Part 3 (1/2)

”I didn't. You found me.”

”I'm just here for work,” I protested. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact of his presence, trying to make sense of how he could have shown up here, of all places, from out of the blue. ”I've been coming to this village for years,” I added.

I had given up looking for Peter McConnell a long time ago. My travels to the coffee regions of the world-Huatusco, Yirgacheffe, Poas, Sumatra-were, if anything, an attempt to leave that part of my past behind, to erase it, as much as possible, from the geography of my life. Although I still considered San Francisco home, I spent a good deal of my time elsewhere, among people who did not speak my language, landscapes that looked nothing like my hometown, places where I would not be reminded of Lila. I felt at ease wandering among the coffee trees, feeling the mist of a foreign climate and smelling unfamiliar earth. At home, I was always nervous, always looking over my shoulder. Abroad, I found a kind of peace.

”I know,” he said. ”I've seen you in the past.”

”Pardon?”

”It's a small town. You stand out. The first time was almost five years ago. You were at the outdoor market. I was going to say something, but then it started to rain, and you hurried away.”

I didn't know how to respond. It occurred to me that perhaps he had followed me here, that he planned to do to me what he had done to my sister. It felt surreal, as if I had dreamt him out of thin air. I looked to Maria-for confirmation of his existence or, absurdly, for some kind of protection, I'm not sure. But she just smiled.

”You said 'the first time.' There were others?”

”Yes.”

”How many?”

He paused for a moment. ”Three.”

”Do you live here?”

”For the past seventeen years.”

I found myself staring at Peter McConnell's hands, at his long arms. These were the hands, according to Thorpe, that had killed my sister, the arms that had carried her into the woods and left her there.

”I came to Nicaragua because of the book,” he said. ”My wife, Margaret, didn't believe what Thorpe wrote, of course. But it was too much for her. It didn't matter that she knew I wasn't a murderer, everyone else thought I was.”

I wanted to add, ”You were, you are,” but McConnell kept talking, in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, as though he had something to say and did not plan on stopping until he was finished.

”Margaret and I held it together for a little while,” he continued. ”Not for us, it had been over between us for a long time. We only made an effort to stay together because of our son, Thomas. He was three years old when the book came out. We picked up at the end of the summer semester and moved to the Midwest, where Margaret's parents lived. We had hoped to leave the media circus, the suspicions, back in the Bay Area. By then the police had already questioned me twice, and they had no evidence on which to charge me, but that didn't matter. As far as most people were concerned, I was guilty. Even in Ohio, we couldn't escape that book. It seemed like everyone in my wife's hometown had read it. In a way, I don't blame Margaret for cutting me out of her life. She had Thomas to think of-she was afraid of what it would do to him to grow up under that kind of microscope, with that kind of stigma. And then there was Lila, of course. Margaret knew that I would never get over Lila.”

McConnell talked with the urgency of a man who had not spoken to anyone in a long time. It struck me as strange that he would be defending his wife to me. I kept wondering how this was relevant. His wife, their son-it was just a minor side note, I thought, to the larger story: what he had done to my sister.

”I used to follow you,” I said. ”After I read the book, I went to Stanford and found your office. You had hours posted on the door. I was afraid to be alone with you, but I wanted to see you, to put a face with the name.”

”My picture was in the paper.”

”More than a face, I guess. I wanted to see you up close, in person. So I waited in the hallway outside your office one Monday. I wore a big hat and sungla.s.ses. I felt ridiculous. You had the door shut. There was a line of students waiting. I kept hearing Lila's name. It was obvious they weren't all there to talk to you about cla.s.s. It was more like they wanted to be a part of the action. One boy actually wanted you to sign Thorpe's book. I was furious. Lila was dead, and here they were treating you like a celebrity.”

As I spoke, I tried to keep my voice steady, so as not to betray my fear. ”After a couple of hours you finally came out. The first thing that crossed my mind was that you weren't what I expected. The way you looked, the basic physical description-yes, Thorpe had gotten that right. But everything else-the way you moved, the way you spoke-he'd gotten it wrong.”

”Of course he did. He never met me.”

”What?”

”I know,” McConnell said. ”In the book, he gave the impression that he spent a lot of time interviewing me, but we actually spoke only once, on the phone, for five minutes.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the bill of his cap; the cloth in that spot had faded to a pale purple. ”What did you expect?”

