by David Bell
“What was that?” he asks. And he sounds curious, hooked by my words.
“They told me they thought there was a possibility that two assailants killed Sophia. And I thought that was so strange. . . . Why would two people team up to murder a young woman? In a parking lot? With her in the driver’s seat. It’s all very strange. Maybe all I had to do was think about it and look around me. And then listen to Zach. So maybe a real possibility is that one person was trying to get the other two together, to make peace between them.”
“But Lance admitted everything on the roof today—”
“Did he, though? When we were up there, Lance had nothing to hide. He planned to jump, so why not just admit it?”
“Lance was an odd guy. And clearly disturbed. Everything he said was oblique. And you’re wondering why he was opaque right before he took his own life.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I plunge ahead. “But you knew Lance was crossing the line with students in the past. And you said you were sticking your neck out for him. Just like you stuck your neck out for me when Emily and Jake died. You were willing to do that so I could hang on to my job.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to do, Connor.”
“Right. Preston the Politician. Preston the Peacemaker.”
His voice comes out flat. “What are you getting at, Connor? I lead the department. I’m out front. Some people have to do that. Not everyone gets to hide away.”
“But is it possible you took that role too far? Madeline and Sophia were friends. And Lance was sexually harassing Madeline. That’s in her short story, so we know that. Remember what you always say—we need to listen to women. And Sophia’s husband, Zach, told me that Sophia felt very strongly about mentoring and protecting younger women. That’s who Sophia was. That defined her. So if she learned that one of her young friends was being sexually harassed by a more powerful man at the university—a university and a department she was already connected to through her internships—isn’t it possible she would do something about it? Isn’t it possible she would stand up and try to fight back on behalf of that person?”
“She’d confront that person, yes. That’s Lance.”
“Or maybe if she thought that person wasn’t worth the effort, or was unlikely to listen, she might go to someone she thought would listen. Someone in a position of real power. Someone who might be able to corral Lance and tell him to knock it off. Or actually hold him accountable at the university.”
Preston shakes his head. “This is sad, Connor. It’s surprising to me that you couldn’t write a book since you’re spinning all of this fiction right here in my living room. Maybe you need to take another swing at being a novelist. Maybe it will work out this time.”
“Maybe it will,” I say. “At least I’m admitting I’m a failure as a writer. How’s that novel you’ve been claiming to write for the last five years?”
“It’s mine,” he says. “Not plagiarized.”
“Touché,” I say. “Madeline was a better writer than either of us. Sometimes students come along like that, and we have to accept we’ll never be as good as we want to be. Maybe we all have to admit that our lives aren’t going to be what we hoped for. Fortunately, Madeline left this book and story behind, and she’ll get credit for them now. The credit she deserves.”
“A lot of good that will do her.”
“You’re right. I have to live with that. And I will. It’s all I can do. I’ve lived with stuff before, so I’m going to do it again.”
Preston just stares at me. So does Grendel.
So I say, “Sophia called the main line to the English Department a couple of times before she was murdered. Not to talk to Carrie about internships, but to talk to you. About Lance. And it all went wrong somehow. I figure you could try to tell your side of things and get out in front of it before the police come for you. You could try to live with it too.” I check my watch. “And the police are on the way now. I told my lawyer to get them and meet us here. Now. You called them on me, in this very house. I thought I’d return the favor.”
Preston stands up. “Goddamn it, Connor. What are you dragging into my home? Kelly and the kids will be here soon.”
“It would be tough for me to believe all of this, Preston, except you left the building this morning. I came roaring in, heading right to Lance’s classroom. I expected you to show up behind me, to calm things down. I kept looking for you. But you weren’t there. There was trouble brewing, and you weren’t around. Why did you leave at the moment that seemed tailor-made for you?”
“I had a meeting,” he says.
“Did you? Or were you afraid of what loose-tongued Lance would say in front of me? In front of everybody up on the roof?”
Preston walks out of the room without saying anything. I can hear movement in the back of the house, down the hallway where the bedrooms are. I stand up, and Grendel looks at me and wags his tail. He looks like he wants to go home.
I go in the direction Preston went, down the hallway. I’ve never been back to his bedroom area, but I hear rustling and follow the noise. I enter the master bedroom, which is large and decorated in a sleek minimalistic fashion. Preston is bent over inside the closet. He doesn’t know I’m here, so I say his name. When I do, he spins to face me like I’ve shouted. And he stares at me without saying anything, his face contorted in a way I’ve never seen.
“What are you doing, Preston?” I ask.
He turns back to the closet and continues to rummage.
“Preston?”
He backs out of the closet, holding a duffel bag. He turns to me. “I’m going. Away.”
“The police are coming. You can’t leave now.”
“I’m going to anyway.”
“What about Kelly and the girls?” I ask. When I say this, he flinches a little. “Are you going to leave without saying anything to them?”
“I will. Eventually.”
“Did you pack that bag just now?”
