In an oubliette, solid green stone walls pressing in, the metal door, the sealing stone—
She flopped onto the bed, pulled the covers over her shivers and sobs, her images, thoughts jumbled and indecipherable. Eventually, drained by terror and exhaustion, she fell asleep. She lay still, no dreams—
A scritching sound woke her, a key fumbling at the lock. She sat up, turned around—
Balaclava, food on a tray on top of a cart. On the cart’s lower level, a green plastic garbage bag. He rolled the cart in, closed the door, threw the bolt. He put the tray on the table, looked at her, looked at the chair balanced on its back edge and remaining leg, looked at two broken legs on the floor. He turned his head and noted the scratches on the door. He crossed to the bed, put the bag down and said, “Where’s the fourth leg?”
Susanna fumbled it out of the bedclothes. She didn’t remember hiding it. Had she intended to? To defend herself from him? She was so glad to see him, to see someone. She hadn’t thought she would be; she felt her neck flush with anger at him, at anyone, at the situation. If she could grab the chair leg back would she use it on him—
“I told you, there’s no way out except that door.” He’d glanced at it. “It’s strong. As I guess you discovered.” He nodded at the big bag. “I brought you some clothes.”
She needed clean clothes. She hadn’t changed in three days. He threw the bag onto the bed. She spilled out its contents. Two T-shirts, one green sweatshirt, two baggy pairs of pants, three pairs of socks. Yeah, great. Bought at a thrift shop probably. All warmer than her white dress, anyway. The underpants came in a package of three so were probably new. After he was gone, thinking of him buying les intimes had made her grin. She’d wondered if he’d considered getting her a bra.
Over the last two-plus weeks, he’d twice mentioned three weeks, the length of time they were going to hold her. Let her go afterward. After some kind of ransom was paid? Her father wasn’t poor, but he’d be hard-pressed to come up with any six-figure sum. Three weeks if the guy was telling the truth. She glanced at her watch. At least they hadn’t taken it away. That and her grandmother’s ring.
Curiously, now there was no fear. Anger, yes. And her boredom bored her. Her jailer didn’t seem to mean her any harm. Or so his body language said. She still wondered if she could overwhelm him; he wasn’t that big a guy, and his ski mask would take away his peripheral vision. But she realized he was in ultra-good shape, and quick on his feet. Strong arms, visible when he wore T-shirts. Good-looking body, in fact. She wondered about his face. Not much to tell about his hair till yesterday—before, he’d always worn a baseball cap with the short mask, but last evening he’d left it off. Light brown hair, a bit curly. Maybe a pleasant guy? And she wouldn’t really want to hurt anyone. Even a kidnapper. Most of the time.
Before Mr. Beck arrived, Noel left to find a washroom. Returning to Peter’s office, he saw two men, their backs to him—Peter, and a fellow with a head of bushy red hair in a blue T-shirt, denim cutoffs held up doubly by green suspenders and a red belt, and sandals over bare feet. Noel said, “Hello.”
Both turned. Peter said, “Jordan Beck, Noel Franklin.” Greetings, a shake of hands. “Why don’t you fellas go to the cafeteria? Nobody there at this hour, you can talk privately. Sorry I can’t lend you my office but I’ve got some work to do.”
“Cafeteria okay with you?” Noel asked.
“Let’s go. Thanks, Professor Langley.” They walked down the stairs in silence, and out the door. “So, Mr. Franklin, you an old friend of Langley’s?”
“Not that old,” said Noel. “He a pretty good teacher?”
“Oh yeah, he’s the best. He gets you to really open up when you write.”
Maybe Noel should take lessons from Peter. If he ever got back to his book. Writing wasn’t on for Noel right now. “You’ve just finished your thesis, I understand.”
“Yeah, it’s a novella. Don’t know why I took that on. Nobody publishes novellas these days.”
“It’s good practice. And publishing is changing so quickly these days, you might find a publisher online.” They were walking toward the Faculty Club-cum-cafeteria that Noel recognized from yesterday. “You happy with it?”
“Yeah, I am. It was damn hard work but I think it’s pretty good.”
