The Rise of the Red Queen

by Bourne Morris

  “That’s what Larry said.”

  Without looking up from his notes, the attorney said, “And you saw Weinstein strike Coleman and knock him to the ground?”

  “Twice.”

  McCready flashed a look of irritation at the attorney. “Please don’t interrupt.” Then back to me: “Dr. Solaris, did Coleman tell you how he got hold of the gun before being dragged outside?”

  The security chief’s chin lifted. “Good question, Dr. McCready. How did Coleman have time to get the gun?”

  I shook my head.

  McCready looked at me, his eyes dark, steady, and unreadable. “Perhaps Coleman had the gun with him the entire time.”

  “Took it with him to Weinstein’s house and then kept it on him,” said the chief.

  McCready looked steadily at the chief. “There’s really no way for any of us to know that, chief. And we shouldn’t speculate.” He turned to me. “You’ve had a rough time with these two, haven’t you?” The look in his eyes was borderline sympathetic. “The president’s right. You have no reason to apologize, Dean Solaris. This was a deplorable incident, but the fault lies entirely with Weinstein and Coleman.”

  I felt a twinge of gratitude to finally get McCready’s support, quickly followed by a pain in my stomach. If Larry had the gun the whole time, perhaps he’d intended to kill George when he went to the Weinstein’s house. If George died, Larry would be charged with premeditated murder.

  Philip Lewis had recovered his breath. “The detective we saw in the outer office. Is he on the case?”

  I nodded. Joe was always on the case when it came to my university. He was chief of detectives, and Mountain West was the biggest institution in Landry.

  As if summoned by the mention of his presence, Joe knocked on the door and came in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just spoke to the doctor at the hospital. George Weinstein is alive but critical. He’s been taken into surgery.”

  Jamie

  She smelled the liquor before she sensed him standing behind her. His hands slammed down on her shoulders. Jamie was frozen in place, still facing the hole in the plaster wall.

  “Put the skillet down very carefully,” he said, his voice almost a whisper in her ear, the smell of liquor close to her face. “You have been a very disobedient girl, Jamie Congers.” His hands still on her shoulders, he turned her around and led her out of the closet. Then he grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her back upstairs. He opened her bedroom door and continued pushing her through the door of her bedroom. His hand was tight and painful around her neck. Jamie was sure he meant to hurt her. He shoved her hard. She fell across the middle of the bed on her stomach, arms outstretched, legs hanging over the edge. She closed her eyes listening to his labored breathing.

  Several minutes passed. Then she heard the scuff of his shoes on her floor, the closing of her door, the click of the dead bolt being locked.

  Silence.

  Then she heard the thud of his steps going down the hall to his room.

  Minutes later, she emerged from a daze of relief to the rhythmic banging of a hammer pounding nails into wood, the sound muted but coming from the empty room downstairs.

  Chapter 25

  The journalism faculty filed slowly into the conference room on the third floor. I stood at the end of the table, waiting for everyone to arrive. Our graphics teacher, Phyllis Baker, walked over and put her arms around me. “Oh, Red. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.”

  Outside the conference room windows we could hear the babble of the media that gathered at the entrance. Cameras clicked and reporters thrust microphones into faces, shouting their questions while tugging on sleeves.

  Police kept the media outside, but the inevitable noise seeped through.

  “How’s George?” asked Edwin Cartwell, running his thin hand over his even thinner sandy hair. Edwin had been George’s close friend and ally last year, but the two seemed to have drawn apart.

  “In recovery,” I said, and turned to the faculty and staff members at the table. Some seated. Some standing. Two or three in tears. Not, I thought, because George Weinstein was beloved, or even liked, but because violence begets the nerve-wracking anxiety that brings us to tears.

  I started without a greeting. “George Weinstein is in recovery. His condition is critical, bordering on grave, and it’s too soon to tell whether or not he’ll pull out of this, and if he does, what shape he’ll be in.” My words seemed rushed and absent of compassion. “I spent a little time with his wife last night while George was in surgery. Dorothy was quiet, probably in shock, but she seemed to be holding up as well as can be expected. I am sure she will welcome cards and letters, but I think phone calls should wait a while until we know more.”

  Quiet in the room, everyone waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I braced myself against the edge of the conference table. “Larry Coleman is in custody. I believe an arraignment is scheduled for later this morning.”

  “Do we know what caused it?” from somewhere in the back of the room.

  Edwin saw the look on my face and came to the rescue. “George and Larry had been quarreling recently over a paper Larry was due to present in December. It seems that George was instrumental in getting the conference chair to change her mind about Larry’s presentation and she cancelled his appearance.”

  A collective groan.

  Another voice. “But is that reason to shoot a guy?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “But as some of you know, there was a physical fight in the parking lot. And there were threats. You all are aware these two men had a history of animosity, and I guess this latest just pushed both of them over the edge.”

  Poor Larry, I thought. Such a smart, fragile, frightened man. How had he let rage take over so completely? And poor George. I would never have wished so awful a punishment as a gunshot wound.

