into hands, and the boots had been fastened to the inside of the trousers.
Before she could be stopped, Helen touched the dummy, sending it spinning slowly. I could see a second piece of paper pinned to the back. As my eyes adjusted, I could read the note on the front, just two words, I saw now.
Too late.
I stepped around to the back, and stopped it with the merest brush of my fingertips against the shirt. There was a note there, too.
Tell me, where is fancy bred?
I felt my mouth go dry.
“What the hell does that mean?” Helen demanded. “And look, the stupid idiot misspelled ‘bread.’”
“It’s not…not that kind of ‘bread,’” I said. “It’s a note for me.”
“Why should it have anything to do with you?” the cop demanded. “Where do you see your name on this?”
“For one thing, it’s a quote from The Merchant of Venice. People know I’m big into Shakespeare. For another thing”—I pointed to the paper on which both notes were written—“these are shooting-range targets, one on the heart, one on the head. The next line goes, ‘or in the heart or in the head.’ A friend of mine was shot recently.” I swallowed. “Most people agree that the rhyme in the poem directly references lead. As in, lead in the heart, lead in the head.”
“Kinda out there,” the cop muttered.
“There’s something else.” I pointed to the feet, slowly swaying, a pendulum running out of momentum. While the rest of the clothing was worn but clean, the only thing that was unusual in any was the dirt on the bottoms of the boots. I recognized it immediately, as it was the same color as I often had on my own. I could even tell you the specific classification I had assigned it with the Munsell book, the color-coded chart that archaeologists, geologists, and the like use to describe soil colors: 10YR3/4, dark yellowish brown.
It was just a guess of course, the color was ubiquitous in New England, but I was willing to bet any money that the soil on the shoes would be identified to match that at the Funny Farm.
The thing was, nothing about the room or its contents was illegal. The rent had been paid through the end of the month, on a month-by-month basis, always with a bank check. The room was spotless—literally. It had been wiped down of every kind of print.
The only other piece of paper in the room was the third shooting target on the window on the far side of the room. A hole was cut through the bull’s-eye, and looking through it, I saw a great view of the cemetery, and the tree under which I usually sat.
I went back to my office. It took me a long time to realize I was just sitting there, with the door locked, and that I could do that just as easily at home. I sorted out the papers on my desk, making neat piles that meant nothing, and left my backpack on the couch. I took my pocketbook and carefully locked the door behind me.
I was too late because Tony had been on campus, watching me, waiting for the moment I might figure out where he was. He would never go back there again, and I was willing to bet that there were any number of similar lairs elsewhere. He had used several fake IDs, but had used Ernie’s near Caldwell, confusing the trail with just enough true information. The cops showed Helen a copy of the picture of Ernie, and she believed it was the man she’d rented the apartment to, but wasn’t completely sure. When she saw a picture of Tony—I’d taken to carrying one around with me—she was positive.
Tony wasn’t afraid to show his face around campus. He’d colored his hair, and he looked a little more rugged, less well-fed than he had when he’d been there last, but that was four years ago. No one was looking for him there. I wondered if the fact that he was unafraid to be seen meant that he was getting eager and sloppy, or whether it was just that he was no longer worried about people knowing that he might be back.
Neither thought made me very happy.
I was some ways down the off-ramp for the wrong exit before I realized that I wasn’t heading home. I was heading to the Point. Not so far from the College, but I wondered what I was going to do when I got there.