“That’s important.”
“Not as important as what Professor Langley thinks. I just wish I could get him to read it and talk to me about it.”
Noel glanced sideways at Beck. A solidly built man, late twenties, strong shoulders under the T-shirt that said MORSELY HOWLER MONKEYS over an image of a monkey sitting on a large football helmet wearing a small football helmet. A joke, Noel figured. Morsely had no on-campus students so would’ve had to scramble to come up with even a tag football team for the day. Beck’s red hair curled over his brow, around his ears and along his nape. His brown eyes were two sharp exclamation marks on his ruddy face. A good grin leading to clean-shaven cheeks. Himself as a possible model for Jimmy Piper in the novella? “He hasn’t read it? Why not?”
“Says he’s got a pile of stuff to get to. And because I didn’t hand it in by the end of last term, I can’t get my degree anyway till October. So, he says, ‘What’s the rush?’”
“You sound a little pissed. A great teacher, just not a great grader?”
“Something like that.”
They reached the building and went in a different door from the one to the Faculty Club, entering a room way less luxurious than its companions. Three dozen or so tables, only one person seated, computer open before her. “Coffee okay? There won’t be any food till 11:30.”
“Fine.” Noel still looked forward to a bacon-and-eggs breakfast. By himself.
Beck led him to a large commercial coffee machine, took mugs off a shelf, filled them. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black’s fine.” Noel took his mug and led the way to a corner as far from the computer person as the room allowed. “This okay?”
“Sure.”
They sat. Noel sipped. A rich aroma, sadly not matched by the bitter taste. “So,” said Noel, “what can I tell you? I gather you’re in a writing quandary.”
A quick, ironic smile and raised eyebrows from Beck. “A quandary mostly about writing as a profession. Write, or finish an engineering MSc that I’m about halfway through with. Like my dad wants me to.”
Noel shook his head. “Can’t help you with that one.”
“But Professor Langley told me you used to be a journalist, and now you’re a stockbroker.”
Damn, he should’ve checked with Peter about how he’d described Noel. At least he’d used the context Noel had set Brendan in. “Not really a broker. I just dabble.”
“Don’t you miss writing?”
Noel’s turn for an ironic smile. “Let’s just say I’m glad there’s something else I can do.” He remembered Brendan saying, after he’d finished a book he enjoyed, I’m glad that guy wrote the book. Now you don’t have to. Noel’s inability to get back to his writing career had first peeved Brendan, who could be a broker wherever he lived, then he became worried because Noel had followed him from Vancouver to Nanaimo. Toward the end, Noel’s block was only a matter for gentle mockery. In which Noel also participated.
Beck breathed an explosive sigh. “I don’t think I could live without writing. This year all I needed to do was write and it’s been my best year ever.”
“I applaud you,” said Noel. “It’s a fine thing when you discover what’s best for you so early in life.”
“But don’t think I’m not pragmatic too, Mr. Franklin. That’s why I’m so torn between journalism and fiction. At least journalism might pay.”
“Can’t you do both?”
“Yeah, maybe. But the articles I wrote for Langley were a lot less fun than the novella.”
“Yeah? How?”
“You’d see how if you read them.”
“Tell me how.”
“The essays have good ideas. I think so
and so does Langley. But the writing, it’s, well, a bit flat. Better than prosaic, but there’s no real sparkle to my style. Now the novella, it’s pretty good. In it my writing sort of sings along—” he caught himself, and grinned, lopsided. “If I do say so myself. And I wish Langley would say so too. Or anything about it. You know him. Why do you think he’s not read it yet?”
Noel shrugged. “His reasons sound pretty good to me.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .”
“What do you mean by ‘sings along.’ And how did you make that happen?”
“You mean, change my style? I didn’t try to. It just happened.”
Noel leaned forward. “Look, Jordan—and since this conversation is serious, I’d like to call you Jordan; Mr. Beck is wrong. And I’m Noel.” He stretched out his hand. “How do you do?”
The grin again. Jordan shook. “Okay, thanks, uh, Noel.”
“So? The change. In your style. Changes just don’t happen.”
