Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

Gilchrist, Leon David, 6. 1951, Cleary, New York. BA summa cum laude, MA, Northwestern University; PhD English literature, Harvard University; PhD psychology, Harvard University. Assistant Professor and Fellow, Department of English, School of Arts & Sciences, Harvard University. Tenured Professor, Department of English, School of Arts & Sciences, Auden University. Lecturing Professor, Department of Special Education, School of Education, Auden University. Visiting Professor, Vanderbilt University, University of Naples, La Sorbonne Université, College of William & Mary …

There were two more full paragraphs.

Corde finished his notes then closed the Directory of Liberal Arts Professors. It contained no picture of Gilchrist – the main purpose of his visit here. Neither did the three books written by Gilchrist in the library's permanent collection. They were books without author photos, books without jackets, smart-person books. Corde jotted a note on a three-by-five card to call the sheriff in Cleary, New York, to see if there were any Gilchrists still in the area.

He flipped quickly through the Index to Periodicals. He was about to close the book when his eye caught the title of an article. He walked to the Periodicals desk and requested the journal the article had been published in. The clerk vanished for a moment and returned with the bound volume of Psyche: The Journal of Psychology and Literature.

Corde sat at his place again, read the first paragraph of "The Poet and the Violent Id" by Leon D. Gilchrist, PhD. He returned to the counter and borrowed a dictionary.

He tried again.

The poet, by which expansive term I am taking the liberty of referring to anyone who creates fictional modes with words, is himself a creation of the society in which he lives. Indeed, it is the obligation of the poet to deliquesce…

"Deliquesce."

Corde marked his place in the journal with his elbow and thumbed through the dictionary. The "levitate" / "licentious" page fell out. He stuffed it back between "repudiate" / "resident" and "residual" / "response".

"Deliquesce, v. To melt by absorbing moisture or humidity contained in the air."

Okay. Good.

… obligation of the poet to deliquesce so that he might permeate all aspects of society…

"Permeate."

Corde lifted the dictionary again.

For ten minutes he fought through the article, his sweaty hands leaving splendid fingerprints on the torn jacket of the dictionary, his stomach wound into a knot – not by what he learned about Gilchrist (which was hardly anything) but by the slippery obscurity of meaning. For the first time Corde truly understood his daughter's predicament.

He paused, saturated by frustration. He breathed slowly several times and resumed.

… does not the id of a pulp thriller writer encompass a lust to travel the countryside, strangling women…

Words…

What did these words say about where Gilchrist was? What state he would flee to, what country? How he would try to escape? What kind of weapon he might use?

Letters syllables words sentences…

What do they say about a beautiful young girl lying dead in a bed of hyacinths, swabbed with cold mud? What do they say about the man who closed his hands around her neck, felt her breasts shaking under his elbows, felt the slow, bloody give of her throat, felt the last shiver of her breath on his wrists as she lay down like a struggling lover and saw for one short moment the darkening glow of the half-moon?

… the metaphors of violence abound…

Corde reached forward and ran a finger along metaphors of violence and seemed to feel heat coming off the ink.

"Metaphor, n. A figure of speech in which an object, idea or symbol is described by analogy…"

WHAT …

"Analogy, n. Correspondence between objects generally thought to be dissimilar…"

… IS HE TALKING …

"Correspondence, n. A similarity…"

… ABOUT?

Corde leaned forward and pressed his eye sockets into his palms, hearing tiny pops of pressure.

The motives of the poet are the motives of us all. The mind of the poet is the collective mind. But it is the poet – whether his psyche be that of saint or murderer – who perceived the world by the illumination of pure understanding, while others see only in reflected light.

Bill Corde turned to the last page of the article.

Oh Lord…

He stopped as if he'd been struck, feeling the throbbing as the blood pumped furiously through his neck. He reached forward and lifted the Polaroid from the binding of the journal.

The snapshot had been taken recently, perhaps when the family had cooked supper outside just two evenings ago. He noticed the garbage can had not been righted after a storm last week. Sarah and Jamie stood around the barbecue looking down at the glowing coals. The picture had been taken from somewhere on the other side of the cow pasture in the forest. Almost the exact spot where Corde believed he had seen someone that night he'd kept his long vigil, shotgun-armed and shivering.

Written across the surface of the photo in smeared red ink were the words: SAY GOOD-BYE, DETECTIVE.

Diane Corde, feeling suddenly sheepish, told Ben Breck that she and the children were going to Wisconsin for several weeks.

"What?" Breck asked, frowning.

Diane lifted her hands to her eyes. Her burgundy nail polish was unchipped and her fingers, often red and leathery from the housework, were soft and fragrant with almond-scented lotion. "It's the damn case again."

She explained that there'd been yet another threat by the killer. "Bill thought it was best if we went to visit my sister."

He hesitated and then whispered, "Two weeks?"

She shrugged. "At least. Or until they catch this crazy man. Or find out he's left town."

Breck's downcast boyish face and his tone were identical to those of her first husband when she'd told him she had to spend a week with her mother, who'd fallen and broken her hip. It had been the first time they'd be apart and the young man's face had revealed major heartbreak. Breck's eyes now mirrored the poor man's forlorn expression. This troubled and thrilled her.

They heard a voice outside.

In the backyard, Sarah Corde paced, speaking into her tape recorder like a Hollywood producer dictating memos. Tom, the familiar deputy guard, leaned against the fence rail, his head swiveling slowly like a scout's in an old-time Western as he scanned the horizon for marauders.

Breck and Diane stood in the dining room and watched Sarah silently. They stood one foot away from each other. Diane felt him touch her hair, the motion of his hand very gentle, as if he were afraid he might hurt her. She leaned her head against his shoulder then stepped away, both disappointed and grateful to hear him begin to speak suddenly about Sarah. "She's coming along remarkably well. What a mind! The stories she comes up with are incredible."

"I've given Dr. Parker four tapes already. Her secretary's transcribing the last of them."

He brushed his salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead in a boyish gesture.

"She's fortunate," Breck said slowly, his eyes playing over Diane's face. "She's got a superior auditory processing system. That's how I'm approaching her lessons, and it's working very well."

Diane had recognized something about him. If he had a choice between a ten-dollar word and a twenty-five-cent word, he picked the big one. "Fortunate" instead of "lucky." "Auditory processing," not "hearing." "Onerous." "Ensconce." With anyone else this habit would put her off; in Breck, she found it increased his charm.

No. His "charisma."

He continued to speak about Sarah. This was unusual and she sensed he was propelled by nervousness. In most of these after-session get-togethers – usually in the kitchen, occasionally in the woods – they spoke not of phonemes or the Visual Aural Digit Span Test or Sarah's book but of more personal things. The schools he had taught at, his former girlfriends, her first husband, Diane's life as the daughter of a riverboat worker, vacations they hoped to take. Where they wanted to be in ten years, and five. And one.