by Donn Taylor
When the sound of his footsteps faded, she and I took our leave of Dr. Sheldon. She said nothing as we walked down the hall, and she avoided eye contact until we drove away from the nursing home.
“What’s with you and Seagrave?” I asked.
I expected her to burn me with a glance, but she showed no emotion at all. “He colors outside the lines.”
That should have told me to leave well enough alone, but I asked, “How was your dinner with Brice Funderburk?”
She smiled. “I had a great time, but I don’t think he liked the decor at Dolt’s.”
“Dolt’s? I’d have thought he’d take you to a four-star restaurant.”
Her smile widened. “He asked where I wanted to go, and Dolt’s was the only place where we could finish in time for the meeting with Dr. Sheldon. I don’t think the good counselor approved of my choice.” She closed that subject by raising another. “What do Mr. Seagrave’s findings do to our investigation?”
In frustration, I pounded the steering wheel. “I wish I knew. They may mean our little circle of suspects is too small. That business about the wireless connection means we should suspect anyone with a car and a laptop. And maybe the car isn’t required.”
She drummed fingers on her left knee. “So far as we know, none of our suspects owns a laptop, unless Threnody Harkins does. I heard that all the others have denied owning one. Given the kind of salaries we draw here, they’re probably telling the truth. Most of our colleagues have older desktop computers at home but can’t afford anything beyond the most basic setup. If any of the suspects did own a laptop, the police would have found it when they searched homes and offices.”
“So where does that leave us?” I already knew, but I hoped she’d have a different idea.
She sighed. “It leaves us out in the cold. I don’t see any way to proceed.”
“Neither do I,” I said as I parked in front of her apartment. “Let’s sleep on it and see if we think of anything. And we probably need to talk about our Wednesday afternoon meeting with the faculty hearing committee. Can we compare notes over lunch tomorrow?”
She gave me a straight look. My thought was that we weren’t welcome on campus, and we certainly didn’t need to be seen together at either her place or mine. I could see her assessing the situation mentally.
“Late lunch,” she said, finally. “I have a lot of things to do. Call me about one thirty?”
“Okay,” I said.
She thanked me for the ride, rewarded me with a smile, and was gone. I watched until she disappeared around a corner, feeling an irrational disappointment when she did not look back or wave. Once again I became conscious of the car’s emptiness. Could this be some new law of nature, that her absence always left emptiness behind?
Fatigue set in as I drove home. Perhaps because of that, my situation again seemed hopeless. I’d been suspended from my job, Clyde Staggart had poisoned Dean-Dean’s mind against me, I was the prime suspect for at least one murder, and the house of hope I’d built toward finding the real murderer had just collapsed like a cardboard box in a rainstorm. As if those troubles weren’t enough, I was becoming jealous—yes, I had to admit it—of Seagrave’s and Funderburk’s attentions to Mara, a woman on whom I had no claim at all.
My only consolation was that things couldn’t get worse.
I was wrong again.
CHAPTER 39
Tuesday morning brought plummeting temperatures, scudding low clouds, and a wind so wet you could wring it out like a dishrag. We’d have snow soon. It was a perfect day to relax with a fire in the hearth and a cup of hot chocolate in the hand. But I didn’t feel relaxed, my house had central heating, and everything in the cup tasted like hemlock.
I saw with stark clarity that our investigation had hit a stone wall. Mara and I were the only suspects with evidence against us. The fact that the evidence was faked posed little problem to Clyde Staggart. It stung my conscience that his hatred for me prejudiced him against Mara. Brice Funderburk had gotten us out of jail, but keeping us out was another story. And if keeping one of us free required letting the other hang, I knew which one he would choose.
I had no idea how to defend myself before the faculty hearing committee on Wednesday afternoon. I didn’t know which way Gifford Jessel would jump but, historically, the committee voted the way the administration wanted. That probably meant I’d never teach history again.
Beyond all that, my sense of unseen forces closing in had grown stronger. And my internal orchestra didn’t help. Today it played nothing but dirges.
So the morning passed in gloom, and Mara didn’t answer when I called at one thirty. When I called again at two, she said she needed more time and would call back. By the time she did, just after three, my bleak mood had sunk into depression. Her mood seemed no better when I picked her up and headed for Dolt’s.
“I’m sorry to be so late,” she said. “I’d let a lot of things slip and had to catch up.”
She didn’t look me in the eye when she said it. That set off my suspicions. For all I knew she’d already had lunch with Brice Funderburk.
Dolt’s had the usual crowd of students yelling into cell phones and the usual music blasting out of overloaded amplifiers. My internal music played in different keys, creating a painful dissonance for me to think against.
At the same table we’d used before, Mara and I hung our coats on the backs of our chairs. I stuffed my gloves into the coat pockets, while she laid hers on the table on top of her purse. She was wearing jeans—not much protection against the dropping temperatures.
I ordered a cheeseburger and coffee. She chose a Reuben with Coke and asked for separate checks. Her independent streak again. We ate our sandwiches in silence. Afterward, I had a second cup of coffee while she sipped on her Coke.
