Cold Springs(55)

“I stand by what I said before— Race did not corrupt Mallory.”

“But he knows something about the missing money. He tried to warn Norma. I think John wasn't sure who was blackmailing him. He guessed it was Talia. He finally got tired of it, scared enough for Mallory that he wanted to make a final settlement, so he offered to buy Talia's house for a huge amount of cash. Talia went for it, didn't bother to tell him she wasn't the blackmailer. The real blackmailer came along, got mad at her for making the deal, and killed her.”

“But blackmail? Christ, Chadwick, blackmail for what?”

His eyes fixed on the interior window, where the board members were now walking by.

Ann didn't turn to look. She half expected Mark to walk in anyway and fire her on the spot, but no—Mark Jasper wouldn't confront her that way. He'd call her tonight at home, chickenshit style, and tell her not to bother coming back in the morning.

“The capital campaign money,” she told Chadwick. “If the Montroses found out that John was going to steal the school's money to discredit me—if they had some kind of proof, that could be what they were blackmailing him about.”

Chadwick pinched the lining of his coat. He said nothing, but Ann began to doubt her own theory. If Race's tuition had been paid for with blackmail money—then the blackmail had been going on for nine years. How could you pressure someone for nine years over a plan he hadn't yet executed? What leverage could anyone hold over John for that long, ever since . . .

She remembered her conversation with the policeman from Oakland. “Katherine's necklace. It was left in Talia's blood. Some kind of message?”

Chadwick's eyes were deadly still, their very brightness making them seem cold. “I intend to ask John, when I see him.”

She thought about that necklace around Mallory's throat—remembered how hard it had been, letting her wear it after Katherine's death, but they'd been afraid that if they forced her to take it off, it would damage her even more, take away the linchpin that let Mallory cope with what she'd seen. Mallory had clung to it, insisting that Katherine gave it to her. And so, since Mallory was six years old, Ann hadn't been able to look at her own daughter once without thinking about the night of the suicide, without seeing the words Chadwick had inscribed on that silver charm.

“John has ruined me,” she said. “The Montroses aren't the problem, Chadwick. They did not steal the school's money.”

“If Race knows who did, he may be in more danger than any of us. It may be why he brought that gun to school, to protect himself, and why he ran from the police. And if he told Mallory what he knows . . .”

Every joint in Ann's body had turned to ice. She went behind her desk, sat in her chair, and began shuffling papers—admissions forms, auction flyers, purchase orders—none meant much now.

Down the street, she could hear the whoop of the upper- and middle-schoolers coming back from PE at the Presidio, the unmistakable hormone-induced yells of adolescent girls—Mallory's classmates, her peers.

“The upstairs students will be coming in,” she said. “I need a few minutes alone. All right?”

Chadwick rose. “I'll find Race. I'll find out what's going on.”

She tried not to look at him, tried to concentrate on her paperwork as the middle school kids began to come in a few at a time, racing each other down the hall, playing tag and throwing backpacks.

“Just tell me one thing, Chadwick. Will you?”

He waited in the doorway—an enormous pillar of sand hovering on her periphery.

“The night of the auction,” she said, “before the police called—you were about to tell John and Norma, weren't you? You would've told them about us?”

She didn't look, but she could sense him struggling with what to say. Then he left, silently, his presence no longer blocking the door.

She held his linen handkerchief up to her mouth.

The children were arriving in force now, streaming past her window, high on fruit juice and snack food, yelling and slamming their way into class. Teachers passed by, glancing into her office with concern, wondering if they would have a job tomorrow, or if they would spend Christmas reading the classifieds.

Ann felt as if she were moving, rather than them—that her office was racing down a road as dark and cold as the one back to the Mission, years ago—racing back toward her daughter where she sat curled in the black leather chair, staring at an empty doorway.

Chadwick found David Kraft sitting at the bottom of the school steps, lighting a cigarette for Kindra Jones.

“Damn,” Kindra told Chadwick. “Thought the cannibals ate you, man. We're out here getting run over by a herd of puberty.”

“Things got complicated. You two know each other?”

“Do now,” Kindra said. “The man has cigarettes.”

David took a last puff on his, then flicked it, smoldering, into the dusty millers. “I suppose I'm out of a job, sir? Is that what Ann said?”

“Don't do that.”

He knitted his eyebrows. “You mean smoke?”

“Don't call me ‘sir.' Kindra, would you start the car, please?”

“Whoa, Chad. Somebody piss on your Roosevelt biography?”

He looked at her.