Two Days Gone

by Randall Silvis

  Conescu stopped typing. Then he scrolled down the page until only white space was visible on the screen. He leaned back in his chair, turned his head toward DeMarco, lifted his eyes, and glowered. Every movement was distinct and separate, almost detached from the one that preceded it.

  Paranoid schizophrenic, DeMarco told himself. Classic.

  He said, “How would you characterize your relationship with Professor Huston?”

  Conescu considered his response. Finally he said, “I don’t like Nazis. Nazis don’t like me.”

  “And why do you call him a Nazi?”

  “What is Nazi? Full of hate. Prejudice. The desire to stifle, persecute, destroy those who threaten them.”

  “Did you threaten him?”

  Conescu stared at him through slitted eyes. Then he faced his monitor. “Professional disagreements.”

  “He was one of the committee members who voted against tenure for you. You’ve threatened him personally and the university in general with lawsuits.”

  “My reputation is at stake.”

  “And what is your reputation?”

  Conescu’s shoulders stiffened and rose. His neck all but disappeared. DeMarco could hear him breathing through his nose, the slow inhalations, quick bursts of expelled air.

  Finally DeMarco said, “From what I’ve been able to determine, Professor, all the threats were coming from you. I have copies of the emails and the letters. So I have only one other question for you. Where were you Saturday night between ten or so and dawn the next day?”

  “Where is any decent person at that time? Asleep in bed.”

  “You’re not married, are you?”

  “I have no time for those things.”

  “Those things? You mean a wife?”

  “Romance! Love affairs! I live a life of the mind.”

  “So there’s no way to actually confirm that you were where you say you were?”

  This time, Conescu blew a mouthful of air out through his teeth. “Check the tapes,” he growled.

  “And what tapes would those be?”

  “Security cameras on every floor of my building. I arrive home at seven. Stay in till four the next day. Order dinner between eight, eight thirty. Check the tapes if you want to know.”

  “You had food delivered?”

  “Steak stromboli and mozzarella sticks.”

  “Name of the restaurant?”

  Conescu glared up at him. “You think I’m a liar?”

  “Just asking for the name of the restaurant is all.”

  “Pizza fucking Joe.”

  “Pizza Joe’s on Twelfth?”

  “You want to smell the empty box in my garbage can?”

  DeMarco smiled. “I’ll let you know if that will be necessary.”

  Out on the street three minutes later, on his way to the parking lot, DeMarco was hit by a sudden cold shiver. “Higher education,” he said out loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Twenty-Four

  By ten that morning the woods were no longer misty. From time to time, Huston emerged from the woods to check his position against an unobstructed view of the sun, but whenever possible, he remained hidden on his northward march. He had followed Sandy Creek out of Lake Wilhelm to its headwaters, a narrow stream that burbled up out of the ground. By his calculations, he had hiked ten to twelve miles since dawn. If his calculations were correct, Annabel’s place of employment was fewer than three hours away.

  You should start heading west now, he told himself. No, stop for a while. Eat something. Don’t wear yourself down to nothing.

  He knew that he was already nothing, that nothing remained of him save his ignorance and rage. He hoped to alleviate the ignorance by talking with Annabel, then shortly thereafter to expiate the rage. It sounded easy, but he knew it would not be. Annabel might not know anything. Even if she did, would she be likely to tell? In that case, what would he do?

  He sat on the ground and ate one of his apples and a few pieces of beef jerky. He still had half the orange juice left and knew he should ration it out to last as long as possible, but the plastic jug pulled heavily on his arm when he walked. You can always find something to drink, he told himself. Every little town along the way has at least one soft drink machine outside of a community center or a playground. Drink the orange juice. Keep your strength up.

  He wondered if he should contact Nathan Briessen. All morning long, Huston had been running names through his head, assaying each individual’s potential for assistance. The only name that did not get crossed off the list of candidates was Nate’s. Nate knows about Annabel, Huston told himself again. He could drive me there. Drive me away again. Bring me clothes that don’t stink, shoes that aren’t soaked through. Maybe get me a weapon.

  But what right do I have to involve him in this?

  Not since a boy had Huston felt so utterly alone. Yes, in his interviews, he had frequently spoken of the solitude of the writer’s life, but his solitude had never been more than temporary, the manufactured solitude of a few hours each morning. There had always been Claire to fill the empty spaces. To shine her brightness in all his dark corners. Ever since February of his junior year in college. The Sweetheart Dance. Their first kiss. With that kiss, she had swept away his loneliness, poured light into his soul.

  Now he was a twelve-year-old boy again. The one who left the house every afternoon to escape his parents’ screaming. Their arguments that never ended. Every day after school he had hiked the woods alone and slept in fields and wished his parents would get a divorce if they hated each other so much. But they had stayed together despite the shouting matches. Three or four nights a week, the mattress on its metal frame thudded in their bedroom. The closest Huston ever came to understanding their relationship was the time he had complained to his father. “Why can’t she ever talk in a normal tone of voice?” he had asked. “Why does she have to sound so angry all the time? Pretty soon you start screaming too. That’s all I ever hear around here.” His father, who at the time had been changing the oil in the Pontiac, crawled out from under the car, wiped his hands on a blue rag, and shrugged. “Your mother’s a passionate woman. I have to take the good with the bad.”

