Joe accompanied me every day I visited Dad in the nursing home in spite of the fact that my father clearly did not remember me and was unwilling to even acknowledge Joe’s existence. Joe held my hand as we watched the man who had raised me and been my mentor, my rock all through childhood. My beloved father had ignored us and sat facing a window, staring at nothing.
We were heading to the airport to return to Nevada when the call came on my cell phone. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Solaris. Your father died about twenty minutes ago.”
At the hastily organized funeral held in the church where I had been baptized, Joe’s arm circled my shoulders as we listened to eulogies from old friends and colleagues. Thaddeus Solaris had been a great scholar, a more than devoted husband, a husband who had sacrificed much of his life and his peace of mind to a wife he loved beyond all reason. He had been my teacher, my unwavering fan. He had forgotten me, but I would never forget him.
After my father’s death, Joe Morgan took over as my champion. Despite the fact that he could be brusque and distant and occasionally disappear into a fog of moodiness, even take off for days of what he called his “alone time,” I was sure I could count on him to share my concerns, my holidays, my frustrations, my triumphs, and my occasional bouts of grief.
I also knew he’d never give up searching for Jamie Congers.
Jamie
After dinner, the man said, “That tasted good.” It was the first time Jamie had heard him say anything positive. For a moment he was like the man she’d met on campus—the polite one. He watched while she cleared the table and washed the dishes. His elbows were pressed hard against the table, the powerful muscles of his arms visible under the thin fabric of his work shirt. She heard him breathing heavily.
She slowed her washing. Is this when he grabs me?
He rose from the table. She tensed and braced herself against the sink.
“Come with me,” he said and cupped her elbow in his hand.
Oh, God.
He led her to an interior door, unlocked. Beyond the door was a dark room. He switched on a table lamp revealing a parlor with a sofa against the wall and two upholstered armchairs facing it. A fireplace surrounded by river stones dominated one end of the room. Shelves lined the wall opposite the sofa. A few books, old and without jackets. Three undecorated silver bowls all in need of polishing.
“Beautiful bowls,” Jamie said.
“Baptismal bowls for infants,” he replied.
Centered between the shelves was another large framed document. He led her to stand in front of it. “Read this out loud.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
She read slowly.
“Timothy 2:11. Let a woman learn in quietness with all subjection. But I permit not a woman to teach, nor have dominion over a man, but to be in quietness.”
He sat on the sofa, indicating she should sit in the chair opposite him. He leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. He stared at her.
She tried to stare back, to look him straight in the eyes, but after a few moments, he averted his gaze.
“I take it you read the Bible,” she said.
“I live it. As did my father before me.” He looked up again, directly at her. “And his father before him.”
“I know the Bible,” she said. “My mother’s father was a minister and a biblical scholar. I spent several summers at his house and he taught me the Old and New Testaments.”
“My grandfather was a preacher too. He preached in a tent we set up every spring in that meadow.” He pointed to the view outside the window. “People came from as far away as Sacramento just to hear him.”
“I used to memorize passages from the Bible.”
The man opened his mouth, then cleared his throat. “Do you believe? Do you believe the verse you have just read?”
She hesitated. “I believe what the Bible teaches, but most of what I remember was what St. Paul wrote.”
His breathing grew heavier. His brow looked damp. “Then perhaps you prefer Corinthians 14: ‘Let the women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience as also saith the law.’” His breathing became heavier and beads of sweat appeared on his face.
Where was this going?
“I prefer Corinthians 13,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
“You would. Women always like verses about faith and love more than about obedience.”
“Did you create the documents in the frames? They look hand-lettered.”
“My grandmother did.” He leaned back into the sofa. “They were intended to remind the female reader about the importance of obedience and respect for her husband.”
Jamie inhaled deeply. This didn’t sound like a prelude to a physical attack. It was the first conversation they’d had that was longer than a one-sentence instruction. Maybe if she kept it going, she could learn more about why he had kidnapped her.
“And did the women in your family agree and obey?”
Again he was silent, this time for several minutes. She sat still as a stone.
“All but one. But never mind that.” He rose from the couch, reminding her of his height and strength as well as his demands of her. “This parlor and the kitchen are the rooms you must keep clean at all times. They must be thoroughly scrubbed, dusted, and swept every day.”
Jamie stood. “Which woman didn’t obey?” She put as much force into her question as she dared.
“My father’s second wife. She was like you.”
“How was she like me?”
“She was young and beautiful, and she was black. Now, upstairs with you. That’s all for tonight.”
“What happened to your father’s second wife?”
“Silence. Upstairs. NOW.”
Chapter 11
The committee to determine Mountain West University policy on sexual assault met two days after my dinner with Bridget Thomas. Twelve of us gathered in a comfortable room upstairs in the administration building that was slightly more elegant than where I’d met with the search committee.
