He remained facing the window while she washed the breakfast dishes and scrubbed the sink. She was tempted to continue to force the issue, to demand he realize what he wanted was impossible. She lifted a plate and held it suspended over the tile counter. She was angry and wanted him to know exactly how angry she was. She prepared to smash the plate when she felt him standing behind her, his chest pressed against her back. She could feel the heat from his body. Oh, God, she thought, I’ve misjudged. He is going for me now. She started to pull away, but he grabbed both her arms from behind and held her against him. His voice was very soft behind her ear. “I will leave your bedroom door unlocked today so you can go into other rooms.”
He stepped away and she turned. His eyes were piercing but his voice stayed soft. “You must stop resisting and learn to accept this house as your home. This is where you belong.”
The plate fell from her hand and clattered to the floor, but did not break. He stooped and picked it up and handed it to her. “If you make any effort to escape or tamper with the locks, I will have to confine you to your room again.”
That was his plan. If she didn’t escape him, or defeat him, she would be in his house for years.
Chapter 17
As I drove to campus the next morning, I worried about Wynan Congers almost as much as I dreaded what we’d learn about the fate of his granddaughter. The retired cop was skilled and realistic but so full of rage and anguish, I suspected that if he ever found the man with the boots, he would turn to savagery. Nell was in early, sorting through papers and slamming the file drawers vigorously to dissipate her nervousness.
“George come by?” I asked without a morning greeting.
“Not yet.” She slammed another drawer.
And then, of course, George loomed into sight. I swore he had gained more weight since the last year’s faculty quarrels. No doubt consumed with self-pity because he’d lost the battle to deny Larry Coleman’s tenure, and because the personnel evaluation I’d given him had been humiliating—George must’ve been pounding down calories to comfort himself. His light blue cotton sweater strained against his stomach and his collar wrinkled around his neck.
“Good morning, George.”
“We need to talk,” he said, closing the door to my office and plunking himself down at my small conference table.
I took another chair. “What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t like the way your secretary treats members of this faculty.”
“Nell’s not my secretary, she’s my assistant. What’s your complaint about her?”
“I asked to see that paper Coleman is presenting in December and she refused. She said I had to go to Coleman and ask him for it. Ridiculous. Academic papers should be available to all faculty.”
“Well, yes. Once it’s ready to be presented, it should become a public document.”
“So why won’t she give it to me?”
“I think both Nell and I would be more comfortable if you asked Larry directly to see his paper. He may still be editing it. Then again, he may be perfectly willing to give you a copy.”
“I have no interest in going begging to Coleman.”
“But you do have interest in his work?”
“I just want to be sure that whatever is presented in conferences by members of this school is of high quality and meets our standards for scholarship.”
“Keeping our standards high is my responsibility, George. You are not needed, nor required, to police the efforts of others.” Damn, the man was infuriating.
George shifted and tugged the front of his sweater, made even tighter across his belly by his seated position. “Coleman’s been known to do shoddy work before and I just want to check on this particular paper.”
“Hmm. I don’t recall shoddy work on Larry’s part. And you might do well to tend to your own knitting.”
George was on his feet. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Meredith, you defend that second-rater at every turn.”
Then I was standing. “George, you promised me civil discourse this semester. No more accusations. No trouble between you guys.”
He blew his cheeks. “Yes, I know. Your candidacy for the dean’s job is at stake. We must all maintain the pretense of courtesy to each other.”
“That’s right, George. And, if you want to see someone else’s academic paper, that means you must pretend good manners. Ask the author politely and pretend you are interested in the content. Or else, mind your own damn business.”
As I watched George heave out of his chair and head for the door, I remembered a friend in Psychology saying that attitude affects behavior and, conversely, behavior affects attitude. Maybe if George and Larry pretended to respect each other, someday they would actually begin to feel collegial. Or, at the very least, behave themselves. Wishful thinking on my part.
I returned to my desk to find an inter-office envelope containing a confidential memo from Shelby Vane to Karen, Bridget and me. It was politely worded and full of quotes from recent media stories about three young men who had been accused of sexual assault at different American universities. In each case, the young man had been put on suspension and ultimately expelled. And, in each case, the accuser had later recanted the accusations. One young man had been studying to become a doctor and ended up leaving higher education to become a long-distance trucker. Vane’s plea was obvious, and I promised myself I would not let our committee lose sight of fairness.
I plunged into the pile of work Nell had left on my desk. The phone rang. It was Joe. A woman’s body had been found in a field on the outskirts of Reno.
Jamie
After breakfast, the man had gone to his room. Jamie remained seated in the kitchen, excited at the prospect of having the run of the house and the chance to get back to digging her hole in the closet of the empty front room.
She heard him come down the stairs, but did not see him. He left by the front door, slamming the door and locking the outer padlock noisily and with extra vigor.
