Into the Web (2 page)

—
The Armchair Detective

“Thomas Cook is an artist, a philosopher, and a magician; his story is spellbinding.”

—
The Drood Review of Mystery

“Swift, thoughtful and plausible … As in nearly all good crime fiction, the moral and practical complications … expand like ripples in a pond….
The Chatham School Affair
is the tragic, lyrically told story of a sordid scandal, the town’s revenge on the perpetrators, and one man’s long-delayed journey toward redemption.”

—
Boston Herald

“Moody, eloquent.”

—
San Francisco Sunday Examiner & Chronicle

“Cook’s portrait of a small—and ultimately small-minded—town is a skillful one. And just when you think the puzzle is complete, Cook artfully presents yet another piece—rearranging all your expectations.”

—Orlando Sentinel

EVIDENCE OF BLOOD

“In [his] previous novels … Cook has shown himself to be a writer of poetic gifts, constantly pushing against the presumed limits of crime fiction…. In this fine, new book, he has gone to the edge, and survived triumphantly.”

—Charles Champlin,
Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Gripping southern drama, with its byzantine family trees, old wives’ tales, and overheated memories.”

—Kirkus Reviews

BREAKHEART HILL

“The greatest mystery novel of the past ten years.”

—Otto Penzler

“Haunting, lyrical … a mesmerizing tale of love and betrayal.”

—
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

“Intense … impossible to put down.”

—
Rendezvous

“Cook has crafted a novel of stunning power, with a climax that is so unexpected the reader may think he has cheated. But there is no cheating here, only excellent storytelling.”

—
Booklist

“Cook’s writing is distinguished by finely cadenced prose, superior narrative skills, and the author’s patient love for the doomed characters who are the object of his Attention…. Highly recommended.”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

MORTAL MEMORY

“Cook builds a family portrait in which violence seems both impossible and inevitable. One of [Mortal
Memory’s]
greatest accomplishments is the way it defies expectations … surprising and devastating.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“Haunting … Don’t pick this up unless you’ve got time to read it through … because you will do so whether you plan to or not.”

—
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

ALSO BY THOMAS H. COOK

FICTION
Taken
Peril
Moon Over Manhattan
(with Larry King)
The Interrogation
Places in the Dark
Instruments of Night
The Chatham School Affair
Breakheart Hill
Mortal Memory
Evidence of Blood
The City When It Rains
Night Secrets
Streets of Fire
Flesh and Blood
Sacrificial Ground
The Orchids
Tabernacle
Elena
Blood Innocents

NONFICTION
Early Graves
Blood Echoes

ANTHOLOGIES
Best American Crime Writing
(with Otto Penzler)
Best American Crime Writing 2002
(with Otto Penzler)

For the People of the Book
Erik Felice, the Tinman

There is no such thing as shadow.
Only air deprived of light. Erik Felice, the Tinman

—LUCRETIUS
De Rerum Natura

Kingdom County, West Virginia

Summer, 1984

PART I

Chapter One

T
here is no older story than the return of the native, and I’d always believed that had Adam returned to Eden to walk in middle age the ruined garden once again, he might have felt an odd nostalgia for his fall. And yet I felt no such nostalgia for Kingdom County. In fact, after leaving it, I’d never expected to live there again, see the suspicious look in Sheriff Porterfield’s eyes each time I’d met him on the streets of Kingdom City. He’d never said a word to me, but I’d guessed his thoughts:

I know you were there.

The old sheriff had been standing on the corner only a few yards away when I’d climbed onto a bus headed for California a few days after the murders. He’d had
that same accusatory look in his eyes, but he’d added a knowing grin as the bus pulled away.

I know what you did.

I’d just turned nineteen that year, a boy on his way to college, armed with a scholarship, seeking only to escape a bloody act, build a life far away from Kingdom County and in every way different from the one I’d lived there. If I’d had one determination as I’d taken my seat in the bus that day, it was that I would never again live in Kingdom County, never again endure its poverty and blighted hope, and certainly not the dark suspicions of Sheriff Wallace Porterfield.

But when my father fell ill, I had no choice but move back. With both my mother and my brother Archie gone, there was no one left to care for him. And although I had nothing in common with my father, nor even so much as a tender childhood memory of him, I couldn’t let him die alone.

The fact that he was dying was not in doubt. Doc Poole had made that clear as I sat in his office a few days after my return.

“I want to know exactly what his condition is,” I said.

Doc Poole leaned back in his chair. “He won’t make it through the summer, Roy.”

It was a stifling summer afternoon, and even as Doc Poole spoke, the two of us facing each other across his old wooden desk, I knew that a few miles away my father had already retired to his sweltering bedroom, its door sternly closed, as it always had been, my father secluded
not only within that steaming space but within himself as well, a chamber just as airless and overheated as the room in which he lay.

