Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “All right,” said Thornton. “You’re still planning your first lecture on those Pearl Harbor conspiracy theories, right? We’re studying Pearl Harbor at the moment.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. And you remember I can’t get into the series I’m writing about now. My publisher’s got them off limits until after the book hits the shelves. I can’t even field any questions about it.”

  “I know. A colleague heard part of the series when you taught at Gettysburg. Some fascinating angles you’re working there.”

  Jack’s new book explored the question: What if the political and military leaders during World War Two had to contend with today’s hi-tech 24/7 news media? “It’s really pretty silly, all this secrecy. You’d think we were guarding a military secret.”

  “Guess I’ll have to wait for the book like everyone else.”

  “Well, nothing in the contract says I can’t talk with an old friend off the record.”

  Thornton laughed. “You’ve done well for yourself. But clearly you’ve changed.”

  Jack wondered what Thornton meant. “I have?”

  “Your looks. I hardly recognized you from your bio picture.”

  “Really?”

  “I guess it’s your hair, Jack. You remind me of that actor, what’s his name? He’s in all kinds of movies these days. I can’t think of any of his newer ones, but he was the lead actor on Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “Johnny Depp?”

  “That’s him.”

  Jack laughed. “Guess I am wearing my hair longer. I got real busy last year, missed a few haircuts. The girl I was seeing thought I should go with a longer style.” So far, it hadn’t stopped anyone in the academic world from hiring him to speak. “Is it a problem?”

  “No, just a surprise. In my day, short hair and a trimmed beard was the mark of distinction for an academic. Maybe a refined mustache. Folks figured you got even smarter when it started to turn gray. By the way, I left you a little present at the apartment, should find it right on the coffee table.”

  “What is it?”

  “Found it a few weeks ago. A Life magazine issue from 1949, big article in there about Pearl Harbor. Not a copy, mind you, an original. I know you like to collect such things. And you’ll find all the books you asked for from the library, in a box on the sofa.”

  “Thanks, I’m going need those for my research.”

  “Made any plans for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Now you have. Come over to my place. I’ve got it all arranged. Just be the two of us, nothing elaborate. We can get caught up. You can tell me about all your exploits.”

  “I’d like that, but there’s not much to tell.”

  “Remember how to get here?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Seven all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Will you be ready for your first lecture tomorrow morning? If you need more time—”

  “I’ll be ready, Professor. It’s at ten, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same classroom?”

  “Nothing’s changed, Jack.”

  “See you then.” Jack laid the cell phone down in the seat. He’d always considered Thornton a brilliant educator, very underrated in this business. He recognized they were teaching a video generation now and incorporated documentaries and docu-dramas in his lectures every chance he could. He was also a master at Q&A.

  Jack had begun attending Culpepper twelve years ago, thanks to the GI Bill and some miscellaneous grants. Even that didn’t close the gap, so Jack had worked as Thornton’s research assistant. Eventually he’d received his BA, then a Master’s in Military History.

  It was pretty satisfying driving back there now as a guest lecturer, at the invitation of—actually the pleading of—the same professor he’d worked for all those years. When Thornton had first called, Jack said no. He didn’t need the money. He needed peace and quiet, a place to write his book. Thornton upped the offer to include room and board anywhere in town. Jack could dictate his own hours and have no administrative duties.

  Jack changed his mind. In some ways, he owed Thornton.

  Shortly after Jack graduated, Thornton had submitted one of his essays to an editor friend at Military History Quarterly. It was quickly accepted and published. Soon more articles were being accepted by other military publications. Editors and readers said Jack’s writing made history leap off the pages. He began getting invitations to lecture at various colleges and universities. It turned out Jack wasn’t just a good writer, he could speak. Things were going so well, his agent said recently she felt certain after Jack’s next book came out, she could get him an expert-contributor spot on Fox News.

  A sharp curve in the road brought Jack’s mind back to the present. Frank’s Service Station was just up ahead. Only a few minutes from the apartment now. Driving across a narrow bridge spanning the Chambers River, he glanced at the hills dropping sharply on either side. Oak, maple, and sycamore trees fanned out across the scene, arrayed in brilliant fall colors.

  Yeah, this is what he needed.

  As he entered the city limits, it was as if the car knew the way by itself. The town square was a scene frozen in time, altered through the years only by the changing styles of the cars and clothes. The town hall stood proudly on the north end, with its majestic pillars and granite steps. Two-story shops and businesses, bordered the square, all of awnings and window displays. A grassy, tree-lined park framed the center, complete with gazebo and black ornamental benches.

  A few blocks later, Jack turned onto Rambling Road. He didn’t need to read the mailboxes or street numbers. There it was on the right. The yellow, clapboard house with the white shutters. Professor Thornton had mentioned it was still owned by the Martins, his old landlords. They had to be, what, in their eighties now?