After a while she focused her blue gaze on me and said, “All right, Chief Inspector Barclay, what do we do now?”
Several smart replies flitted through my head, but I actually said, “I can’t think of a single lead we can follow. Like I said last night, I struck out with all of our suspects.”
“I had no luck this morning.” She blinked back what might have been a tear. “Based on last night’s conversation, I thought we could rule out any of our suspects who were incompetent with computers. But Earl-George says they’re all fairly sharp, including Pappas. It seems our custodial associate has been taking night courses. I asked which of the group were extra-sharp, and Earl-George said none. So my bright idea ended up on the ash heap.”
“You were ahead of me,” I said. “I hadn’t thought to ask him.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I hoped I might learn something if I talked to the suspects, but I couldn’t find the men and wish I hadn’t found the women. Threnody Harkins called me something unmentionable and said I ought to be shot. And Brenda Kirsch . . .” Mara shook her head. “That woman lies like a Persian rug.”
“I never met a rug that slippery,” I said. My black-widow vision of Brenda metamorphosed into an eel, green like the color of her warm-ups.
Mara made a face. “I tried to find out something about that blackjack, but Brenda would only talk about you and me. She said she hoped we’d be happy shacked up in the poorhouse together—if someone didn’t send us to join Laila first. She made me so angry I almost hit her.”
“Why didn’t you? You know karate.” Call it a historian’s impolitic curiosity.
Mara’s hands formed fists on the table. “I’m in enough trouble already. So I went home and packed everything I own. That’s what took me so long.”
“We still might luck out at our hearing tomorrow.” I knew better, but I also realized I didn’t want Mara to leave town. “They have no real evidence against us.”
She singed me with her blue gaze. “Our only evidence is our own word, and rules for the hearing don’t allow representation by counsel. We stand less chance than goldfish in a tank of sharks.”
I tried another tack. “On this packing busi
ness: will the police let you leave town?”
She bit her lip. “I’d finished packing before I remembered. On top of that, the person who’s been trying to incriminate us may not be through. We don’t know what he—or she—will do next.”
My foreboding returned, but I tried to argue it away. “That may be a good thing, in a crazy kind of way. The bogus evidence someone planted on us is the only thing that ties the two murders together.”
She burned me with another glance. “Every one of our suspects has threatened us, and all we can do is wait for the murderer to move against us and hope it isn’t fatal.”
“That’s about it,” I said.
She picked up her gloves and purse. “Then please drive me home, Press. I can worry more efficiently without this background noise.”
We paid our checks and walked out to my car. A light snow was falling, but my gloved hands easily cleared it from the windows. I was glad the Honda had a stick shift instead of an automatic transmission. For driving on snow, I like to decide when to shift gears. Still, I drove slowly and hoped other drivers would do the same.
We eased out of the parking lot and made a gentle turn west toward her apartment. I apparently wouldn’t have to worry about other drivers. The street stood empty except for a dark-colored SUV parked at one side with the motor running. The snow came down in big wet flakes, but the windshield wipers swept it aside to leave an arc of visibility. I flicked on the rear-window defroster and lines of clear glass appeared where the snow melted.
Through those clear lines I saw that the dark SUV had pulled into the street and was overtaking us. My caution racheted up a notch, but I drove on at the same slow pace. The SUV slowed and settled in behind.
Mara glanced at the outside mirror on her side. “Is that car following us?”
She spoke without turning her head, and I answered without turning mine.
“We’re going to find out.”
I flicked on my turn signal and eased through a right turn at the next corner. The snow squished beneath the tires, but the traction held firm. Still, I hoped I wouldn’t have to make a sudden maneuver.
The SUV did not signal, but followed me through the turn. I turned left at the next corner and the SUV followed.
Mara pointed to a house ahead and to our left. “Pretend that we came this way so I could show you that house. Don’t let them know we think they’re following.”
“Great idea.” I rubbernecked at the house as we passed it, then turned to Mara. We exchanged nods and smiles for the benefit of those behind us.
Her eyes narrowed. “Can you see how many are in the SUV?”
I glanced at the mirror. “Two in the front seats. Big guys. If there are more in the back, I can’t see them.” I turned left to return to our original street, still driving cautiously in the snow. The SUV followed and duplicated my right turn back onto the main street, heading west through a quiet residential area. Except for the two vehicles, the street was deserted.
“They’re definitely tailing us,” Mara said. “I’m going to dial 9-1-1.” She took my antiquated phone from the glove compartment.
“Your phone is better,” I said.
“It’s recharging, back at my apartment.” She punched a few buttons on my phone and grimaced. “Yours is dead. Do you have a charger?”
“At home,” I said. “Our Plan B is to drive to the police station and see if they follow us there.”
Even as I spoke, the dark SUV accelerated. It quickly closed the gap between us and moved into the left lane, fishtailing briefly in the deepening snow. My first thought was that they weren’t tailing us—that they’d simply become impatient and decided to pass. My second was that I’d better assume the worst.
As the dark vehicle pulled slowly abreast, I released the accelerator. With my deceleration, the SUV appeared to leap ahead. I risked a quick glance at it, and I saw surprise on the passenger’s tough-looking face and an indecisive gesture with the pistol in his left hand.
