Later(43)

My mother came back before he could ask any more questions, but I could see he looked troubled and was still thinking the whole confrontation had been in my mind. I got that but I was a little pissed just the same—I mean, he knew stuff, about the rings and Mr. Thomas’s book—but looking back on it, I understand. Belief is a high hurdle to get over and I think it’s even higher for smart people. Smart people know a lot, and maybe that makes them think they know everything.

“We ought to go, Jamie,” Mom said. “I’ve got a manuscript to finish.”

“You always have a manuscript to finish,” I said, which made her laugh because it was true. There were to-read stacks in both the agency office and her home office, and both of them were always piled high. “Before we go, tell the professor what happened in our building yesterday.”

She turned to Professor Burkett. “That was so strange, Marty. Every circuit breaker in the building blew out. All at once! Mr. Provenza—he’s the super—said there must have been some kind of power surge. He said he’d never seen anything like it.”

The professor looked startled. “Only your building?”

“Just ours,” she agreed. “Come on, Jamie. Let’s get out of here and let Marty rest.”

Going out was an almost exact replay of going in. Professor Burkett gave me a keen look and I gave him a slight nod.

We understood each other.





46


That night I got an email from him, sent from his iPad. He was the only person of my acquaintance who ever used a salutation when he sent one, and wrote actual letters instead of stuff like How r u and ROFL and IMHO.


Dear Jamie,

After you and your mother left this morning, I did some research concerning the discovery of the bomb at the Eastport supermarket, a thing I should have done earlier. What I found was interesting. Elizabeth Dutton did not figure prominently in any of the news stories. The Bomb Squad got most of the credit (especially the dogs, because people love dogs; I believe the mayor may have actually given a dog a medal). She was mentioned only as “a detective who received a tip from an old source.” I found it peculiar that she did not take part in the press conference following the successful defusing of the bomb, and that she did not receive an official commendation. She has, however, managed to keep her job. That may have been all the reward she wanted and all her superiors felt she deserved.

Given my research on this matter, plus the strange power outage in your building at the time of your confrontation with Therriault, plus other matters of which you have made me aware, I find myself unable to disbelieve the things you’ve told me.

I must add a word of caution. I did not care for the look of confidence on your face when you said it was your turn to haunt it, or that you could whistle for it and it would come. Perhaps it would, BUT I URGE YOU NOT TO DO IT. Tightrope walkers sometimes fall. Lion tamers can be mauled by cats they believed to be completely tamed. Under certain conditions, even the best dog may turn and bite his master.

My advice to you, Jamie, is to leave this thing alone.

With every good wish from your friend,

Prof. Martin Burkett (Marty)


PS: I am very curious to know the exact details of your extraordinary experience. If you can come and see me, I would listen with great interest. I am assuming you still do not want to burden your mother with the story, since it seems that matters have come to a successful conclusion.

I wrote back right away. My response was much shorter, but I made sure to compose it as he had, like a snail-mail letter.


Dear Professor Burkett,

I’d be glad to do that, but I can’t until Wednesday because of a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Monday and intramural volleyball, boys against the girls, on Tuesday. If Wednesday is okay, I will come after school, like around 3:30, but I can only stay for an hour or so. I’ll tell my mother I just wanted to visit you, which is true.

Yours in friendship,

James Conklin

Professor Burkett must have had his iPad in his lap (I could picture him sitting in his living room, with all its framed pictures of old times), because he replied at once.


Dear Jamie,

Wednesday will be fine. I will look for you at three-thirty and will supply raisin cookies. Would you prefer tea or a soft drink to go with them?

Yours,

Marty Burkett

I didn’t bother making my reply look like a snail-mail letter, just typed I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee. After thinking about that, I added It’s OK with my mom. Which wasn’t a total lie, and he actually sent me an emoji in return: a thumbs-up. I thought that was pretty hip.

I did speak with Professor Burkett again, but there were no drinks or snacks. He no longer used those things, because he was dead.





47


On Tuesday morning, I got another email from him. My mother got the same one, and so did several other people.


Dear friends and associates,

I have received some bad news. David Robertson—old friend, colleague, and former department head—suffered a stroke at his retirement home on Siesta Key in Florida last evening and is now in Sarasota Memorial Hospital. He is not expected to live, or even to regain consciousness, but I have known Dave and his lovely wife Marie for over forty years and must make the trip, little as I want to, if only to offer comfort to his wife and attend the funeral, should it come to that. I will reschedule such appointments as I have upon my return.