  There was a lot more of the good when Tommy Jr. came along. Something mellowed then in Huston’s mother and father. Tommy was his grandmother’s jewel, and then Alyssa, her grandfather’s princess. Then one day Huston’s parents were gone.

  But always there had been Claire. His light giver. The keeper of his soul.

  Now that too was gone. Now he had only Annabel to rely upon. Only Annabel, his ignorance, and his rage.

  He tossed the ravaged apple core aside. Climbed stiffly to his feet. Bent over and hefted the grocery bags. A few more miles, he told himself. You don’t deserve to rest.

  Deception

  Twenty-Five

  DeMarco had one other stop to make on campus. The registrar was a brittle-haired blond with a round face, bright green eyes, and an easy smile. But somewhere underneath the tight, flowered dress and eye-catching cleavage beat a schoolmarm’s heart.

  “All I’m asking,” DeMarco said, trying not to sound as exasperated as his five minutes with her had made him, “is for his class and home address.”

  “And as I’ve told you,” she answered, “we consider that personal information. It can only be supplied with the student’s permission. Or with a warrant.”

  “Then please call him and ask his permission.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid you will have to do that yourself.”

  “Then tell me his telephone number.”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t do that.”

  “You understand that this is a police matter?”

  She grinned so hard that her nose wrinkled. “I noticed that right away,” she said.

  “So the university has no desire to coope
rate with the police?”

  “We always cooperate with the police.”

  “By refusing to provide information?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s against our policy.”

  “You’re giving me a headache,” DeMarco said.

  She gave him another nose-crinkling grin.

  “Will you tell me this much?” he asked. “Does he have any classes today?”

  She thought about the request for a few moments, turned it over in her mind, flipped it inside and out, and finally typed Nathan Briessen into the search engine box.

  “He does not,” she answered.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s against university policy to provide that information.”

  “You know I can get a warrant easily enough.”

  “I’m sure you can get lots of things if you really want to.”

  The thought popped into his head that maybe she was flirting with him. Was it possible? He considered again the overdone hairdo, the overly tight dress, the overabundant cleavage. But he dismissed the possibility. He knew this kind of woman. She laid out all the necessary bait but only so as to lure the victim close enough that she could slap him silly.

  DeMarco chose to stay out of reach. From his jacket pocket he took the small notebook on which he had written Heather Ramsey’s address and telephone number. He punched the numbers into his cell phone. She answered in the middle of the fourth ring. Her voice was small and glutinous with tears.

  “It’s Sergeant DeMarco again,” he told her. “I’m trying to locate Nathan Briessen. Do you know him, by any chance?”

  “The grad assistant?” she said.

  The registrar’s nose uncrinkled. Her grin turned out to be not permanent after all.

  “Would you happen to know where he lives?”

  “Somewhere downtown,” Heather Ramsey told him. “Over a bakery, I think. I don’t know the exact address.”

  “How about you?” DeMarco asked. “You doing okay?”

  “To be honest with you, I don’t know how I’m doing.”

  “You call me, okay? If you need anything. If you just want to talk.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  DeMarco pocketed his cell phone and smiled at the registrar.

  “Thank you for your time,” he told her.

  “Who was that?” she demanded.

  “Have a lovely day.”

  Twenty-Six

  DeMarco knew of only two bakeries in town. The first, Basic Kneads, was housed in a small one-story cottage. The other, Schneider’s Bakery, occupied the first floor of a large three-story brick building on Main Street. An open doorway to the side of the bakery gave way to a landing and a locked door. Outside the locked door were four call buttons. Stuck beneath the button for apartment 3B was a black label with white printing that read Briessen.

  DeMarco held the button down for five seconds.

  A male voice came through the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Sergeant Ryan DeMarco of the Pennsylvania State Police, Mr. Briessen. I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes please.”

  The reply sounded heavy with resignation. “Come on up.”

  The student stood waiting in his open doorway at the top of the third-floor landing. He said, “It’s pronounced Bryson, by the way. Not Breeson.”

  “Sorry,” DeMarco said.

  “Happens all the time. Come on in.”

  The young man was older than DeMarco had expected, maybe thirty, give or take a couple of years. He was taller than DeMarco, six-one or so, a black man of medium build, clean-shaven, fit, his hair cropped close to the scalp. He wore loose, faded jeans, white cotton socks, and a faded blue T-shirt with the word SeaWolves emblazoned in orange across the chest.

  “Don’t see many of those,” DeMarco said with a nod toward the shirt. “You a fan?”

