better not be what I think,” she said and swept past him.
• • •
Chief Morgan crunched the key into the ignition lock and told Dudley, who was sitting beside him, to buckle up. Dudley did so with a vacancy in his smile, as though a major portion of him were on automatic. For no obvious reason, Morgan took the long way around the green, past the post office, the church. As they neared Tuck’s General Store, Dudley pointed. “Fellow in there stutters.”
“You know a lot about us,” Morgan replied. “I wish we knew something about you.”
“Are you really letting me go?”
“That’s the idea.”
There were better routes to Andover, but Morgan meandered onto Summer Street, where dense hedges separated small properties and trellises supported overloads of roses. House fronts, set close to the sidewalk, shone with respectability.
“Some people I haven’t said good-bye to, like those fellows at the fire station.”
“Chub and Zach. I’ll do it for you.”
Morgan made an elbow turn onto Spring Street, where the gory remains of a woodlot animal lay on the road. He drove around it, almost onto the walkway to an old Victorian with gingerbread trim.
“Woman in there was nice to me, gave me a powdered doughnut.”
“I’m glad you didn’t mention that to her husband. He’s the town clerk, the fella who wanted to take you apart.”
Spring Street took them to Ruskin Road, which eventually led them into the Heights, where a yellow trash truck was grinding up the litter of affluence. Grand houses on rolling grounds, some with stone beasts lounging at the gateways, celebrated their worth with balconies and cupolas, arches and columns. An estate of manorial pretensions loomed on a rise.
“People named Gunner live there,” Morgan said with a gesture. “He’s a genius, they say. Three years ago their little girl drowned in the Charles River, Cambridge side.”
“Then that’s where her spirit is.”
“She’s buried here, Bensington.”
“It could be in both places.”
A little later Morgan gestured again, with a slower hand. “The man here lost his son not long ago. The boy, only sixteen, was killed by a subway train in Boston. You must’ve seen it in the papers.”
“I never read those kind of stories.”
“His name was Bodine. That name mean anything to you?”
“No,” Dudley said with a shrug, “but it has a good ring. Could be a character from a historical romance, the sort my mother read. And Gunner. That could be from a World War I poem.”
Several minutes later they crossed the line into Andover, bigger than Bensington in scope and population, with numerous enclaves of affluence. The roads were wider, the traffic swifter, especially on South Main, where overblown development occupied the memory of an apple orchard. Phillips Academy lay ahead, its bell tower a beacon. When they drove by the campus, Dudley looked left and right, for it sprawled on each side of the divided street.
“I went there,” he said.
“You went here?”
He paused. “It may have been Exeter.”
Downtown, Morgan parked across the street from the bus stop and glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes,” he said and settled back. A knot of young businessmen with a harmony of short haircuts and broad smiles were gabbing near Andover Bank. Outside Brigham’s an elderly couple shared an ice cream cone, one lick for her, two for the old gent. Morgan said, “Do you still have your dollar?”
“You said you’d give me more.”
“When you get on the bus.”
A young mother, high-hipped, all legs, scooped up her child in crossing the street and set him down near the bus stop, where the sun netted her and diminished him. A racial mix of summer students from the academy sauntered by.
“The bus will take you to Boston,” Morgan said. “Will you be all right there?”
“That’s too much to think about.” Dudley creaked his neck for a wider look at the elderly couple. “I wouldn’t mind an ice
• • •
Chief Morgan crunched the key into the ignition lock and told Dudley, who was sitting beside him, to buckle up. Dudley did so with a vacancy in his smile, as though a major portion of him were on automatic. For no obvious reason, Morgan took the long way around the green, past the post office, the church. As they neared Tuck’s General Store, Dudley pointed. “Fellow in there stutters.”
“You know a lot about us,” Morgan replied. “I wish we knew something about you.”
“Are you really letting me go?”
“That’s the idea.”
There were better routes to Andover, but Morgan meandered onto Summer Street, where dense hedges separated small properties and trellises supported overloads of roses. House fronts, set close to the sidewalk, shone with respectability.
“Some people I haven’t said good-bye to, like those fellows at the fire station.”
“Chub and Zach. I’ll do it for you.”
Morgan made an elbow turn onto Spring Street, where the gory remains of a woodlot animal lay on the road. He drove around it, almost onto the walkway to an old Victorian with gingerbread trim.
“Woman in there was nice to me, gave me a powdered doughnut.”
“I’m glad you didn’t mention that to her husband. He’s the town clerk, the fella who wanted to take you apart.”
Spring Street took them to Ruskin Road, which eventually led them into the Heights, where a yellow trash truck was grinding up the litter of affluence. Grand houses on rolling grounds, some with stone beasts lounging at the gateways, celebrated their worth with balconies and cupolas, arches and columns. An estate of manorial pretensions loomed on a rise.
“People named Gunner live there,” Morgan said with a gesture. “He’s a genius, they say. Three years ago their little girl drowned in the Charles River, Cambridge side.”
“Then that’s where her spirit is.”
“She’s buried here, Bensington.”
“It could be in both places.”
A little later Morgan gestured again, with a slower hand. “The man here lost his son not long ago. The boy, only sixteen, was killed by a subway train in Boston. You must’ve seen it in the papers.”
“I never read those kind of stories.”
“His name was Bodine. That name mean anything to you?”
“No,” Dudley said with a shrug, “but it has a good ring. Could be a character from a historical romance, the sort my mother read. And Gunner. That could be from a World War I poem.”
Several minutes later they crossed the line into Andover, bigger than Bensington in scope and population, with numerous enclaves of affluence. The roads were wider, the traffic swifter, especially on South Main, where overblown development occupied the memory of an apple orchard. Phillips Academy lay ahead, its bell tower a beacon. When they drove by the campus, Dudley looked left and right, for it sprawled on each side of the divided street.
“I went there,” he said.
“You went here?”
He paused. “It may have been Exeter.”
Downtown, Morgan parked across the street from the bus stop and glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes,” he said and settled back. A knot of young businessmen with a harmony of short haircuts and broad smiles were gabbing near Andover Bank. Outside Brigham’s an elderly couple shared an ice cream cone, one lick for her, two for the old gent. Morgan said, “Do you still have your dollar?”
“You said you’d give me more.”
“When you get on the bus.”
A young mother, high-hipped, all legs, scooped up her child in crossing the street and set him down near the bus stop, where the sun netted her and diminished him. A racial mix of summer students from the academy sauntered by.
“The bus will take you to Boston,” Morgan said. “Will you be all right there?”
“That’s too much to think about.” Dudley creaked his neck for a wider look at the elderly couple. “I wouldn’t mind an ice
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