What I noticed first was a large oval mahogany table surrounded by a dozen upholstered swivel chairs, glasses and carafes of water at every place.
Bridget sat next to Karen Milton, Director of Student Affairs. I knew Karen, a considerate woman who had helped my students find counseling services when they needed them. She and Bridget were deep in conversation.
I sat opposite them as we watched the male committee members file in. Three administrators, including the university attorney. Four male faculty members. One I recognized from history and another from biology. Two from athletics, the director and the head football coach.
Nods of recognition and smiles all around.
No one seemed surprised to see that I’d replaced the basketball coach at Bridget’s request.
“I’ll call us to order in a minute,” said one of the administrators, seating himself at the head of the table. “While we wait I’ll introduce us to our new member.” He turned to me. “I am Bud Chekovski, Vice President of Finance for Mountain West and chair of this committee. And you are Dr. Meredith Solaris, interim dean of journalism. I hope I got that right.”
“You did. But you can all call me Red if you prefer. We’re not very formal in the school of journalism.”
A man across the table from me said, “My students tell me your faculty let all the journalism students call them by their first names. I’m Howard Evans from Biology.” I knew exactly who he was. Blond, high cheekbones, incredibly white teeth he maintained at considerable expense. A few years ago, I dated him for about a week. Clearly he did not care to acknowledge our previous relationship in front of the committee.
I couldn’t resist. “Nice to see you again, Howard. Still living on Columbus Street?” I reac
hed my hand across the table to shake his. He turned pink. I kept going. “Yes, we do let students call us by our first names. Professional journalists use first names in the industry. And we want our students to get used to feeling professional as soon as possible. Not to mention, it’s friendly.”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting my students call me anything but Doctor Thomas,” said Bridget. “Professional titles help keep a respectful distance.”
That figures.
The door opened and all the sidebar conversations stopped. Ezra McCready, the new provost, entered the room. Everyone at the table, except the coaches, reported to McCready. We knew he had a significant national reputation, but McCready was still a newcomer and new leader to most of us.
The provost stood with his hand on the back of Bud’s chair. “Thank you all for agreeing to serve on this committee. I’ll keep your instructions short.” Thin smile. He paused, clearing his throat as his eyes circled the faces at the table. “The federal government requires all universities to address the problem of sexual assault on campus. We’re seriously behind on this, so we need a written policy before the end of the year. Not much time, but I’m sure you’re all up to it.”
Karen raised her hand. McCready looked irritated.
“Is this a policy to guide students, or will it cover all university employees as well?’
“Everyone. Students, staff, faculty.”
“Should this policy also describe the process for dealing with complaints and with those who…uh…violate the policy?” This came from Howard, who was still pink and fidgeting in his chair.
Howard’s question produced a solemn stare. The provost barely looked at him. “I think you should cover process as well as regulations. But be careful. I don’t want a document that presumes guilt without supporting evidence. Nor do I expect one designed to protect the privacy of one gender more than that of another.”
Silence. No more questions.
The provost lifted his hands off the back of Bud’s chair and offered a parting shot: “Be cautious about depending on the so-called statistics bandied about in the press and by advocacy groups. Also be cautious about demanding this university automatically presume that a complaint of assault is valid. Regrettably, sometimes young people…exaggerate.”
Karen exhaled audibly. “Statistics suggest most women are telling the truth when…” McCready’s cold stare stopped her.
He turned to Bud. “I’ll look for a report on your progress next week.”
“Thank you, Dr. McCready,” said Bud to McCready’s back as he left. Then he shuffled some papers and said to the rest of us. “I think this means we’ll have to meet almost every day between now and then.”
Daily meetings? Karen and Howard both looked shaken. The athletic director frowned. The football coach passed his hand over his face, concealing his expression. Bridget frowned. I slouched in my chair. Fear for a missing student wasn’t going to be my only nightmare.
Jamie
Jamie sat on the bed thinking about the father’s second wife, her kidnapper’s black stepmother who had been “the only one” to disobey the rules. What had happened to her? Had she been banished or run away? Had she been killed for her sins? Was her body buried somewhere behind the house?
Punishment for disobedience was important to this man. Yet he had neither punished her nor made any sexual advances. She mentally ran through the list of what she knew about him. He was tall and physically fit, rarely spoke, dressed at home in jeans or overalls and work shirts. Wore a suit and tie when he left for what she assumed was some sort of office work. She guessed he was in his forties. He was white and she suspected all his family, except the black stepmother, had been white. She couldn’t be sure, but no photographs had been in any of the rooms she had been allowed to see, and ordered to clean.
“No family pictures?” she’d asked while dusting one evening.
“None.”