“In the last stage of liver cancer there’s really nothing to be done,” Doc Poole added. “So I wouldn’t waste any time on false hope.”

“I never have,” I said casually.

“What did Jesse tell you about his situation?”

“Just that he had cancer. He didn’t say he was in the last stage of anything. He didn’t even ask me to come home.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Doc Poole told me. “You can help him stay comfortable.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said crisply.

Keep him comfortable, that was my sole purpose in coming home, simply to care for my father’s most immediate needs, nothing more. I had not come home to reconcile with him, win his approval, or confess anything. As far as I was concerned my father was a crude and ignorant man who took a bullish pride in his crudity and ignorance, wore them like badges of honor. So much so that he often seemed determined to offend me, forever sprawled in his musty, littered bedroom, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, his legs spread wide, a cigarette burning down to the nub in his soiled fingers. At dinner he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and noisily gulped the last swallow of iced tea, defiantly staring at me when he set down the glass. Day and night, he watched one mindless TV comedy after another, seemingly as amused by the commercials as by the programs themselves. Even in sleep he seemed bent upon disturbing me, twisting about
violently as he muttered my brother’s name,
Archie, Archie
, as if to make it clear that my dead brother was the one he would have preferred beside him in his last days.

I might have attributed all of this spitefulness to the simple fact that my father was dying and, therefore, unhappy. But he’d always been unhappy. I couldn’t remember a time when a rancorous misery hadn’t afflicted him. Nor did it surprise me that in his final weeks on earth this unquiet ghost continued to goad him mercilessly, giving no quarter, determined to pursue him to the grave. There were even times when I thought I could hear it hissing through the air around him, a voice as dry as the sound of wind through fields of long-dead corn.

The origin of my father’s unhappiness remained a mystery, however. He’d never spoken of his life, nor offered me the slightest entry into his shrouded past. And so I’d finally concluded that his unhappiness was like my own, something that flowed from the choices I’d made. And although our choices had been complete opposites, they’d landed us pretty much in the same boat. My father had made a bad marriage. I had chosen not to marry. He had sired two sons, and in one way or another, lost them both. I’d had no children. In both our lives, the dream of family had soured, leaving us tied cheerlessly to each other, my father yearning only for death, I yearning only to escape once again from the very place I’d fled so many years before.

But as I realized a few days after returning to Kingdom County, my yearning to escape it was even deeper now, a need, once and for all, to put its gory legacy behind
me. For by then I’d learned how violence clings to whatever it touches. You can wash the blood away but not the memory of blood, not whose it was or how it had been spilled. Innocence is fragile, and violence shatters it. A simple pair of scissors once tagged Exhibit A can never cut kite string again.

The merest glance into my childhood bedroom, the sight of Archie’s battered guitar still propped up in the corner, could instantly evoke the sound of gunfire, clouds of blue smoke.

My brother and I had shared that tiny room from earliest boyhood until his last night at home. We had crammed it with big plans, usually of escape, first to Kingdom City and from there to parts unknown. It was in that room I’d first determined to go to college, then later filled out the necessary application. I’d read the letter of acceptance, one that had been accompanied by the offer of a scholarship, in a kind of wild reverie, leaping onto the bed and jumping up and down while Archie looked on silently.

It was also in that room that Archie had first mentioned Gloria, and where, sometime later, he’d told me that he was in love with her. Later still, he’d mused about how the two of them would one day get married, move to Nashville, find an apartment, attend the Grand Ole Opry every Saturday night. The little metal box he’d used as a bank still rested on the small wooden table by the window. I could hear the soft tinkle of coins as he counted out his savings each night, trying to calculate, in that confused and uncertain way of his, just how much money they would need to get to Nashville and survive there until he made it as a country singer.

But for all the big talk, the plan had remained fuzzy, the money scant, so that I’d never taken it seriously, nor felt any real alarm. And yet, in the end, he’d done it, or at least tried to do it, trudging from the house on a snowy December night, prowling the roads for hours, relentlessly screwing up his courage before finally pulling up beside the tall, dark hedge at 1411 County Road. Even when I imagined all that had happened after that, I made sure to keep it at a distance, like something seen from a great height. Only the mailbox returned to me as it had actually appeared that night, decked with plastic holly, green leaves, and small red berries, snow still half obscuring the family name that had been painted so ornately on its black metal side.

As for Archie, I most often saw him as a boy, eternally clothed in jeans and a white T-shirt, strumming his guitar and crooning country songs. In memory, he was everywhere. Sitting on the steps of the porch or at the kitchen table. Sometimes I glimpsed him on his bed, sitting in his underwear, idly flipping through a comic book. At other times I recalled him at seventeen, standing at the rear door, peering out into our littered backyard, his hands sunk into the pockets of his jeans, thinking no doubt of Gloria, love like a whip snapping in his mind.