Eight Perfect Murders(50)

“And while I was learning about you I discovered the list. I’ve had it memorized, I think, for many years, and I thought of it right away—I thought of The A.B.C. Murders—after hearing about the feathers that were sent to the police station.”

“You thought I committed all those murders?”

She shifted forward on her wooden seat. “No, no. I didn’t. I don’t know what I thought, really, except that something was going on, something that might have to do with my father, and with you. I got obsessed with it, even thought that maybe my father’s death was related to The Secret History.”

“How?” I said.

“Because, in a way, he picked the circumstances of his death.”

“Because he biked a lot?”

“Uh-huh. He biked all the time, especially after the divorce, after he’d moved to Upstate New York. Not that I knew this from personal experience, but I read the police report on his death. He always biked alone, hills mainly, on quiet roads. He was hit by a car going the other way. So, yeah, I did think about Secret History. If someone wanted to kill him, then running him down while he biked would be the easiest thing to do. It would look like an accident, well, an accident that someone fled from, but it wouldn’t necessarily look like a homicide.”

“You told your boss all this?”

“Not at first. When I first brought it to him, I told him about your list, and how it connected with the bird murders, and with Bill Manso in Connecticut, and how I wanted to follow it up, but he didn’t bite. I made the mistake of mentioning that there was also a connection to my father’s death, and that was when I was told that I was barred from investigating any further, that it would be handed off to other agents if they saw fit. I was on vacation last week, when I questioned you, and when we went up to Rockland. Someone at the coroner’s office got in touch with my office instead of me directly, and that’s how I got busted, and that’s why I’m suspended. If they knew I was here now, I’d be fired for sure.”

“So why are you here?”

“I think . . .” she said, then paused. “I think I felt I owed you the truth. And maybe I’m warning you, as well. They know everything I know. You are a suspect.”

“You must think I’m a suspect, as well.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. Do I think you killed Elaine Johnson up in Maine, or Bill Manso, or Robin Callahan or Ethan Byrd? I don’t really think so. But that’s just a feeling. I know you’re not telling me the whole truth. If I had to come up with a theory, and I know it’ll sound ridiculous, but I think that maybe you talked someone into doing something to Eric Atwell, and maybe even my father, and now this person . . . whoever they are—”

“Charlie, remember,” I said.

“Right, Charlie. Look, I haven’t slept in days. I wanted to talk with you, and we’ve talked. I can’t have anything more to do with this investigation, not if I want to keep my job. Can I ask you to keep this meeting secret?”

“Of course.”

She took a sip of her beer, still three-quarters full. “And if you did have anything to do with the death of my father . . .”

“I didn’t.”

“But if you did . . . know that there is no one alive who mourned his death.”

She stood up suddenly, banging her thighs against the table between us.

“You okay?” I said.

“I’m fine. I’m just exhausted.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to drive home, and I’m going to try and forget about all this.”

I walked her to her car, wondering if I should offer her my couch for the night, but decided that was a bad idea for multiple reasons. Besides which, I don’t think she would have accepted. And I wasn’t sure I wanted her there, myself. She had not been honest with me, and I wasn’t convinced she was being entirely honest now.

At her Equinox, parked near the Flat of the Hill Hotel, we stood for a moment in the whistling wind. Gwen had begun to shiver. “Are you still rereading the books?” she said.

“I’ve been reading The Secret History,” I said.

“Suddenly, that title takes on a whole new significance.”

I laughed. “It does, I suppose.”

“Any new insights?”

“From the books?”

“From anything.”

“Can I tell you something that you won’t share unless you have to?”

“I’m not even supposed to be here talking with you, so, yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s just a name that came up. I won’t say how. But if anything does happen to me, maybe take a look at someone named Nicholas Pruitt.”

She repeated the name back to me, and I spelled it for her.

“Who is he?”

“He’s an English professor. It’s probably nothing, but . . .”

“Okay,” she said. “Hopefully you’ll be fine, and I won’t have to look into his name.”

We said good-bye, neither of us offering a handshake or a hug. Then I walked back to my apartment, thinking about everything we’d just said to each other.

I’d been home for twenty minutes, wide awake, when I considered leaving again, driving to New Essex, and confronting Nick Pruitt that night. I had gotten his address online from searching the online version of the white pages, then found his house on Zillow, a place that posted real estate transactions. He lived in a single-family home on the outskirts of New Essex, in a neighborhood near the university. I could just show up at his door and knock on it. If Nick was Charlie, and I felt almost positive that he was, then he’d know me on sight. Maybe I could just talk with him, find out what he wanted, ask him to stop. But if I went to his house that night, who knew how he would act. Who knew if he’d even be alone.