The Secret History - Donna Tartt [128]
“If this, if that,” said Francis sourly. “This sounds pretty haphazard to me.”
“We want something haphazard.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with the first plan.”
“The first plan is too stylized. Design is inherent in it through and through.”
“But design is preferable to chance.”
Henry smoothed the crumpled map against the table with the flat of his palm. “There, you’re wrong,” he said. “If we attempt to order events too meticulously, to arrive at point X via a logical trail, it follows that the logical trail can be picked up at point X and followed back to us. Reason is always apparent to a discerning eye. But luck? It’s invisible, erratic, angelic. What could possibly be better, from our point of view, than allowing Bunny to choose the circumstances of his own death?”
Everything was still. Outside, the crickets shrieked with rhythmic, piercing monotony.
Francis—his face moist and very pale—bit his lower lip. “Let me get this straight. We wait at the ravine and just hope he happens to stroll by. And if he does, we push him off—right there in broad daylight—and go back home. Am I correct?”
“More or less,” said Henry.
“What if he doesn’t come by himself? What if somebody else wanders by?”
“It’s no crime to be in the woods on a spring afternoon,” Henry said. “We can abort at any time, up to the moment he goes over the edge. And that will only take an instant. If we happen across anybody on the way to the car—I think it improbable, but if we should—we can always say there’s been an accident, and we’re going for help.”
“But what if someone sees us?”
“I think that extremely unlikely,” said Henry, dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee with a splash.
“But possible.”
“Anything is possible, but probability will work for us here if only we let it,” said Henry. “What are the odds that some previously undetected someone will stumble into that very isolated spot, during the precise fraction of a second it will take to push him over?”
“It might happen.”
“Anything might happen, Francis. He might be hit by a car tonight, and save us all a lot of trouble.”
A soft, damp breeze, smelling of rain and apple blossoms, blew through the window. I had broken out in a sweat without realizing it and the wind on my cheek made me feel clammy and light-headed.
Charles cleared his throat and we turned to look at him.
“Do you know …” he said. “I mean, are you sure it’s high enough? What if he—”
“I went out there today with a tape measure,” Henry said. “The highest point is forty-eight feet, which should be ample. The trickiest part will be to get him there. If he falls from one of the lower points, he’ll end up with nothing worse than a broken leg. Of course, a lot will rest on the fall itself. Backwards seems better than forward for our purposes.”
“But I’ve heard of people falling from airplanes and not dying,” said Francis. “What if the fall doesn’t kill him?”
Henry reached behind his spectacles and rubbed an eye. “Well, you know, there’s a little stream at the bottom,” he said. “There’s not much water, but enough. He’ll be stunned, no matter what. We’d have to drag him there, hold him face-down for a bit—shouldn’t think that’d take more than a couple of minutes. If he was conscious, maybe a couple of us could even go down and walk him over.…”
Charles passed a hand over his damp, flushed forehead. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Oh my God. Just listen to us.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Are we insane?”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re insane. We’ve lost our minds. How can we possibly do this?”
“I don’t like the idea any more than you do.”
“This is crazy. I don’t even know how we can talk about this. We’ve got to think of something else.”
Henry took a sip of his coffee. “If you can think of anything,” he said, “I’d be delighted to hear it.”
“Well—I mean, why can’t we just leave? Get in the car tonight and drive away?”
“And go where?” Henry said flatly. “With what