The Rise of the Red Queen

by Bourne Morris

  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.

  Manny turned back to the provost and shook his hand. “Wonderful talking to you, sir,” he said in his gentle Texas drawl. Manny had grown up in El Paso and earned all his degrees in the University of Texas system.

  “I enjoyed it thoroughly, Dr. Lorenzo,” said McCready. Still no smile but at least some light in his eyes. Manny would be a good catch for Mountain West. A brilliant Hispanic with an impressive record as dean of a journalism school much larger than ours. I figured if the distinguished Dr. Manuel Lorenzo wanted to move from the prestigious university that hired him five years ago to the engaging climate of northern Nevada, Ezra McCready would hand him this job on a platter—with an extra serving of incentives.

  Manny moved back to me, gave me another hug and whispered, “Talk soon,” in my ear.

  McCready watched Manny leave through the outer office without looking at me. “Please give me a moment,” he said in my direction, then went back into his office and closed the door. Another five minutes passed. I suspected he enjoyed keeping me on edge and off my game.

  The door opened. “Please come in, Dr. Solaris.”

  The provost’s office had been refurnished since my last visit. The former provost, Fred Stoddard, who had helped me through a series of crises last year, had furnished this office with fat leather chairs and a sofa. Not McCready.

  A long glass-topped table surrounded by sleek leather swivel chairs dominated the room. A glass-topped desk on chrome legs took over the end of the room in front of the windows.

  The carpet was thick and gray, the walls painted a pale gray white. The only color in the room came from the books in shelves lining the walls. A delicate black and white Japanese print hung on the wall to the side of the desk, the only painting in a room that appeared to be as restrained as its occupant.

  “Please,” he said pulling out one of the black swivel chairs. He unbuttoned his jacket, sat opposite me, and folded his hands on the glass surface.

  A file and a carafe of water with two glasses were all that sat on the long empty table.

  His face was an unreadable mask. I tried to look cheerful and tugged at my suit jacket. “Thank you, Dr. McCready.”

  “Now then, Dr. Solaris. Start by telling me why you think you should be the next dean of the journalism school in this university.”

  I began with the death of Henry Brooks, the former dean, and my appointment to serve as the interim dean. Then I moved on to the horrific faculty quarrel that had preceded and followed Henry’s death along with my part in the discovery of the killer.

  I must have spoken for ten minutes with no interruption before he said, “Yes, Dr. Solaris. Of course, I know most of this from my conversations with President Lewis and with Dr. Stoddard on the phone a few weeks ago.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I think I have survived something of a baptism by fire over the past several months, and I have learned a great deal from the struggle.”

  “No doubt you have.” His eyes were cold and steady. “I am informed you are popular with several members of the journalism faculty.”

  “I believe I am respected by most.”

  “Indeed. Although popularity with faculty members is not necessarily a qualification for leadership.” McCready unfolded his hands and placed them flat on the table. “Any more than popularity with students is the mark of a good teacher.”

  In his chilly, formal office, I felt sweat starting on the back of my neck. “I believe I also have earned the faculty’s confidence and that of President Lewis. I believe I have been an effective leader.”

  “Perhaps so. Perhaps you have even been a brave leader.
But I have some questions about your ability and your experience—perhaps I should say, lack of experience. The search committee report is complimentary, but observes you have only been interim dean for not quite a year.”

  Shades of Mark Froman. Do all tall men in expensive suits plan to put me down as hard as they can?

  The provost opened the folder in front of him. “Let’s begin with your handling last year of a plagiarist and an admitted sexual predator whom you tolerated for several months even though you knew about his affair with a student.”

  And that’s how it went for the next hour, each of my sins and shortcomings pulled from the folder, one by one. It all felt more like a disciplinary hearing than a job interview.

