The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  Abruptly, Darrow felt as though he had said too much. But Taylor regarded him with a look of sympathy and reflection. “Was it hard to leave Boston?” she asked.

  Their drinks arrived. Darrow sipped his whiskey, pondering how much more to say to a woman he barely knew but for whom, given their shared history, he felt an affinity. At length he said, “Like Caldwell, Boston has its ghosts. Suddenly what remained felt empty.”

  Taylor regarded the table, as though considering what to say. Then she looked up at him again. “When I read that your wife had died, I thought about writing you. But it seemed gratuitous, a condolence note from someone who remembered you more clearly than I’m certain you remembered me. I imagined my note being more puzzling than consoling. So I didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded, actually. Now and then I’ve wondered about what became of you. How is it for you, being back?”

  Taylor tasted her gimlet. “Funny,” she answered. “Dad’s still a stranger, although I feel him trying. And for some odd reason I don’t sleep well in that house. But then I haven’t had much practice since I was fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?”

  Taylor nodded. “I went away to the Trumble School, in Connecticut. My grandfather Taylor went there—my uncle, too. So my grandparents offered to pay my way.” Taylor paused, her eyes pensive. “They seemed to sense that my dad and I were both adrift. He didn’t know what to do with me; worse, I think I resented him—terrible as this is to say—for being the parent who survived. Looking back, my grandparents were giving us both some breathing space. But when I left, I left for good.”

  When the waitress returned, they paused to order dinner. Picking up the conversation, Darrow thought of Joe Betts. “What was Trumble like?” he asked. “I always imagined prep school as a gilded prison.”

  Taylor laughed. “Oh, there’s a little of that. Sometimes I think parents pay schools like Trumble a ridiculous amount of money to warehouse the puberty-maddened, imposing rules that Mom and Dad would never dream of trying. Imagine your mom conducting room inspections.”

  “I can’t.”

  Registering his sardonic tone, Taylor smiled faintly. “No, I guess not. But add to that hall monitors who called you out for wearing headphones, sign-in sheets for breakfast, and a schedule where every hour from seven A.M. to nine at night was planned.” She laughed softly at herself. “I make it sound like Alcatraz. The fact is, Trumble was good for me, and mostly I adored it. Suddenly I had friends from everywhere—my three closest girlfriends were from Ghana, Hong Kong, and Spanish Harlem. Our classmates called us the ‘four corners of the world,’ which we wore as a badge of pride.” Taylor’s expression grew reflective. “I missed my mom, of course. There were so many times I wanted to talk with her about friends or boys or social pressures or dreams about the future, and I couldn’t. But no one had a mom on-site. Instead, my friends became like a second family.”

  Thinking of Steve Tillman, Darrow nodded. “As a teenager I remember feeling like we were a secret society, conspiring against clueless adults.”

  Taylor smiled in recognition. “The four of us certainly had our secrets. When Lupe, from Harlem, was the first to sleep with a guy, the rest of us knew within hours. But no one else did, ever—except for all the people his friends told, of course.”

  Darrow cocked his head. “I’m curious about the logistics. Where did Lupe go to pull this off?”

  Taylor grinned. “Sedgwick Chapel—the holiest of holies on the Trumble campus, laden with history: graduations, memorial services, addresses by storied alumni. No student was supposed to have a key, but someone always did. I’ve often thought the richest part of chapel lore was its unofficial history. Which no one ever acknowledged.”

  Darrow glanced at the photograph. “Sounds something like the Spire.”

  “I suppose so. But nothing died in Sedgwick except virtue, and most of us were dying to be rid of it.” Taylor’s expression grew serious. “Trumble was where I learned to cope with whatever happened to me. I left there as an adult, more or less.”

  It struck Darrow that Taylor, weaned from family, in some ways had become even more of a loner than the girl he remembered. “After prep school,” he asked, “how were things with Lionel?”

  “Much the same. Even at Trumble, I spent summers as a camp counselor, or with my grandparents on Martha’s Vineyard. Same thing when I went on to Williams. During my junior year, my grandfather Taylor died, then Grandmother six months later. So I decided to leave the country altogether.”