  He pulled into the loose-gravel driveway. Thornton was right. The apartment wasn’t much to look at; a little wooden cottage sitting atop a concrete garage. Like the main house, badly in need of a paint job and new roof. Grabbing his laptop and suitcase from the backseat, he moved quietly across the stones to avoid alerting the Martins to his arrival.

  He walked up the wooden stairway on the right side, attached to a small landing, and carefully opened the screened door. Several potted plants in various stages of demise moped about the perimeter. The key was under the mat, as arranged. He unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside. Odd, he thought, that such a pathetic little place should feel like home, but it did. He went back to the car for the rest of his things.

  His immediate plans were simple: heater on, Benny Goodman playing quietly in the background, clothes unpacked, hot shower, a long nap.

  # # #

  The man wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and baseball cap, dark sunglasses to hide the crows’ feet around his eyes, blue jeans, and a pair of Converse high tops. To give the look more authority, he carried a short stack of textbooks under his arm stolen from a table in the Media Center. Nigel Avery, the name he was going by these days, had the long, lean body of a man half his age. By all accounts, he blended well with the student population.

  Truth was, Avery and books had never gotten along. What he excelled at was surveillance. That and making people die in staged accidents or petty crimes.

  At the moment, his orders were simple: tail a certain professor named Thornton and build a file on his schedule, habits, and close relationships. But he had a feeling his other skills might be called upon very soon.

  He’d already concluded Thornton had little in the way of a social life. No romantic connections. He was highly regarded by students on campus. Kind. Considerate. The smartest professor at the school some had said.

  Apparently not smart enough, Avery thought, walking now about fifty yards behind the professor toward the Murray Building.

  Else I wouldn’t be here numbering your days.

  4

  “I’ve gotta reel it in guys,” Jack announced. “Look at the cl
ock.” The clamoring in the classroom died down. “You’ve been a great bunch. I can tell I’m gonna enjoy my time here. Let’s wrap up. As I said, the evidence is pretty clear…the public wasn’t told the whole truth about Pearl Harbor. Even without all the evidence that’s surfaced in the last seventy years, any thinking person would have to conclude a lot more went on here than we see in the official record.”

  Jack paused a moment to let that sink in. Every eye was glued on him, including one attractive young lady standing in the back. Jack was sure she’d been looking at him a certain way the better part of the last hour. He’d have to find out her name. She’d said it once during the Q&A, Rachel something. He wasn’t sure, but she looked older than the average senior.

  What are you doing, he scolded himself. That’s not why you’re here.

  He finished his review and stood off to the side, allowing Thornton to take the podium. The class applauded. This wasn’t new for Jack. Experiencing it at his old school was, in the very hall he’d spent so much time as a student.

  “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” Thornton said. “Class, Mr. Turner will be with us off and on over the next two months, but I must add…he’s primarily here to write his new book, so please respect that and don’t put on him any undue social expectations.”

  Jack put his iPad in his brief bag as the class made their way toward the doors. “Remarkable,” Thornton whispered. “You had them in the palm of your hands.”

  “You accomplished that every day I was in your class, Professor. I’m just the flavor of the month.”

  “That’s kind,” Thornton said. “But you’re far more than a novelty, Jack. I don’t think my mind was ever that sharp, nor the line between my mind and mouth ever that straight.” Thornton walked toward the inner door leading to his office.

  Jack looked up. That attractive young lady was staring at him. When she saw Jack noticing her, she didn’t look away. Instead, she flashed a photogenic smile. He couldn’t help but respond. She got up and walked toward the door, looking back once before exiting into the hall. Something in that last look was vaguely familiar.

  Thornton apparently caught this. He walked back over and whispered, “That’s General Cook’s daughter, Jack. Proceed with caution.”

  “General William Cook?” Jack asked.

  Thornton nodded. “You know him?”

  “Yeah. Not personally. I was stationed at his base in Ramstein, Germany for a year. My last six months there I served as his driver off and on.”

  “Rachel’s not a student,” Thornton said. “She graduated a few years ago. Works as a teaching assistant in the political science department. She decided to take my class for some reason. Told me why once, but I can’t remember. Something to do with her dad.”

  “I’m not in the market right now anyway, not after what I’ve just been through.” Jack snapped the latch on his bag.

  “You mentioned something about that. Broke off an engagement recently? What was her name?”

  “Gwen. But we never actually got engaged.” Jack walked toward the main hallway.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” Thornton called out.

  “Definitely,” Jack said. “See you at seven.”

  # # #

  Jack drove along the familiar route from the University to Rambling Road, oblivious to his surroundings. Gwen was the last thing he wanted to think about but his thoughts still drifted there, to their last date three weeks ago. How could he have been so wrong about her? How could he have missed the signs? Except for his traveling, they had been inseparable the last year. They’d never fought, talked everything through, respected each other, laughed all the time. He never saw it coming.

  During that final conversation, they were sitting at a quaint corner table at the Macaroni Grille, her favorite restaurant. Candles lit, a bottle of house wine freshly uncorked. The restaurant’s best tenor had just begun to sing Con Te Partiro’, something Jack had also arranged. The kid was no Andrea Bocelli, but he did a passable job. Jack kept looking back and forth at Gwen’s eyes, trying to measure her reaction. If anything, she seemed distracted, on edge. He leaned over. “Something wrong?”

