The Rise of the Red Queen

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The Rise of the Red Queen Page 6

by Bourne Morris


  Charlie met me at the door, jumping and running back and forth. He was hungry and I was late with his dinner. I should have asked Joe to come over and feed him while I was with the calculating Dean of the College of Economics.

  I gave Charlie his food and telephoned Joe.

  “Did Dean Thomas eat you alive?”

  “Actually, instead of me she had steak, rare. Almost bloody.”

  “Hardass, is she?”

  “It turned out better than I thought. I suspect she’s still not completely on my side for the dean’s job, but she needs me to help her on the committee to figure out our sexual assault policy.”

  “You’ll be good at that. You have a good mind for legal problems.” Joe had a sixth sense about when I could use a boost to my ego. Another one of the reasons I dated the guy. That, and besides The New York Times he read every morning, the man kept books of poetry on the bedside table in his apartment. “Helps me sleep when I have to sleep alone,” he’d said without a trace of sarcasm. I loved the idea he led an interior intellectual life. I also loved the idea that when he wasn’t with me, he slept alone. Or so I hoped.

  “How was your day, Detective Morgan?”

  “Long. I spent half of it tracking down the students in Jamie Congers’ classes who had been absent the first time I inquired. Then I went through the files my team had come up with on the man with the boots, and finally spent an hour observing two of my detectives testify in court against a local embezzler.”

  “Oh, I want to hear about the embezzler.” Joe’s job as chief of detectives in Landry was every bit as interesting as mine.

  “You will. I’ll tell you all about him.”

  “You’re amazing. Most cops never tell their dates anything about their work. Isn’t it against some rule or other?”

  “Not really. The press covers most trials so what I might say to you is hardly confidential. And even if some of it were, I don’t mind telling you, because I trust you to keep your mouth shut when I ask.”

  My, how that warmed me up.

  Joe continued, “I also don’t mind telling you because you really want to hear about my work. Usually the women in a cop’s life don’t want to hear about police work—or the cop thinks they don’t want to hear. Most of what we do all day is either too grisly or too boring to interest women.”

  “Well, I do want to hear. Any other news on Jamie Congers?”

  “Not really. Essentially confirmation that she was nice, very pretty, a good student, and she didn’t have a boyfriend anyone knows about.”

  “Hmm. I kept hoping for a boyfriend.”

  “You’re a romantic, Red. Nice girls don’t let their grandfathers and roommates worry this much.”

  “Speaking of romantic…”

  “I’d love to. But I have another hour and a half to put in on a case report and I’m beat. How about I come over tomorrow night and make filet of sole Meuniere followed by awe-inspiring sex for dessert?”

  “You do know the way to a woman’s heart.”

  Joe and I discovered our attraction for one another soon after he was appointed case detective on the police investigation of the death of Henry Brooks. Our friendship transformed to romance and was great for a while, but complicated. We broke up when Joe thought he was losing his detective’s objectivity trying to solve Henry’s death.

  Well, that’s not quite all the truth. We broke up because he thought I was in love with someone else, but after a month or so of miserable separation, we got back together. Since then, we had been sort of dating and sort of circling each other. Some days I thought Joe would cave into his feelings for me and ask if he could move out of his small apartment into my much larger house. Other days, I wasn’t all that sure.

  At least Joe was not a cynic. When I needed him, Joe was the kindest and most considerate man I knew. Last summer, when I thought my father might be dying, Joe took an unofficial leave so he could accompany me back to the nursing home in Ohio. Thaddeus Solaris had suffered from Alzheimer’s for several years, a disease that had started soon after my mother drove her car into a tree and died. I was sure Dad blamed himself for her death, although he had tried everything possible to get my mother help for her drinking.

  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 reached 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?

 

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