The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  “Much like my old one,” Darrow answered crisply. “But before I castrate someone, I prefer the reasons to be my own. I’ll decide about prosecuting Durbin when I know more.”

  Farr gave him a cool look of amusement and surprise. “Fair enough. Just remember that a part of this job is political awareness. Clark’s no longer popular.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Darrow responded amiably.

  Farr paused a moment. “Turning back to the schedule, you’ll also see meetings with community leaders.”

  Darrow read the names, stopping at the police chief. “Is that the George Garrison?”

  “I’m only aware of one.”

  Darrow laughed in surprise. “That is progress.”

  Farr nodded. “Since Angela’s death, black-white relations have changed a bit. Whites became more aware; blacks felt that justice was done, by the police and by Dave Farragher. That’s the only good that came from that tragedy—an absence of more harm.”

  “Except to Steve.”

  “Is punishment for committing murder ‘harm’?” Farr hesitated, then asked in a neutral tone, “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “You know when it was,” Darrow said more sharply than he wished. “Ten years ago, just after both his parents died. After that I stopped coming back at all.”

  “For which no one can blame you,” Farr said calmly. “Especially if they knew about your phone calls to Steve that night. It’s well to remember that the jury convicted Steve without that, and that you might feel even worse if they’d acquitted him. I know I would.”

  At this, the first mention of their shared secret since he’d departed for Yale, Darrow fell silent. At length he said, “Let’s discuss our division of labor. I’ve done considerable reading about why college presidents succeed or fail—especially people who, like me, have no actual qualifications for the job. One major ingredient is a successful partnership with the provost.”

  As though relieved at the change of subject, Farr nodded his affirmation. “I suggest that you focus on the externals: alumni, the board, public relations, fund-raising, and the general infusion of inspiration and vision. I’ll deal with the plumbing: curriculum, personnel, appointments, tenure, the physical plant, and student life.” He held up a hand. “Which is not to say that you should allow me carte blanche. But I know the culture and politics of this place, the pitfalls and personalities—to borrow an unpleasant metaphor, where the bodies are buried.”

  “I appreciate that. And I could certainly use the help.”

  “A word then about our students and faculty. Kids come here with more psychological, familial, and personal problems than they once did—”

  “More than me?” Darrow interjected with a smile.

  “More and different. These days, we don’t turn away students with learning problems—we try to work with them. And though we’re tougher about enforcement, all these issues are still exacerbated by drug and alcohol abuse. So just be warned about that.”

  “And the faculty? Are all of them screwed up, too?”

  Farr gave a short laugh. “Just more steroidal. During Clark Durbin’s tenure, there was an enhancement of faculty power over academic matters, to some degree at the president’s expense—”

  “But not the provost’s expense, I assume.”

  “No,” Farr acknowledged. “As a former faculty member, I’ll concede this was largely my doing, and it enhanced my own authority as well. But my reason was a sound one—the faculty are the experts in these areas, and honoring that attracts better faculty. That’s one area in which Caldwell’s grown stronger.”

  Darrow absorbed this, unsurprised. Farr was a natural leader, born to fill vacuums or—if need be—create them; Durbin was not. And Darrow was not Clark Durbin. But this, Darrow decided, was an issue for another day. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Perhaps something you should consider. I’m sure you’re accustomed to acting quickly and decisively. But if you’re not facing a crisis, strike a balance between decisiveness and diplomacy.

  “As provost, I learned patience. It takes time to win the trust of a community. The quality of one’s decisions isn’t enough—in any given case, the board, faculty, or alumni need to feel they’re included. That means listening a lot, and discerning friends from enemies—aware that on any given issue, friends can become enemies overnight.” Farr smiled. “Fortunately for you, academia’s not your life; nor is money of any concern. Everyone knows that we need you way more than you need us. It’s just better if you don’t rub people’s faces in it. Make your moves in a deliberative way.”