  At length, he stood up and walked to the end of the table. He looked down at me. “Please understand, the university is grateful for your efforts to keep the journalism school together after the tumult that almost destroyed it. And I for one am grateful for your work preparing the school for reaccreditation. But my task is to consider what is best for the future of the school and what leadership skills will be needed for the days ahead.”

  “I understand,” I said, resenting his decision to tower over me at the same time he was expressing his tepid gratitude.

  In the end, we shook hands and he walked me to the door. “I plan to make my decision soon. Thank you for your time.”

  As I descended the stairs from the building, I saw a man heading toward me. Victor Watts, my other competitor. Another tall man in a good suit. This was my day to be treated to displays of Hugo Boss style tailoring. Most of the male faculty on my campus wore sweaters and jeans.

  “Interview with the provost?” I asked as he came near. It was almost noon and the sun was high in the sky.

  “Oh, hello. Meredith Solaris, right? Actually, I had my interview yesterday. Today, Dr. McCready asked me to join him for lunch.” A thin smug smile played across his mouth, as if Watts knew the provost hadn’t offered me so much as a cup of bad institutional coffee.

  Jamie

  Jamie showered, washed the plaster dust out of her hair and dressed in clean clothes. She headed downstairs, determined to find out why he had chosen her specifically from among all the other females on campus. Clearly he’d stalked her at school. Clearly he had entered her apartment and examined her possessions. What was it about her that made him select her among all other women, including women closer to his age, or women who would have been more accepting, more willing to sacrifice some personal freedom in order to get a house and a husband?

  He was sitting in the parlor, dressed again in work clothes and heavy boots. His head was bowed as if in prayer. She sat in a chair opposite him and cleared her throat. He raised his head and gave her the usual stare.

  “Why me?” She spoke without trembling, hands folded in her lap.

  “You’re healthy and very good-looking.”

  “I’m black. You’re white.”

  “I told you. Your race doesn’t matter. Never has. My stepmother…” He hesitated.

  “Yes. Tell me about your stepmother.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Jamie wanted to know what had happened to the stepmother, but decided to take a more oblique approach. “How old were you when she married your father?”

  He shrugged. “Twelve, thirteen. My mother died when I was eleven.”

  “Did your stepmother die?”

  He busied himself retying the laces of his boots so he could avoid looking directly at her. “She left when I was sixteen. I didn’t learn of her death until I was in my twenties.”

  Jamie leaned forward, addressing the top of his head. “I’m not going to cook dinner until you tell me more about her. Did she look like me?”

  He sat back in his chair. “She was beautiful, like you.”

  “And you loved her?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me more. Tell me all about her.”

  “That’s enough for now. I’m hungry. You need to start dinner.”

  Jamie decided to switch tactics. “Why did you break into my apartment and go through my stuff?”

  He stood up and turned away from her. His hands became fists that he clenched and unclenched. “Enough questions. Dinner. Now.”

  She sat still, refusing to move. He turned back to her. His usually unreadable eyes were blazing with anger. She had made him angry, and his expression alarmed her. “Dinner. Now, Jamie.”

  It was the first time he had called her by name. And her name in his mouth made her skin crawl.

  Chapter 20

  The red suit I’d worn to the provost’s office was too heavy for a warm fall day. I took off the jacket and swung it over my shoulder as I walked. I felt defeated and, at the same time, belligerent. I wanted to go back to McCready and head off what I was certain was going to be his rejection. If he chose another candidate for dean, I would go back to my job as a tenured professor. And much as I agreed with Sadie about the joys of teaching, I really wanted McCready to give me the dean’s job. Even if he and I found it difficult to be good friends, I knew I could make him respect me if he just gave me the chance.

  I walked, absorbed in my frustration, until I reached the street that bordered the west side of campus. Across the street was Gormley’s Grill. Sadie Hawkins was waiting for me inside, along with a generous glass of wine. And, despite my mother’s alcoholism and my own conservatism about drinking, I needed a drink more than ever.

