by David Bell
And then it’s like I’m walking down a dark hallway, and the sides are narrowing until there’s only a faint circle of light far ahead of me.
And even that starts to dim.
I think the blows stop.
Or maybe I just can’t feel them anymore.
Whichever it is, the light goes out. . . .
PART III
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
MADELINE
SPRING, TWO YEARS EARLIER
For three blocks, Madeline walked behind Dr. Nye.
For a drunk guy, he walked awfully fast. It was a cool night, late March and just starting to feel like spring. Heavy rain had fallen earlier, gushing through the gutters and down the sidewalks, but everything was finally clear. Stars shined above, and a quarter moon sat directly overhead. The night smelled like rich earth and growing things.
Madeline was buzzed too. Three—or was it four?—drinks at Dubliners, and she felt it. But the walk would sober her up. She still needed to study when she got home, still needed to get ready for tomorrow’s classes.
So why was she spending valuable time making sure a grown man made it home okay?
Because she cared about him.
And she still wanted to ask his advice.
In class, Nye treated everybody the same. She could tell, watching him, that he didn’t want to play favorites, didn’t want to tip his hand too much about which stories students wrote were good and which ones were terrible. That was the thing she admired about Nye—he even treated the terrible writers like their work possessed some value. A couple of weeks earlier, the class had read Isaac’s latest story, a hot mess full of grammar errors and impossible plots resolved by ridiculous coincidences. Nye sat in front of the room while the rest of the class voiced their critiques. He nodded like a wise man, like one of those bearded figures in cartoons who sat on top of a mountain and told other people the meaning of life.
Madeline expected him to join in, to take Isaac to task for his piss-poor grammar and sexy robots that resolved the plot by taking off their shirts. But Nye let the class have its say, and then he stepped in and complimented Isaac on one description that occurred on the third page of the story. When he did that, Madeline looked at her copy of Isaac’s story and saw she’d noted the same thing. That one description was the best thing in the story—and Nye made sure to point it out. He tried to compliment everyone, whether they deserved it or not.
Madeline picked up her pace. Nye seemed to be moving faster, even with the alcohol. Or maybe because of its effects. He looked determined to get home in record time. Maybe he needed to piss. Or puke.
Maybe he thought she was a stalker, although he hadn’t looked back once.
What had he heard about her?
Madeline knew Nye was friends with Dr. White and Dr. Hoffman. Not only did she occasionally see the men talking in the hallways of Goodlaw—sometimes all three of them, sometimes just two of them—but she’d seen them out in town a couple of times as well. Drinking at Dubliners together, the three of them at a table in the corner, pints of beer in front of them. Once at a bluegrass concert on campus. They seemed like good friends. And both Preston and Lance spoke about Dr. Nye when he wasn’t around.
But there was a difference in the way they each spoke about him. Dr. White was always complimentary—he talked about Nye’s book of short stories or his teaching, pumping him up to the students and telling everyone how lucky they were to have him on faculty at Commonwealth. Lance Hoffman was different. Sure, he talked about Dr. Nye and praised his teaching, but Lance always did it with a little smirk on his face. Madeline didn’t think it was anything personal between Lance and Nye—Lance pretty much talked about everyone with a smirk on his face. Students, faculty, administrators, politicians, writers. They all got the smirk.
And Madeline had intentionally not told Nye that Hoffman was helping with the thesis. Her Honors College adviser—an older professor with a white beard and dirty glasses—told her that she had to work with the thesis director first. Only the director.
“You can show the thesis to the rest of the committee when the director says it’s okay,” he said. And she listened. And wondered how he could see her through the dirty glasses.
Madeline felt guilty going to Hoffman for help, like she was cheating. But Nye was pretty out of it, and Hoffman was eager to jump in and advise. And he did it pretty well.
Nye made a beeline for a small house with a light burning on the back porch. The road went uphill a little there as it approached the house, and finally he seemed to be slowing down. Madeline made up some ground but then thought it might be best to back off, to just let him go on inside on his own. If her goal had been to make sure he got inside his house okay, she could stop and watch from a distance and then turn and be on her way. Maybe it was the wrong time to talk to him. Maybe she was overreacting about the thesis. Maybe no one else would read it or come to the defense.
But did Madeline want to take that risk?
No matter what she decided about the thesis, she was certain it was the wrong time to ask.
Nye didn’t need to know she was behind him. He didn’t need to wonder if she was some kind of freaky stalker.
Just as she decided to turn and go home, Nye stumbled.
He didn’t fall, but he came close. And once he righted himself and regained his balance, he stood on the side of the road, a block from his house, and looked utterly and completely lost. Madeline wondered if he felt sick. Maybe he was going to vomit right on the sidewalk.
He wobbled again, lifted his hand to his head.
“Shit,” she said. And rushed forward.
