Stronach adjusted his glasses, not the typical, thick, horn-rimmed glasses he’d expect from a nerdy professor, but stylish frames carrying the Prada logo. Actually, there was nothing typical about the professor. He didn’t know why, but Owen had lumped Stronach with all the professors he’d experienced during his college years. Middle aged, paunch, nerdy. A bad stereotype to have as an investigator, but one, for whatever reason, he couldn’t shake. Stronach was younger than he’d figured though, fit, athletic, and based on his Armani shirt—one Owen almost splurged on a few months ago—and his Italian shoes, he had expensive taste.
“Owen,” Stronach repeated. “To the Greeks and Welsh, your name means young fighter or young warrior.”
“Fascinating,” Owen said with a sarcastic edge. “Now try Sean and Josh.”
The professor shook his head, then reached over and touched Rachel’s knee. “I was so sorry to hear what happened to your brother and Josh.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said, and took his hand from her knee. She held onto him for a second, then with a slight smile released him. “Sean speaks very highly of you.”
“So nice to hear. I teach anthropology at the graduate level, but students earning their bachelor’s degree need to fulfill a list of general education courses outside their major. I think a lot of these students take my beginning course because they think it’ll be easy, but it’s not. I want to enlighten these young men and women. Give them a taste of the world around us. Your brother is a very apt pupil. He’s doing well. The paper he recently turned in was excellent and earned him an A,” he finished with an almost triumphant smile.
“Wow, that’s great,” Rachel said. “How about Josh?”
The professor’s smile fell. “Josh…isn’t doing as well. Academically, he’s a bright student. When it comes to my teachings, he…resists.”
He sounded more like a cult leader than a professor. “Your teachings?” Owen echoed. “What do you mean by that?”
Stronach’s smile returned. “I like to give my students, especially those in my beginner’s course, a well-rounded aspect of what different cultures, both past and present, believe, and how those beliefs affect our world as we know it. Josh’s analytical mind can’t seem to grasp those beliefs. Needless to say, he’s currently carrying a low C in my class.”
“Is that why he was attending your study group Saturday evening?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, I’m giving an exam later this week and offered to help my students better prepare.”
“If Sean is doing so well in your course, why do you think he was attending this study group?” Owen asked.
“As I’m sure you know, neither made it to the library that night, so I can’t answer that question positively. I do know the boys were roommates and friends. Perhaps Sean’s attendance was moral support.”
“That definitely sounds like my brother. He’s always looking out for his friends,” Rachel said, then paused for a moment. “Do you know if any of the students who went to your study session saw Sean or Josh along the way to the library?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Rachel’s lip shot out in a pout as she looked to the floor. Then, with a wistful sigh, she glanced back to the professor. “I don’t suppose you have a list of the kids that came to your session.”
“There were less than a dozen. If you give me your number, I’ll call you later with their names.”
“Would you really?” Rachel asked.
“For Rachel, beautiful in form and countenance, I would gladly do just about anything.”
Owen didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or knock Stronach on his ass. The professor not only took himself far too seriously, but his arrogance and blatant flirtation with Rachel pissed him off. She was an investigator, here to help find a missing student, not his next lay.
To help him focus on the case and keep his mind off Dr. Dickhead and his inappropriate behavior, Owen moved around the office. A large, plaster imprint of a foot, encased in a glass box, caught his attention. “What’s this?” he asked, even though he already had his suspicions. Stronach needed to refocus, as well.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the professor asked.
“If you like feet,” Owen responded, then looked over his shoulder and added, “Which I don’t.”
“Ah, but that’s not just any foot, that’s an impression of the elusive Bigfoot.” He stood and moved to the glass box. “A local Bigfoot enthusiast found the footprint four years ago in the forests surrounding Bola. It’s a wonderful treasure.”
“We wanted to ask you about the upcoming festival,” Rachel said, and instead of moving off the couch to look at the plaster foot, she meandered around the room checking out some of the professor’s other treasures. “Before we get to that, can you tell me about the blog you and your students run?”
