Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

A suspect had been arrested but Tom the pink-cheeked deputy was still taking his job seriously.

Nobody had relieved him of his command yet. Besides, he was hugely aware that somebody had gotten past him at least once and that Sarah had hightailed it into the woods right under his nose; he wasn't letting Ben Breck put a foot on the front porch until he had the Queen's okay.

Diane nodded. "It's all right. He's expected." She turned to the man standing on the concrete walk. "Dr. Breck?"

"Call me Ben, please." He walked past the deputy into the house.

Breck was over six feet tall, with dark, unruly hair laced with gray. Forty-one, she remembered Dr. Parker had said. He had boyish qualities – his voice and face, for instance – and you could see exactly what he had looked like when he was twelve. He seemed to be in good shape but he was pale and this gave him the deceptive appearance of weakness. His eyes were dark. He wore black jeans and a tweed sports coat over a dark blue shirt. His hands were small and his fingers almost delicate. He slouched. Diane, accustomed to her husband's military posture, was put off by this initially. Almost immediately though this aversion flipflopped and became pleasantly quirky. He carried a battered briefcase.

Diane motioned him to the couch. He glanced out the window. "Is there, uhm, something wrong?"

"Oh, the deputy? No, my husband's a detective. He's involved in the case where those girls were killed."

"The students?"

"That's right. The Sheriffs Department sometimes has a deputy keeping an eye out on the houses of the investigators."

Sarah bounded down the stairs and halted in the arched doorway to the living room, clutching her pink backpack and gazing at Breck. Diane noted that she had changed clothes and was now wearing her favorite T-shirt, bright blue and emblazoned with a seahorse. The girl brushed a long tail of hair from her face and said nothing.

"Sarah, this is Dr. Breck."

"You're my tutor."

"That's right. I'm pleased to meet you, Sarah," Breck said.

To Diane's surprise, the girl shook his hand.

Jamie walked quickly through the living room, wearing his biking shorts and a sweatshirt.

"Oh, Jamie…"

He glanced at the three people in the room and didn't say a word. He left by the front door. She saw him leap on his bike and pedal quickly out of the driveway.

"Wrestling practice," she explained to Breck.

"Ah." Breck turned to Sarah. "What've you got there?"

"My backpack."

"What's in it?"

"Barbie. And Redford T. Redford -"

"That's one of her stuffed bears." Diane felt a need to translate.

"That's a clever name."

Sarah announced, "He's the world's smartest bear. And I have my tape recorder."

"Tape recorder? Oh-oh, are you recording what I'm saying? Like a spy?"

"No!" Sarah smiled. "I'm writing stories."

"Stories?" Breck's eyes went wide. "I've never known anybody who writes stories."

"Dr. Parker is having me write a book."

Breck said, "I write books. But mine are very boring. Students use them in class. I'll bet yours are more interesting than mine. Sarah, why don't you sit over here next to me?"

Diane asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"A salt shaker," Breck said.

"Pardon?"

"Actually, the whole carton would be better."

"Salt"

Breck said, "Please."

Diane walked into the kitchen and Breck turned to Sarah. "How do you spell 'chair'?"

"C-H-A-I-R."

"Very good."

Sarah beamed.

"How about 'table'?"

She closed her eyes and thought for a minute. She shook her head. Then she said, "T-A-B-E-L. No, L-E."

"That's right. How 'bout 'tablecloth'?"

The girl went quiet, her mood changed fast as a balloon popping. "I don't know." Her face became sullen.

"Tablecloth," Breck said.

Diane, returning with the blue carton, felt an electric rush across her face – sympathetic fear. She's getting upset, she's going to be blocked and you're bucking for a tantrum, boy …

Breck opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of black paper. Diane handed him the salt. Breck took it and poured a large pile onto the paper then spread it out smoothly. Mother and daughter watched – one with fascination, one with caution. Breck said to Sarah, "Let's spell it together."

"I don't know how." She stared at the salt. Diane stood in the doorway until she saw what she believed was a glance from Breck, requesting privacy. She retreated to the kitchen.

"Give me your hand," Breck said to the girl.

Reluctantly Sarah did. He took her index finger and drew a T in the salt with it. "You feel it ?" he asked. "You feel what a T is like?"

Sarah nodded. Breck smoothed the salt. "Do it again."

She hesitated, then started the letter. It was a clumsy attempt, looking more like a plus sign.

"Let's try an A."

"I can do that one," she said and smoothed the salt herself.

For a half hour they made salt letters. A hundred 'table's. A hundred 'cloth's. A hundred of those words put together, making a third word. Even though Sarah struggled fiercely to spell it correctly – and did so the majority of times – Breck did not seem interested in her results. Less a tutor than a sculpting instructor, Breck urged her to feel the shape of the letters. Diane crouched like a peeping Tom, peered through a crack in the kitchen door and watched.

At the end of the session he gave Sarah a tracing notebook, which contained a story Breck read to her. Sarah declared it was "a pretty darn good story," even though she guessed the ending halfway through. Breck gave her instructions on tracing the paragraphs. He stood up and left Sarah to her book and tape recorder and mangy stuffed bear.

"Hello?" Breck called. "Mrs. Corde?"

"In here."

He walked into the kitchen, where Diane had rapidly resumed peeling potatoes.

"You are amazing," she said. Then confessed, "I overheard."

"These are very well-known techniques. Rapport with the child. Multisensory stimulation. Work with her motor skills. Use her given talents to compensate for her deficits."

"You seem like an artist."

"I like what I do. That's the optimal motivation for any endeavour."

Optimal? Endeavour?

"You want some coffee?"

He said, "Sure."

She poured two cups and chattered about her garden and a PTA bake sale she was chairing. Diane Corde didn't know what to make of her rambling. Apparently neither did Breck, who sat in the kitchen and sipped coffee while he looked close to uncomfortable. He gazed out over the backyard. When she paused he said, "I like these windows, you can see the whole field there. I have bay windows like these in my town house."

"Where's that?"

"Chicago. South Side. Only I don't see fields. I see the lake."

"I wonder if that's why they call them bay windows. Bay, lake."

He said, "Or perhaps it's because they're shaped like a bay."

Diane said that was true and felt like a fool that her joke had missed its mark.

Breck said, "Sarah's a good candidate for improvement. Dr. Parker has her dictating stories to build up self-esteem, I assume?"

"That's right."

"She has an astonishing imagination."

"She's always making up things. It drives me nutty sometimes. I don't know what's real and what's fantasy."

"A plight many of us suffer from."

Plight.

There was a moment of long silence. Breck was still gazing, though no longer at the cow pasture. Now it was Diane's eyes he was examining.

He asked, "Do you work?"

"Yep. You just finished with one of my bosses. I got two more. Jamie – you saw him – and a husband. They're all a handful."

"Ah, your son. The bicyclist. Does he have any learning problems?"