  “Good advice,” Darrow answered. “Which brings me back to the embezzlement and Durbin. Where does that stand?”

  Farr sat back in his chair. “As I told you, the board’s hired an excellent forensic accountant—his investigation is well under way. As you suggested, new safeguards are already being crafted. “Embezzlement isn’t pretty, but at least it’s not the murder of a student. The accounting details are in good hands, and we’ve hired an outside PR firm. Your major worry is public relations: assuring alumni that this will never happen again and deciding what to do with Durbin.”

  Darrow nodded. “Still, I’d like to meet with this accountant. When alumni ask questions, I’ll need command of detail.”

  “That makes sense. Conveniently, he’ll be here on Monday, along with Joe Betts. I’ll make sure they see you.”

  “Good.” Durbin stood. “I’d better get settled in. Durbin’s old house is filled with my boxes. Where is Clark, by the way?”

  Farr grimaced. “Living in a furnished apartment, consulting with lawyers while awaiting his fate. A melancholy outcome to a career.”

  “And a surprising one, I still think.” Darrow paused. “The schedule is fine, by the way. Go ahead and set it up.”

  Farr nodded. “I’ll see you Monday, then. Your first official day as president.”

  They shook hands warmly. “Don’t bother to walk me out,” Darrow said. “I promised Taylor I’d come find her.”

  She was in the sunroom, a stack of papers on her lap. When she looked up, Darrow said, “As I remember, this is where you used to paint.”

  Smiling, she put the papers aside. “I’m working on another thing of beauty—my dissertation.” She stood, walking him to the door. “Did you two have a satisfying summit conference?”

  “Of course. The renaissance of Caldwell College has begun.”

  “Just in time,” she said in a tone that contained good-humored mockery with truth. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “I suppose.” Darrow paused at the door. “But except for Lionel, I barely know anyone now. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve spent the last fourteen years avoiding that. The center of our life in Wayne is the same man—your friend, my father.”

  Darrow considered this. “Then maybe we should expand our social circle. Can I buy you dinner Monday night?”

  Despite her poise, Taylor looked pleased. “Think I’m old enough now?”

  “Yup. Unless you think I’m too old.”

  “Not yet,” Taylor answered philanthropically. “I’ll make reservations at the Carriage House. Some things don’t change; it’s still the only place in town.”

  THAT NIGHT, UNABLE to sleep, Darrow listened to the distant sound of a train whistle.

  This, too, had not changed. In high school, bereft of family, he had lain awake in the bedroom he shared with Steve, listening to the same whistle. It had become the symbol of the larger world, life bypassing Wayne, Ohio. But now he was back.

  Tomorrow he would visit his friend.

  2

  O

  NCE AGAIN, DARROW FACED A PLEXIGLAS SHIELD. THE shield had a small oval with metal grids through which they might speak. A door on the prisoner’s side opened, and then Steve walked toward him.

  The first thing Darrow noticed was that his limp remained. As Steve sat on his side of the Plexiglas, his eyes seemed to
drill into Darrow’s core. His skull was shaved, his face hard. In his jumpsuit he looked fit and well muscled, as though he had channeled his energy and anger into making himself invulnerable. He looked so alien that Darrow cringed inside.

  Some of this must have shown in his eyes. With their faces two feet apart, the smile he gave Darrow was sardonic and unwelcoming. “Think you’d have recognized me, Mark?”

  The question mingled accusation with curiosity, making Darrow feel more defensive. “Only by the surroundings,” he answered. “How are you, Steve?”

  “Better off than my parents. That jury sentenced them to die of shame and misery. I’m merely in prison for life, still wondering what happened to me.”

  His speech and phrasing seemed more studied than that of the small-town boy Darrow had grown up with, his emotional range flatter, yet suffused with subterranean anger. Awkwardly, Darrow asked, “How do you cope?”

  “Exercise. And reading. You name it: history, politics, philosophy, anything but prison novels. My professors would be amazed—right now I’m into the new translation of War and Peace. But my favorites are books on repressed or recovered memory.” His eyes bored into Darrow’s. “So why did you show up now? Curiosity?”