  Briessen closed the door behind DeMarco and followed him into the living room. “Second baseman for three seasons. Never got called up, so I sold insurance for a while. Now I’m back in school. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

  DeMarco sat in a canvas sling chair wedged into a corner beside the front window. Briessen pulled the leather swivel chair away from his desk, turned it to face DeMarco, sat down, and said, “I was sort of wondering when you guys would get around to me.”

  DeMarco smiled. He liked this young man. “The wheels of justice turn slowly.”

  “Not that slowly, I guess. It’s only been four days. Seems more like four months though.”

  DeMarco nodded. “You from Erie originally?”

  “Chicago. When the Tigers signed me, they sent me to Erie.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Thomas Huston.”

  “You knew him before you came here?”

  “Only by his work. I came here to study with him.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “This is my third semester, my last for coursework.”

  “And you had a class with him this semester?”

  “Independent study. Plus he’s my thesis director and advisor. I also took classes with him each of my first two semesters.”

  “So you’ve gotten to know him fairly well.”

  “That’s what makes this all so unbelievable. I just can’t seem to…get my head around it.”

  “You never thought he was capable of something like that?”

  “It’s inconceivable. His family was everything to him. Everything.”

  “So if not him…who else might have done it?”

  “Christ, I can’t even… I mean…”

  DeMarco waited. The young man was fighting back tears. He lived here in an apartment with two chairs, a hundred books on plastic bookshelves, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. The heat and the aromas from the bakery made the air thick and too sweet. A constant drone of traffic noise came through and sometimes rattled the windows. By the look of his graceful hands and long fingers, he was a privileged boy from Lincoln Park or Streeterville, but he had failed as a baseball player and had gotten bored with selling insurance. He lived alone and dreamed of being a writer, and now his hero was finished, whisked away from him by unfathomable tragedy.

  DeMarco said, “What about Conescu?”

  Briessen looked up at him. “He’s a first-class weasel but…a murderer? Honestly, I don’t think he’s got the balls for it.”

  “How about Denton?”

  “Dr. Denton?”

  “I sensed a lot of professional jealousy there.”

  “Well, yeah, but…who wouldn’t be jealous of Tom? He was…perfection.”

  And now DeMarco understood. Softly he said, “Did he know how you felt about him?”

  A tiny movement flitted at the corner of Briessen’s eye, a twitch, a wince. Then he shrugged. “It was never expressed, never talked about. But I’m sure he knew.”

  DeMarco waited for the rest of it.

  “The thing about Tom is, right from the start, he treated me like an equal. I mean I might never publish a single word. But he respected my…intent, you know? He respected the dream. More than anything else, that’s what made him so special to me.”

  DeMarco allowed half a minute to pass in silence. “You have any idea where he might be, Nathan?”

  “I wish like hell I did. Imagine what he must be going through right now.”

  “I’ve been doing my best to imagine just that. Where would he go? What would he do?”

  “I think he’s looking for the killer.”

  “You do.”

  “Wouldn’t you, if you were him? I know I would. Hell, I’d be helping him right now if I could.”

  “Do you think he knows who did it?”

  “I’ve thought about this a lot. And I can’t imagine
that he does know. I mean…have you found any other bodies yet?”

  “So you do believe he’s capable of violence.”

  “Under the right circumstances? Aren’t we all? I mean, could Tom ever hurt his family? Never. Never. Could he waste somebody who did hurt his family? Could you?”

  DeMarco chewed on his lower lip, looked at his hands. He still sometimes fantasized about torturing the man who had run the red light and plowed his pickup truck into the side of DeMarco’s car. The man had spent seven months in prison for vehicular manslaughter, but seven years would not have satisfied DeMarco. Not even seven times seven years. Not seven score and ten.

  DeMarco felt the stiffness in his jaw, felt his molars grinding. He brought himself back to the apartment, away from the impossible. “So you’ve had no contact with him whatsoever.”

  “Not a word. I keep hoping though.”

  DeMarco nodded. “As for your whereabouts last Saturday night?”

  The young man sat motionless for a while. Finally he said, “A club in Erie. The Zone.”

  “And after closing?”

  Briessen blew out a slow breath. “Alex Ferris. He’s a student here. Just tread lightly, okay? His parents are…unaware. Un…enlightened.”

  Christ, DeMarco told himself. So much fucking tragedy in this world. So much fucking pain.

  “Who’s Annabel?” he asked.

  “Annabel…?”

  “From Professor Huston’s email to you. He said he was going to visit Annabel and invited you to go along.”

  “Ah,” Briessen said. “A woman he was using as his model for Annabel. From the novel he’s working on. Was working on.”

  “She’s a character in his new novel?”

  “Right. The Lolita character.”

  “You’re losing me here. Annabel is a character based on the Lolita character?”

  “His new novel, the one he was calling D. It’s a contemporary take on Nabokov’s novel Lolita. Tom was calling his character Annabel. The woman he invited me to meet was, I think, the physical model for that character, who, yes, is modeled after Nabokov’s character Lolita.”