Read Online The Twisted Thread by Charlotte Bacon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Bacon
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Theyâd taken all the cell phones, which had, as in Portland, shown up in staggering numbers. âHave the police talked to you yet?â he asked, and she said yes, briefly, but they had scheduled something longer for the morning and searched her apartment. She didnât tell Fred that in the process sheâd discovered the location of two pairs of sneakers and three sweaters that she had thought long gone. She didnât think sheâd imagined the look of disapproval on the officerâs face, either.
Senior investigators, the ones clearly running the show, had been in and out of Graceâs apartment, talking with Grace and Porter, though Porter had emerged to greet Claireâs father, who looked, Madeline couldnât help but notice, nothing more than supremely irritated.
The police had also managed to seal off the campus, station uniformed cops at every entrance, road, or gate, and close some of those off entirely. Fred said the woods were full of men, too. The chuff of helicopter wings had broken the tense, hot air all day. A great wave of intent, relentlessly professional searching had consumed the campus and resulted in nothing but prickling anxiety and silence.
Madeline heard a bump in the hall, and it reminded her that she ought to bolt her outside door. It had been impressive to her, having moved from Somerville, that so few people took advantage of her spaciness out here in the countryside. Sheâd left her wallet the other night in her car, for instance, doors unlocked, and there it had been the next morning. Students sometimes stole from one another, but there was remarkably little thievery given how vulnerable most rooms and apartments were. Only cameras, AV equipment, medication, and dorm doors after 9:00 P.M. were regularly shut tight. Opening the screen, she sniffed the rich air. It was disconcerting how nature and weather seemed to resist bad news: trees and rivers kept on being beautiful even when horrifying events occurred around them. Sunsets flared red. The world went on doing its best imitation of a livable place. A strategically located spotlight illuminated the grand spray of a still vibrant elm on the Quad. The path linking the dorms snaked through lush, low grass. The windows of the buildings shone gold. She could even hear the burble of the Bluestone River and, past that, the slow hooting of a train as it rolled through Greenville. It looked and sounded the safest of all possible locations for teenagers, a deeply regulated environment that would reassure the most nervous of parents.
Then she saw a boy running at a dead heat from somewhere on the other side of the Quad. She was used to this. A steady traffic of students flowed across the campus at night, as physics labs, Ritalin, and alcohol changed hands. But tonight Madeline noticed a special intensity to his speed as he altered course to head toward Greaves, a boysâ dorm. She still didnât recognize him. Tall and blond, but that distinguished him from almost no one here.
She made the door fast and went to call the head of Greaves, Joyce Phelan, a history teacher and field hockey coach. Everyone here had at least three job titles, and teachers were expected to perform all of their tasks equally well, in some sort of crazed imitation of polymaths. Some of them wore this burden more lightly than others. Joyce looked about ready to give it all up and join the circus, and Madeline couldnât blame her.
Usually, Madeline didnât care what the students were doing after hours. She thought it incredible that they accomplished so much given how little they slept and how much trouble they were always courting. They still attended Ivy League schools and won national science prizes and music competitions in alarming numbers. Factored into her laissez-faire approach to enforcing rules was the fact that Madeline, at twenty-five, was only seven years older than most seniors. She remembered all too clearly the
Senior investigators, the ones clearly running the show, had been in and out of Graceâs apartment, talking with Grace and Porter, though Porter had emerged to greet Claireâs father, who looked, Madeline couldnât help but notice, nothing more than supremely irritated.
The police had also managed to seal off the campus, station uniformed cops at every entrance, road, or gate, and close some of those off entirely. Fred said the woods were full of men, too. The chuff of helicopter wings had broken the tense, hot air all day. A great wave of intent, relentlessly professional searching had consumed the campus and resulted in nothing but prickling anxiety and silence.
Madeline heard a bump in the hall, and it reminded her that she ought to bolt her outside door. It had been impressive to her, having moved from Somerville, that so few people took advantage of her spaciness out here in the countryside. Sheâd left her wallet the other night in her car, for instance, doors unlocked, and there it had been the next morning. Students sometimes stole from one another, but there was remarkably little thievery given how vulnerable most rooms and apartments were. Only cameras, AV equipment, medication, and dorm doors after 9:00 P.M. were regularly shut tight. Opening the screen, she sniffed the rich air. It was disconcerting how nature and weather seemed to resist bad news: trees and rivers kept on being beautiful even when horrifying events occurred around them. Sunsets flared red. The world went on doing its best imitation of a livable place. A strategically located spotlight illuminated the grand spray of a still vibrant elm on the Quad. The path linking the dorms snaked through lush, low grass. The windows of the buildings shone gold. She could even hear the burble of the Bluestone River and, past that, the slow hooting of a train as it rolled through Greenville. It looked and sounded the safest of all possible locations for teenagers, a deeply regulated environment that would reassure the most nervous of parents.
Then she saw a boy running at a dead heat from somewhere on the other side of the Quad. She was used to this. A steady traffic of students flowed across the campus at night, as physics labs, Ritalin, and alcohol changed hands. But tonight Madeline noticed a special intensity to his speed as he altered course to head toward Greaves, a boysâ dorm. She still didnât recognize him. Tall and blond, but that distinguished him from almost no one here.
She made the door fast and went to call the head of Greaves, Joyce Phelan, a history teacher and field hockey coach. Everyone here had at least three job titles, and teachers were expected to perform all of their tasks equally well, in some sort of crazed imitation of polymaths. Some of them wore this burden more lightly than others. Joyce looked about ready to give it all up and join the circus, and Madeline couldnât blame her.
Usually, Madeline didnât care what the students were doing after hours. She thought it incredible that they accomplished so much given how little they slept and how much trouble they were always courting. They still attended Ivy League schools and won national science prizes and music competitions in alarming numbers. Factored into her laissez-faire approach to enforcing rules was the fact that Madeline, at twenty-five, was only seven years older than most seniors. She remembered all too clearly the
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