She waited, then rose and went to the empty front room. She looked out the window and listened for the sound of his tires on the gravel driveway. She hurried to the closet. The ironing board was just as she left it. She pulled it aside, and there was the hole in the wall. He had not discovered it. She would have all day to enlarge it and break through to the bricks behind it.
But first she wanted to search the house once more. She was still convinced there was a telephone somewhere, although she had not heard ringing. He must have hidden her handbag somewhere in the house. Maybe her cell phone would still be inside it. Maybe, even in this desolate place, it would work.
She raced upstairs back to the one room she had never seen—the front bedroom, his bedroom. She pulled on the door. It did not give. It was locked. She put her face close to the frame, straining to see if the deadbolts had been thrown. Maybe not. He had left in a hurry. She reached into her pocket for the paperclip. Then decided to try a more forceful approach. She ran back to the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife and a pair of old kitchen shears. Then back to the door of his room where she tried the lock, pried at the doorframe, examined the hinges to see if she could use the butter knife as a screwdriver. But the door was large, six feet high, dark wood and heavy. After an hour of exertion, she gave up.
Back downstairs, she took the heavy skillet and the big spoon into the closet in the empty room. She sat on the closet floor and looked at the cuts and scrapes on her hands. She was tired, very tired. She was getting enough to eat, but not enough sleep or exercise. Much as she tried to stay in shape, her confinement in the old house was beginning to take its toll. The stuffy air and barred windows depressed her. Her bed was lumpy and uncomfortable. The food was boring and there was never more than what was exactly needed for a single day. But mostly, there was the man, staring at her, ordering her to do chores, and this morning coming much, much too close.
/> She went to work on the plaster wall. Because she was tired, work proceeded more slowly. The skillet was heavy in her hand and an awkward substitute for a mallet. She gave up scooping the residual plaster into the space between the interior wall and the exterior brick and let the chunks fall on the floor. Dust covered her clothes and sprinkled her hair. She worked feverishly, planning to clean up later.
Mid-afternoon, hours before she expected it, she heard the front door open.
Chapter 18
I waited for Joe at home, my hands almost too sweaty to open a can of food for Charlie. After I dished it up, the dog ate tentatively, looking up at me more often than usual. When done, he spread his legs and slid down on the floor until his nose rested between his paws. He knew something was wrong, and he knew I was worried about it.
The day had been hard. It was difficult to concentrate on curriculum changes and classroom maintenance problems without feeling uneasy about George and Larry, or without seeing Jamie’s lovely face in the back of my mind. Work had ended with a phone call from the provost’s office. “Provost McCready would like to see you in his office tomorrow morning. Would ten thirty be convenient?”
“I think so. Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“He wants to conduct his own interview of you for the journalism dean position. Can you make it?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
I should have spent the evening trying to prepare myself for the interview with McCready. But I couldn’t. I kept going back to Joe’s call. Nine o’clock became ten and then the back door opened. I was immediately in Joe’s arms, my face buried in his collar.
“It’s okay, Red. The body wasn’t Jamie’s.”
“Oh, God. I’m so relieved.” I held him tight. “I was so sure the news would be bad. Tell me. Tell me.”
He shifted his chin and met my mouth for a kiss. He pulled away. “You and I were both sure it would be bad news. I’ve been thinking for days that Jamie is dead. But I’ve tried to keep my thoughts from showing when I’m with Wynan.”
“You didn’t tell Wynan about the body?” I poured wine and set out some cheese and bread. Neither of us had eaten.
“No. I wanted to be sure, but on the drive to Reno, I kept rehearsing what I would tell him if the body turned out to be his granddaughter’s. Wynan’s an experienced cop, but he’s near delusional about that girl. He keeps wanting to believe we’ll find her alive.”
Maybe we will find her alive, I prayed silently. “You were gone a long time. I guessed you stayed with the coroner until you were certain. So whose body was it?”
Joe sighed and took a long sip of wine. “The woman was probably in her forties. Hispanic. Much shorter than Jamie Congers. And according to the coroner, dead for more than a month.”
“I’m surprised the body wasn’t discovered sooner. Your team has been searching every meadow and vacant lot around here for days.”
“This body was outside our search area, which I guess we will now have to expand.” He looked as morose as I had ever seen him.
Joe rose and put his glass and plate in the sink. I followed him. He pulled me toward him and tugged at my blouse until his hands were on my bare back. “I really need you tonight,” he said into my hair.
“I need you too.” My mouth was close to his. “Bedtime.”
For all our occasional problems with each other, sex has always been our refuge and, in good times, our joy. In bed, Joe and I don’t disappoint each other. I sometimes think it’s the single aspect of our relationship that guarantees we’ll stay together. When his mouth is on mine and his hands move across me, the uncertainty and tensions of the day melt away. At least they melt away for me. I’m never sure about Joe’s worries. But at least he sleeps.
