by Crider, Bill
He sat in his office all morning and through the lunch hour without coming up with any better ideas. He went down and got a Pepsi, but the sugar and caffeine didn't stimulate his thoughts a great deal. In the early part of the afternoon he worked on a list of Faulkner's novels, ranking them from the best to the worst. He was sure that A Fable should be on the bottom, but he was never quite sure what to put first. His personal pick was The Sound and the Fury, but he felt that he might be making merely the conventional choice and was tempted to replace it with Absalom, Absalom. Then there was the problem of Sanctuary. Did it belong near the top or near the bottom? Today, he was convinced that it was the top, but he might change his mind tomorrow.
The list kept him occupied for a couple of hours after lunch, but it certainly got him no closer to the answer to the question of who had killed Elmore and why. He also worried about the fires. Who had set them? Why? Were they connected to Elmore's murder? How?
When he left his office at three o'clock, Burns was convinced that he was thinking like a detective. Unfortunately, he wasn't coming up with anything conclusive as a result. He wasn't coming up with anything at all. He planned to go home and see if there were any good movies on the cable that night. He was through worrying about murder and arson.
On the landing near the top of the stairs, there was a large wet stain on the carpet. Attached to the nearby wall was a sign:
PLEASE!
DO NOT!!
BRING CANNED DRINKS!!
INTO HALLS!!!
MAID ROSE
Burns had been so wrapped up in his list that he hadn't even heard Rose trying to clean up the mess. It was a never-ending battle between her and the students who wanted to carry their drinks anywhere they went. Whenever anyone spilled so much as a drop, Rose went on the warpath.
Burns chuckled at the sign and started down the stairs. When he reached the second floor, the idea hit him. He stopped in the deserted hall and thought about it. It was something that should have occurred to him before. In questioning those with keys to the Administration Building, Napier would not talk to Rose, but he would question her cousin Nadine. And Rose had a key to the storeroom where someone had gained entrance to Main's attic and attempted to set a blaze.
Burns went back up to his office, unlocked the door, and went in. Sitting at his desk, he tried to think why Rose would want to burn the buildings, or why Nadine would. Of course, it had been neither Rose nor Nadine whom he had encountered in the attic that night, but they might have gotten a friend or a husband to do the actual dirty work.
He tried to call both Mal Tomlin and Earl Fox, but they had left for the afternoon. Trying to get students at HGC to take afternoon classes was an almost impossible task, and hardly anyone stayed past two o'clock since no one ever came by the offices after that time.
Burns kicked back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, his favorite pose, while he sent his mind roaming through the past. It took a while, but he finally remembered.
It had been quite some time, probably five or six years, and the event had seemed trivial at the time. Rose had turned Elmore in to the traffic court. He had been parking his car behind the Administration Building when he would come by to offer his suggestions for running the school to President Rogers and the current dean. There was really nothing wrong in parking there, but the spots were traditionally reserved for the maintenance crew. More than once, Rose had come back from her break and found Elmore in the only remaining parking spot. Finally, she had complained to the parking crew, and Elmore had been ticketed.
Elmore was furious. He felt that he had a right to park wherever he pleased while on what he termed "official business." He had lost his appeal to the traffic court, appropriately enough, considering his own later actions on that same committee. And he had never forgiven Rose. He had even started a vicious whispering campaign against her during the series of petty thefts that Burns had recalled earlier. He might have succeeded in getting her fired had Miss Darling not caught the thief.
Nadine's troubles with Elmore had been more recent. Nothing was more important to Elmore than his dignity, and he had lost it one day when Nadine had just waxed the hall leading to his office. He had slipped and fallen, sprawling in front of at least two witnesses, both of whom wasted no time in spreading the word. "He looked like a spider trying to fly," was the way one of them had put it to Burns. "Arms and legs just going every which way."
Nadine had suffered Elmore's wrath, but he couldn't get rid of her. After all, she had merely been doing her job. As far as Burns knew, that hall had never been waxed again.
But murder? That was something else. Certainly Rose was stronger than Miss Darling, and perfectly capable of killing Elmore with a swift blow. Nadine, built along the same lines as Rose, could have been the killer just as easily. It seemed to Burns, though, that neither woman had enough of a motive to want to kill Elmore, much less to burn the two buildings. Still, if the buildings were burned, they would never have to be cleaned again. . . .
Burns caught himself. He was starting to weave crazy patterns from very few threads. There was something itching at the back of his mind, though, something that just wouldn't quite become clear, and it had to do with Rose. Or her notes. Or….
He had it then. He was sure of it. It was obvious, and he was chagrined that he hadn't seen it earlier. He might have been able to save the Administration Building had he only applied himself. Well, it was too late for that, but he could see to it that no more of the college's buildings went up in smoke. He left his office again, this time sure of his direction.
Chapter 18
At Elmore's house, Burns stopped the car and looked again at the bare limbs of the pecan trees. Today they reminded him of Hardy's poem about the thrush, something about tangled vine stems that scored the sky. Certainly in the late afternoon the sky was gray enough to fit the occasion.
Burns got out of the car and went up to the porch. He paused with his foot on the step and looked at the swing.