  Darrow chose not to answer. “I’m back in Wayne. They’ve made me president of Caldwell.”

  Steve flashed a wolfish smile. “So I hear. You buy them a building or something?”

  “They didn’t have the bargaining power.”

  “Guess not. Lionel and the rest must be pretty desperate these days. First Angela; now Durbin’s fingers in the cash box. That day you won the Lutheran game was the end of our Age of Innocence.” The mirthless smile returned. “Yeah, I even read Edith Wharton.”

  Darrow had a profound sense of a life wasted. He took in the tile floors and cinder-block walls, yellow under the light from fluorescent tubes.

  “Books keep me from going insane,” Steve continued. “And memories. Sometimes I relive college a week at a time, from freshman year until that night, remembering what it felt like to be free. Except now that kid I was seems like a blind man, headed for some terrible moment hidden in the ambush of time.” His voice softened. “Sixteen years now, and I still don’t know what happened between Angela and me. I’ve filled notebook after notebook with scribbles about that night—scraps of memory that might have happened, but I’m not sure of; images I might have imagined because I’m so fucking desperate to know. It’s like strip-mining a played-out vein of coal. Nothing left but dust.”

  To Darrow it sounded hauntingly like the truth. Either Steve was a gifted liar and always had been, or he was tormented by the fear that he had killed someone, or he was innocent. Of these, the hardest to imagine was a murderer so drunk that he had strangled Angela to death, then awakened wondering what had happened. Buffeted by doubts, Mark could not resist asking, “Do you remember leaving the dorm in the middle of the night?”

  “No,” Steve answered tersely. “You’d have to ask Joe about that. He fucked me over at the trial.”

  Darrow had a piercing memory of hearing Joe’s story, coupled with his own foreboding about phone calls Steve did not answer. “How, exactly?”

  Anger and confusion clashed in Steve’s eyes. “According to Joe, he had to lean out the window to keep from puking. I happened—just happened—to be strolling back from the general direction of the Spire. I didn’t see him; he didn’t say a word to me. Only to the cops.” Steve’s voice became quietly caustic. “You should have seen him on the witness stand, so hangdog, so sorry to testify that he couldn’t even look at me. I barely recognized the arrogant prick you and I used to live with. Hope Mr. Prep School’s not still suffering too much.”

  Darrow felt more disquiet: he, too, held a potential piece of evidence, perhaps corroborating Joe’s story. “Joe couldn’t have convicted you by himself,” Darrow said. “What else was there?”

  Steve tilted his head, staring at Darrow through the Plexiglas. “Why all the questions?”

  Darrow did not care to answer. “Maybe habit,” he finally said. “I spent the first five years after Yale as a prosecutor. Asking questions becomes a reflex; if you’re any good, so does doubt. Sometimes lawyers or cops who want an outcome arrange the facts to fit what’s convenient to believe.”

  “I certainly was convenient,” Steve said with corrosive sarcasm. “Not just for the prosecutor, but for Caldwell College. Once they put me away, the campus was safe. You could send your daughter there knowing I couldn’t choke her to death.”

  Darrow could find no adequate response. Finally, he said, “Is anyone still working on your case?”

  “On what, exactly? That I sort of remember Angela saying she had to leave? What kind of sense does that make?” Steve’s tone was suffused with pain. “I’ll tell you what makes no sense to me. That I’m a murderer but don’t remember being one. That I’d want to hurt a woman, let alone kill a woman I liked enough to sleep with.”

  Mark thought of Angela at the party, seemingly bent on losing herself. “You both were drunk. The next day, you said you could barely remember whether you’d had sex with her or not.”

  Tillman stared at him. “I liked her sober, Mark.”

  “So did I.” Saying this, Darrow felt twisted up inside. “I should have stayed in touch, Steve. I haven’t known how to deal with everything that happened. Including my own role.”