He was watchful and wary, yet he left her alone for hours during the day. He locked her in her bedroom after she’d cooked and cleaned up after breakfast. He left at seven and returned at night when she was released to cook dinner and clean. Lunch was fruit and a sandwich in her room.
Her only reading material was a copy of the Bible on her dresser. She assumed the man was Protestant, but not from the liberal Episcopalian faith that had been her maternal grandfather’s religion—the one she learned as a child. John 13:34. A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another…
She suspected her captor would not care to have that verse framed and on the wall of any room in this house.
What else had she learned since waking up with her hands tied to the bed?
The house was old, dark, cold at night. The bathroom fixtures were simple, the tiles blue and white. The closets were small. The bare wooden floors were pale, narrow boards of pine or maple. One rug lay in the parlor. Old yellowed linoleum covered the kitchen floor. The windows upstairs were small and barred with dark curtains he drew at night. The kitchen and parlor windows were larger, also curtained, faced east and looked out on trees and grass, a steel fence and a meadow in the distance. She saw no signs and heard no sounds of other people. She was isolated. No one would hear her cries for help.
She stifled any temptation to weep. She didn’t want the man to hear her sobbing and think it a reason to enter her bedroom more than he already did. It was bad enough he’d seen her naked. What might happen if he saw her in tears?
Having failed to discover or craft either a weapon or a tool to attack the bars or the door locks, she spent the day sleeping, reading the Bible, doing pushups and floor exercises, running in place. She knew she must stay strong so that if the chance to escape arose, she would be ready to flee. And, if the man decided he wanted her after all, she would be ready and able to fight.
Chapter 12
“How was the sexual assault committee meeting?” Nell looked up from her desk. Wishful thinking, perhaps, or maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but I would have sworn my assistant looked smoother and prettier than ever before.
“Alarming.” I walked past her and into my office next to hers.
“Alarming?” She carried a stack of papers to my desk.
“What’s the campus gossip about Ezra McCready?” Universities are like other institutions. Staff always know more than the management. Nell, as a dean’s assistant, was a member of the working staff who heard much more about the secrets and foibles of top administrators than I ever would. Moreover, Nell had been around for years before I showed up and had mastered the subtleties of university politics. She was a wizard at maneuvering through the bureaucracy.
She assumed a solemn expression. “Cold fish, according to his office staff. Not one for joking around or bringing flowers to the girls on their birthdays like Stoddard did.”
“Is he harder on the women staff than the men?”
“I haven’t heard that he is. McCready seems to be an equal opportunity pain in the ass to work for. Of course, he’s single and well over forty, so that always gives people something to speculate about.”
“Do they speculate?”
“I haven’t heard anyone say much about his personal life. Most of them think he’s a loner. He’s seen as snobbish, reserved, not inclined to make friends with staff. Of course, he may be friendlier with President Lewis and big-time donors. Mind you, this is according to what I get in the employee cafeteria.”
“Invariably the best information on campus.”
“Was he difficult at your meeting?”
“Authoritarian. His charges to the committee carried a bit of bias, as if he was afraid we were all going to create a policy that only favored females. And he seemed somewhat hostile to Howard Evans and Karen Milton.”
“Karen’s great. But the provost wouldn’t be the first high-ranking male on this campus to get tough with her. Ever since she was
put in charge of Title IX on this campus, she’s had to deal with men who don’t like to receive instruction on how to behave or how to solve their harassment problems.”
“Yet our mission is to come up with a special plan to deal with sexual assault. I can’t imagine any man on this campus not being supportive of that. Can you?”
Nell busied herself arranging papers on the table opposite my desk. After a moment she said, “I can imagine a few men around here who wouldn’t want to see star male athletes, or even star male students, disciplined because they took a young woman’s silence for acceptance.”
Nell was right. It made me sad. “I know. If the girl didn’t beat him with her fists and scream for help, she probably wanted it. Some men just feel entitled, no matter what she says or does.”
Nell headed for the door and then turned. “And there’s another problem. Sometimes a young woman who’s been assaulted is pressured to keep her mouth shut by the other girls. They may know what happened to her but don’t want the guy’s teammates or fraternity brothers to get angry with them for supporting her and getting the boy in trouble...”
“Is a boy getting into trouble?” The voice came from behind Nell. Sadie moved past Nell and slid her slender body into a chair in front of my desk. Nell was still in the doorway.
“A purely hypothetical boy, Dr. Hawkins,” said Nell. “Would you like some tea?”
“Bless you, Nell. I would. Thank you.”
Sadie turned to me. Her face was thin and her nose sharp as a raptor’s. But her eyes, at least when she met mine, were the gentlest I had ever known. At times, Sadie was more mother to me than my biological mother had ever been. She brushed a strand of white hair back from her face and leaned toward me. “How is the dean search going?”
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 30