The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(52)

“I really don’t know.”

“When you say it hit Fairhaven hard, how so?”

“He became withdrawn, antisocial. But he came out of it, eventually.”

“Yes, yes. Let me see…” Smithback checked his notes. “Let’s see. Any problems with alcohol, drugs, delinquency…?” Smithback tried to make it sound casual.

“No, no, just the opposite,” came the curt reply. The look on the teacher’s face had hardened. “Tell me, Mr. Smithback, exactly why are you writing this article?”

Smithback put on his most innocent face. “I’m just doing a little biographical feature on Mr. Fairhaven. You understand, we want to get a well-rounded picture, the good and the bad. I’m not fishing for anything in particular.” Right.

“I see. Well, Tony Fairhaven was a good boy, and he was very anti-drug, anti-drinking, even anti-smoking. I remember he wouldn’t even drink coffee.” She hesitated. “I don’t know, if anything, he might have been a little too good. And it was sometimes hard to tell what he was thinking. He was a rather closed boy.”

Smithback jotted a few more pro forma notes.

“Any hobbies?”

“He talked about making money quite a bit. He worked hard after school, and he had a lot of spending money as a result. I don’t suppose any of this is surprising, considering what he’s done. I’ve read from time to time articles about him, how he pushed through this development or that over a neighborhood’s protests. And of course I read your piece on the Catherine Street discoveries. Nothing surprising. The boy has grown into the man, that’s all.”

Smithback was startled: she’d given no indication she even knew who he was, let alone read his pieces.

“By the way, I thought your article was very interesting. And disturbing.”

Smithback felt a flush of pleasure. “Thank you.”

“I imagine that’s why you’re interested in Tony. Well, rushing in and digging up that site so he could finish his building was just like him. He was always very goal-oriented, impatient to get to the end, to finish, to succeed. I suppose that’s why he’s been so successful as a developer. And he could be rather sarcastic and impatient with people he considered his inferiors.”

Right, thought Smithback.

“What about enemies. Did he have any?”

“Let me see… I just can’t remember. He was the kind of boy that was never impulsive, always very deliberate in his actions. Although it seems to me there was something about a girl once. He got into a shoving match and was suspended for the afternoon. No blows were exchanged, though.”

“And the boy?”

“That would have been Joel Amberson.”

“What happened to Joel Amberson?”

“Why, nothing.”

Smithback nodded, crossed his legs. This was getting nowhere. Time to move in for the kill. “Did he have any nicknames? You know how kids always seem to have a nickname in high school.”

“I don’t remember any other names.”

“I took a look at the yearbook, posted on your Web site.”

The teacher smiled. “We started doing that a few years ago. It’s proven to be quite popular.”

“No doubt. But in the yearbook, he had a nickname.”

“Really? What was it?”

“The Slasher.”

Her face furrowed, then suddenly cleared. “Ah, yes. That.”

Smithback leaned forward. “That?”

The teacher gave a little laugh. “They had to dissect frogs for biology class.”

“And—?”

“Tony was a little squeamish—for two days he tried and tried but he couldn’t do it. The kids teased him about it, and somebody started calling him that, The Slasher. It kind of stuck, as a joke, you know. He did eventually overcome his qualms—and got an A in biology, as I recall—but you know how it is once they start calling you a name.”

Smithback didn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t believe it. It got worse and worse. The guy was a candidate for beatification.

“Mr. Smithback?”

Smithback made a show of checking his notes. “Anything else?

The kindly gray-haired teacher laughed softly. “Look, Mr. Smithback, if it’s dirt you’re looking for on Tony—and I can see that it is, it’s written all over your face—you’re just not going to find it. He was a normal, all-around, high-achieving boy who seems to have grown into a normal, all-around, high-achieving man. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my grading.”


Smithback stepped out of P.S. 1984 and began walking, rather mournfully, in the direction of Columbus Avenue. This hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned, at all. He’d wasted a colossal amount of time, energy, and effort, and without anything at all to show for it. Was it possible his instincts were wrong—that this was all a wild-goose chase, a dead end, inspired by a thirst for revenge? But no—that would be unthinkable. He was a seasoned reporter. When he had a hunch, it was usually right. So how was it he couldn’t find the goods on Fairhaven?

As he reached the corner, his eye happened to stray toward a newsstand and the front page of a freshly printed New York Post. The headline froze him in his tracks.