  Steve’s gaze was unyielding. “That’s a lot of guilt to carry. Wondering if you failed me, then wondering if I strangled her. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to wonder if I might be innocent.”

  Again, Darrow chose not to respond. “Maybe you don’t want to see me,” he said at length. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll come back next Sunday. Maybe there’s something I can bring.”

  Steve gave him a crooked smile. “They don’t usually let you ‘bring’ stuff. Just your own psychic baggage.”

  Darrow’s own smile was strained. “Sixteen years, and you’ve become portentous.”

  “And you’ve got a truckload of new baggage. The price of freedom, I guess.” Steve’s voice became less biting. “Sorry about your wife—I saw the reports on television. Locked up here, you forget that life outside this place has moments of darkness.”

  “More than a moment.” Darrow hesitated, then said, “Our time ran out. Sometimes people forget that all of us live a few feet, or a few seconds, from tragedy—some random accident that just misses us without our even knowing. I should have a wife and a two-year-old son. Instead Lee hit a patch of ice she could have missed.”

  After a moment, Steve nodded. “I think that’s what happened to me, Mark. I only wish I knew.”

  THAT NIGHT DARROW stood in the semidarkness of what had been Clark Durbin’s home. It needed more lighting; the furniture was sterile; the representational art on the walls was at odds with the decor and Darrow’s tastes. But then, it wasn’t his home. It was still the place where Lionel Farr had prepared Durbin to cope with Angela Hall’s murder. Coupled with the arrest of Steve Tillman, that crucial hour had enabled Durbin to survive so that, sixteen years later, he could bring Caldwell to the brink of permanent decline again.

  Darrow thought of Steve’s fate, then Durbin’s; in each case, their guilt in some way served to insulate Caldwell from further damage. It had been hard to imagine his friend a murderer; now, if one believed the available evidence, Durbin was a thief. It was another humbling example, Darrow supposed, of the mysteries of character—how little you understood the people you thought you knew unless, by chance, you happened on some unguarded window on their lives. For a moment he wished Lee were here. Then he remembered that, in ways that shamed him now, he had not truly known her either.

  Darrow went to the bedroom and unpacked another box.

  3

  D

  ARROW’S FIRST DAY AS PRESIDENT OF CALDWELL COLLEGE began quietly.

  He walked from his residence to College Hall, the site of his office, a 160-year-old Gothic brownstone with
a steeple far more modest than the Spire. The morning was already warm, and summer students were heading to early classes in T-shirts and jeans or shorts, among them a few kids from India or the Far East, a much rarer sight when Darrow himself had attended Caldwell. With a sense of mild wonder at his return, Darrow climbed the steps to the front entrance.

  Inside, the floors were marble, the hallways hushed and shadowy, the wood-paneled walls darkly stained. Along the spacious corridor leading to Darrow’s new office were oil paintings of the past presidents of Caldwell College—save Clark Durbin—beginning with the Reverend Caldwell himself, whose deep-set brown eyes stared at Darrow with a fierce and unbending rectitude. Darrow remembered these portraits well; it struck him that, if he helped save the school, his own would hang here long after he was dead. He found the thought amusing and more than a little jarring.

  Feeling like an impostor, he proceeded to the president’s suite. He greeted his assistant, Lisa Forbes, then stepped into his office and shut the door. Instantly the spacious room felt sealed off, its decor—a Louis XIV desk, leather chairs and couch, an oil painting of the Spire—like a movie set waiting to be occupied. In fifteen minutes, when Joe Betts appeared, Darrow’s history at Caldwell would resume. He used the time to carefully consider his approach to this most delicate of subjects, the embezzlement that had triggered his return.

  WHEN THE DOOR opened, Lisa ushered in the forensic accountant hired to investigate Durbin’s theft, followed by Joseph C. Betts III—as the day’s schedule had listed him—chair of the investment committee of Caldwell’s board of trustees.