by Sam Reaves
Abby blinked at her, unsure what feat she had accomplished. “Thank you. Sorry, the names are going to take me a while. You are . . . ?”
“Giselle. Giselle McCullers. I just think it’s great to have a woman teaching calculus. I’ve never had a woman math teacher.”
“What, never? That surprises me. We’re not that exotic.”
“Never. Not since like, middle school, I mean. Everyone thinks it’s such a guy thing.”
Abby had to smile. “It is pretty guy intensive. But not exclusively. Not at all.”
Giselle beamed at her. “I want to major in math, and all my friends are like, ooh, math, you are so hard-core.”
“Guess what, you are hard-core. Hold on to that thought.”
Behind Giselle loomed a giant, a strapping six-plus-footer with a barrel chest stretching a gray T-shirt with TIPPECANOE FOOTBALL on it. “Hi,” he said, holding out a massive hand. “Cole West. Looking forward to the class.”
Abby squeezed hard against a grip that was confident but not aggressive. “Good. Me, too.”
“I was wondering, I’m in a fraternity, Tau Kappa Zeta, and we do this thing every year, where we invite faculty members over for Sunday dinner, and I was wondering if you’d want to come over some time. Just to like, meet the guys, you know, and so we can get to know you and stuff.” He had friendly eyes, a granite jaw and an assertive smile.
“Um . . .” Think fast, Abby told herself. Could this possibly be legit? Was this behemoth hitting on her already, on day one? “Thank you, that’s very kind. Let me get back to you on that, OK? But thank you.”
The behemoth went off with Giselle, and a thin, dark-eyed, vaguely Asian-looking young man who had been loitering behind him stepped up. He wore a black T-shirt with an indecipherable graphic on the front; he was good-looking in a frail, slightly brooding way. “Hi, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure, that’s what I’m here for. Sorry, who are you?”
“Ben Larch.”
“Ben, right. What’s up?”
He smiled, but it was a nervous smile. “I think I might be over my head in this class. My advisor said I should take it, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. I didn’t really follow everything you went through today.”
Abby’s smile widened, because here in front of her at last she saw her true constituency. “Well, number one, don’t panic,” she said. “I can help you.”
Abby dropped her books on the desktop in her office and sank onto the chair, her legs suddenly giving out. She planted her elbows on the desk and put her face in her hands. Round one, she thought. Went OK, didn’t embarrass myself, established the parameters. Students not hostile. Some even eager to learn. So why the stress?
Pick one, she thought. Because you have two more classes to get through. Because you are still a fish out of water here. Because after your day’s work is done you will be going back to an empty apartment.
Because you saw a man being roasted like a pig on a spit.
Voices and steps sounded in the hall, cheerful voices of people who had no connection to a charred corpse in a bad crime scene. Abby took her hands from her face and sighed. A figure swung into the doorway. “How’d it go?” said Graham.
“Fine, I think. Nobody threw anything or asked to transfer to a different section.”
He came a step or two into the office. “I think you’ll have the opposite problem. Once word gets around, people will be clamoring to get into your section. Guys, anyway.”
“Terrific. Five years of grad school and a postdoc and my looks are all that count?”
“That’s what eighteen-year-old guys see first, yeah. Sorry, I don’t mean to make light of your professional qualifications. I just know how it goes. It happens with me, with the girls. Younger faculty members deal with it all the time. Kids get crushes on you.”
“Great, something to look forward to. Can I ask you something? One of my students invited me to dinner at his frat house. Is this legitimate? Do people do that?”
“It’s legitimate. They do that a few times a year. Having faculty over for dinner gives them an excuse to clean up the house and make themselves presentable. Boy, they didn’t waste any time, did they? Usually we get a few weeks into the semester before the invitations start coming. Which house is this?”
“I think he said Tau Kappa Zeta.”
Graham’s eyebrows rose. “No kidding? It just so happens I’m their faculty advisor.”
“Aha. And are they house-trained?”
“Well, they’re the jock fraternity. But they’re usually on their best behavior on these occasions. Just don’t let them lure you into any drinking games.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Graham laughed. “It happened to me once; I got invited to one of their parties. I reeled home about two in the morning and woke up a chastened man.”
He lingered for another minute or so of small talk and then went on his way. Abby surveyed her desktop, thinking about all the things she had to do. She dug her phone out of her purse and turned it on, the voice-mail icon coming up. She put the phone to her ear and heard Ruffner asking her to call him.
She tapped on the screen and after a few rings the detective answered. “Thanks for getting back to me. I know you’re busy.”
“Please tell me you’ve arrested someone.”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. I was wondering if you could come in and look at some more pictures. The state police are here with a roster of some of their favorite people.”
Ruffner met Abby at the front desk and took her back to the office where she’d looked at mug shots before. There was another detective there, this one young and muscular, with the look of a weight-room devotee. “Joe Ross, ISP Criminal Investigation Division.” He shook her hand and ushered her to a chair. “I understand you got a look at a suspect the other day.”
“I don’t know. I saw a guy.”