  Wilson, the owner of Gormley’s, gave me a wink as I pushed through into the coolness of the bar.

  “Yes, please,” I said as I passed him on my way to the corner table Sadie always occupied.

  As soon as I sat down, Sadie put her hand over mine. “You look like hell,” she said. “How did it go with McCready?”

  “Terribly. Just terribly.”

  Sadie lifted her hand to make room for the wine glass Wilson put on the table between us. “My best Pinot Noir,” he said, and patted my shoulder. Wilson had been Sadie’s friend for years and she sort of gave him to me as a friend when she and I had become close.

  “Thank you.” I was as near to tears as I ever got.

  “So? Tell me about it,” said Sadie. Her sharp features softened by the dim light in the bar. Her white hair glowed in the same dimness. I never could figure out how she read in this light until I saw Wilson place a tiny portable lamp on the table next to her books and papers, a lamp he removed when her companions arrived for lunch. Sadie’s hand came back on mine.

  “It’s the provost, Sadie. And I think he’s never going to let me get the dean’s job. I’ll have to go back into the faculty and work for whomever he chooses.”

  “But, my dear, as we discussed, you’ll still be a tenured associate professor.”

  “But I’ll never be promoted to full professor. McCready will block it somehow.” I sipped my wine. “And you know better than anyone, a provost can exert a profoundly negative influence on your career even if he can’t outright fire you.”

  Sadie looked thoughtful. “Who do you think he’ll pick for dean?”

  “I hope it’s Manny Lorenzo. Victor Watts strikes me as an egotist, and I’ll bet he’s a real prick.”

  Sadie lifted her hand and pressed my cheek. “Let’s change the subject. There’s nothing to be done about the provost except to wait for his decision. We should order, and then I want to hear what’s happening with the search for the missing girl.”

  “No good news there, either. Joe’s team has been combing the entire city of Landry and much of the outskirts, but no trace of her. Her grandfather has been interrogating just about everyone who’s willing to talk to him. The poor man is inconsolable. And Nell and I tag along feeling helpless.”

  “Will Joe bring in the feds?”

  “If he can get some evidence. Right now, we have so little to go on. No one saw the girl
with anyone. No one saw her leave campus. There’s been no request for ransom, so we have absolutely no evidence she’s been kidnapped. Nonetheless, that’s what we all believe.”

  “That she may have been taken and murdered?”

  “Her car is still missing. I keep telling myself that if she’d been murdered, her car would have been dumped somewhere. I mean, who keeps a car after killing the owner?”

  Lunch arrived, but I had no appetite. I picked at the salad and ignored the soup. “And there’s still the matter of the man who broke into her apartment and went through her closet. I’m so frustrated, Sadie. This girl is my student and she disappeared on my watch. Except that I wasn’t watching carefully enough.”

  “You should eat something. You need to keep up your strength. Tell me, how are things with you and Joe?”

  “Joe and I are fine. The other day he put his basketball hoop up on the front of my garage so he could exercise at my house.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “Yes, but he hasn’t used it. We’re both so involved with the hunt for Jamie and I’m so oppressed by the search for the dean’s job that we’ve hardly had a moment alone with each other.”

  Sadie gave me her gentlest smile. “And the sexual assault policy committee?”

  “That consumes more time than anything else. There’s a special meeting called for this afternoon. The third meeting in as many days. We are being pushed hard on this because the provost needs an answer from us quickly.”

  “And Provost McCready wants things to come out his way on that matter, too.”

  On the walk back from lunch at Gormley’s, I kept reflecting on Sadie’s speech about what a good teacher I was and how important my research was and why I should just shuck off the provost’s coolness and move on. I had half-convinced myself that I really didn’t want the dean’s job all that much, when I passed a small building that was occupied by student government offices. It had once been a Bureau of Land Management facility and a small plaque commemorating that use caught my eye. Land Management. Land records. I had an idea and hurried back to my office to call Joe.