“Sherry called me and told me you’d all gone off to the woods,” he said. “You are very foolish, young lady,” he declared sternly to Meredith, but Claire thought she detected hidden admiration in his voice.
He decided to postpone the search for Tahir’s body until the next day. It was some hours later, as the residents of Ravenscroft gathered around the big fir
eplace, that Meredith calmly explained how she had arrived at her conclusion that Tahir was the murderer. Claire was more than a little awed at the girl’s sangfroid. She sat with her back to the blaze, a cup of cocoa in her hands, watching as Meredith explained herself to the amazed residents.
News had spread quickly, and everyone was gathered around the big stone fireplace. Detective Hansom and Sergeant Rollins sat on either side of Camille on the couch while the other residents crowded around, sitting cross-legged on the floor or in armchairs. Billy Trimble slouched indolently over the back of Gary’s armchair, his long white hands dangling on either side of Gary’s head, his fingers almost touching Gary’s shoulders. Two Joe stood quietly on one end of the fireplace, one thick arm draped over the mantel. Meredith sat in her favorite rattan chair, knees pulled up to her chest, an untouched plate of Mint Milanos at her side. She was enjoying this, Claire thought; the girl was truly in her element.
“I was first alerted by the fact that even though he was supposedly a Muslim, he ate pork,” she said. “In fact, he didn’t seem to adhere at all to Muslim dietary laws.”
“I’ll say,” Jack Mulligan said loudly. “He liked his pork chops.” Liza glared at him, and he smirked and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he did.”
Just then the front door was flung open and Evelyn Gardner entered breathlessly. “I came as soon as I heard,” she said, flicking a stray hair from the immaculate bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a red dress with padded shoulders and gold buttons down the front, black stockings, and a black-and-gold jacket. On her right wrist dangled a set of gold bracelets.
Liza looked at Sherry, who sat cross-legged at her feet. “I called her,” Sherry whispered. “I thought she should know.”
“Thank God you’re all right,” Evelyn said, seeing Meredith. “You must be so proud of her,” she said to Claire.
“Well, actually—” Claire began, but Evelyn interrupted her.
“Please don’t let me interrupt you; I’ll just sit and be quiet.” She settled her elegantly clad bottom in the armchair Jack Mulligan gallantly offered her, her gold bracelets tinkling.
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 27