  Their steaks arrived, pronged with small plastic signs that said, CERTIFIED ANGUS BEEF and promised that both were cooked medium rare. Darrow smiled at this. “The Carriage House,” he told her, “has the virtue of being utterly resistant to fashion. It’s been open for half a century now. In London or San Francisco, restaurants open and close in a year.”

  Taylor cut a decorous sliver of steak. “Have you spent much time in London?”

  “A little.” He hesitated. “That and Paris were Lee’s favorite cities. We split our honeymoon between them.”

  Taylor took this in. “I lived in London for almost three years, taking a crash course in art dealering at Sotheby’s, then getting my master’s at the Courtauld Institute. It’s probably the city I know best.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Quite a bit,” she answered. “In fact, I thought about staying. But the best doctorate program anywhere is at NYU. So I went there, and learned to love the West Village. Now I need time off to finish my dissertation. So here I am, in Wayne.”

  “So here we both are—you living with your dad, me in what I still think of as Clark Durbin’s house.”

  “The President’s House,” Taylor amended. “What’s that like?”

  “Not exactly to my taste. It feels a little like one of those furnished apartments that serve as a halfway house for husbands whose wives have thrown them out.” He sipped his drink. “Perhaps it’s my state of mind. In my former life we had a town house near the Common, filled with things we’d chosen over time. To me home is something organic. This is a place to sleep.”

  Taylor gave him a curious look. “Do you still own the town house?”

  “Uh-huh. But it’s begun to feel like a remnant of some other life. There’s too much of Lee there, and it seems empty without her.” Embarrassed, he stopped himself. “God, I’m sounding sorry for myself. Lord knows why I’m subjecting you to this—I’m generally pretty okay.”

  Taylor shook her head. “You don’t sound sorry for yourself, Mark. Just honest.”

  Darrow shrugged. “Then you can take it as an inverted compliment. I don’t much like talking about myself.”

  Taylor smiled a little. “As I remember you at my parents’ dinner table, you never did. Sort of like me. I guess we’ve been saving it up.”

  They finished dinner, chatting easily. Leaving the restaurant, Darrow was conscious of heads turning—perhaps for both of them; no doubt for Taylor Farr.

  He walked Taylor to her car. They faced each other in the twilight. “I’ve been thinking,” she told him. “Maybe you should do something to the President’s House.”

  “Such as.”

  “Change it a little, or a lot.” Her tone became wry. “At your own expense, of course—I gather you can afford it. But it’s no good being in new surroundings if they depress you.”

  Darrow considered this. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. Except for the time it would take.” He tilted his head in inquiry. “Think you could advise me?”

  Taylor laughed. “About what? Just like I’m not an artist, I’m not an interior designer. Besides, my specialty is postmodern art—any suggestion I made would terrify you. By the time I finished, you’d be sleepless, too, just knowing what horrors were lurking in your living room.”

  Darrow shrugged. “At least I’d be entertained.”

  She looked at him, her smile lingering. “You’re serious.”

  “Completely. I’m curious about what
ever you’d come up with. Besides—as you pointed out when we met again—you’re not twelve anymore.” Though still light, his tone softened. “Truth to tell, I enjoyed myself tonight.”

  Slowly, Taylor nodded. “So did I, Mark. If you want my advice, just call me.”

  5

  B

  Y THURSDAY EVENING, DARROW HAD SPOKEN TO ALUMNI groups in Cleveland, Chicago, and New York. What daunted him was being introduced as the savior of Caldwell College; what pleased him was that, when he finished, the applause was louder than before he had begun. Besides the embezzlement and, in one case, the lingering effect of Angela Hall’s murder, alumni concerns varied: in New York, the penultimate question was how Caldwell could let Huntley Stadium become so shabby; the last question, more to Darrow’s liking, was, “Describe how you envision Caldwell College in five years’ time.”

  “With a new football stadium,” Darrow deadpanned. When the laughter died, he said, “New facilities will help us attract the best faculty and students. But what concerns me even more is where our students come from.”

