Do I really look like that?

Yes, you do, Faye. You do not know this?

But I look so ... beautiful.

But you are beautiful. Believe this. I have seen many girls. In Europe. In the great cities. I have seen many, many girls, but they are not so beautiful as you.

No, I'm just a- No, please. Stop. Don't say things against yourself.

Graves saw Andre Grossman's eyes grow wild with longing, knowing that the moment had come, finally summoning the courage to seize it, his words bursting from him like small flames: Go with me, Faye. When I leave, go with me. We could ... be together ... forever.

Graves now watched as Grossman lay his dreams before her, watched him tell Faye exactly what he felt, what he wanted, then stand in an agonized silence as the girl stared at him, shocked by the absurdity of his proposal, stammering her excuses as she swiftly gathered up her things, desperate to get away from him, this poor, pathetic little man.

With the story near its end, Graves looked at the photograph again, concentrating on Grossman now rather than on Faye. Shame and anguish and self-loathing must have swept over him at the moment of his supreme humiliation. Graves saw him in the days that followed her rejection, a stubby figure storming along the edge of the pond, bitter, fuming, his eyes fixed straight ahead, forcing himself not to look toward the radiant teenage girl who, on the morning of August 27th, moved across the lawn of Riverwood, her very beauty an incitement, reminding him that he was vile and disgusting, something to be yanked from a brackish water and hurled against a stone, a slimy, bloated toad.

Graves imagined the final scene as two figures grappling in a swirl of leaves, one pressed down like a heavy stone upon the other, the cord relentlessly tightening around a slender white throat. For a moment he heard the fury of that struggle, Faye's muted cries, her fingers clawing the tightening cord, a final gasp, and after that only Grossman's oddly sensual moan.

CHAPTER 14.

An evening shade had begun to fall over Riverwood by the time Graves headed back to his cottage. Eleanor Stern was sitting on the porch of her cottage. When she saw Graves, she stood and walked to the wooden railing of the porch. She lifted a gla.s.s toward him. "Care to join me?"

Graves never allowed himself a drink, nor even companionship very often, but the slowly falling night seemed to penetrate the wall he lived behind, to inexplicably urge him toward her.

"All right," he said quietly.

He mounted the stairs, sat down in one of the chairs opposite her, took the gla.s.s of wine she offered, but did not sip it.

"You didn't come to lunch," Eleanor said.

"No, I didn't."

When Graves added nothing else, Eleanor let the matter drop. "Last night I thought I noticed a southern accent. What part of the South are you from?"

"North Carolina."

"Did your whole family move north?"

"No. They stayed in the South." His mind spontaneously envisioned the trio of gray stones that marked the place where they had stayed.

Eleanor watched him distantly, like someone studying a liquid in a test tube, something squirming in a vial. "Well, how's your work going?" she asked, forcing a certain lightness into her voice. "Found anything interesting?"

Graves revealed the only thing of interest he'd found. "Faye Harrison was going down Mohonk Trail when she was seen for the last time. Away from Riverwood instead of back toward it."

Eleanor immediately grasped the point. "So she wasn't planning to meet Allison Davies at Indian Rock?" She leaned forward slightly. "All day I couldn't write," she said. "I kept getting distracted. Thinking about Faye Harrison. Riverwood too. The mood it must have had that summer. I kept thinking about how Faye's death destroyed all that. And I suddenly remembered a painting I'd seen in Germany. It was of a lovely little German village, and it reminded me of the way Cezanne painted French villages. Very peaceful. Idyllic. I didn't think anything of it particularly until I noticed the t.i.tle. It was called Dachau. Dachau. And I thought: No one will ever be able to look at that painting in the same way, or think of Dachau as anything but a death camp. That's how it must have been with Riverwood." She took a sip from her gla.s.s. "Innocence is a fragile thing. Once it's gone, it's gone forever." And I thought: No one will ever be able to look at that painting in the same way, or think of Dachau as anything but a death camp. That's how it must have been with Riverwood." She took a sip from her gla.s.s. "Innocence is a fragile thing. Once it's gone, it's gone forever."

Hurled back in time, Graves saw the old car pull away, a black stain against a bloodred dawn, a freckled hand waving good-bye in the early morning air. That same malicious hand had taken his innocence from him during the preceding night, s.n.a.t.c.hed it prematurely and abruptly, like his sister's life.