“Right. We’re going on that assumption. He’s what we’ve got, until we know different. So we’re gonna try and run him down. I’ve got some more yearbook pictures for you to take a look at here.” Ross smiled. “Be glad you never went to this school.”
He slid a laptop across the desk to her. “Take your time, don’t feel any pressure to come up with an ID. He may not be there. Don’t finger anybody unless you’re sure.”
Abby started scrolling, slowly. The faces were the same, defiant, dazed or defeated, but this time there was a difference: all the names were Hispanic. Some of the faces were pure Mesoamerican; some could have been Mediterranean. None was Anglo-Saxon. The Ryans and Waynes had been replaced by Pedros and Franciscos. “They’re all Latino,” Abby said.
“That’s right,” said Ross. “That is the direction our investigation is taking.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because of the nature of the crime. The Mexican cartels frequently dispose of bodies in this way. They execute the victim and then set his vehicle on fire.”
She gave him an astonished look. “The Mexican cartels? Here?”
“They have a presence in the Midwest. Anywhere they run drugs. Which is pretty much everywhere now. And this is like their signature move.”
Across the room Ruffner spoke up. “Plus, the victim’s connections. Lyman had clients who were Mexican.”
Abby paused, looking at a face. The dimensions were right, long and gaunt, with the same heavy brows. There was a moustache, but it didn’t go past the corners of the mouth. The hair was shorter, too, but Abby could allow for that. It was a dead-end face, the eyes empty. It disturbed Abby in the same way the man at the end of the bridge had disturbed her. “Maybe this one,” she said. “Just maybe. I’m not going, ‘Yeah, him for sure.’ He’s just the right type. And he had this look.”
Ross leaned over the desk to read the screen. “Alejandro Gómez. OK, we’ll put him down as a maybe.” He made a note on a sheet of paper.
“This face jumps out at me as Mexican,” Abby said. “The guy I saw didn’t.”
The detectives exchanged a look. “All right,” said Ruffner. “Understood.”
“But he could have been.” She looked up, flustered. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to be objective. I want to help, but I don’t want to make any false accusations.”
“There’s no pressure,” said Ruffner. “We’re not here to railroad anybody.”
Abby went back to looking at faces. There were only a few more, maybe twenty in all. She went back through the display, trying to summon up the face she had seen and compare it to these, but she was already feeling that it was futile. She pushed the laptop back across the desk. “I’m sorry. Just that one, and I’m not sure about him.”
“That’s OK,” said Ross, reaching for the computer.
“You’ve been a great witness,” said Ruffner. “We really appreciate your help.”
Abby reached for her purse. “By the way, I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t know who the victim was at the time, but I saw Lyman the night before he was killed.”
“Did you now? That’s interesting. Where?”
“At the Azteca. He was talking to another guy, I don’t remember his name. I was out to dinner with a couple of people from the college: Lisa Beth Quinton and her husband. She pointed out Lyman and the other guy to me. She said they were both kind of shady. I didn’t think any more about it until I heard who the victim was. But I thought you might want to know.”
Ruffner nodded. “Thanks. Actually, we already knew. Mr. Frederick, the other guy, came to us as soon as we released Lyman’s identity and told us about their dinner date. He said when Lyman left the restaurant that night he told him he had to go and collect some money he was owed by a client. We’re working on that angle. Don’t know what’s there, but we’re working on it.”
A moment passed in silence. Abby said, “If the guy was Mexican, does that make it more or less likely that I’m in danger?”
Ruffner exchanged a look with Ross. “The most likely thing is that he’s no longer around. That’s how they operate, if it is a professional hit. They would bring a guy in, he does the job, he goes away again. But I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I understand. I just need to know if I have to be afraid.”
“I would say cautious. I would be careful where I went jogging for a while, for example. But even if he is still around, what are the chances he’s just going to spot you on the street or something? He got a look at you, but would he recognize you again? I would say it’s unlikely.”
Abby sat nodding slowly. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Abby, I have to go. The baby’s starting to make a fuss.”
Which one, Abby wanted to ask. Samantha had spent much of the call complaining about her husband and his failure to pull his weight in a household stressed by the irruption of an infant. “All right,” Abby said. “Go take care of your child. Love you.”
There was a brief silence. “Abby, you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine.” Abby’s mouth hung open for a second as she stifled the words that really wanted to come out: I’m scared, I’m lonely, I’m in a strange place a long way from home. I called so you could make me laugh and comfort me, and instead you complained about your baby, your husband, your lack of sleep. “Say hi to Tom for me. Go feed your baby.”
“I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”
“Bye.” Abby ended the call and stood looking down into the woods. She had come outside to make the call, for better reception and because it was pleasant to stand in the cool shaded yard with the trees rustling softly in the evening breeze, the blue of the sky deepening as the sun sank in the west.
Something moved in the twilight down by the stream. Abby tensed and strained to see. A doe and a fawn came into view, stepping daintily along the bank of the stream. Abby watched as they foraged on spindly legs, nosing through the thick ground cover.
When the deer went out of sight into a thicket, Abby turned and looked at the back of Ned McLaren’s house looming above her. There was light behind drawn curtains on the top floor, and below it a lamp burned in Abby’s living room, which through the window looked almost inviting.