  Pausing, his gaze swept the crowd, three hundred alumni assembled for dinner in a hotel ballroom. “Look around you,” he suggested. “We’re mostly white and uniformly prosperous.” Darrow flashed a smile. “Mind you, I’ve got nothing against rich white people, and neither did the search committee. But the years since I graduated—thanks, I might add, to our school’s generosity—have marked a decline of opportunity, not only for minorities but for middle-class kids squeezed out by rising tuition. Too many other Americans, fortunate themselves, have begun to live in gated communities of the mind, where no one asks them to care about people outside their own direct experience.”

  The audience was quiet now. Sensing their discomfort, Darrow continued firmly: “The Hall tragedy diminished what I want Caldwell to offer—excellence in education for students whose only barrier to college is money. That will make our school a place that enriches our country by expanding its promise. That’s the heart of my vision for Caldwell College, and that’s the effort I will ask you to support . . .”

  To Darrow’s surprise, the alumni gave him a standing ovation.

  IN THE TAXI to the airport, Darrow’s cell phone rang. “I’m calling about Pamela Hartman,” Lionel Farr said without preface, “an associate professor of history. Her husband killed himself tonight.”

  “Good God,” Darrow said reflexively. “Does anyone know why?”

  “He lost his job.” Farr sounded weary. “But who knows why anyone takes their own life. This man left Pam with two young kids.”

  Darrow realized that a woman he did not know, suddenly a widow, would need his consolation and support. “How’s she doing?”

  “Not well. Apparently her husband kept things buttoned up tight. Right up until he shot himself.”

  Darrow thought swiftly. “Let me know whatever she needs from us,” he instructed. “If she wants to take a leave from teaching, we’ll make the necessary arrangements. As soon as she’s ready, I’ll go see her.”

  Darrow stared out the window at the darkness. Remembering the call from Iowa telling him that Lee was dead, he felt this woman’s grief and pain and, he imagined, guilt. Then he recalled Clark Durbin’s kindness to him on the day of Angela’s death. For the first time, he fully accepted that he was president of Caldwell College.

  ON FRIDAY MORNING Darrow called on Professor Hartman. Then he drove to Huntley Stadium, the scene of his athletic triumphs, the place where he had once lived with Steve Tillman and Joe Betts. Farr was already there, gazing through the iron gateway from the parking lot to the football stadium. When Darrow approached, Farr asked, “How was Pam?”

  “She still doesn’t believe it. Part of her won’t for a very long time.”

  “I know,” Farr answered softly. “We both do.”

  The two men fell quiet. The weather was gentle enough, Darrow reflected, unlike the raw gray day after Angela’s death, when he and Steve had sat in the bleachers. But even in sunlight, the stadium looked dingy, its walls darkened and eroded by time and wind and dampness. The stands were worn, the field patchy. “At the time I thought it was a dumb question,” Darrow said, “But that alumnus who asked me that was right. This place is a dump.”

  Farr smiled a little. “It always was. You were just too young to notice. For you, Huntley was the Garden of Eden. And why not?”

  They began to walk toward the center of campus. Turning back to look at the stadium, Darrow asked, “What about the wing where I used to live?”

  “Padlocked. It’s a storage area now. No one’s lived there since you graduated.”

  Silent, Darrow gazed up at the window that had once admitted light into his room and, next door, the window through which Joe Betts—at least by his account—had seen Steve Tillman returning from the direction of the Spire. Glancing at Farr, Darrow asked, “Have time to walk with me awhile?”

  The main campus was empty save for a man and woman heading for the science lab. The walkway they followed was flanked by the safety measures Farr had suggested to Clark Durbin: lights every fifty yards or so and, along the way, telephones connected to the campus police. Darrow was silent until they reached the grass surrounding the Spire. Then he turned, gazing back at the stadium. “How far would you say it is from Huntley to the Spire?”

  Farr glanced back at the tower, then toward the stadium, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the look of eagles; at that moment Darrow pictured the combat officer Farr once had been. “Two hundred yards,” Farr estimated. “Give or take.”