He nodded and leaned against the large, wooden desk. “Wexman Wonders has ended up being a huge hit and currently has over ten thousand followers. I can’t take the credit. My students are the writers. I simply give them ideas and, of course, review the content.”
“What does your class have to do with your Wexman Wonders blog?” Owen asked, wanting to redirect them closer to Stronach’s take on the Wexman Hell Week. “It seems to me that your students are centering the blog around myths and legends.”
Stronach pushed off the desk, then threw his arms in the air. “Yes, exactly.” Steepling his hands now, the professor paced. “From the ancients to modern man, myths and legends are in every culture. Ancient peoples shared their knowledge with other ancient cultures and over time, that knowledge evolved. I believe many of our myths and legends are based on fact.”
“But what about Wexman Hell Week?” Owen asked. “I guess I don’t understand why you and your students look at this as a legend, when it’s most certainly a fact.”
The professor sat behind his desk. “Twenty years ago, a Wexman student goes missing,” Stronach began. “From what I understand, the boy had been a misfit. He’d tried to gain entry into the fraternal system, but his efforts weren’t well received. And on a frigid night in the middle of January, he disappears with only a cryptic note left behind in his dorm room. He’s never seen or heard from again.”
“But then the same thing happened nine other times,” Rachel countered.
Stronach sent her a small smile. “Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” she repeated. “I certainly wouldn’t consider my brother’s beating and his roommate’s disappearance alleged by any means.”
Behind his Prada frames, the professor’s eyes softened. “You’re right. And I apologize. Sean’s case is…different.” He wagged a finger. “But, I do believe legends and myths are based on something genuine. Isn’t it possible that the first student who disappeared did so on his own accord? From what I understand, he’d been shunned—blackballed actually—from all the Wexman fraternal organizations, and ostracized by many of his fellow classmates for being…strange. Perhaps, as a way to garner attention, he faked his disappearance.”
Not buying the professor’s theory, Owen asked, “Then why, in twenty years, has he never turned up?”
“Twenty years ago society was on the verge of entering the age of the Internet. At that time, creating a new, false identity was easy compared to today’s standards. This particular student’s only claim to family was an eighty-year-old grandmother. And, by the way, a year after the boy disappeared, the grandmother died. What’s interesting is that the money she left behind was claimed six months later by the missing boy. That was the only time he’s ever been heard from again.”
“Owen and I didn’t know about that.” Rachel leaned against the bookshelf. “Your suggesting that this kid walked away from his own life, created another, and in the process, initiated the legend of Wexman Hell Week. A very interesting hypothesis, but how does that explain the other disappearances?”
“Not to be repetitive, but again, this all goes back to legends and myths being based on something genuin
e. The last sheriff wasn’t the most competent of individuals and didn’t keep the Hell Week note a secret. Actually, six years ago, we had a Hell Week hoax that ended up—”
“Yes, we heard about that,” Owen said, anxious for Stronach to come to a point that might actually matter.
“Good. Then consider this. Isn’t it possible that one of the other missing students had a terrible accident? I’ve heard that students like to go to the river, drink alcohol and do drugs. Perhaps one of these missing boys fell into the river and drowned. Rather than face expulsion or worse, those who had witnessed the accident decided to use Wexman Hell Week as a cover.”
Owen decided Dr. Dick was talking out of his ass. While his theories for the Wexman disappearances held some validity, they didn’t explain the other missing boys, not to mention the four people who had disappeared from Bola. “You’re saying every person who disappeared over the last twenty years, including Josh Conway, could be explained away by either accident, hoax, or the desire to purposefully jump off the grid. To be honest, I figured you’d tell us Bigfoot took them.”
Stronach’s face reddened and his gaze hardened, but he remained in his seat. “I believe the Bigfoot is a gentle creature. He’s likely more afraid of us than we are of him.”
“Aliens then?”
“Owen, please. Dr. Stronach is trying to help us.”