When she reached his side, he looked like he was about to tip completely over, so she placed her hands on his arm, trying to steady him. For a moment, she thought he was going to fall down. And take her with him. But then he found his equilibrium, blinked his eyes a few times in the darkness, and threw his shoulders back.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
He said that first, then turned to look at her. His eyes blinked a few times again.
“Oh, Madeline. I thought you were just a passing stranger.”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Do you live around here?”
“My apartment is closer to campus.”
“Oh.” He looked puzzled and then appeared to give up on trying to figure it out. “Well, thanks.”
Madeline kept her hands on his left arm. Just in case. “Why don’t I just walk with you to your door?”
“Were we talking about your thesis?” he asked.
“Some. But it’s okay—”
“No. I know we were just talking about my family at the bar, weren’t we? I mean, that was you, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“Oh, boy. When I think of them dying too much, I tend to indulge. And I think of them all the time. . . .” He stared into the distance like he expected something to materialize out of the darkness. “My son, Jake, he’d be college age now. I always wonder what he would have been like as he got older. Would he be a writer?” He turned to her. “Would he date a girl like you?”
“I’m sure he was a great kid.”
“He was.” He stood there for a moment, still staring at her. “I’m going to go. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I can tell.”
“If you’re sure.”
He stared at her, his eyes suddenly sharply focused. “Are you sure? Are you okay? You seem like you have something on your mind. Is it the thesis?”
“Yes. But look, just forget it. It’s late, and I’m probably overreacting, like you said.”
“If you don’t feel comfortable with it, just come inside and get it. Take it back and think about it.”
Madeline thought about it. She really thought about it.
And almost did t
ake it back.
But it was late. And maybe she was overreacting.
And maybe Madeline hoped Connor would read it. And . . . would he have some advice about what had been happening with her and Sophia?
Would he be able to do something about it?
Would he piece it together and help?
“No,” Madeline said, “I want you to keep it. I want you to read it. And . . .”
Connor wobbled a little. “And what?”
“If I’m not here at some point . . . if I drop out or something—”
“Drop out? Why would you—”
“If I’m not here, then you’ll understand why. Okay? It’s not because I don’t want to be in college. I love school. I love Commonwealth. And I want to graduate. It’s just sometimes . . . you have to move on. Okay?”
She started to pull away. Her hand slid along his arm and then, as she backed up, he clasped it.
“Madeline, wait.”
He held on for a moment, maybe just to make sure he was really okay. But then he squeezed her hand, and their hands remained that way for a moment until he finally eased away, his body moving up the sidewalk toward his house.
Only then did she let go.
He looked back once and said over his shoulder, “Be careful getting home. It’s late. I’d drive you but . . .”
“I’m good, Dr. Nye. Thank you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CONNOR
PRESENT
When my eyes open, I’m on the couch.
A woman in a white uniform shirt and black pants, with her dark hair pulled off her face, is staring at me, a penlight in her hand. She moves it first one way and then the other, asking me to follow it with my eyes.
I do. And she corrects me.
“Without moving your head.”
So I do that, and she clicks the penlight off.
“Are you feeling nauseated?”
“No.”
“Any vision troubles?”
“No. Can I ask what happened?”
“Neck pain? Chest pain?”
“No.”
She steps out of the way and I come face-to-face with Bowman. She stands with hands on hips, examining me like she’s a doctor. “Feeling all right, Connor?”
“I think so. What happened?”
“Do you remember anything?” she asks.
My mouth is dry. My lips feel like baked desert. “I got a visit from Zach Greenfield. And he tried to pound some sense into me with his fists. Why did he stop?”
Bowman looks to her right. Diana is standing there, a phone pressed to her ear. When she sees me looking, she lowers the phone. “I’ll let you know when to keep your mouth shut.”
“You came in and scared him off?” I ask. “Thanks.”
“She didn’t scare him off,” Bowman says. “She held him at gunpoint and called us.”
“Gunpoint?”
Diana pats her purse. “I have my concealed carry. Do you think I’m going to work as a lawyer and not carry a piece?”
“So Zach’s been arrested?” I ask.
“He’s in custody,” Bowman says. “Assault. Breaking and entering.” She shrugs. “We’ll see what else we can add to his tab.”
I reach up and rub the back of my neck. I didn’t lie when I told the paramedic it didn’t hurt. But it feels stiff. And I can feel pain spreading through the side of my head where Zach hit me. Fortunately, Madeline hit me on the other side with the bourbon bottle, so everything is equalized now. Both sides hurt.
“So it’s over,” I say. “Now you know Zach is capable of violence. He’s going to prison, right?”
Bowman laughs a little. “Not so fast, friendo. What did Zach say when he was here?”
I look to Diana, who has the phone to her ear again. She nods, telling me I can answer her question.
“He admitted assaulting Madeline that night,” I say. “The way Rebecca Knox described it. Of course, he didn’t exactly see it as an assault. I think he said he got a little ‘handsy.’ ”
“Ugh.”
Bowman and I both look at Diana when she makes the noise. She continues with her phone call, but she’s shaking her head over Zach’s choice of words.