  “Let the man finish,” she scolded gently, motioning toward the waiter.

  Jack reached into his pocket, feeling the velvet box containing the three-quarter-carat diamond ring. He planned to give it to her just as the waiter finished his song. He didn’t remember what he’d attributed her peculiar mood to, but he was certain everything would be fine the moment he got down on one knee and Gwen feasted her eyes on that ring. Finally, the song ended. Everyone nearby clapped. Jack nodded his thanks to the waiter. Twenty dollars well spent. He turned to face Gwen, that wrong look on her face again. She wasn’t even smiling. “Gwen, what’s wrong?”

  “We need to talk, Jack.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I should have told you this two months ago.”

  “Told me what?”

  She looked around the restaurant, then back at him. He remembered now, she never fixed on his eyes. “I should just say it. I’ve practiced it in my head so many times. There isn’t any good way to—”

  “What is it, Gwen?”

  “It’s over between us. I don’t love you anymore. I’ve found someone else. There, I said it.”

  Jack was stunned. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not you. It’s me. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I don’t blame myself.” It’s all he could think of to say.

  “I could see you were getting way too serious about me.”

  “Serious? You’ve said you loved me, at least a dozen times.”

  “But have I said it lately?”

  “What?”

  “In the last couple of months I’ve been pulling away, haven’t you noticed?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “We’re just too different, Jack. I know the way you’re wired…you were thinking marriage. I don’t want to get married now.”

  “I can wait, Gwen. We don’t have to be in a hurry.”

  “But you’d want us to be married, and I don’t. That’s the problem. And I’d feel pressure from you the whole time. Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ve already found someone else. Someone who’s living in the present.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you did. What’s it mean?”

  “You’re a hopeless romantic, Jack. I’ll admit, at first, I liked it. A lot. But now it’s like watching an old movie with bad dialog.”

  “What?”

  “All this history stuff. You can’t live in the past, Jack. Well, maybe you can, but I can’t.”

  “I don’t live in the past.”

  “Yes, you do. You don’t even see it. All the roses and mushy cards. The schmaltzy music you always listen to. The black and white pictures on your walls of all those dead generals. Jack, who has pictures of dead generals on the walls of their living room?”

  “Gwen, I teach military history.” But the disgust in her voice, coupled with the betrayal, had finally hit its mark. “All right, you’ve made your point.” The waiter walked up all smiles, the platter of delicious food in his hands. Jack stood up and tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table. “That should be enough for the meal, your tip, and a cab for the young lady.”

  “Jack,” she called out as he walked away. He never looked back.

  She had called a few times over the next week, but Jack didn’t return them. The calls wouldn’t be apologies or requests to get back together. They’d have been about alleviating her guilt. I’m not such a bad person. Let’s keep this positive, Jack. Can’t we still be friends? Someone like Gwen needed to feel as much guilt as her shallow little system could absorb.

  “You don’t know jack about women,” he muttered aloud, as he turned into the gravel driveway on Rambling Road, then laughed at the unintended play on words. As he walked up the wooden steps, he reflected on his first s
ession in Thornton’s class this morning. Not so much about the class’s reaction to his lecture but about that attractive brunette who kept smiling at him the whole while. What was her name again? That’s right, Rachel. Rachel Cook, the General’s daughter. Proceed with caution. The screen door slapped shut behind him, making him suddenly aware of what he was doing.

  Was this some kind of curse or what?

  # # #

  Sitting on a campus bench, just outside the Murray building, Nigel Avery reached for his phone from a backpack. He looked up at the sun. It had been moving in and out of the clouds all morning, changing the temperature ten degrees either way. A cute blonde walked by and smiled. He lowered his sunglasses to get a better look. As expected, she glanced over her shoulder a few feet past him. He saluted with one finger. She smiled and quickly turned away. He dialed a number in Falls Church, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, DC. The man who’d hired him picked up the other end. “Jameison?”

  “It’s me. You got something worthwhile? I’ve got patients waiting, sort of in a hurry.”

  “You sure about this guy, Doc? I mean, really, what am I doing here? This professor’s got no life. I’m here almost a week and, except for him tutoring one or two students in his condo, I got nothing to report.”

  “Are you listening yet or just watching?” Jameison asked.

  “Watching. I’ll have the bugs in place the next day or so. Then I get to sit in a dark van all day.”

  “Look, I wouldn’t be spending all this money if I didn’t think it was necessary. I need to know what this professor is up to. I’ve got a lot riding on this. Get those listening devices working. See who he’s spending time with on the phone. If he has any visitors, spends any more time with any of his students. If nothing turns up by the end of the week, call me back. Maybe I’ll reconsider.”

  “All right,” Avery said. “But you don’t want to be wasting my time, Doc.”