Read Online The Spire by Richard North Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard North Patterson
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go for a very long run and afterward, head cleared, resume his pursuit of a place at Yale Law School. Then he reached the lawn surrounding the Spire.
He paused there, recalling the tumult he had inspired hours before, the primal roar of the crowd as he'd brandished the bronze axe. Now the site of the Spire was so quiet and empty that it evoked a vanished civilization. Gazing up at the steeple, he remembered the harsh severity of the bell tower, his brief attack of vertigo. With a sense of awe, he again approached the tower.
He stopped abruptly.
A dark form lay on the grass. Completely still, it was too long and angular to be anything but a person. He stepped forward, wondering if someone had passed out here, deeply afraid that this was something worse.
It was a woman. Arms outflung, her body faced the sky. A terrible sense of familiarity hit him as he moved closer.
He stopped abruptly, sickened.
Angela Hall lay at the foot of the Spire like a sacrifice on an altar. She stared up at him, her eyes too fixed to be alive. Her lips were parted in an expression of pain or anger, exposing her white teeth.
A cry of animal anguish issued from Mark's throat. He forced himself to kneel, touching her wrist. It was not as cold as he had imagined or as warm as he had hoped. Feeling this contact like an electric shock, he fought back the reflex to vomit.
Mark stood. There was no telephone, he realized, no way of calling for help. Instinctively he began running across the lawn, heading for the one house he knew near campus, Lionel Farr's.
AGAIN AND AGAIN he rang the doorbell, jabbing the button as though willing Farr to answer. At last, minutes later, someone jerked open the door.
It was Farr, his strong face lined with sleep, his eyes keen with a displeasure that changed to surprise. He was still adjusting his sweater, and his gray-blond hair was mussed. 'For God's sake, Mark. What is it''
Mark's throat was parched. 'Angela Hall. I found her near the Spire.' Voice catching, he finished: 'I think she's dead.'
For an instant, Farr's eyes froze. Then he snapped, 'Wait here.'
Mark stood on the porch, shaken yet relieved. Farr hurried through the door. 'I've called the police,' he said. 'We'll meet them there.'
Together they rushed down the street toward the Spire. Between breaths, Mark said, 'I saw her last night.'
Loping beside him, Farr asked sharply, 'Where''
'The DBE house.'
'Tell me.'
As they entered the campus, Mark began a hasty outline of the party.
'She left with Steve'' Farr interrupted.
'Yes.'
They reached the grass, Mark hoping against hope that this was a dream. The landscape was empty but for Angela.
Slowing, Farr approached her. His military posture vanished. Kneeling beside the body, he looked into her face, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny until, briefly, they shut. 'She's been strangled.'
'Strangled'' Mark repeated.
'Look at her eyes,' Farr responded softly.
Mark forced himself to do that. There were red pinpoints in the whites of her sightless eyes. In a monotone, he said, 'I should have taken her home.'
Farr turned. Following his gaze, Mark saw two uniformed policemen running toward the Spire. 'Whatever happened,' Farr said with quiet urgency, 'tell them everything . . .'
'What about Steve''
'Everything, dammit. You can't know who it helps or hurts. But concealment helps no one'especially you.'
One of the policemen was George Garrison'his high school teammate and Angela's friend. Staring at Angela, George slumped. 'Sweet Lord,' he said to the body. 'What happened to you, baby'' It was not the voice of a cop.
When Mark looked up at him, George was staring back. The other cop, white and older, put his hand on George's shoulder. Then he spoke to Mark and Farr. 'The detectives are coming,' he told them. 'I want you over on that bench.'
The next several minutes were a blur. Seated at the edge of the grass, Mark and Lionel Farr watched the police tape off the grass around the Spire. A photographer and
He paused there, recalling the tumult he had inspired hours before, the primal roar of the crowd as he'd brandished the bronze axe. Now the site of the Spire was so quiet and empty that it evoked a vanished civilization. Gazing up at the steeple, he remembered the harsh severity of the bell tower, his brief attack of vertigo. With a sense of awe, he again approached the tower.
He stopped abruptly.
A dark form lay on the grass. Completely still, it was too long and angular to be anything but a person. He stepped forward, wondering if someone had passed out here, deeply afraid that this was something worse.
It was a woman. Arms outflung, her body faced the sky. A terrible sense of familiarity hit him as he moved closer.
He stopped abruptly, sickened.
Angela Hall lay at the foot of the Spire like a sacrifice on an altar. She stared up at him, her eyes too fixed to be alive. Her lips were parted in an expression of pain or anger, exposing her white teeth.
A cry of animal anguish issued from Mark's throat. He forced himself to kneel, touching her wrist. It was not as cold as he had imagined or as warm as he had hoped. Feeling this contact like an electric shock, he fought back the reflex to vomit.
Mark stood. There was no telephone, he realized, no way of calling for help. Instinctively he began running across the lawn, heading for the one house he knew near campus, Lionel Farr's.
AGAIN AND AGAIN he rang the doorbell, jabbing the button as though willing Farr to answer. At last, minutes later, someone jerked open the door.
It was Farr, his strong face lined with sleep, his eyes keen with a displeasure that changed to surprise. He was still adjusting his sweater, and his gray-blond hair was mussed. 'For God's sake, Mark. What is it''
Mark's throat was parched. 'Angela Hall. I found her near the Spire.' Voice catching, he finished: 'I think she's dead.'
For an instant, Farr's eyes froze. Then he snapped, 'Wait here.'
Mark stood on the porch, shaken yet relieved. Farr hurried through the door. 'I've called the police,' he said. 'We'll meet them there.'
Together they rushed down the street toward the Spire. Between breaths, Mark said, 'I saw her last night.'
Loping beside him, Farr asked sharply, 'Where''
'The DBE house.'
'Tell me.'
As they entered the campus, Mark began a hasty outline of the party.
'She left with Steve'' Farr interrupted.
'Yes.'
They reached the grass, Mark hoping against hope that this was a dream. The landscape was empty but for Angela.
Slowing, Farr approached her. His military posture vanished. Kneeling beside the body, he looked into her face, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny until, briefly, they shut. 'She's been strangled.'
'Strangled'' Mark repeated.
'Look at her eyes,' Farr responded softly.
Mark forced himself to do that. There were red pinpoints in the whites of her sightless eyes. In a monotone, he said, 'I should have taken her home.'
Farr turned. Following his gaze, Mark saw two uniformed policemen running toward the Spire. 'Whatever happened,' Farr said with quiet urgency, 'tell them everything . . .'
'What about Steve''
'Everything, dammit. You can't know who it helps or hurts. But concealment helps no one'especially you.'
One of the policemen was George Garrison'his high school teammate and Angela's friend. Staring at Angela, George slumped. 'Sweet Lord,' he said to the body. 'What happened to you, baby'' It was not the voice of a cop.
When Mark looked up at him, George was staring back. The other cop, white and older, put his hand on George's shoulder. Then he spoke to Mark and Farr. 'The detectives are coming,' he told them. 'I want you over on that bench.'
The next several minutes were a blur. Seated at the edge of the grass, Mark and Lionel Farr watched the police tape off the grass around the Spire. A photographer and
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