He looks down like he’s never seen the bag before. “I’ve had this packed for over two years, since Sophia was killed. I always thought this day would come.” He looks at the bedroom door and back at me. “I started to let my guard down a little and think it might never come back at me.”
“The things we push away always come back, Preston. Believe me.”
“Connor, we both still have a chance here.” Preston speaks in his calmest voice, the one that tries to move everyone toward a consensus. In this case, he’s working on me alone. “You know my kids. And Kelly. You know the life we’ve built here. And the career I have. We can’t give all that up. We can’t have all this drama.”
“It’s the only thing you can do.”
He hefts the bag in his hand and then leaves the room quickly. I follow behind him.
Preston stops at the coffee table, duffel bag in one hand, and picks up the thick envelope containing the manuscript with the other.
“I’ll take this outside right now, Connor,” he says. “To the grill.”
“What exactly are you taking out there, Preston?”
“Evidence. You were dumb enough to bring it here. I’m smart enough to dispose of it.”
He makes his way to the back door, but before his hand grips the knob, I say, “Evidence that what I said about the murders is true.”
“That’s what you said is in here.”
“Are you sure it is?” I ask.
He drops the duffel bag and starts tearing open the envelope. He rips into it like a hungry animal. When he’s torn the envelope away he sees what’s inside.
“What is this, Connor?” he says, his voice snarling. “I thought this was the fucking book.”
“It’s not,” I say. “Madeline’s handwritten manuscript is at my house. I lied. But your behavior here shows my guess was right.” Something aches inside of me, like my guts are full of gro
und glass. “I thought you were better than Lance. I so hoped it wouldn’t be true. But you just made it clear I was right.”
“Fuck you, Connor.”
“What happened? Did Lance see her at the reading? I saw Madeline there. Another student did too. Is that what started it?”
“I didn’t see her. But she was a fool to go like that.”
“But Lance . . . ?”
“Why do you think we came to your house that night?” he asks. “After the reading. To celebrate? No. Lance was terribly jealous that you published that book. You’re younger than he is and a constant reminder of what he hasn’t done with his life. I admit I was jealous too. A novel . . . Anyway, we wanted to see if you knew anything about Madeline because Lance swore he’d seen her at the reading. He turned white as a sheet when he saw her standing there. It was a dumb move on her part, but she was a kid. And kids do stupid things. And she’d been to your house, right?”
“She had.”
Preston shakes his head. “Lance nearly blew his stack. He was so scared. He thought everything would come out. I was the one with the most at stake. Not him. I have the better job. A family. A future at the university. His life is—or was—whatever it was.”
“So what went wrong?” I ask. “What happened to Madeline? How did she end up dead in the cemetery?”
“I don’t know what the fuck she was doing out there,” Preston says. “Maybe she was looking for you. Did she know you went there?”
“I think I told her I liked to go there in difficult times. To find peace and quiet.”
“Lance was looking for her. I’m sure he followed her. I wanted Lance to get her to leave town, but he . . . he took a more extreme approach. He said we couldn’t leave anything unresolved.”
“What did she know about Sophia? That you had killed her to protect Lance?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Connor. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Preston the Peacemaker. That’s what I tried to do with Sophia. Make peace.”
“How did you do that?”
“Connor, burn it. The book. We’re running out of time. If you plagiarized from Madeline, and that manuscript is the only proof, then burn it. Go home and get rid of it. And let it go. And neither one of us has to go down. Let Lance take the fall. He’s gone. He’s not coming back, and he has nothing to lose anymore.”
“Just tell me, Preston. . . . What did you two do to Sophia?”
Preston shakes his head. “I didn’t want anything to happen to Sophia. I just wanted her to back off, to let the stuff with Lance go. Then I could keep the department out of the news. I could keep the university administration off my back. Do you know what it would look like for me if that came out? That I knew about Lance’s parties and everything else and looked the other way? I want to be dean someday.”
“So you tried to convince her to back off? You were going to meet with her at her office?”
“I arranged a meeting. After hours, outside her office, so no one would see us together. No security cameras, nothing. She thought she was just meeting with me. But I told Lance about it and asked him to show up. Eventually. I thought if I got the two of them together, if the three of us talked it out, Sophia might cool down. That was my plan. Madeline was a senior. She was going to graduate with honors and move on. And I was getting through to Sophia, talking to her in her car. . . .”
His face looks distant, contorted again, the way it was in the bedroom. Like he’s in pain, remembering.
“Go on, Preston. Something went wrong. Something with—”
“Lance showed up. Early. And he’d been drinking.” He looks right into my eyes. “Connor, I wish to fuck I’d handled it on my own. But Lance got in the car, in the backseat, and he smelled like a distillery. And Sophia reacted like a caged animal. She wanted to get out. She immediately started talking about calling the police and reporting Lance.”
“And what happened?” I ask. “He killed her.”
