“Last sentence coming up,” I told Mom.
“Thank God,” she said.
Mr. Thomas raised one finger, like an old-time actor getting ready to give his big speech. “‘On that day, a red sun went down over the deserted settlement, and the carved word that would puzzle generations glowed as if limned in blood: CROATOAN.’ Tell her croatoan in capital letters, Jimmy.”
I told her (although I didn’t know exactly what “limbed in blood” meant), then asked Mr. Thomas if we were done. Just as he said we were, I heard a brief siren from out front—two whoops and a blat.
“Oh God,” Liz said, but not in a panicky way; more like she had been expecting it. “Here we go.”
She had her badge clipped to her belt and unzipped her parka so it would show. Then she went out front and came back with two cops. They were also wearing parkas, with Westchester County Police patches on them.
“Cheese it, the cops,” Mr. Thomas said, which I didn’t understand at all. Later, when I asked Mom, she told me it was slang from the olden days of the 1950s.
“This is Ms. Conklin,” Liz said. “She’s my friend and was Mr. Thomas’s agent. She asked me to run her up here, because she was concerned someone might take the opportunity to steal souvenirs.”
“Or manuscripts,” my mother added. The little tape recorder was safe in her bag and her phone was in the back pocket of her jeans. “One in particular, the last book in a cycle of novels Mr. Thomas was writing.”
Liz gave her a look that said enough, already, but my mother continued.
“He just finished it, and millions of people will want to read it. I felt it my duty to make sure they get the chance.”
The cops didn’t seem all that interested; they were here to look at the room where Mr. Thomas had died. Also to make sure the people who had been observed on the grounds had a good reason to be there.
“I believe he died in his study,” Mom said, and pointed toward La Petite Maison.
“Uh-huh,” one of the cops said. “That’s what we heard. We’ll check it out.” He had to bend down with his hands on his knees to get face time with me; I was pretty shrimpy in those days. “What’s your name, son?”
“James Conklin.” I gave Mr. Thomas a pointed look. “Jamie. This is my mother.” I took her hand.
“Are you playing hooky today, Jamie?”
Before I could answer, Mom cut in, smooth as silk. “I usually pick him up when he gets out of school, but I thought I might not get back in time today, so we swung by to get him. Didn’t we, Liz?”
“Roger that,” Liz said. “Officers, we didn’t check the study, so I can’t tell you if it’s locked or not.”
“Housekeeper left it open with the body inside,” the one who’d talked to me said. “But she gave me her keys and we’ll lock up after we have a quick look around.”
“You might tell them there was no foul play,” Mr. Thomas said. “I had a heart attack. Hurt like the devil.”
I was going to tell them no such thing. I was only nine, but that didn’t make me stupid.
“Is there also a key to the gate?” Liz asked. She was being all pro now. “Because it was open when we arrived.”
“There is, and we’ll lock it when we leave,” the second cop said. “Good move parking your car there, detective.”
Liz spread her hands, as if to say it was all in a day’s work. “If you’re set, we’ll get out of your way.”
The cop who had spoken to me said, “We should know what that valuable manuscript looks like so we can make sure it’s safe.”
This was a ball my mother could carry. “He sent the original to me just last week. On a thumb drive. I don’t think there’s another copy. He was pretty paranoid.”
“I was,” Mr. Thomas admitted. His shorts were sinking again.
“Glad you were here to keep an eye out,” the second cop said. He and the other one shook hands with Mom and Liz, also with me. Then they started down the gravel path to the little green building where Mr. Thomas had died. Later on I found out a whole lot of writers died at their desks. Must be a Type A occupation.
“Let’s go, Champ,” Liz said. She tried to take my hand, but I wouldn’t let her.
“Go stand over by the swimming pool for a minute,” I said. “Both of you.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
I looked at my mother in a way I don’t think I ever had before—as if she was stupid. And right then, I thought she was being stupid. Both of them were. Not to mention rude as fuck.
“Because you got what you wanted and I need to say thank you.”
“Oh my God,” Mom said, and slapped her brow again. “What was I thinking? Thank you, Regis. So much.”
Mom was directing her thank-you to a flower bed, so I took her arm and turned her. “He’s over here, Mom.”
She said another thank you, to which Mr. Thomas didn’t respond. He didn’t seem to care. Then she walked over to where Liz was standing by the empty pool, lighting another cigarette.
I didn’t really need to say thank you, by then I knew that dead people don’t give much of a shit about things like that, but I said thanks anyway. It was only polite, and besides, I wanted something else.
“My mom’s friend,” I said. “Liz?”
Mr. Thomas didn’t reply, but he looked at her.
“She still mostly thinks I’m making it up about seeing you. I mean, she knows something weird happened, because no kid could make up that whole story—by the way, I loved what happened to George Threadgill—”
“Thank you. He deserved no better.”
“But she’ll work it around in her head so in the end she’s got it the way she wants it.”
“She will rationalize.”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“It is.”
“Well, is there any way you can show her you’re here?” I was thinking about how Mr. Burkett scratched his cheek when his wife kissed him.
“I don’t know. Jimmy, do you have any idea what comes next for me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas. I don’t.”
“I suppose I will find out for myself.”
He walked toward the pool where he’d never swim again. Someone might fill it when warm weather returned, but by then he would be long gone. Mom and Liz were talking quietly and sharing Liz’s cigarette. One of the things I didn’t like about Liz was how she’d gotten my mother smoking again. Only a little, and only with her, but still.
Mr. Thomas stood in front of Liz, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out. Liz didn’t have bangs to blow on, her hair was pulled back tight and tied in a ponytail, but she still slitted her eyes the way you will when the wind gusts in your face, and recoiled. She would have fallen into the pool, I think, if Mom hadn’t grabbed her.
I said, “Did you feel that?” Stupid question, of course she had. “That was Mr. Thomas.”
Who was now walking away from us, back toward his study.
“Thanks again, Mr. Thomas!” I called. He didn’t turn, but raised a hand to me before putting it back in the pocket of his shorts. I was getting an excellent view of his plumber’s crack (that’s what Mom called it when she spotted a guy wearing low-riding jeans), and if that’s also too much information for you, too bad. We made him tell us—in one hour!—everything it had taken him months of thinking to come up with. He couldn’t say no, and maybe that gave him the right to show us his ass.