into pages he read and reread because, no less than the killers Leonard Gimmel and Teddy Brunhoven, in them he found the code to his own life.
“You think about that a lot, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He checked to see if she was criticizing him. “Kind of—thinking about it without thinking about it, I guess.”
She nodded but did not speak. For a moment Davey seemed on the verge of saying more. Then his mouth closed, his eyes changed, and the moment was over.
The Audi pulled up at a stop sign before a cluster of trees overgrown with vines that all but obscured the street sign. Then across the street a gray Mercedes sedan rolled toward the intersection, and as Davey flicked on the turn signal before pressing the accelerator and cranking the wheel to the left, the name of the street chimed in her head. He had taken them to Redcoat Road, and what he wanted to see was the house in which the wolf had taken Natalie Weil’s life and caused her body to disappear.
11
BESIDE NATALIE’S DRIVE was a metal post supporting a bright blue plaque bearing the name of a local security firm more expensive than the one the Chancels had chosen. Natalie had taken account of the similarities between herself and the first victims and spent a lot of money for state-of-the-art protection.
Davey left the car and walked up along the grassy verge of Redcoat Road toward the driveway. Nora got out and followed him. She regretted the Bloody Mary and the single glass of wine she’d taken at lunch. The August light stung her eyes. Davey stood facing Natalie’s house from the end of the driveway, his trousers almost brushing the security system plaque.
Set far back from the road, the house looked out over a front yard darkened by the shadows of oaks and maples standing between grassy humps and granite boulders. Yellow crime scene tape looped through the trees and sealed the front door. A black-and-white Westerholm police car and an anonymous-looking blue sedan were parked near the garage doors.
“Is there some reason you wanted to come here?” she asked.
“Yes.” He glanced down at her, then looked back toward the house. Twenty years ago it had been painted the peculiar depthless red-brown of information booths in national parks. Their own house was the same shade of brown, though its paint had not yet begun to flake. In design also Natalie’s house replicated theirs, with its blunt facade and row of windows marching beneath the roof.
A white face above a dark uniform leaned toward a window in the bedroom over the garage.
“That cop’s in the room where she was killed,” Davey said. He started walking up the driveway.
The face retreated from the window. Davey came to the point where the yellow tape wound around a maple beside the drive, and continued in a straight line toward the house and garage. He put out his hand and leaned against the maple.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m trying to help you.” The policeman came up to the living room window and stared out at them. He put his hands on his hips and then swung away from the window.
“Maybe this is crazy, but do you think that you wanted to come here because of what you were talking about in the car?”
He gave her an uncertain look.
“About the other one. The other Davey.”
“Don’t,” he said.
Again the Chancel tendency to protect Chancel secrets. The policeman opened the front door and began moving toward them through the shadows on Natalie Weil’s lawn.
12
NORA WAS CERTAIN that Davey’s fascination with
Night Journey
, a novel about a child rescued from death by a figure called the Green Knight, was rooted in his childhood. Once there had been another David Chancel, the first son of Alden and Daisy. Suddenly the infant Davey had died in his crib. He had not been ill, weak, or at risk in any way. He had simply, terribly, died. Lincoln Chancel had saved them by suggesting, perhaps even demanding, an adoption. Lincoln’s insistence on a
“You think about that a lot, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He checked to see if she was criticizing him. “Kind of—thinking about it without thinking about it, I guess.”
She nodded but did not speak. For a moment Davey seemed on the verge of saying more. Then his mouth closed, his eyes changed, and the moment was over.
The Audi pulled up at a stop sign before a cluster of trees overgrown with vines that all but obscured the street sign. Then across the street a gray Mercedes sedan rolled toward the intersection, and as Davey flicked on the turn signal before pressing the accelerator and cranking the wheel to the left, the name of the street chimed in her head. He had taken them to Redcoat Road, and what he wanted to see was the house in which the wolf had taken Natalie Weil’s life and caused her body to disappear.
11
BESIDE NATALIE’S DRIVE was a metal post supporting a bright blue plaque bearing the name of a local security firm more expensive than the one the Chancels had chosen. Natalie had taken account of the similarities between herself and the first victims and spent a lot of money for state-of-the-art protection.
Davey left the car and walked up along the grassy verge of Redcoat Road toward the driveway. Nora got out and followed him. She regretted the Bloody Mary and the single glass of wine she’d taken at lunch. The August light stung her eyes. Davey stood facing Natalie’s house from the end of the driveway, his trousers almost brushing the security system plaque.
Set far back from the road, the house looked out over a front yard darkened by the shadows of oaks and maples standing between grassy humps and granite boulders. Yellow crime scene tape looped through the trees and sealed the front door. A black-and-white Westerholm police car and an anonymous-looking blue sedan were parked near the garage doors.
“Is there some reason you wanted to come here?” she asked.
“Yes.” He glanced down at her, then looked back toward the house. Twenty years ago it had been painted the peculiar depthless red-brown of information booths in national parks. Their own house was the same shade of brown, though its paint had not yet begun to flake. In design also Natalie’s house replicated theirs, with its blunt facade and row of windows marching beneath the roof.
A white face above a dark uniform leaned toward a window in the bedroom over the garage.
“That cop’s in the room where she was killed,” Davey said. He started walking up the driveway.
The face retreated from the window. Davey came to the point where the yellow tape wound around a maple beside the drive, and continued in a straight line toward the house and garage. He put out his hand and leaned against the maple.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m trying to help you.” The policeman came up to the living room window and stared out at them. He put his hands on his hips and then swung away from the window.
“Maybe this is crazy, but do you think that you wanted to come here because of what you were talking about in the car?”
He gave her an uncertain look.
“About the other one. The other Davey.”
“Don’t,” he said.
Again the Chancel tendency to protect Chancel secrets. The policeman opened the front door and began moving toward them through the shadows on Natalie Weil’s lawn.
12
NORA WAS CERTAIN that Davey’s fascination with
Night Journey
, a novel about a child rescued from death by a figure called the Green Knight, was rooted in his childhood. Once there had been another David Chancel, the first son of Alden and Daisy. Suddenly the infant Davey had died in his crib. He had not been ill, weak, or at risk in any way. He had simply, terribly, died. Lincoln Chancel had saved them by suggesting, perhaps even demanding, an adoption. Lincoln’s insistence on a
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