“It’s okay, Rachel. And please call me Collin.”
“Okay, Collin, back to Bigfoot,” Rachel said. “Can you tell us more about this festival?”
“Yeah, like why you’d schedule it during a time when you had to know there was a possibility of another Wexman Hell Week disappearance.” The festival didn’t sit right with Owen. Neither did Stronach and his bullshit theories behind the legend of Wexman Hell Week. Something about the professor was…off.
Stronach glared at him before shifting his gaze to Rachel. “Statistically, it’s during this time of year that we have the majority of our local Bigfoot sightings.”
“Are you expecting a big turnout?” she asked.
“Yes,” the professor said with enthusiasm. “Anywhere from five to seven hundred people. This weekend should be a huge success. With the events we have planned, there won’t be a dull moment.” He gave Rachel a toothy smile. “It’s a great time to be in Bola.”
Hungry and tired of listening to Stronach, who had given them no useful information, Owen moved toward the door. “I bet Josh Conway would disagree.”
As he left the office, he heard Rachel apologize to Dr. Dick and give him her phone number. While he waited in the hall, he tried to put his finger on what bothered him about the professor. He’d dealt with men like him in the past, egotistical asses who considered themselves more knowledgeable than the rest of the world. So why did Stronach rub him wrong?
Jealousy.
He definitely didn’t like the way the professor flirted with Rachel. At all. And while it had been obvious she held no interest in Stronach, he’d still wanted to knock the man upside the head for touching her.
Man, he needed to pull himself together. He’d never been a jealous person, but twice in one day he’d been ready to crack skulls over his woman. But Rachel wasn’t his, and based on her sometimes hostile attitude, he doubted she’d ever be. Then again, he swore he’d seen something in her eyes before they’d entered the office. Something that said she didn’t really hate him…much. Or maybe that was all wishful thinking. Maybe—
“Is the professor in?” A young, attractive woman asked as she approached.
Before Owen could answer, Rachel came out of the office. He nodded to the girl, who was already pushing her way through the door and greeting Stronach, then said to Rachel, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah, it’s almost time to meet Jake.”
Jake. Jealousy reared its ugly head again.
“I’m glad he suggested we meet at River’s Edge. For a bar, the food is awesome.”
Well, wasn’t Jake the man.
As they made their way down the staircase, he glanced at Rachel, at her sexy, sassy mouth. He was hungry, too. Unfortunately, what he had a taste for wasn’t on the River’s Edge menu. But alcohol was and at this point, he could use a stiff drink. To help take his mind off the case and the woman he had no business wanting.
*
“C’mon, Janie, your move.” Lois, a fellow patient and my only friend, motioned to the chessboard. “You know you want to,” she sang—off key—and grinned.
Lois knows I can’t move my hands. If I could, I would have kicked her butt and won the chess match by now. Instead, all I can do is sit in this damned wheelchair and drool. I hate this chair. Hate living in a state nursing facility. Hate that no one has bothered to claim me. That no one here, not even Lois, knows who I really am.
If only I could make my mouth work. Tell Lois, my doctors and nurses the truth. I honestly think I would sacrifice my vision and sense of smell if I could at least talk. I’d rather not look at the other pathetic patients, the bleakness in their tired eyes as they stare at the TV or drab walls. And the smells…it’s bad enough that I have to wear a diaper and, at times, sit in my own filth. I can tolerate my own odor. It’s the other twenty, nauseatingly foul patients in the community room I could do without…except for Lois. She has an easy, pretty smile and upbeat attitude, which sometimes gives me hope even if in my heart, I know none exists. Plus, she always smells like chocolate.
“Stumped you again, huh?” Lois clapped, then wrinkled her nose as a nurse’s aide wheeled a patient, who was in obvious need of a sponge bath, past our worn table. “Okay, then, I’ll move my piece here and…checkmate.”