”I expected you to seem more, I don't know, dangerous. I thought there would be something about you-” Here, I stopped, surprised to hear myself saying these things to him. I remembered distinctly thinking that there should be something obviously off, something in his eyes, maybe, or his bearing, that marked him as a murderer, but there wasn't.

”You took the train back to the city,” I continued. ”I left my car behind and followed you. You ended up at Enrico's in North Beach. I got a table and watched you eat. After that I didn't go to Stanford again, but every Monday I went to Enrico's. And every time, you were there-spaghetti with prawns in marinara sauce, ice water, followed by espresso. You were always alone, always working, scribbling away in your notebook, as if the world was invisible to you. I always wore a hat and sungla.s.ses, but I expected that, one day, you would recognize me.”

McConnell s.h.i.+fted in his seat. His face in the candlelight was striking. I could see now what Lila would have seen in that face-the interesting angles, the depth of the eyes, the enormous pupils, the flat, honest width of the mouth. ”I did,” he said.

”You did?”

”Of course. Lila had shown me pictures-some of you together in Europe, another of the two of you on the beach, pictures from childhood. And there were the photographs in Thorpe's book. But even if I hadn't seen pictures, I would have known.” His voice grew quieter, and his gaze moved from my eyes to my mouth, my neck. I looked toward the kitchen for Maria, but I could neither see nor hear her.

”Why didn't you say anything?” I asked.

”I a.s.sumed you would approach me one day. I would have liked to talk to you. For several months before Lila died, I saw her constantly. Aside from the time I spent with my son, she was the best part of each day. I loved talking to her. More than that, I loved listening to her. Then she was gone. You looked so much like her, I wondered if you sounded like her, too. I wanted to hear your voice. But you just sat in a corner, watching.”

”I kept planning to confront you,” I said, ”but I never could work up the nerve. Even in that setting, with all those people around, I couldn't be sure how you would act. And then one day, you were gone.”

There had been a time, a period of years, when I looked for Peter McConnell everywhere, and because I was looking so intently, on a number of occasions I thought I saw him. On the street, I would catch a glimpse of a profile and hurry toward the man, only to realize it wasn't him. Or I would see a movement in a museum, a tilt of the neck or a certain gesture of the hands, and sidle up beside the person, who would invariably end the illusion by turning his face toward me.

After a strange, unsettling year of s.e.x and alcohol following Lila's death, I had spent my twenties in a series of brief relations.h.i.+ps, never willing to truly commit. At the time I told myself I was too busy, but I later realized that the problem was Peter McConnell. I had created a sort of personal mythology around him. He had done such enormous damage to my family, had taken on such absurd proportions in my mind, that no one could make me feel the depth of emotion he elicited. It was hatred I felt for him, and when hatred goes deep enough, no affection can compare. For love to take hold there must be available s.p.a.ce in the mind and heart; I was so eaten up with anger toward him, I could not make room.

”Why did you do it?” I said quietly. This was the question I had been asking myself for almost half of my life. I had long since given up hope that I might find the answer. It didn't occur to me, at that moment, to believe his claim of innocence. I had believed far too long in his guilt to simply let that conviction slip away.

I waited. He sat there staring alternately at his hands, and at me. Maria emerged from the kitchen, carrying a jar filled with insects. She went over to the windowsill, where her Venus flytraps sat, opened the jar, and shook it gently over the plants. Finally, McConnell said, ”That's what I'm trying to tell you. It wasn't me.”

Eight.

STRANGE THINGS WERE RUMORED TO HAPPEN all the time in Diriomo-ghosts dancing in the churchyard, candles spontaneously igniting, music from unknown quarters drifting through deserted streets-but until that night, they had never happened to me.

”I don't deny that I was the most likely suspect,” McConnell said, looking directly into my eyes. ”But that doesn't make me guilty.” He didn't flinch, didn't glance away.

”You were having an affair with my sister.”

”Yes, I admitted that to the police.”

”Only after they already knew. Only after the book was published. In the beginning, you told them nothing.”

”It was on Margaret's bidding that I decided not to say anything. As angry as she was about the affair, she was terrified of what would happen if the suspicion was cast on me. In hindsight, of course, I knew how stupid my decision was. But under the circ.u.mstances, I didn't think I had the right to deny Margaret anything.”

”You had dinner with Lila the night she disappeared,” I said. ”After the book was published, a hostess came forward who placed you at Sam's Grill together.”

”I don't deny that.”

”And you left the restaurant together.”

”We did.”

”You walked her to the Muni station at ten p.m.”