The Storm King(47)

The chief’s face was as blank as an untouched page. “What?”

“It’s pretty meta, especially for back then.”

“You’re saying these notebooks are some kind of creative writing project?”

“Lucy was very private about her writing. I’m sure people told you that. But what’s the alternative? That I ran around town wreaking mayhem? A one-man natural disaster?” He made it sound offhand. A throwaway line.

“Not alone, as you know. You carried this vandalism out with the help of your associates, John Vanhouten, Owen Liffey, and Thomas Buck.”

Nate thought he’d put on a good act of being unflustered, but when the chief listed his friends’ names he realized how much tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders. The chief had misstepped and in such an obvious way that it was almost disappointing.

“You all have a lot to answer for.”

“So do you,” Nate said. For his whole life, he’d held an image of Tom’s dad as the archetype of the perfect cop. Objective, just, tough, smart, relentless. But only human after all.

“Are those really Lucy’s journals?” Nate now thought they probably were. The idea of this tugged at him like a fish hooked on a line, though not for the reasons the chief might guess. Nate wanted to turn their pages and trace their words and navigate the channels of Lucy’s mind as inscribed by ink onto paper. If they were real, these pages were the most tangible things that survived of her.

“I said they were, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Nate massaged his temple. He was tired, but he’d only just begun.

The chief’s silence and the set of his mouth suggested that he knew something had changed in the dynamics of their interview, but couldn’t yet tell what.

“I’ve got to change my clothes,” Nate said, getting up from the chair. There were a couple ways to play this, but this feint seemed like the best tactic. This would divert them from the path the chief had chartered and take them into fresh territory, where all sorts of interesting things might be revealed.



“We’re not done here.”

“Yeah, we are. I haven’t been read my rights so I’m not under arrest. I can leave whenever I want. This interview isn’t even really being recorded, is it?” He turned to the room’s one-way mirror and knew there was no one behind it.

“I have more questions for you.” The chief grabbed his arm to restrain him, and this was a mistake.

The man’s rough grip propelled Nate to the edge of very dangerous country. For a moment, he faltered. For a moment, he forgot the person he’d assembled for the world to see. He tore the man’s arm away from him with a speed and strength that sent the startled police chief heavily back into his seat.

“No. I have a question for you.” There was a hint of the Storm King in Nate’s voice. A threat of thunder beyond the mountains. He leaned against the table, looming over the seated lawman. He was angry, and he’d forgotten how good this felt. “What else did you hide?”

The chief looked as confused by Nate’s question as he’d been surprised by his strength.

“You’ve had those journals for fourteen years, haven’t you? You found them right away, but never introduced them into evidence because they’d incriminate us. They’d incriminate Tom.”

The ease with which the chief had uttered his son’s name had made obvious to Nate what a charade this interview was. The chief said it without a granule of hesitation, without a mote of contrition. And if that wasn’t enough, Nate couldn’t imagine a scenario in which it would be regulation for a law enforcement official to get this deep into a murder investigation in which his own son might have played a role. No, this was an off-the-books interview. A performance indeed, with the interrogation room as a private stage.

The older man’s face folded itself into something carefully expressionless.



“What else is there?” Nate asked again. If the chief had been keeping the journals secret, he might be hiding anything.

“It’s an active investigation. I’m not about to tell you details just because—”

“What did her body tell you?”

“Nate, I said I’m not—”

“Cause of death. Trace evidence. The scene.”

“Stop it!” The chief’s face cracked, and he was suddenly shouting.

It’d taken less to provoke him than Nate had expected. A furnace of stress churned under those layers of granite.

“Know your place, son. A girl’s dead, and I’m the chief of police. And don’t forget that I know what you are.” He rapped on the stack of journals.

“Even if there’s any truth in there, it happened half a lifetime ago. I’m not that kid anymore.”

“You better not be. Because this kid”—he patted the journals again—“is poison.”

“Come on, Chief.” For a weak moment, Nate wanted the man to like him again, to be the uncle and father figure he’d once been. “You can’t think I’d actually hurt anyone.”

Now it was the chief’s turn to laugh. “I guess a good liar can even fool himself. You wouldn’t hurt anyone? Damn, Nate. We both know that’s not true. What about Tommy and Johnny and Bea and how you abandoned them once you got what you needed out of them?”