In lieu of a smile, I forced a grunt, which only made me sound like Lurch from the Addams Family. Reduced to a diaper-wearing invalid, who can’t even grunt correctly, caused my stomach to knot with frustration.
Lois smiled again. “So you think I cheated?”
I blinked once. I don’t think she cheated, I know she did. Still, I don’t care. Without Lois, her endless chatter, the way she’s always making up our conversation and acting as if she actually knows what I’m thinking, I might have gone crazy by now. Before she had come into my life, nightmares and painful memories had been my only company. At night, when Lois and I are separated and I’m alone in my quiet room, those nightmares and memories rush through my mind. Because of them I’m afraid of the dark, afraid to close my eyes. I don’t want to keep reliving the moment that had brought me to this place. The panic, the fear…the betrayal.
I shifted my eyes toward the windows. Icicles dangled and frost coated the exterior glass. Dusk had come and gone, leaving a black, starless sky. Glancing at the clock on the wall, relief settled my knotted stomach. The nightmares wouldn’t come for at least another four hours.
After Lois put the chess game away, she stood and stretched. Her weight loss worried me. Her tired, grey long-sleeved t-shirt and equally worn black sweatpants hung from her small frame. “We can play again tomorrow. Maybe you’ll redeem yourself,” she said as she pushed her chair closer to mine, gave our table a little shove, then sat so our knees touched. “It’s almost time for dinner anyway. I guess baked chicken is on the menu. Hopefully it’s not too dry.”
Breakfast, lunch and dinner have become a miserable time for me. During meals I’m bombarded with delicious, mouthwatering aromas, yet denied a taste. I can blink, move my eyes and make the occasional grunt, but chewing? God, what I wouldn’t give for a piece of cheesecake.
“Today’s Regina’s birthday, so the nurses got a cake for her.”
At the mention of cake, I quickly look at her.
“So you’ve got a sweet tooth?” Lois chuckled. “Too bad they can’t shove a piece of cake into your feeding tube.”
Or in my useless mouth.
“Yeah, too bad.” Lois stared at the scars covering my limp hands. Scars that will forevermore serve as a reminder of the day I should have died.
“But what do I know about those things,” she said, t
hen her hazel eyes suddenly brightened, and she gave her leg a slap. “Hey, did I tell you what movie the nurses are planning on showing tomorrow night?”
I blinked once.
“No? Well, only one of my favorites…Beaches. You know the one with Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey? I always loved that movie. Makes me cry like a baby, but sometimes we all need a good cry. Don’t ya think?”
After I blinked twice, Lois took my hand in hers. Her fingers and palm, calloused from manual labor, covered my scars, and I tried desperately to soak in her strength. From the moment I had woken from my coma, I’ve shed an ocean of tears. They welled in my eyes now and my throat tightened. Except for the time spent with Lois, pain, misery and my blind ignorance has haunted me.
Lois brushed one of my stray tears. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just…I know our story isn’t the same as the gals in Beaches, but as soon as I heard they were showing the movie, I thought about us.”
She squeezed my hand tighter, and I loved the skin-to-skin contact, even if it played as a bitter reminder that I was still among the living, trapped in my body with no means of escape.
“Me and you,” she continued. “I think we come from different worlds. I don’t know how I know this, I just do. I sometimes imagine what it would be like if you could talk, how you’d sound, what you’d actually say to me.” She started to laugh. “I’m thinking the first words out of your mouth might be ‘shut the hell up, Lois, don’t you ever stop talking?’”
I would never say that to Lois. She’s right, though. We do come from different worlds. Had hate, a hunting knife and a tire iron not brought me to this place, I would never have known or associated with Lois. In my previous life, I had lived in a beautiful, custom built home in a quiet, safe suburb. Drove a BMW, wore designer clothes, ate at expensive restaurants and took exotic vacations with my family. Before her illness, Lois had worked as a cleaning lady for people like me. She’d lived in a dilapidated apartment building, walked or took the bus, wore Good Will clothes, and barely had enough money to pay her rent, let alone eat.
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