This is my home, Abby told herself. I can do this. I can walk back in there and confront the work and the anxiety and the solitude. And the fear.
Abby laughed, a single bitter breath. She had not thought about Evan in two days.
Abby labored north along Jackson Avenue under a westering sun with a full backpack and a double handful of shopping bags, shoulders aching, sweat running into her eyes. Ahead the road began to dip. The entrance to Hickory Hill was in sight, a mere three hundred yards away.
Abby had decided it was time to diversify her sources of supply and find out where the rumored mall with its supermarket actually lay. That turned out to be three-quarters of a mile south along Jackson beyond the edge of town; what had been a pleasant stroll empty-handed had turned into the Bataan Death March on the way home, burdened with her purchases.
A car horn sounded and a dark-gray car swerved to the curb. The passenger’s-side window went down and as Abby drew even, Lisa Beth Quinton called to her from behind the wheel. “Honey, jump in the car. I hate to see a woman suffer.”
Abby slung her bags in the back and flopped on the front seat. Rolling home in air-conditioned comfort, starting to recover, she said, “Maybe it’s time to get a bicycle.”
Lisa Beth made a noncommittal noise. “You could do that. Or you could throw caution to the wind and get a car. These hills can be hell on a bicycle, especially with a load of groceries. And a bicycle won’t get you to Indianapolis on a Saturday night.”
Abby considered. “I’ve never had a car. The only reason I have a license is because my father told me it was something grown-ups have.”
“You’re not in New York now. Out here we take the car to go three blocks for a gallon of milk.”
“Yeah. I was hoping to resist that.”
Lisa Beth made the turn into Hickory Lane. “A decent used car won’t cost you that much. Tell you what, I’ll come with you. I like shopping for cars. What are you doing on Saturday?”
Abby heaved a sigh. “Sounds like I’m buying a car.”
“It’s motion sensitive,” said Ned McLaren. He stood on the covered porch, looking up at the light at the corner of the house. “It’ll come on when you start down the steps and go off after a few seconds when you go inside. You can override it with this switch here.” He stepped to a switch by the door. “Click it off and on again, fast, and it stays lit. Turn it off for ten seconds and it goes back to motion-sensor mode.”
“Um . . . I probably won’t mess with it too much. Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
McLaren was in handyman mode again today, jeans and T-shirt and cap, with a bandage on his left little finger and dirt on his knees. He gave her an appraising look and a tentative smile. “How’s the teaching going?”
“Fine. Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Shoot.”
“I was thinking about buying a car. But I didn’t know where I would park it. I thought I should ask.”
McLaren’s eyes went to the asphalt driveway leading to the single-car garage. “Well, I guess you’d have to park it on the grass. If you left me room to get in and out, you could leave it at the side of the drive. Say under the tree there. Pull over far enough so I can get by and that can be your spot.”
“OK, thanks. I’m not sure when this is happening. Maybe Saturday.”
“Finally gave in to the tyranny of distance, did you?”
“Something like that.”
“You got your sights on a particular car?”
“I’ve done a little research online. But Lisa Beth Quinton’s going to come with me. She says she knows the dealers and she’ll make sure I get a good deal.”
McLaren grinned. “Yeah, I’d say you’re probably in pretty good hands with Lisa Beth.”
“OK, I can multiply the exponent by the coeffic
ient all the way along, no problem. That’s just mechanical. But I don’t really get the concept. Why does the derivative work? Where does it come from?” Ben Larch was giving Abby an anguished look across the desk.
“Well, do you remember when we calculated the slopes of those secant lines in class?”
“I remember watching you do it, yeah.” He laughed.
“OK, let’s go back. You see that different secant lines can approximate the tangent to a curve?”
She took him through it again, pausing at each step to quiz him, then watched him puzzle it through, the olive skin of his brow wrinkled with the effort. He was a nice-looking boy, but still a boy, almost pretty. “That’s right. So we started here with x squared, and we wind up here with 2x. Right? And if you work through the same process for y equals x cubed, what do you think you’ll get?”
He sat back, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “OK. Sure, that makes sense.”
“Math does make sense. That’s the beautiful thing about it. If it doesn’t make sense, that just means you missed a step somewhere. And you can always go back.”
“I’m just afraid I might have missed too many steps.”
“Well, you’ve got the fundamentals. What you need is practice. Math is like basketball. You don’t get good at shooting free throws by watching LeBron do it and going, ‘OK, now I can shoot free throws.’ You have to get in the gym and do it, over and over. That’s what the problem sets are for. They’re the practice free throws.”
Ben sat nodding slowly, gazing at her. “OK,” he said. “That helps, thanks.”
“So go back and look at that problem set again. Can you bring it to me tomorrow so I can look at it before class?”
“Yeah. OK, for sure.”
“Great. Slip it under the door if I’m not here.”
Ben stuffed papers and books into his backpack and stood. “Thanks, Abby. You’re amazing.” The boy’s smile was dazzling.
She listened as his steps died away down the hall. That’s Dr. Markstein to you, she thought, slightly irked at the familiarity but pleased at the compliment. There are rewards, she thought. Sometimes there are rewards.