Before She Knew Him(17)

Sitting at the Owl’s Head, Lloyd carefully figuring out what to say, Hen imagined the Lloyd she’d first met and what he would tell her. He’d tell her she was nuts, of course, and that she was imagining things. But he would never say that now, even if he thought it. When he did speak, he said, “Maybe the best thing to do would be to just make an anonymous call to the police and mention your suspicions. And then be done with it. Either they look into it or they don’t. But it’s not going to do you any good trying to investigate if our neighbor is a homicidal maniac.”

“I did think of that.”

“It will only work if you drop it once you make the call.”

“I know. It’s probably the best thing to do. But what do you think? Am I crazy or am I onto something? They were at Sussex Hall together. He had a fencing trophy, then got rid of it after I saw it.”

Lloyd was quiet again for a moment. The Red Sox game was still delayed, and rain was now pattering against the windows of the tavern. They should have brought umbrellas.

“Honestly, I think it’s all a coincidence, honey. He probably moves things around in that office all the time. But make the call if you want, then stop thinking about it, okay? It can’t be good for you.”





Chapter 8




On Thursday in the teacher’s lounge, Matthew asked Michelle if she was going to see her boyfriend’s band that night.

“God, no. I have sixty papers to grade. Why?”

“You know I live walking distance from the Owl’s Head?”

“I did know that. Are you going?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“Why?” Michelle said, and then laughed, instinctively putting her hand over her mouth, something that Matthew had noticed she always did when she spontaneously laughed. “I didn’t mean that, really . . . they’re a good band. It’s just—”

“You didn’t think they were my kind of thing?”

“I suppose so.”

Dylan Hembree, one of the English teachers, entered the lounge and went straight for the coffee. Matthew noticed that the front zipper of his trousers was halfway down and wondered if he’d just taught a class in that state.

“It was just that I was thinking of eating out tonight,” Matthew said to Michelle, “since I’ve been cooking for myself all week, and then I remembered that the C-Beams were playing at the Owl’s Head.”

“How’s the food there?” Michelle asked. “I’ve only been there for drinks.”

“Pretty good. I like their chicken potpie.”

“You two going to Owl’s Head to see Scott’s band?” This was from Dylan, who’d gotten his coffee and was now edging in on their conversation.

“Probably not me,” Michelle said, at the same time Matthew said, “Check your zipper, Dylan.”

“Oh, thanks, dude.” Dylan put his coffee down on the very edge of the collapsible card table that held the coffeemaker. “Arrgh, embarrassing,” he said as he zipped up his fly.

“I taught an entire day once with a poppy seed between my front teeth,” Michelle said.

“I was going to get an early dinner at the Owl’s Head,” Matthew said directly to Dylan, “and I knew that Michelle’s boyfriend’s band was playing, so I wanted to know if I’d see her there.”

“Man, I wish I could go,” Dylan said, as though he’d been invited. “I’m swamped.”

“Me, too,” Michelle said.

“When’s he going to play on a Friday night next?” Dylan said. “We should all go together. I haven’t seen Scott in forever.”

Matthew didn’t know that Dylan and Michelle were friends and found himself a little taken aback. He was glad, however, that it looked like he’d be alone tonight to watch the C-Beams.

“If you do end up going,” Michelle said to Matthew, “then introduce yourself to Scott. I’ve mentioned you, I think.”

“I’ll see,” Matthew said.

The band started at eight o’clock. Matthew, who normally ate around six, made himself wait until seven before walking down to the tavern. It was dark out when he left the house. He could hear wind high up in the trees that lined his street, but he couldn’t feel it. It was the perfect temperature, neither too cold nor too warm, and Matthew felt a rare sense of happiness. He was out by himself in the night, alone with the knowledge that Scott Doyle (Matthew found his full name on the C-Beams’ website) was a possible new victim. It was an exhilarating thought, and Matthew felt himself walking faster, the wind now buffeting against him, pulling his blazer open so that he had to fasten its two buttons. He told himself to walk slower, that tonight was simply a fact-finding mission, a chance to observe Michelle’s boyfriend, to begin to make his decision. He needed to be composed, tranquil. A line went through his head, something he’d learned in college when he’d taken an elective in the Romantic poets: poetry was “emotion recollected in tranquility.” He thought of that quote often, applying it to his own life. Tranquility was his goal, not just after he committed a murder, but before. It was what made it meaningful, and it was what made him impervious to detection.

At the tavern he sat at a small table in the front room, toward the back but with a good view of the stage. Although he was not a drinker (that was Richard’s thing), he ordered a Guinness from a young waitress, plus the chicken potpie. When his drink arrived, he took a small sip, feeling as though he were wearing a disguise. He looked around the small room and toward the back bar, and noted all the men there with their pint glasses filled with their beer, just like him. Some were alone, and some with wives or girlfriends, but they all had that empty-eyed, stoop-shouldered look of men who’d just barely managed to get through their day and were now rewarding themselves with cheeseburgers and alcohol. Matthew didn’t recognize anyone in the restaurant. No neighbors or former students. It would have been okay if he had—he was fine with small talk—but it was a much better feeling to be anonymous.