“He actually thinks I killed his wife,” I say. “And Madeline. He was pretty inflamed, so he wanted to take it out on me. Or drag me in to be arrested.” I try to go back to summon as many details as I can. “I think he’d been drinking. His eyes were glazed. And I smelled it on him when he got close to me.”
“He’d had a few too many,” Bowman says. “That didn’t help his judgment.”
“It never does,” I say. “But he was so angry. It seems like he was really wound up. Was it just the booze and feeling like he was being wrongly pursued?”
“What do you mean?” Bowman asks.
“I don’t know. Why come here now? Why attack instead of run?”
“Some people are fighters,” Bowman says. “When backed into a corner, they claw and slash. He knew we had new evidence in his wife’s case, that we’d been talking to you. I have to keep him abreast of developments up to a point.”
Diana asks Bowman, “Did you all find out who Madeline was dating back then? Anybody?”
Bowman hesitates a moment, like she isn’t sure she should share such sensitive information. But she relents. “We didn’t find evidence she was romantically involved with anyone. If she was, she kept it hidden. Madeline didn’t have a ton of close friends. She didn’t text or use social media a lot. She didn’t have a lot of money. She worked a job outside of school. She may not have had a big social life.”
“She didn’t seem to have a great family,” I say.
“What about colleagues of yours?” Bowman asks. “Now, that party was at whose house? Someone you teach with, right? Hoffman? Is that the name?”
“What are you asking me?”
“Was Madeline involved with one of your colleagues?”
“I didn’t know anything about that.”
But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I remember what Preston said that night years ago. In this very house. He hinted that Lance was crossing the line in some way with his students. But isn’t it likely Preston just meant the parties? I never thought it was a good idea for Lance to do it. And I never went despite being invited. The risk was too great. If one kid drank too much and wrecked their car going home . . .
But Lance is an adult, and I can’t stop him from doing what he wants to do. Preston is the only one who might be able to put a halt to it. Instead, he called the cops on me.
“I know Lance has the parties,” I say. “But that’s all I know. Zach’s the one we know assaulted two women. His wife and Madeline.”
Bowman runs her shoe over the carpet. Back and forth. “There’s also the matter of a murder scene that happens to be located in the vicinity of your family’s graves. It points directly to—”
“That’s enough, Detective,” Diana says. “That’s enough. My client was all set to come down to the station today and talk to you. And he was going to answer your questions under my watchful eye. But my client has been attacked and is quite shaken up.”
“Quite shaken? He seems okay.”
“He’s very shaken,” Diana says. “I can tell by looking at him he’s not himself.”
I sense Diana is exaggerating, playing for time. But to help her along, I slump in my seat, trying to look more out of it than I am.
Diana goes on. “And you have another man in custody who has assaulted your two victims. Any evidence you claim to have found on Madeline’s body could have been put there by someone else to frame my client. I told you there was someone in this house who could have taken a knife from my client’s kitchen.”
“But your client just said Zach Greenfield is denying killing Madeline or his w
ife.”
“You’re right, Alicia. Murderers always tell the truth. They never try to shift the blame onto someone else. Has anyone come forward who saw my client with Madeline?”
Bowman remains silent. She looks as contemplative as a monk.
“Everyone in town has access to that cemetery,” Diana says. “Even when it’s locked. I walk my dog there. Everybody walks their dogs there. Or they jog. Or they bird-watch. That fence is like Swiss cheese. Just because a grave in the area says ‘Nye’ doesn’t mean he did it.”
“We’d like to go ahead and search this house,” Bowman says. “Maybe there’s more evidence here that can help us.”
“You can search,” Diana says, “as soon as you have a warrant. My client doesn’t need his rights violated any more than they already have been. That’s assuming the guy down at the station, the one who has already displayed violent tendencies and a predilection for breaking into my client’s home, isn’t the source of any other evidence you might be searching for.”
“You’re lucky, Diana. I do need to get down to the station and talk to Mr. Greenfield.”
“As taxpayers, we all appreciate your dedication to your job.”
“This isn’t over, though,” Bowman says. “Where’s the passport?”
Diana looks at me.
“It’s in my office. Top drawer on the left. I can get it—”
“You sit,” Diana says. She goes to retrieve it and comes back. “Here you go.”
“And he can’t go anywhere else,” Bowman says to Diana as if I’m not here. “Not out of the city. At all.”
“He’ll be here.”
Bowman smacks the passport against her palm.
“We’ll be talking soon, Dr. Nye,” she says as she goes. “Very soon.”
Once Bowman and the paramedics are gone, I look at Diana. She sits down in the chair across from me, her purse in her lap.
“What gives?” I ask. “I thought you wanted me to tell her everything?”
“I want you to tell her everything that’s relevant. Maybe the authorship of the book isn’t at this point. Or maybe you want to take a little time to decide if you really want to admit to that. You were under duress before—and now. Do you still want to do it?”