Someone must have intended to have a good time there once. He crossed the porch and knocked on the door frame. Wayne came to the door. "I don't want to talk to you," he said through the screen.
"I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot last time," Burns said. "I have to talk to you again. This time, I think you'll want to hear what I have to say." Burns felt much more confident than he had felt previously. He was sure he was on the right track now.
"Well, all right," Wayne said, pulling open the interior door.
Burns opened the screen and went inside, seeing the same chairs, the same couch, the same lamp, the same rugs. Nothing at all had changed, but nothing seemed to be the same.
Wayne glided over to the chair. Burns took the couch.
"So," Wayne said. "What is it you want to tell me this time? More about how sorry you are?"
"It's not that at all," Burns said. He took a breath. "I know about the fires."
"Fires?" Wayne asked. He tried to sound puzzled, but Burns could see the flicker in his eyes, just like the flicker in the eyes of a student guiltily denying having cheated on an exam.
"It had to be you, Wayne," Burns said. "Rose was never guilty of leaving a door unlocked, but I'm willing to bet that you had a set of keys to that storeroom on the third floor of Main. Your father had planned for you and a friend to clean it out when it was declared a fire hazard. You never did, but I expect you had the keys."
"That's not true," Wayne said, without force.
"That was you in the attic," Burns said. "You were scared of the rat, and you were angry, so your voice was different, but it was you."
"No," Wayne said.
"I'd also bet you had a set of keys to the Administration Building," Burns said, as if Wayne had not spoken. "Oh, they weren't yours, but I'm sure your father kept a spare set around the house. And you used them."
Wayne stood up, almost as if he'd decided to drop his meek pose and try defiance to see if that worked better. "You 'bet.' You 'expect.'
But what can you prove? Not one thing. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Forget it. You may as well leave now."
"Not yet," Burns said, remaining seated. "I can't prove anything, but I think the police can. I think that Maintenance keeps records of people to whom they issue keys, and I'm sure the police will find by checking those records that your father had an extra set of keys to the Administration Building and that he got a key to the storeroom in Main. That may not sound like much to you, but just think what it will sound like to the police."
To tell the truth, it didn't sound like much to Burns, either, not now that he was blurting it out to Wayne in person. It had sounded pretty good in his office, however. "Besides," he said, "you know how hard it is to wash gasoline out of clothes. If the police run a lab check on your clothes, I'm sure they'll find traces of gasoline." He was sure of no such thing, but it sounded good.
"That wouldn't be enough," Wayne said.
"With what I'll tell them about the keys, it will," Burns said, relaxing.
Wayne backed away.
"I even think I know why you did it," Bums said.
"No!" Wayne shouted. "You don't know anything!"
"I think I do," Burns said. "You saw how the school felt about your father. Most of the faculty and even most of the students disliked him. When he was killed, there was no big outpouring of sympathy. Why, the only person who liked him must have been Rogers."
"No!" Wayne said again. "Rogers hated him. You don't understand at all!"
"Rogers hated him? But they always seemed—"
"Wait here a minute," Wayne said. "I have something to show you."
This is it, Burns thought. This is where I find out everything. Napier will never believe this. Just wait until I bring in the prisoner.
Wayne came back into the room. His hand was behind his back. He stood looking at Burns.
"Well," Bums said, "show me."
Wayne showed him a small caliber revolver.
Burns felt a chill go down his spine. "Uh, Wayne, this is a joke, right?"
"No, Dr. Burns. It's no joke. This is a .22 revolver, and it's really loaded." He motioned with it slightly.
Burns could see the coppery sheen of the tips of the bullets in the cylinders. "Wayne, you . . ."
"No, Dr. Burns, don't try to say anything. Let me tell you a few things first." Wayne sat in his chair, keeping the gun pointed steadily at Burns. He crossed his legs.
"You should know something about me," Wayne said. "I loved my father. He was a tyrant, and he could be cruel, but he was my father. Lots of people may not understand that, but it's true."
"I understand," Burns said. "I . . ."
Wayne made a small circle with the gun barrel. "Just let me do the talking," he said. "I was a disappointment to my father, in a lot of ways. I never played football. I never ran track. None of those things. My mother always tried to protect me from rough and tumble things like that. Did you ever know my mother, Dr. Burns?"
Burns shook his head. "No. She died just before I came to HGC. I'm sure that she—"
"A simple yes or no will do," Wayne said, like a prosecuting attorney. "If you'd known her, you'd know what I mean.
Anyway, I didn't grow up like Mr. Touchdown. I grew up like I am. Not that I mind, really, but it does cause problems sometimes." He stared hard at Burns. "Do you find me effeminate?"
"Ahhh, well . . ."
"That's fine, thanks." Wayne dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I suppose I am. It never really bothered me. Of course, there were jokes, pranks sometimes, but nothing really bad. Not until a few years ago. You wouldn't understand."
"That's where you're wrong," Burns said. Wayne said nothing, so Burns went on. "I understand very well. Don't you realize that I've been an unmarried professor here for years and years? No one trusts an unmarried man, particularly not at a denominational school. There've been all sorts of suspicions about me. I heard the rumors, but I never let them bother me. I like women as much as the next man, but what opportunities did I ever have here? Miss Darling? Besides, I like living alone. It suits me. But it was years before anyone here accepted that."
