The Deepest Water Page 22

  The first two programs she opened required a password; for the bank account and household accounts, he had used Abby's maiden name. Then, for his Buick account he had switched to his Social Security number, against all advice, she thought when it opened for her. That number also opened a financial file with stock market reports. She wasn't interested in any of them, but was testing only, finding his method for passwords. His office accounts did not yield to either of the earlier ones. She leaned back in the chair thinking. His mother's maiden name was probably it. Brice was methodical, everything on record, all the tax records, utilities, car, everything neat and orderly, and uncomplicated. He would have used something easily remembered and would not have made a note about it. Had she ever heard his mother's maiden name? She couldn't remember.

  She got up and walked down the stairs, thinking. The phone was ringing and she stopped to listen; when Brice's voice came through asking her to please answer, she continued to the foyer, picked up the FedEx, and went back upstairs. She opened the package in her own room and spread out the contract copies on her desk, then went back to his computer.

  She was recalling their wedding, his relatives who had attended, an aunt and uncle, his mother's brother from Idaho. Roger... "Call me Uncle Rog," he had said jovially. "Welcome to the family." Someone had introduced him and his wife—Wanda, that was her name—to Jonelle. Brice had introduced them. "Jonelle, this is my aunt Wanda and uncle Roger Laurelton."

  Laurelton. Too long. She tried Laurel, and the program opened the office accounts file. She blinked at the screen; the file had opened to a list of names, clients, she assumed, scrolling until she came to the name Robert Langdon. She clicked on that one and knew she would not be able to make sense of what she was seeing: Shares In, Shares Out, Capital Gains ST, Capital Gains LT.... She couldn't, but others could, she thought then, and hurriedly got up and went to her room to get the laptop from the closet, where it was inconspicuous among several other suitcases stored there. She took it back with her and found Jud's continuous save program, made a copy, and installed it on Brice's computer, under a file she thought of as FAILSAFE and coded beyond recognition; anything deleted or any changes made would automatically go to that file, and it would be hidden from anyone who didn't know how to look for it.

  Then she studied the information on the screen. Apparently the Langdon account had started in January, this year, with a deposit of five thousand dollars. Shares had been bought in a company with a ticker tape name that meant nothing to her. She compared this account with those preceding it, and a few following, and they all looked alike to her eyes. Some with more activity than others, but with the same type of activity. The Langdon account had grown very large over the next months, then had plunged steeply in July.

  Meaningless, she decided. So why had Caldwell wanted her to know that name? Who was Robert Langdon? There had to be something else, she decided, and exited the program.

  But the fact that Caldwell had brought up the name and she had found it on Brice's computer had to mean something, she told herself, even if she didn't know what that something was.

  She was scanning his directory when Spook made a low growly noise. Abby exited the program, and went into her own room and a minute later when Brice yelled up the stairs, she said, "I'm here."

  Brice tapped on her door, then opened it enough to put his head in. "I called and no one answered. Have you been out yet?"

  "No," she said, not turning around to see him. "Caldwell came and stayed a long time, and the contract came. I decided to look it over before I signed it. I'll have to buy an envelope, I guess, but I'll make a label."

  "You want me to go with you?"

  "Of course not." She glanced at him. "Oh, Caldwell asked if I know someone called Langdon. Robert, I think. Robert Langdon. Do you know him?"

  Brice frowned, gazed past her a moment, then shook his head. "Never heard of him. Who's he?"

  "I don't know." She looked down at the contract again and saw that her hands were shaking. Quickly she began to gather the copies together.

  "I've got a couple of things to check out, then I'll take off," Brice said. "You have that loan application?"

  She nodded, and he backed out and closed the door.

  Waiting for him to leave the house, she made a label, and wrote a note to Christina, put the copies of the contract back in the envelope they had come in, and then simply sat with her eyes closed. Whatever he was doing took over half an hour, something an expert like her could have finished in five minutes, she thought savagely, but he did finish at last, and returned to her door.

  "Honey, I have a client coming in about ten minutes, so I have to dash back to the office, but I won't stay long. You should be back about the same time I get home, and let's spend the afternoon and evening together. Let's plan a vacation for next summer. Someplace really dreamy."

  "I have a dozen more things to get done today," she said sharply. "I have a headache, and I'm feeling mean and irritable. You get something to eat when you're ready; I'll get something before I come home. I'm not in the mood for vacation planning."

  "That bastard Caldwell," he muttered. "Did he give you a hard time?"

  "Yes," she said. "He did. He gave me a hard time. Now leave me alone."

  She watched from the upstairs window again until his car was out of sight, then she hurried to his computer and brought up his office accounts file. The client list now went from Lanier to Laughton. No Langdon.