  “Do you know if Steve’s lawyer asked for the jury to come out here?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Darrow gazed at the grass where he had found Angela, watching the play of light and shadow cast by swiftly moving clouds. “There are two possibilities,” he said at last. “Either Steve killed her near the Spire or he carried her body two hundred yards, dumping it in the heart of campus. Neither makes much sense to me. Especially the latter.”

  Farr considered this. “It doesn’t seem logical, does it? Of course, drunks aren’t always rational. And assuming he killed Angela in his room, even a drunk would know her body couldn’t stay there.”

  “True,” Darrow conceded. “But Steve had a car that year. Why not throw her body in the river? Why walk all that way, with a bum knee, and risk letting someone see him?”

  Farr looked at Darrow keenly. “You’re asking the wrong man. But for the sake of argument, consider the hour. As you know all too well, the party action had moved to the fraternity houses.” Farr paused a moment. “The time for kids from Ohio Lutheran to vandalize the Spire had passed, so no one would be guarding it. By two A.M. on a deserted campus, Steve would know that the pedestrian traffic was nil. Better to leave her here than get snagged for drunk driving with a corpse in his trunk.”

  Darrow faced the provost. “Fair enough,” he said. “But did Steve Tillman ever strike you as capable of strangling Angela to death?”

  Farr grimaced at the question. “Put that way, no. But who does? Certainly not anyone you’ve ever imagined you knew.”

  Briefly, Darrow thought of Joe Betts at the party, the puffy discoloration on his girlfriend’s face. “There’s a deeper reason,” Farr went on, “why your question has no meaning to me.”

  “Vietnam?”

  Farr studied the same swath of grass. “When we found her, I knew at once that she’d been strangled. That wasn’t a guess. In my last year of service, our unit had what one might call unusual assignments. Perhaps made easier by latent—or not so latent—prejudice against an Asian populace where we couldn’t tell enemy from friend.

  “After that, I was never quite the same. Vietnam became a great silence; perhaps that’s what Taylor senses in me. As did her mother.” Farr straightened his shoulders, as though sloughing off the past. “That’s done. But it left me with one advantage, if you care to call it that. You’ve never been forced to confront the full range of what you—or anyone yo
u know—is capable of doing. I have.”

  Darrow had no response. More quietly, Farr said, “Follow your curiosity, Mark—I’m not trying to dissuade you. Exorcise Angela, if you can. But don’t be disappointed by whatever you may find.”

  6

  A

  T NOON, DARROW LEFT THE CAMPUS. LATER THAT DAY, HIS tasks involved Caldwell’s budget: discussing potential cuts with Farr and the vice president of finance, followed by a meeting with faculty department heads, accustomed to their prerogatives, to broach the same subject as tactfully as he could. But his immediate mission was external—speaking to the Wayne Chamber of Commerce about his plans for the school.

  He found himself facing almost a hundred citizens, mostly men, after a generous introduction by the mayor. Scanning the faces, he saw Dave Farragher, George Garrison, and, to his pleasure and surprise, a prosperous-looking man who could only be Rusty Clark. The welcoming ovation gratified Darrow as well—remembering him as an athlete, the town took satisfaction in his success and pride in his return. His speech was an appreciation of what Caldwell and Wayne had given him, sincere in what it expressed and artful in what it chose to omit. Its focal point, a promise to give deserving local students the same chance Darrow himself had received, drew warm applause.

  Afterward, he sought out Rusty, who, he discovered, was practicing law in town. “Who knew?” Darrow said of them both, and made plans to meet Rusty for breakfast. Shaking more hands, he suddenly faced George Garrison.

  In the uniform of Wayne’s chief of police, Garrison looked bulkier. His perfunctory smile accompanied a look of shrewd appraisal that lent maturity to his still-youthful face. “Good speech,” Garrison told him. “You’ve come a long way since we pulled out that last game.”

  “Seems like we both have.” Darrow glanced around. “I’d like a moment, if you have one. Can you walk with me to the parking lot?”

  Garrison checked his watch. “I can spare a moment,” he answered. “After all, I’m the chief.”