Night Film(142)

The only way to handle these uncertainties was to shove them aside and concentrate on a concrete plan.

Hopper had finished lacing up his boots. He stood up, zipping his jacket. Nora was in front of the mirror, applying, for mysterious reasons, red lipstick fit for a Parisian jazz club. Smacking her lips, she crouched down, pulling up her army fatigues and thermo-underwear to rearrange the hunting knife strapped to her ankle, which I’d bought her yesterday at a Walmart in Saratoga Springs.

The least I could do was make sure she could defend herself.

“Okay, troops. Let’s go over this one last time.”

I unzipped the backpack, removed the map.

Our carefully hatched plan—it was the rope for us to hold on to.

And yet I couldn’t help but wonder if, fumbling along that cord into the dark, we’d find out that the end was tied to nothing.



We drove to Lows Lake the long way, keeping away from the center of Crowthorpe Falls.

It was a tangle of meandering side roads, every one deserted.

We were in a rental—a black Jeep—but there was no way of knowing who in Crowthorpe was involved in what took place on The Peak property, and I didn’t want to risk drawing any attention. We’d monitored Perry Street, not to mention every car behind us during the drive upstate, and we didn’t appear to be followed.

I’d forgotten in the five years since I’d been here how impenetrable the wilderness was, how suffocating. Evergreens, maples, and beech trees swarmed the hills, massive branches reaching out over the road as if to smother us, soaking up what little daylight there was. Log cabins, groceries, out-of-business video stores stood forlornly in one crumbling lot after the next.

“It’s the next left,” said Nora.

Within a few yards I saw the sign: WELLER’S LANDING.

I slowed, made the left into the parking lot. There were two other cars, a blue pickup and a station wagon—probably other paddlers already out on the lake. I inched into a distant spot in the farthest corner, half hidden by a large hemlock, and cut the engine.

“We’re clear,” said Hopper, looking out the back windshield.

“Any last-minute concerns?” I asked. I looked at Hopper in the rearview mirror. His pointed stare back at me told me everything. Nothing would stop him now.

“Bernstein?” I asked.

Nora was yanking a black knit cap onto her head, tucking in the loose strands of hair.

“Oh, shoot. Can’t believe I almost forgot.” She reached into her vest pocket, pulling out two small plastic packets. She opened one, removing a thin gold necklace. Beckoning me to lean forward, she unclasped the chain and fastened it around my neck.

“This is Saint Benedict.”

It was a crude piece of jewelry, the pendant emblazoned with a gaunt, robed Jesus type.

“He’s the napalm of Catholic saints,” Nora said, reaching back to put Hopper’s around his neck. “You drop Benedict into a situation, you don’t need anything else. He’ll protect us from what’s up there.”

“Thanks,” said Hopper.

“You have one, too?” I asked her.

“Of course.”

“Then let’s move.”

We unloaded the car rapidly—to minimize risk of a witness noticing us. But also I knew that to hesitate now in any way would only let serious doubt flood in, like water in a rowboat full of holes.

Hopper carried the paddles to the load-in area. I unhitched the Souris River canoe from the roof. Nora grabbed the lifejackets, the backpacks. I hid the car key under a rock by the hemlock, in case we became separated and one of us made it back before the others. Hopper and I picked up the canoe, and with a final look back at the Jeep, we took off across the parking lot.

We lowered the canoe into the water, and Hopper stepped in, heading to the bow, shoving his backpack behind his seat. Nora clambered in after him, binoculars swinging from her neck. I grabbed my paddle, threw in my backpack, was just about to climb in, when I noticed my cellphone vibrating in my jacket.

I thought of ignoring it, but then realized it could be Cynthia. I pulled off my glove, unzipped the pocket. It was a blocked number.

“Hello?”

“McGrath.”

I recognized the voice. It was Sharon Falcone.

“Shit, this connection’s crap. Sounds like you’re halfway around the world. Let me call you back—”

“No, no,” I blurted, flooded with an ominous feeling that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to get back to you on that tip you gave us.”

“Tip?”

“For child services.”

The landlord and her deaf nephew back at 83 Henry Street.

I’d forgotten that I’d called Sharon about them.

“Sure you gave me the right address? Eighty-three Henry?”

“That’s right.”

“They checked it out. There’s no certificate of occupancy for the building.”

“What?”

“There was no one living there. No tenants in—”

Abruptly, her voice cut out. Loud metallic echoing filled the line.

“Hello?”

“… illegal … a couple times last week …”

“Sharon.”

“… knee-deep in major …”