After an hour of making love, I watched Joe sleeping next to me. From time to time, his eyelids fluttered and the muscles in his long lean back twitched. He groaned and his legs scissored as if he was running. I leaned over and kissed the back of his neck and rubbed his shoulders. “It’s just a dream,” I whispered. But I knew it was futile to try and stop his dream. Like Charlie dreaming of chasing a rabbit, legs twitching and mouth open, Joe Morgan was dreaming of chasing a big man in muddy boots.
Jamie
Jamie froze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Then the sound of steps in the kitchen followed by steps on the stairs. She had no time to clean up the plaster on the floor, so she lifted the ironing board as quietly as she could and placed it over the now much larger hole in the wall. She slowly crept out of the closet and across the room into the hallway. His steps on the stairs stopped her again.
He looked different. He was wearing a suit and tie instead of his work clothes. He looked the way he had appeared to her on campus.
He stared at her. “What have you been up to? You’re covered in dust.”
She breathed deeply, brushing the plaster dust off her shirt and pants. “Oh, I’ve just been doing some cleaning in areas I missed before.” Her voice sounded weak and unconvincing.
“Well, then. It’s time you cleaned yourself. Here are some things you probably need.” He handed her a large plastic bag. “Take these upstairs with you and take a shower. You should wash your hair.”
She accepted the bag. He seemed calm to her. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice stronger.
“Yes. I wanted to get these to you and to see how you had enjoyed your first day of freedom.”
Freedom? Hardly. The house was still her prison. But he hadn’t caught her in the closet, and maybe he wouldn’t look into the empty room.
He turned and started back up the stairs. “I’ll see you in an hour for dinner.”
Her legs were so shaky she could hardly make it up to her room. She sat on the bed shivering. Then she opened the plastic bag. It contained a hair dryer just like the one she had in her apartment. Next, a bottle of shampoo. Her brand, the one she always bought because it kept her hair soft. She pulled out a box holding a tube of toothpaste. Her brand of toothpaste. And her brand of deodorant and her type of toothbrush and a bar of the brand of soap she had used every day since she was a child.
Oh, Jesus. He must have been in her apartment. That’s how he knew what brands she used and the correct size clothes and underwear to buy for her. He’d been examining her things. He knew where she lived.
Chapter 19
Joe left early for work. I heard him start the coffee pot in the kitchen downstairs and then the kitchen door closing behind him. I lay in bed mentally bracing myself for the meeting with the provost. I knew the meeting would be my last chance to convince him that I was the person he should appoint as dean. I also knew I was sitting on a powder keg named George and Larry, and that it could blow up at any time and ruin my chances.
I scolded myself for thinking only of myself. How could I stress out so much over a stupid job when one of my students was in danger, maybe dead?
I got up and brushed my teeth with an energy designed to punish me for my selfishness. I dressed in red, my war color, pulled back my hair and marched to the car, juggling a thermos of Joe’s good coffee.
As happens almost three hundred and fifty days a year in Nevada, the sun was shining. In addition, the birds were singing, and the flowerbeds beside my driveway were blooming. Still, I felt like hell. Scared. Angry. Conflicted.
I swung into the journalism school parking lot too fast and stopped just inches from one of the cherry trees. I poured some coffee into the cup that served as the thermos top. My hands shook, my pantyhose itched, and I wished I’d come barelegged to do battle with Ezra McCready.
The path to the administration building was wide and shaded with trees still leafed out in the early fall. I trudged, and I do mean trudged, to my meeting with the provost. The man held my future in his hands, and I didn’t like him. I didn’t like him at all. He was tall, well built, reasonably good-looking, a bit
nerdy when he put on his steel framed glasses. His clothes were conservative and well-tailored. But even if Joe had not been in my life, I would never have been attracted to a man like Ezra McCready. In spite of his academic reputation as a leader, I found nothing to admire. The man struck me as dismissive and interested only in what served his own career, not the welfare of the university. He was a snob, as Nell had said. Perhaps a bigot.
Yet, as I mounted the stairs to the administration building, I vowed to put my private opinions of McCready out of my mind. It was important for me to impress him. I prayed he would think better of me than I did of him. Provost Ezra McCready would have the final say on who would be dean of journalism. Only the president, Philip Lewis, could overrule his decision. The president was my friend but he was ill, infrequently on campus, and not likely to overrule his handpicked executive who was running the university day to day.
McCready’s outer office was empty and I felt timid about knocking on the door to his inner office. He might be the sort who preferred to have a secretary announce a visitor.
I waited.
After what felt like an hour but was only ten minutes, the inner office opened. Ezra McCready escorted a man through the door. The man was a bit taller than me, round in face and belly with big dark eyes. My good friend and competitor, Manny Lorenzo.
Manny’s smile lit up when he saw me and a big bear hug followed. “Great to see you, Red. More beautiful than ever. My favorite rival.”
“Friendly rivals, I hope,” I said nervously, glancing back at McCready who stood in the doorway, not a trace of warmth on his face.
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 34