  “How would you like us to handle this with our students?” asked Phyllis.

  I sighed. “Tell them the truth. They’re journalists in training.”

  After the meeting, I went to my office to prepare for the press conference Philip Lewis and Ezra McCready were planning to give on the lawn in front of the library building.

  I would be lucky to get through the crowd downstairs without giving a statement.

  Nell followed me after gathering a stack of messages from her desk. On the top was Sadie’s. Nell was so wise. She knew Sadie and Joe would be the only people I’d want to talk to, and Joe was tied up at Larry Coleman’s arraignment.

  I called Sadie, whose first words were, “Well, chick, at least no one is trying to take a shot at you these days. At least not literally.” Sadie had been my firm support and faithful friend all during the last year when I was sure my own life had been threatened.

  “Oh, Sadie, I am so sad. I still can’t believe what I saw last night and what this is going to mean for the school.”

  “For the next few weeks it’s going to be perfectly dreadful. Every news outlet from here to New York will want a story, an interview, a piece of you. But then the news cycle will change and gradually, this will fade, at least until Coleman’s trial. And you, my dear friend, will survive that. And the school will too. Count on it.”

  I staggered into my chair and put my head down on my desk. Larry Coleman arrested. George Weinstein in critical condition. Jamie Congers still gone. I felt trapped, no way out, no way to get away from tragedy and bitter and inevitable disappointment.

  I struggled up from my chair and tried to shake off my gathering gloom. Don’t give up. Throw up but don’t give up.

  I walked down the stairs to Edwin Cartwell’s classroom where he taught news writing.

  Edwin can be an awful stuffed shirt in faculty meetings, but he’s vibrant in front of a group of students. I had learned over the past few months that whenever I felt depressed or defeated, the best cur
e was to watch Edwin teach.

  A small studio room was adjacent to his classroom.

  The studio had a window that looked into Edwin’s class, and if I kept the studio room dark, I could sit there, unobserved, watching and listening as Edwin reminded me of the joys of great teaching. He moved among the students, pausing to look over a shoulder at what a student was writing on the computer, leaning down to whisper help with a problem, applauding a particular effort. They were writing about the shooting of George Weinstein.

  Edwin moved back and forth and then to the head of the room where he raised his voice to remind them about a famous blind editor. Edwin was in full animation as he told how the editor would pound the floor with the tip of his white cane as he commanded his reporters to write vividly. “Make me see. Make me see,” the blind editor would shout. The students were mesmerized.

  Feeling uplifted and reminded of all the good that takes place in a university, I returned to my office. The phone rang just as I resumed my seat and I was grateful to hear Joe’s voice. “Larry Coleman is out on half a million in bail. His wife paid it.”

  “Larry’s wife is a successful attorney. She can manage that. What’s the charge?”

  “At this point, assault with a deadly weapon. But that could change to attempted murder if the evidence shows that Larry premeditated the shooting.”

  “Did he account for how he got the gun?”

  “Well, in a way. He said he has been carrying the gun every day since last year when George and the others were bullying him. It’s small enough to fit in his jacket pocket, and he has a license to carry a concealed weapon and permission from the university.”

  Nevada law permits gun licenses to any adult without a criminal record, and since it was against the law to bring a gun to a school, Larry must have also persuaded authorities that he faced substantial danger to get permission to carry concealed on campus.

  “Is he still claiming self-defense?”

  “He is. He insists George dragged him outside to beat the shit out of him, and that after being knocked down a couple of times, he drew the gun and fired.”

  “But I saw George walking away.”

  “I know. And you’ll probably be called to testify when this thing goes to trial.”

  Great. That undid the revitalization I felt during Edwin’s class.

  “Another thing, hon. Wynan wants to meet later. He has some news about those land maps you found.”

  We agreed Wynan would come for dinner.

  Joe would make lasagna. Joe’s lasagna cheers me up almost as much as Edwin’s teaching.

  I had no sooner ended my conversation with Joe than Dorothy Weinstein called to tell me she was transferring George to a hospital in San Francisco. “The bullet injured his spine and I want a special neurosurgeon in the Bay Area to deal with it.”

  With Larry free on bail and George still alive and well enough to be flown to San Francisco, I felt a bit lighter on my way to the library to what I hoped was the last meeting of the week for the assault policy committee.

  Manny Lorenzo had left a voicemail while I was on the phone, expressing his condolences for our troubles and, like Sadie, assuring me that in a few weeks, this too would pass. He made no reference to our competition for the job. Manny’s call was clearly his way of telling me we were still good friends and he still had my back even as we competed.

  Another surprise waited for me when I ran into my second rival on the path leading from the library. Victor Watts was balancing books and a laptop, but stopped when he saw me.

  I was startled to see him still on our campus, and my face must have shown it. “What brings you back to Nevada?” I asked hoping to sound casual.