Preston shakes his head. “Connor, the sad thing is we actually made progress. I’ll give Sophia credit—she listened. She calmed down. She listened. Lance said he was wrong to harass Madeline. He said he got carried away with his students sometimes and got too close to them. And he admitted he drank too much. And he wanted to work on that. Sophia wasn’t ready to back down or let it all go, but some of the edge left her. She was listening, like I said. That’s the damnedest thing, Connor. She was listening. I was bringing them together. I was working it out. . . .”
“So what went wrong?” I ask.
Preston bites down on his lower lip. “Fuck it all, Connor. Sophia just kept asking for more. She wouldn’t take what she was given and be happy. You know?”
“Was she supposed to just ‘take what she was given’? Is anybody?”
“She wouldn’t. She told Lance he should stop having those parties. She said they were risky and encouraged the wrong kind of behavior. Underage drinking. Impaired driving. She said it wasn’t the way a mentor was supposed to act, and he should cut it out.”
“And Lance said no.”
“Adamantly. He maintained it was his right to do what he wanted. And to invite whomever he wanted to his house. And that inflamed Sophia all over again.”
Preston grows quiet. He stares straight ahead, and I wonder if he’s going to go on without being prompted. But he does.
“They argued. And Sophia grew so frustrated, so angry, that she said she was going to leave. She reached for the door handle . . . and I made a mistake. I . . . I grabbed her hand and pulled it back so she couldn’t open the door. I didn’t want her to leave that way, not when we were so close to working things out.” His voice rises a little. “She stopped listening, Connor. She stopped hearing the good sense I was making.”
“She was scared. Two men in the car with her—”
“When I pulled her arm back, she started to fight. Against me. Physically. She started lashing out with her hands.”
“She was terrified,” I say.
“I had to fight her off. She was attacking me. And Lance reached over from the backseat— Connor, at that point, we were doomed, Lance and I. We were fighting with a woman in her car. How does that get explained? To anyone?”
“You should have stopped it. You needed to be the adult, Preston.”
“The scarf was right there on the seat . . . between Sophia and me . . . and I used it.”
“Jesus, Preston . . . how could you?”
“Once it was done, it didn’t matter what happened. It was better to leave her there and let everyone get back to normal. Let the life of the department go on. I just had to trust that Lance would keep his mouth shut. . . . You know how that worked out.”
“It’s over, Preston. Everything is over for you.”
He stares at me, his eyes burning.
He bends down and reaches into the duffel bag.
“What are you doing, Preston?” I ask.
He straightens up, holding a black object in his hand. I think it’s pepper spray or maybe it’s a gun.
Preston flicks his wrist, and the device grows in length. It’s a telescoping self-defense baton, one of those things I’ve seen in movies but never in person. Preston grips it tight, the muscles in his forearms bulging.
He takes two quick, long strides, raising the baton over his head as he moves. With a quick, slicing motion, he swings the baton toward my head. I raise my left arm to ward off the blow.
Something cracks as the baton connects with my forearm. The pain sears up my arm and into my brain. I fall back.
Preston stands over me, the baton raised for another blow.
He swings, and I roll to one side. The baton whistles past my ear and smashes against the carpet. I feel certain my arm is broken. But Preston’s swing has left him off-balance. I press that small advantage.
I swing my right leg against his left and knock
him over. He falls to the floor, the baton still in his hand.
I push myself to my feet with my good arm. Grendel yelps and barks.
I back away toward the door as Preston rights himself. He stands and comes toward me, while I continue to back up. My arm hangs limply at my side.
“It’s over, Preston,” I say again.
“Not for me,” he says.
He charges, baton raised.
I reach the door, try to pull it open.
But the door swings inward before I can.
Someone is here, coming into the house. Several people.
When Preston sees them, he stops his charge. His blazing eyes focus, and he stands in the center of the room, his cheeks red, the baton raised over his head like a torch.
It’s Kelly returning with their daughters. They all look at him with horror, coming face-to-face with a part of him they’ve never seen.
I look past them to the yard. I see flashing lights strobing in the dark.
The police are here. They’re coming through the door.
“Daddy . . . ?”
Then the police are inside, and they wrestle Preston to the ground. Face-first. It takes four of them to get the cuffs on him while his wife and children watch.
I collapse to the floor, my crushed arm cradled against my chest.
Grendel comes to my side and licks my face.
It is well and truly over.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
I wake up early in the morning. Like I always do.
To be honest, my life now isn’t much different from what it was in Gatewood. Before I admitted the book wasn’t mine. Before I lost my job and tenure and everything.
Now I wake up early in a different state where I teach part-time at a different university. It’s colder here. And farther north, closer to where my sister lives. My arm is completely healed. And I don’t have tenure or any real job security. But who does, right?
I take Grendel for a walk around the neighborhood. He moves slower than ever now. Maybe because it’s cold. Maybe because he’s slowing down, as we all are. I tell myself he might have a few good years left. I hope so.