“I guess I needed to. For the material.”
“Which material?”
“The story. And the characters.”
“What is the story?”
“I’d rather you read it. But okay. It’s about . . .” He held Noel’s eye as he described the story, though with a greater sense of what was going on in Jimmy Piper’s mind than Noel remembered from the manuscript. More emphasis too on the geography and landscapes along the back roads. When he finished, he picked up his coffee mug and sipped. “Writing it, it was as though I was taking pictures of everything going on in my mind and then with the snapshots in front of me I could describe what was happening with this incredible clarity, each scene really sharp visually, and when they got tied together there was a kind of soft music. I don’t know, but it’s like the prose is singing what it says.” He looked over Noel’s shoulder.
Jordan’s throat had gone crimson. The man was blushing.
“At least it seems that way to me.” He took another sip.
Noel was moved. Maybe a bit jealous. Even with his best writing, he’d never thought of it as singing. But was Beck’s blush because he’d lied well? Or because he’d shown a private section of himself? “Always good to feel proud of what you’ve done well. Tell me, who are your writing models?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, a little Vonnegut, some Dickens, Mark Twain, Hiassen of course. Whitman, definitely.”
“William Least Heat-Moon?”
“Who?”
“A man who wrote a book called Blue Highways. Like the roads you just described.”
“Never heard of him.”
“How about your characters? They based on people you know?” He watched Jordan’s face tighten. Not knowing, or trying to figure out a plausible answer?
His head shook. “Nobody I know well. Bits and pieces of people I’ve met, some friends even, but I did a lot of shaping.” His face relaxed, the grin came back. “And lots of rewriting. This draft was the fifth.”
“You get any critique along the way? Between drafts?”
Suddenly the blush again, and a hesitation. “No, I didn’t. Why’d you ask that?”
Something wrong here? “Usual reason. Get an outside view and rewrite from whatever you learn.”
“No,” he said again.
“What made you want to rewrite?”
He stared into the remains of his coffee. “When it didn’t feel right, sound right, I’d close my eyes again and try to see the scene. And take more mental pictures. And compare these with what I’d described. And it got clearer.”
A good trick. Noel wondered where Jordan had learned it. Or was he a true autodidact? “Well, I have to agree with you. The fiction writing process does sound more intriguing than the prose. If you’d like, I’d be pleased to read either or both.”
“Hey, that’d be great. Give me your email address and I can send them to you—” He glanced at his watch. “Better be this afternoon. I’m on duty in a few minutes.”
“I can probably get them from Langley.”
“Uh, no, don’t do that.” He stood. “Langley might feel like I’m pressuring him. Or something.”
Or something what? Noel took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote out his private email address. A while since he’d had to do this—usually these days he’d give someone his Islands Investigations International card. He tore out the page, handed it to Jordan. “Don’t know how long it’ll take me to read the material. But I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
They both stood. Suddenly Jordan seemed nervous. In a hurry to get to work? Or afraid he’d reveal information that might prove dangerous to him? “D’you have a recommendation for a late breakfast?”
Jordan grinned. A forced attempt at being pleasant? Hard to tell. “Sure. Try Thor’s. On Nichols. Good place. Their breakfast’s fine. It’s a pub and it’s even better at night. I know from experience.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Yeah. And, uh, thank you, Noel. See you. Got to speed off.”
“Good luck.” He watched Jordan stride to the door, and out. Noel left more slowly. Would Jordan Beck change into waiter’s garb? That belt-and-suspenders outfit wasn’t exactly the semi-upscale look.
He returned to Peter Langley’s office but found it locked. Conferences with colleagues, department meetings. Glad not to be living that life. In the car, Noel checked his map. Thor’s, on Nichols. He drove into town and parked across the street from the pub. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, said the menu beside the door.
He went in. A young woman with spirally black hair, good cheekbones and a few small zits asked, “Just one?”
“Yes.” Noel glanced about. Seemed he was the only customer for the moment. Spirally Black seated him by the window. “Tom will be with you in a moment.”
“Thank you.” Tom. The Tom that Peter had mentioned, one of Jordan’s buddies?