Now half a length ahead, the other vehicle swerved toward us in a classic sideswiping maneuver. I stood on the brake and spun the steering wheel to the right. Not soon enough. My left front fender ground into the SUV’s body with a crunch of metal. For a moment, the heavier vehicle carried us toward the curb. Then my brakes took hold and the two cars separated. Both jolted onto the curb and skidded to a stop about three feet apart.
The collision had jammed the SUV’s passenger door, but from the opposite side, its driver and another man leaped out.
Both of them brandished pistols.
CHAPTER 40
I did not wait to ask our assailants’ intentions. Somehow, my foot had disengaged the clutch and left the engine running. I slammed the gearshift into reverse, released the clutch, and stepped hard on the accelerator. The front wheels spun in the wet snow and for a terrifying moment I thought we were stuck. Then the tires found traction and the car shot backward into the street. I spun the wheel to turn us back the way we’d come, then shifted into low and stomped the gas pedal.
The wheels again spun, then caught and sent the car caroming forward. It wanted to pull left, and I had all I could do to hold it straight. A steady groan from the left front fender told that it was rubbing against the tire. With that friction, we’d have a blowout soon.
In the rearview mirror I saw the two gunmen floundering to find footing in the snow. One steadied and raised his pistol, but apparently thought better of it. They could drive away from a fender bender in this residential neighborhood, but gunfire would certainly bring the police. They might have chanced escaping from a quick kill, but this one was taking longer than they’d planned.
As we gained speed I risked a glance at Mara. She sat upright in her seat, mouth set firm and eyes focused straight ahead. Her gaze did not waver as she spoke.
“Good work, Press. You don’t drive like a professor.”
I marveled at her control. And she was right. Some instinct from my days in Special Ops had taken over, and I didn’t feel at all like a professor. Actually, I felt more like the fox who finds himself the main attraction at a foxhunt.
But I had no time for reflection. Our tormentors had remounted and renewed their pursuit. Their unwieldy SUV fishtailed in the slippery conditions, but it was closing on us again. Then another SUV pulled out from the curb in the block ahead and drove toward us faster than prudence allowed. As it cleared the intersection to enter our block, the driver threw his vehicle into a skid that brought him broadside in the street, barring our passage.
I slammed on the brakes and hoped I could stop before the collision.
“Go left!” Mara’s voice rang with an authority I hadn’t heard from her before. “Across that lawn.”
Still in the skid, I twisted the wheel to the left, downshifted, and hit the accelerator. For a perilous moment we slid sideways toward the blockading vehicle. Then the old Honda responded as its tires found traction. The sideward skid stopped within inches of a collision, and we launched forward toward an elm tree on the left-hand curb. I twisted the wheel to the right. At the last second the car responded. The jolt as we jumped the curb threw us against our seat belts, and bare limbs of the elm scraped my side of the car. Suddenly we were in someone’s snow-covered lawn, tires screaming as they searched for traction and the left front tire moaning against the fender. Two more elms loomed ahead and I managed to thread the car between them. Then we were in the side street, heading away from the ambush.
That raised a new problem. We couldn’t outrun the SUVs on a straightaway, for they had far more power than my old Honda. My only advantage was better maneuverability due to the Honda’s low center of gravity. That meant twisting in and out of blocks, and this residential district was unfamiliar territory. If I took a wrong turn, we could end up in a cul-de-sac.
“I don’t know this area,” I said. “I don’t know how to get back to the police station.”
“Forget the police station.” Mara twisted around and looked to the rear. “
Turn right at the next corner. They’re getting close. Don’t be slow with that turn.”
I waited till the last second, then braked, shifted, and accelerated through the turn. In the mirror I saw the lead SUV skid past the intersection. The second slowed enough to make the turn, but we had widened our lead.
“Go straight through the next intersection,” Mara said. “Then turn left at the second.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and finally found enough breath to add, “I hope you know where we’re going.”
“Just drive,” she said.
I did. The second SUV was catching up by the time I made the turn. Its driver was better prepared this time, but we again increased our lead because his high center of gravity forced him to be cautious. The other vehicle had recovered and was trailing farther back.
By now I was completely lost. I’d lived in Overton City for decades, but I’d never driven in this section. Vaguely, I knew the interstate lay to the north and there was new development to the west. But I knew no details. I simply followed Mara’s directions, controlled the car, and worried about the blue smoke now pouring from under the left front fender. That tire couldn’t last much longer.
I don’t know how long we fled. The snow-covered streets flowed by the windows in a blur. Our tires alternately slipped and caught, and foul-smelling smoke streamed from the left front wheel. We dared not go straight for more than a block or two, for the SUVs kept gaining on us. Then Mara would direct a turn and we would increase our lead. We seemed to be working mostly west, but also somewhat to the north. If we got forced onto the interstate’s frontage road, our pursuers’ more powerful vehicles would quickly overtake us. The snow now pelted down in a veritable torrent of white flakes, and sensible drivers had long since abandoned the slippery streets. Wherever our adversaries cornered us, they would have no witnesses.