"In every life there's a period of moral virginity, don't you think?" Eleanor mused. "A time before you've done anything truly evil. And when it's gone, you realize that you're exactly like everyone else. A place can experience the same thing. Lose its innocence. I'd never thought of that before." She took a deep breath. "You know, Paul, the way I see it, you're going to have to do what I do, make a play out of it. Out of what happened to Faye Harrison. With Riverwood as the stage and all the people who were here that summer as the characters. You're going to have to mix them all together, shake the mixture, and see what boils up. Dramatically, I mean."

It struck Graves that she had already thought this out, predetermined the course he should take. Her next question did not surprise him.

"How many characters are we talking about anyway?"

Graves ticked them off. "Well, besides the Davies family, there were the two men who were at work on the second cottage and the usual members of the household staff. Mona Flagg too. She was the girlfriend of Allison's brother Edward. And there was one other guest. The man who actually found Faye's body. An artist. Andre Grossman.

Eleanor appeared to be logging the names into her mind, storing them for later reference. "That's the cast of characters, then. Somewhere in that list is the person who strangled Faye Harrison."

Graves knew all too well that that was not necessarily so. "Unless it was a stranger," he said. He heard the voice behind him, What you doing out here, boy? What you doing out here, boy? He said, "Someone who just came out of the woods, then vanished back into them." He said, "Someone who just came out of the woods, then vanished back into them." You lost in the dark? You a lost child? You lost in the dark? You a lost child? He could hear the old horror enter his voice and knew that Eleanor had heard it too. He could hear the old horror enter his voice and knew that Eleanor had heard it too.

"You actually believe in evil, don't you, Paul? You believe that it exists."

"No. At least not as something separate from what people do."

He felt himself move silently toward the darkened house, heard the sound of his footsteps as he mounted its creaky wooden stairs, Kessler's breath like a stinking wind across his bare shoulders.

"But there are people who ..."

He saw the door swing open, the light flash on, Gwen bent over the kitchen table, hands and feet tied to its wooden legs, her white skirt thrown up over her back, panties yanked down to her ankles, a trickle of blood snaking down her thigh. Kessler's voice sounded behind him, You didn't know I'd already been here, did you, boy? You didn't know I'd already been here, did you, boy? Next came laughter and the dreadful truth, Next came laughter and the dreadful truth, but you brought me to her anyway, didn't you? but you brought me to her anyway, didn't you?

"People who ..."

He felt Kessler's hand shove him toward a chair, lash him to its wooden back, heard him ask his appalling question. Want to hear her squeal? Want to hear her squeal?

"People who ... "

"Who savor pain," Eleanor said, completing the thought. "That's what you say about Kessler, the villain in your book, that he savors pain." She smiled softly. "I read one of your books this afternoon," she explained, antic.i.p.ating his question. "My play wasn't going anywhere, so I went up to the library in the main house. I started looking through the collection, and there they were. Your books all in a row. From your first novel to the latest one. I took the whole series, but I've had time to read only the first one. About the kidnapped little boy. The Lost Child." The Lost Child."

Graves said nothing, partly pleased that she'd read one of his books, but also apprehensive that she'd done so, fearing both her judgment and that she might have learned too much.

"I have to say it was much better than I'd expected," Eleanor continued. "Rather haunting, in a way. That opening scene, with Slovak standing in the rain, at night, looking up at the 'yellow-eyed windows' of a child's brothel."

Graves could easily recall the scene, even the opening line he'd put in Slovak's mind: Innocence is not a shield. Innocence is not a shield.

"The child," Eleanor added now. "The little boy of the t.i.tle. The one Kessler kidnaps. He's still lost at the end of the book." She looked at him pointedly. "Is he ever found?"

"Not yet."

"He'd be a man now, wouldn't he?" Eleanor gazed at him intently. "With those terrible memories-the ones from his childhood-with them still in his mind." Her eyes took on a sudden comprehension, and Graves saw it, the pure white wave of her intuition, how in a single instant she'd read a cryptic sign, glimpsed some portion of his secret history.

"The lost child," she said quietly, as if merely repeating the t.i.tle of his book. She said nothing else, but he knew what she was thinking, It's you. It's you.