  The rest would have to wait until he was asleep, she decided uneasily. He could shake off a client and return anytime. She went to the bedroom and packed the few things she would need at the lake, not willing to do it later when he would probably be there watching, talking, trying to get to her one way or another. As an afterthought she got out a larger suitcase, put the laptop in first, then her clothes on top of it. She carried it out to the van and put it in the back with her groceries. And finally, taking Spook with her, she left the house, with no intention of returning until after eight, maybe even nine. No more talk, no more explaining, cajoling. No more anything now.

  Down the hill, driving toward town on Willamette, she saw his Buick coming her way. He had gotten rid of his client in record time, she thought, and pretended she didn't see his wave as they passed each other.

  Well, he would have all afternoon without interruption to hide whatever he needed to on his computer; later, she would have most of the night to find it again.

  20

  She did her errands: the bank, post office, a long walk with Spook along the river front, the library for an hour, then to Felicia's to collect her backpack.

  "I can't stay," she said to Felicia. "Too much to do. Thanks for holding this for me."

  "Abby, what's wrong?" Felicia asked, peering at her closely. "What's happened?"

  "Nothing. Nothing. I just feel... Too much to do, I guess. I really have to go. I'll be in touch this weekend sometime." She nearly ran from the condominium. She couldn't talk to Felicia right now, and she knew she couldn't have faced Willa when she came. She would know in an instant that something was very wrong. They had planned to spend time together, the three of them discussing the novel, putting real names on the fictional characters. How could she stand being around anyone now, what could she say? Oh, by the way, this character Buster, actually he's my husband, an embezzler, a thief, and a liar; pass the butter, please. Better to leave them both wondering, she thought unhappily, starting the van once more. Then, driving, she didn't know where to go next, how to kill three more hours.

  In the condominium Felicia was pacing, thinking, pacing, worrying, until she finally went to the phone to call Willa.

  It was nearly nine when Abby pulled into her own driveway, more exhausted from her aimless wandering in the mall for hours than she could have been from doing any work she could think of.

  When she entered the house, Brice was in the foyer waiting for her. He reached out with both hands and she backed away.

  "I'm tired, and I'
m near the point where I might start screaming and throwing things," she said, hanging up her jacket. She could hear the truth in her words, in her voice, and when he stopped moving toward her, she thought he probably could, too. She faced him. "I need, I really need to be left alone for now. I'm having a hard time accepting that my husband is an embezzler, on top of losing my father. Maybe after a few days of solitude at the lake, I'll be able to deal with things better, but not right now. I'm going to take a bath and go to bed. If I wake up very early, I'll just take off."

  "Abby, God, I'd do anything to have a second chance, to undo things. Anything. Going to jail would be easier than seeing you like this." He looked agonized, a muscle twitching in his jaw, fists clenched at his sides.

  She walked past him, started up the stairs. "I don't know when I'll come home. Monday, Tuesday. I'll call first."

  She took a bath, went to her room and set an alarm clock for two-thirty, and went to bed. Later she knew when he came in to look at her, and she knew when he went to their room and went to bed. She dozed, came wide awake with a start, and dozed again. She hit the OFF button of the alarm at the first sound of a buzz.

  Soundlessly, without turning on a light, she got up and slipped on her robe, crossed the hall to the bedroom door and listened. He might have heard the alarm, soft as it was; he might be awake, also listening. When she heard his gentle snore, she backed away and went into his room.

  She didn't waste a second getting into his computer, starting her search in the FAILSAFE file, where everything he had deleted was waiting for her. She stifled a groan when she saw that in addition to the Langdon account there were three others from his office. She didn't stop to examine them, but moved on down the list of deletions. Games. Of course, he couldn't bear the thought of being ridiculed for playing adolescent computer games; he would have taken them off. She would examine them also, she decided; it was easy to label something whatever you wanted, try to hide it behind a false name. She moved on. A lot of bookmarks from the Internet; she started down the list to visit each one, find out what it was about.

  A chat group about sports cars ... A page from a car broker's Web site, price quotes ... An understated page about yachts, luxury vessels that would sleep forty on their trip around the world . . . She sighed and moved on....

  Minutes later she stopped moving altogether, stopped breathing, even her heart tried to stop, with heart quakes, sharp jumps that shook her body; it found its rhythm again and she could breathe.

  Inflatable canoes. A page of inflatable canoes. Collapsible to backpack size, inflatable in minutes, with compressed air in seconds, seven feet long, twenty-seven pounds, under three hundred dollars . ..

  Order forms for mail, phone, e-mail purchases. Or visit the showroom in Seattle.

  She was numb, no feeling in her hands or feet, her legs were gone.... She felt the room shifting, tilting, and pressed her head down on the keyboard. When she pushed herself upright again, the screen was garbage, and she began to shake.

  Out! Get out! Now! Almost as if someone else had marched in and started issuing orders, the words came to her. She exited the program, stood up, paused at the door only a moment to listen, then ran across the hall to her room. Get out! Get out!