Tom arrived with a pitcher of water. “Morning. You’ll be having lunch?”
“Breakfast still being served?”
“Yep.” He glanced at his watch. “For another twenty minutes.”
Noel ordered. Tom left, returned quickly with hot coffee, and filled Noel’s cup. “Thanks, Tom.” He sipped. Excellent. If Kyra were here they could ask each other what they now knew that they hadn’t known yesterday, a tactic they employed in most of their investigations. Noel knew Peter Langley had possible but uncertain cause to question Jordan’s honesty, that the novella was far better written than any of Jordan’s other work, that Peter was stalling on Jordan’s grade, his judgment of the work. Noel sipped more coffee. Even good as it cooled. He also knew that he admired Peter for his insistence on certainty. In fact, Noel knew he’d enjoyed his time with Peter Langley altogether. Knew too that he’d better be careful on that front.
Breakfast arrived, eggs over easy, crisp ungreasy bacon, the potatoes more roasted than hashed; always good. Toast and honey. He held out his cup toward Tom. “A little more, please. It’s first-rate.” And now a lie: “Just as Jordan said.”
“Oh, hey, you know Jordan?”
“A little. Friend of yours?”
“We hang out.”
“Just met him, really. I hear he’s a good writer.”
“Yeah, he’s been doing a master’s up at the college.”
“Right. He said that. You read any of his stuff?”
“Me? Nope, I don’t read much. Except magazines, newspapers sometimes.”
“Must be a hard thing, working on a long piece of writing.”
Tom laughed. “Anything that takes a long time’s got to be hard.”
“Yeah, kind of lonely too.”
“Jordan gets around.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he’s one cool dude.”
“A cool dude?” In those doubly held-up shorts?
“You know, never any come-on. Waits for people to come to him. Some of the babes who hang out here, oh man. Come back in the evening, you’ll see.”
“He have a special girl?”
“I do. Believe me. I like ’em that way too.” Just easy now. “So who are the smart and gorgeous around here?”
Tom laughed. “You got to make your own introductions. Come by tonight.”
“Wouldn’t want to cut in on Jordan. Who’s the one he likes most? I’ll stay away from her.”
“Hey, no problem. Susanna Rossini. But you don’t have to worry; probably she won’t be here tonight.”
“Oh? Well then, no problem.”
“Hasn’t been around for a while. We all kinda miss her. She’s—”
The hostess with the spirally hair had taken Tom’s elbow. “New customers,” she whispered.
“Oh yeah, sorry Pica.” And to Noel, “Good talking to you.”
Noel glanced around. Half a dozen new guests. “And to you.” He’d leave Tom a larger than usual tip. Good breakfast, and it’d hold him till supper. At the Wild Pacific? With Kyra. A double-edged evening . . .
FOUR
SOMETHING WRONG WITH Larry? He’d called Peter again this morning to cancel their tennis match. Unlike him—he not only enjoyed the game but knew the exercise was essential. He spent too much time in his lab, not good for the heart living a sedentary life. Peter made sure Larry got at least some physical activity. For the last two years they’d been meeting twice a week for exercise, competition and friendship. Tennis on the Morsely courts when weather allowed, squash at the gym otherwise.
Today when Larry had phoned to cancel, just like three days ago, pleading that he had to follow through on an experiment so needed to stay at the lab, Peter talked him out of it. So it was a reluctant Laurence Rossini who’d appeared at the courts, and he played a listless first set. They were relatively equal in ability. Peter was twelve years Larry’s junior and faster on his feet, but Larry volleyed with the accuracy of a sniper, his placement exquisite. Frequently a set went to 6-6 and they had to move into tie-breaking time. In today’s first set, Peter beat Larry 6-2. But then some new strength bolstered Larry’s determination, and Peter had never seen him so accurate. Fast, too—his second set serves were much harder than the first. Larry won, 6-4. They limited themselves to two sets, saving the last of their energy for a beer. But today after the second, Larry seemed drained. All the energy he’d poured into winning disappeared with the speed it had arrived half an hour earlier.
Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island Page 6