CHAPTER 15.

Make a play of it.

Graves awakened the next morning and realized that even as he'd slept. Eleanor's suggestion had continually circled in his mind. All through the night the people of Riverwood had risen from the depths of his sleep. Because of the photographs he'd already seen, most of them had appeared as they'd actually looked in the summer of 1946, Mr. Davies with his close-cropped gray hair, Allison in her boyish cut. But others had been fashioned by his imagination: Mona Flagg as a bright-faced young woman with fiery red hair, Greta Klein dark and pencil-thin, Andre Grossman short, stocky, a repulsive little gnome. In the images that came to him, all of them were alive, their features warmed by a summer sun that had departed over fifty years before. Faye alone had emerged already dead, a figure rising toward him out of a dark, brackish water, her face ghostly, her eyes open but unlighted, her lips moving slowly, whispering the same words again and again, Oh, please, please, please ... Oh, please, please, please ...

It was to that voice Graves had awakened just before dawn. The ache in his shoulders told him he'd slept in a hard, protective crouch, his hands drawn beneath his chin, his legs curled toward his chest, a semi-fetal position that adult bodies were unsuited for but in which he'd awakened often over the years, especially when the past suddenly swept toward him out of the darkness like a white, skeletal hand.

But this time the dream had emerged not from his own past, but Riverwood's, engendered, he thought now, by Eleanor's suggestion that he fashion a play of it. For the people of Riverwood had come out of his sleep not as fully realized individuals, but like actors from behind a black curtain, their roles not yet determined despite their presence on the stage.

He made a cup of coffee and walked out onto the porch. To the left he could see Eleanor's cottage, obscured by the early morning fog, the lights still out. He remembered their talk of the night before, how she'd watched him knowingly, as if she'd seen his dreadful secret nakedly exposed. What amazed him now was that he hadn't instantly gotten to his feet, fled to the safety of his own solitary cabin. Instead, he'd remained on the porch for a time, chatting quietly about his books, enjoying the interest she showed in them, the piercing intelligence she brought to everything. Even now he found that he had no wish to avoid her. In fact, he was already looking forward to their next meeting, the small, trembling pleasure he took in her company.

The fact that it would be a brief pleasure, that it would end with summer, when both of them left this place, was not one Graves wanted to dwell upon. He quickly finished the coffee, showered, dressed, and made his way up to his office in the main house.

Saunders had just come out of the boathouse when he neared the bottom of the stairs, showing up without warning, just as he had the morning before, so that Graves had the uncomfortable sense that he was always being watched, perhaps even followed, Saunders the secret agent, directed by some as yet invisible hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Graves." Saunders was wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt, his arms smooth, tanned, unusually muscular for a man in his late sixties. Graves imagined him as he must have looked in the summer of 1946, a handsome, athletic boy who'd watched Faye Harrison and Allison Davies with the longing common to his age. Earlier, Graves had injected a murderous quality into that longing. But now he imagined it differently, as something quiet, almost melancholy. The youthful Saunders as a boy who'd learned his place early and always kept it, Allison and Faye so utterly beyond his grasp he'd had no thought of striving for them.

With no further word Saunders headed up the stairs, Graves following along at his side. At the top he stopped and faced Graves once again. "You know, Faye wasn't the only pretty girl here at Riverwood that summer," he said. "Mona Flagg was just nineteen. Beautiful. Hair like sunlight." A curious sadness settled over his face. "I always felt sorry for Mona. From the wrong side of the tracks, you know. Studying to be a nurse." He glanced back to Graves. "Edward was crazy about her. Wanted to marry her."

"Did he?"

"No," Saunders said. "Something broke them up at the end of that summer."

A dark possibility pierced Graves' mind. "Could it have been Faye Harrison?"

Saunders looked surprised by the question. "I don't know," he said. "I sometimes saw Mona and Faye together." He brought his attention back from the pond. "Such a pretty girl, Mona was. Smart too. Lively. You know the land. The type you'd die for."

Graves nodded silently. Or kill for? Or kill for? his mind asked. his mind asked.