  Fumbling with clothes, she dressed as fast as she could, grabbed the mahogany box, motioned to Spook, and left the house. She coasted down the driveway, down the street to the intersection with Willamette, and only then started the engine, but she knew minutes later that she had to go somewhere, had to stop and think. She didn't even know where she was; no familiar landmarks, no familiar storefronts, hardly any other traffic. It was four-thirty in the morning and she had to go someplace where she could stop the chaos of her mind, stop and think.

  Ahead she saw a sign for an all-night restaurant, a doughnut and hamburger place, and she pulled in.

  "Honey, you look like you've been on the road for a long time," a middle-aged waitress said when Abby sank down into a booth. "You want coffee?"

  She nodded. That was exactly right, she thought; she had been on the road for a long time.

  Finally she began to sift through the blizzard of thoughts. Call Caldwell. And tell him what? That Brice had surfed the Internet, looked at yachts and sports cars and inflatable boats. She remembered phrases Caldwell had uttered: hard evidence, good defense attorney, cause for a search warrant.... He suspected Brice, she thought then, but he couldn't prove it. She could hear another voice in her head, like a distant echo: No! No! Brice had an alibi. He wouldn't have done that! He couldn't have killed my father! But that was what Caldwell's visit to her had been about, to get her help in finding evidence he could use against her husband.

  "When you want something to eat, just holler," the waitress said, placing coffee in front of her.

  He had an alibi, she thought. He couldn't have gone to the cabin. He wouldn't have done it. Flesh of her flesh, body to body, his hands on her, hers on him. He couldn't have done it! Although the coffee was bad, it was hot and the jolt of caffeine was welcome. Against her will, she found herself visualizing that day a month ago, what Brice could have done.

  When she leaves for the museum, he follows her out quickly and is on the road before nine, in Portland by eleven, in the motel minutes later. He goes to his room and orders lunch from room service, takes off his jacket, takes papers from his briefcase and spreads them on the bed, then tips the bellboy lavishly when he brings the food. So he'll remember.

  No motive, she told herself, just what he could have done.

  He hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, clears off the bed, turns down the covers, probably packs up the sandwich to eat later, and takes a nap. That must have been his reason for going to Portland so early when their meeting wasn't scheduled until three in the afternoon. Time to take a nap.

  He could do that, take a nap whenever he lay down, fall into sleep like a child.

  From three until nine-thirty or ten he is with his associates.

  It was before ten, she thought; the other times he had gone up to the meetings, they had broken up before ten and he had arrived home by midnight at the latest, even if he had told the police it had been after two. Why hadn't she contradicted him? Because it had seemed irrelevant then. The group had been together for hours; there would have been little reason to linger for more hours over dinner. Maybe none of the others had even noticed precisely when they separated.

  By ten, and more likely before ten, back in his room, he orders a large pot of coffee, and when the bellboy brings it, another big tip, more papers spread around, the bedspread in place, hiding the fact that the bed has been slept in already, wet towels in the shower, soap tossed in the shower. Then, moving fast, change clothes again, pick up papers, pack up, put the coffee in a thermos, or simply dump it out, throw the bedspread on the floor in a heap. Everything used, everything normal. A few minutes at the most. The sign still on the door. He doesn't take it down when he leaves.

  Three and a half hours to the lake, at the minimum, the lieutenant had told her. They must have timed it. He could have arrived at the lake by two. Florence Halburtson said that Coop usually got up between one and two, but they had not looked at the clock. How long to get from the car to the water? To inflate the canoe? Ten minutes, fifteen? In a real canoe it would have taken only minutes more to cross the finger and get to the cabin, but an inflatable one wouldn't be as swift, she felt certain, and Brice wasn't an expert. Fifteen minutes?

  He gets out of the canoe, says something to Spook, and she doesn't bark; she knows him. He goes inside the cabin and locks the dog door, gets the gun from the drawer, and the minute Jud appears at the bottom of the stairs, he shoots him.

  Abby shuddered, spilling coffee. She mopped it up with paper napkins. Did he call him? "Jud, I have something to show you."

  He runs up the stairs, grabs sheets of paper from the stack, removes the disk, and turns off the computer, then runs back down and out. Ten minutes in all? Fifteen? Back across the finger. How can he k
now where to go ashore again? Coop's light would carry to the first low spot above the water, but dimly. He could have tied something to the tree roots, something that would have reflected the light, served as a guide. He steps out of the canoe, pulls the plug on it to let the air out, and hurries back to the car. The canoe will finish deflating while he drives.

  She shook her head. It would have taken at least an hour from the time he arrived at the lake until he left again. There wasn't enough time for him to go back to Portland, and then drive to Salem and get there by seven-thirty. He had to have stopped to change his clothes; he wouldn't have gone through the woods, out in the canoe, and back in his good suit and shoes and not leave a trace for a sharp-eyed detective to notice; he needed time to hide the canoe in the trunk; everything he did would have added minutes. She grasped at the fact; there wasn't enough time. The police must have gone through the same kind of reasoning; they must know there simply wasn't enough time.