It was not a good roof to stand on. Parts of it were steeply pitched, as Geraldine Dart had said, but only parts of it. It was not a typical New England A-line. Instead, the patch of roof just beyond the trapdoor was flat, but inches away it fell off into a slope, and inches after that it began to climb again. All around the edge of it there was a cast-iron rail. There was a cast-iron rail along the widow’s walk, too. The wind was strong enough to be a gale. The rain was like marble in heat.
Hannah Graham and Cavender Marsh were both well away from the trapdoor now. The two were standing on a narrow catwalk on the side of the roof that looked out to Hunter’s Pier. They seemed to be at an impasse. Cavender Marsh had backed up as far as he could go. The old man was flat against the highest of the four square turrets that anchored the corners of the roof. His face was gray and his eyes were stiff with terror. One way or another, he was not going to get out of this alive.
Hannah Graham was at the very middle of the catwalk, standing still. The instrument was in her hands, but she was not swinging it. The wind and rain and hail were lashing against her body, but she didn’t seem to feel them.
“What does she think she’s doing?” Bennis asked Gregor.
“I think Cavender is going to die,” Geraldine Dart said tremulously. “I think she’s already killed him.”
Hannah Graham turned suddenly and stared at Geraldine Dart. A smile spread across her face. She had never looked more like a mobile skull. Her hair was thick with water. Her bright green sweater was covered with beads of hail.”
“I haven’t killed him yet,” she said. “But I’m going to kill him now. Just watch.”
If there was anything Gregor Demarkian could have done about it, he would have, but there wasn’t. They were both too far away from him over terrain that was much too treacherous. Hannah Graham had a catwalk to walk on, while Gregor would have had to climb up and down on the shingles of the roof.
Hannah Graham lifted the instrument high above her head. She swung it at the catwalk railing. The sound she made reminded Gregor of anvils. The railing shuddered but did not break, because it was made of cast iron too. Cavender Marsh shrunk farther back against the wall of the turret, but there was nowhere farther back that he could go. Hannah Graham walked toward him, still grinning.
“Gregor, for God’s sake,” Bennis said. “Can’t you do something?”
“No,” Gregor told her. “And neither can you.”
The wind rose into a stiff hard gust and blew at their backs, making Bennis stumble forward. The rain began to fall more heavily, pelting against them with drops like needles. Hannah Graham didn’t seem to notice any of it.
“Here I come,” she said.
Cavender Marsh seemed about to cry out. He never got a chance. Hannah was close. She raised the instrument over her shoulder and swung out, like a batter hitting a baseball. Cavender Marsh did not retreat in time. Hannah hit the left side of her father’s head with the full center of the round blob at the instrument’s end. Cavender Marsh grabbed the wounded place on his face and staggered sideways. Hannah Graham hit him again, in the body this time, smashing into his gut.
“There he goes,” Kelly Pratt said.
Cavender Marsh had been spinning slowly on the catwalk. Now Hannah gave him one more smash to the midsection and he pitched sideways, tumbling over the catwalk railing and onto the roof itself. His body slid down the shingles, dislodging two. It hit the gutter, hesitated for a moment, and then broke through. The next thing they knew, Cavender Marsh’s body was in space, falling toward the sea.
“I told you I’d kill him,” Hannah Graham said.
Gregor knew what was going to happen next. It was the only thing that could happen. He looked for a way to get onto the catwalk, but couldn’t see one. Obviously, it had been meant for decoration, not for use. A widow’s walk, some people called it. Hannah was walking back to the middle of it now, swinging the instrument in her hands. When she got to the place she had been when they first emerged onto the roof and saw her, she stopped.
“Here it goes,” she said, drawing her arm back and pitching the instrument as far out to sea as she could. It went farther than Gregor would have imagined it could, making an arc like a rocket in flight, disappearing into the clouds and rain.
“Here I go next,” Hannah Graham said.
“Gregor, for God’s sake, what’s she going to do? Can’t you stop her?” Bennis clutched Gregor’s arm.
Gregor could have pointed out that Bennis had asked this question before, and that his answer now would have to be the same, but he didn’t. With her back to them and her arms stretched out, she looked like a Druid celebrating ancient rites in a storm. Her wet hair could have been made of molten lead.