Graves turned to Detective Portman's notes on the interviews he'd conducted with the people of Riverwood during the initial stage of his murder investigation. As he read, separate personalities began to emerge. Substance replaced shadow. The veneer of stateliness and harmony slowly peeled away from Riverwood as the characters, however grudgingly, began to reveal the edgy conflict that had no doubt marked their lives.

In Mrs. Davies, Graves detected the calculated reserve of one who, more than anything, feared embarra.s.sment, a stern woman with a fierce temperament she held firmly in check, the sort who could grow irritated with an old detective's questions, show that irritation in her voice alone: PORTMAN: And where were you that day?

MRS. DAVIES: I presume you mean the day Faye Harrison disappeared.

PORTMAN: yes.

MRS. DAVIES: Well, I was in the library most of the time. Sitting for my portrait. Mr. Grossman was with me. He is the portraitist.

PORTMAN: You spent the whole day in the library with Mr. Grossman?

MRS. DAVIES: Yes, I did. My husband came in at one point. So did my daughter. But otherwise, we remained uninterrupted.

PORTMAN: Did you see Faye Harrison at all?

MRS. DAVIES: No, I didn't. As I said, I was in the library most of the day. Sitting for my portrait. Faye may have pa.s.sed by the window, but if she did, I didn't see her. When one sits for a portrait, one faces the artist. It is not helpful to glance about.

PORTMAN: How well did you know Faye?

MRS. DAVIES: Not very well. My husband had more dealings with the girl.

PORTMAN: Dealings?

MRS. DAVIES: She worked for my husband. Of course, it was probably Allison who knew her best. They were the same age.

PORTMAN: Were they friends? Allison and Faye?

MRS. DAVIES: I don't know how close they were.

Graves sat back, thinking. Was that really true, he wondered. Had Mrs. Davies never gathered that Allison and Faye had grown very close over the years? It was a tiny misstatement, the sort Slovak seized upon, then traced to its dark core. Graves tried to do the same, but found no route through the maze, and so began to read again, now effortlessly converting Portman's solidly detailed notes into small dramatic scenes.

PORTMAN: Mrs. Davies, did you ever see Faye talking to Jake Mosley?

MRS. DAVIES: No.

PORTMAN: Did Allison ever mention Jake?

MRS. DAVIES: Why would my daughter ever mention such a person?

PORTMAN: Well, Faye and Jake were seen in the woods together at the same time, so I'm trying to determine if there might have been some relationship between them.

MRS. DAVIES: The whereabouts of Mr. Mosley would never have been any concern of mine.

The scene grew more detailed in Graves' mind. Portman's enormous frame slouched in a brocade chair, Mrs. Davies seated opposite him, staring coolly into the veteran detective's hard, unblinking eyes. He could almost hear Portman's voice, impa.s.sive, methodical, relentlessly burrowing toward a truth whose dark malignancy he scarcely wished to discover, a voice, Graves realized, like Slovak's.

PORTMAN: Was Jake Mosley often hired to work here at Riverwood?

MRS. DAVIES: No, he was not.

PORTMAN: Had he ever worked here before?

MRS. DAVIES: Not to my knowledge. That is Mr. Garrett's affair. He was in charge of the workmen.

PORTMAN: Well, Mr. Garrett has said that it was Mr. Davies who hired Jake.

Graves recognized that even at this early stage of his investigation, the old detective had already begun to look for the same small discrepancies that Slovak tirelessly sought, an insight that propelled Graves' imagination to add the first vague hint of suspicion to the voice he'd now fully imagined for Dennis Portman.

MRS. DAVIES: The people who work for my husband are not my affair. I have nothing to do with it. Mr. Davies has his own ... way of ... handling them.

PORTMAN: You're not involved in the daily running of Riverwood, then?

MRS. DAVIES: NO. Never. It has nothing to do with me.

Graves studied the last few lines of Portman's notes. Mrs. Davies' language struck him as odd, the way she talked simultaneously of "them" and "it," merging the personal p.r.o.noun (people) with the process of administering Riverwood (it). It was a curious syntax, and although there was no mention of it in Portman's notes, Graves saw the old detective's eyes narrow as he peered into Mrs. Davies' face. A moment of silence would have fallen between them, he thought, an interval during which these two would have faced each other in the gray light that filtered through the windows of the library on such a summer afternoon, and which lasted until Portman brought it to an end with another question.