  “Oh, I never left. My wife and I have rented a place up at Lake Tahoe. We love September sailing and are hoping for some snow later on so we can ski.” Victor smiled. “However the dean’s job turns out, I plan to enjoy Nevada as much as possible.”

  “Oh, how nice.” A lame rejoinder if ever there was one. I wondered if he knew about Larry and George. He did.

  “Sorry to hear about the shooting last night.”

  “It was awful. I hope it doesn’t make you think badly about our school.” I meant that.

  “It doesn’t. I was a war correspondent for over a decade. I know violence can show up anytime and anywhere.”

  I nodded, uncertain of what else to say.

  He hitched up the books in his arms and turned to go. “On the bright side, Red, last night’s episode may have relieved the school of two of its worst personnel problems.”

  The callousness of his remark stunned me. But as I watched him leave, I had to admit Victor Watts was shockingly right.

  Jamie

  Jamie’s bedroom door remained locked until early evening. No breakfast and no lunch, and certainly no wandering about the house. She was being punished for the hole in the closet wall. Hungry and scared, she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting to hear the sound of his car in the driveway and wondering what he planned to do next.

  The deadbolt on her door snapped. He was still dressed in a suit and tie. “There’s food on the kitchen counter. Go downstairs and start dinner.” His voice matched the coldness in his eyes.

  Pieces of frying chicken, some potatoes, and broccoli awaited her. She pulled a bag of flour from the cupboard and poured oil into the skillet. The very skillet that she had once thought would gain her freedom was now back on the stove, a dent in the rim the only reminder of her escape plan.

  The two of them sat through another silent dinner. As she cleared the table, she said, “What’s going to happen to me next?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you next,” he said. Dressed again in boots and jeans, he looked large and powerful at his end of the table. “You go back to your normal routine tomorrow. Except, of course, for the closet in the front room. That’s obviously off limits.”

  “Did you repair the hole?”

  “Not yet, but the door is nailed shut, so don’t try anything. Or something else will happen.”

  Not for the first time since she had been abducted from the garage, Jamie felt a painful sadness. Tears filled her eyes and made her voice choke. She grabbed the back of her chair for support. “Why, why, why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why have you taken me?” She swallowed hard. “What is supposed to happen between us? What are you waiting for? What exactly do you expect of me?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “As I’ve told you before, I am waiting for you to get used to living here. To taking care of this house and someday, I hope, to feeling more comfortable with me.”

  She knew it was reckless, but she persisted. Why not? Her escape plan was ruined. What else could she try? “Tell me about your stepmother.”

  His face paled. “Why do you want to know about her?”

  “I look like her, don’t I?”

  “You could be her sister…or her daughter.”

  “What was her name? Tell me about her. How did she come here?” Jamie sat down in her chair and stared back at him. His facial nerves twitched and his eyes widened. He pushed back in his chair and placed his hands flat on the table. His hands were strong but his nails were manicured. Not the hands of a rancher, she thought. What does he do for a living?

  As he talked, some light came into his dark eyes. “My stepmother’s name was Alice. She was hired as a day nurse for my mother, who had suffered a major heart attack and was too weak to care for me or the house.”

  “How old were you when Alice first came?”

  “Ten or eleven. I don’t remember.”

  “And after she came what happened?”

  “In spite of everything Alice and my father did to take care of her, my mother died. Alice left for a while, but then my father hired her back to cook and clean and keep an eye on me during the day while h
e worked.”

  “How long did that last?”

  “My father fell in love with her, and they were married the next year.”

  “And you loved her too.”

  The man turned away and seemed to be staring at some object in the middle distance, but not at Jamie. “Yes. I loved her too.”

  Jamie took a deep breath. Go for it, she thought. “Did you love Alice as a stepmother, or was there more?”

  The man’s chest heaved. “This is hard for me to talk about. But, as you seem to have guessed, there was more. Alice was in her twenties and much younger than my father. When I turned sixteen, I was taller than her, big for my age, and…and yes, I fell in love with her.” The man turned to Jamie, his face red with exertion and pain. “And, yes, damn it, I know what you want me to tell you. My father caught us together one afternoon in the front room, which had been my mother’s last bedroom.”

  “What happened after he caught you?” Jamie felt frightened and not so certain she really wanted to know what happened to Alice.

  “My father took me out back and whipped me with his belt until I fainted.” The man looked down at the table, his breathing heavy and labored. He pushed against the edge of the table. “When I came to, it was midnight and I was lying in the grass out back. Alice was gone. Her clothes, her books, everything.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “No. And that’s enough. I understand your curiosity, but I can’t talk about this anymore.” He left her sitting at the table, wondering how she was going to maneuver her way out of the incredible task of replacing Alice.

  Chapter 26

  In addition to her proposal that we adopt the California policy on sexual assault, Karen Milton suggested the university hire a special person to handle all aspects of the process for dealing with that kind of crime. “As director of all student affairs, I am already too busy to cope with this. Other universities and colleges have created a new position and I think we should too. The title would be Director of Assault Prevention and Response.”