The Storm King(12)

“You’re more or less right, is the funny thing,” Johnny said. “Four weddings to go this month and the Greenhouse looks postapocalyptic. Maybe that’s the nuptial theme we should be pitching. Bride’s side is on the left and here’s your gas mask. Fifty-fifty chance of being skewered by a support beam.”

“I saw it was closed. What happened?”

“Storm damage,” Johnny said. “That’s what we’re calling it, isn’t it, Tommy?”

The waiter arrived with another drink for Johnny. Nate pried a wedge of crystallized ginger from his stirrer.

“A tree?” Nate asked. He only asked because Johnny seemed intent on talking about it. They’d have to get it out of the way before moving on.

“A big one,” Tom said. “Might have been two hundred years old. Took out half the glass, but the steelwork is what’s taking so long to fix.”

“Must have been quite a storm,” Nate said.

“Sure,” Johnny said. “But, to be honest, I kinda hold the chainsaw responsible.”

Tom shook his head. “Come on.”

Nate was about to ask another question, but an older man approached the booth. Tom’s father, Greystone Lake’s chief of police.

“Officers will stay through the night and make rounds on the half hour,” Chief Buck told Johnny.

“Chief! It’s so good to see you.” Nate rose to offer his hand.

The chief and Nate’s dad had been inseparable in their youths. That friendship had continued up until that long-ago April drive in the headlands. Their wives had been good friends, and their sons as close as they had themselves been as children. Nate imagined they must have found a pleasing symmetry in this. He thought that for them to watch their sons play while their pretty wives laughed as the day closed on their good lives in their nice town must have been the very distillation of happiness.



“Nate.” The man accepted Nate’s hand but didn’t return his smile.

“How are you? It’s been ages. I’d love to catch up.”

“How about tomorrow, before the funeral. Say nine o’clock at the station? I’ll make sure they’re expecting you.” The man’s face was as immobile as the mountains. He dropped Nate’s hand and walked away from the booth.

The chief’s coldness left Nate stunned. Every recollection he had of him was that of a fond uncle. When he sank back into the booth, Tom and Johnny were both staring at their cocktails.

“He told me to go to the police station.” As if they hadn’t heard for themselves.

“The body,” Tom said. Her body. “There are questions.”

Nate knew that this would happen. It was inevitable. Questions must be answered, statements given. For fourteen years, this town had satisfied itself with the fiction that its most beautiful daughter had run away. Another hapless urchin from a deficient home destined for the gutter. Nate had known better, and now the rest of the Lake had finally caught up. The discovery in the headlands had changed everything.

Nate turned to Tom.

“I told you. I’m being kept away from it,” Tom said. “For obvious reasons.”

“You have to know something.”

“I don’t. Truly.”

Was this how they had this conversation? Nate wondered. He’d expected it to take longer to work their way toward this. He’d planned to reestablish rapport first, but maybe that had been foolish. Perhaps that etiquette belonged to a more civilized time in a gentler place. After all, this was the Lake. He’d returned here to talk about only one thing, and that thing was murder.



The silence around their table stretched until it seemed sure to snap.

“That night,” Nate leaned forward. “I know it was a long time ago. But—”

“You want to talk about graduation, Nate?” Johnny asked. His voice had the volume of a whisper but the intonation of a shout. “Here? Now? You think half the restaurant isn’t watching us? Trying to read every word on our lips? I know you’ve been away for a long time, but give me a break.”

Nate scanned the room. A few patrons at nearby tables glanced away from him. The bartenders along the wall dropped their heads to the glasses they polished.

“Besides, we have more to worry about than ancient history.”

“Nate doesn’t want to hear any more about the stupid Greenhouse,” Tom said.

“You know that’s just the tip of it, Tommy. How about the sewage backup at Emma’s apartment?” Johnny asked. “You want to hear about that, Nate?”

“Tom told me.” He didn’t know where Johnny was going with this.

“How about the burst pipe in Adam Decker’s law practice? No? What about Owen’s wrecked car? And the Union’s window?”

“Grams said that was storm damage.” The shadow of a thought began to coalesce at the edge of Nate’s mind. The shape it took wasn’t one he liked.

“It happened during a thunderstorm, but we know that doesn’t really mean anything, don’t we? Not even nor’easters chuck bricks through windows. No more than they use chainsaws to fell trees or axes to chop through drywall to get at pipes.”

“Johnny.” Tom leaned across the table, getting right into Johnny’s face. “Enough.”