"Maybe you do understand, a little," Wayne said. "People seem to take for granted that if you don't go out with a girl every week, you're gay. Especially if you have the right mannerisms. It can be a real . . . problem. Girls aren't particularly eager to go out with someone the whole school laughs about."
Burns moved forward on the couch. "Well, now that we've got that cleared up . . ."
Wayne waved the pistol at him. "Don't move," he said. Burns settled back.
"You still don't know everything," Wayne said. "I'm going to tell you how my father got his job. You ever hear anything about that?"
"Just the usual rumors about Rogers," Burns said. "Nothing solid."
"I'll bet," Wayne said with a snort. "I know the rumors, too. The incurable disease bit. Senility. And especially the one about the girl who got knocked up and had to leave town. What a laugh."
Burns wasn't laughing, but then neither was Wayne. "Do you know who started all those rumors?" Wayne asked. "Do you?"
"No," Burns said. "I don't."
"I do," Wayne said. "My father did."
Burns was genuinely surprised. "Your father?"
"That's right. You thought you had it all figured out, didn't you? But you're really not so smart."
"I guess not," Burns said. "I don't understand why your father would start such negative rumors about the president. I don't see at all how that could have possibly helped him get the dean's job." In his curiosity at Wayne's comments, he had almost forgotten about the gun.
Wayne's look was venomous. "It did help him, though. It was all a part of the big lie."
"What big lie?"
"The big lie that got my father his job. The big lie that masked the real truth about Rogers—the one thing that would cost Rogers not only his job but everything else."
Burns edged forward on the couch a bit.
"Don't do that," Wayne said, gesturing with the pistol, reminding Burns of its ugly presence.
"So you know the real truth," Burns said, thinking that he would try to keep Wayne talking. He wasn't sure why, but it always seemed to work in the books. The villains never seemed to realize that all they had to do was pull the trigger and their opposition would topple over. Keep them talking, and something always turned up.
"Yes," Wayne said. "I know the truth."
"So let me in on it," Burns said.
Wayne was silent for a second or two.
"Rogers is a homosexual," he said, finally.
"What?" If Burns had been surprised before, he was stunned now.
"You know," Wayne said. "Queer. Gay. Fruit of the loom."
Burns sank back against the couch. "That's . . . well, it's just ridiculous."
"Why? Because he has a wife? What difference does that make?"
"Well, none, I guess, but . . . how do you know he's gay?"
"He made a pass at me," Wayne said.
"A . . . 'pass'?"
"That's what I said. I didn't stutter." Wayne was beginning to get visibly upset.
"It's just that, uh, I don't understand."
"Look, I was in the Administration Building one day. My father had gone over for some reason, and I was looking for him. It was late, and he'd left a few minutes before I got there, but I didn't know that. I went up to Rogers's office. His secretary had already gone home, but he asked me to come in. He talked about my plans, where I was planning to go to school, that kind of stuff. Then he put his hand on me. All right?"
"He . . . he put his hand on you?"
"On my dick!" Wayne yelled. "I was wearing a pair of tight jeans, and he touched me on the dick!"
"Maybe . . . maybe it was an accident," Burns said weakly.
"Accident! Accident? What a load of shit!" Wayne got out of the chair and paced in front of the couch.
"You told your father?"
"Of course I told him! Of course!"
"H
e used you," Burns said. "He used you to get the job.
And he told Rogers that his secret would always be safe." Wayne turned and brandished the pistol over the top of the coffee table. "How could my father do that?" he yelled.
"I . . ." Burns said.
"Never mind," Wayne said, suddenly strangely calm. It was an amazing transformation. "It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now. Get up."
"What?"
"Get . . . up!" Wayne waved the pistol upward.
Burns got up.
"Walk through there." Wayne pointed to the doorway with the gun barrel.
Not knowing exactly what to expect, Burns walked through the door. There was a short hall with doorways on the right, left, and at the end. The doors on the right and at the end were closed.
"Go in the kitchen," Wayne said, jabbing him in the ribs.
Burns turned left. The kitchen was small, with white-painted wooden cabinets. The appliances were also white. At one end was a breakfast area furnished with a plain wooden table and chairs that looked as if they might have come from a place named Furniture Mart.
"Sit at the table," Wayne said. His voice was still calm, almost cold. Burns tried to remember if it was the third or fourth voice Wayne had used. He sat in one of the wooden chairs.
Wayne hit him very hard in the side of the head with the pistol.
Burns didn't quite fall out of the chair, slumping instead against the table. It was as if he were there but not there. He didn't black out, but he wasn't aware of anything in particular, either.
He felt himself being jerked upright, and his arms were being pulled behind the chair. He was vaguely aware of pain, mostly in his head. He tried to clear it by shaking it, which only made the pain much worse.
The next thing he remembered was Wayne holding ice cubes wrapped in a towel at the base of his neck.
"Feeling better, Dr. Burns?" Wayne asked, as solicitous as if he were the faithful family physician.
"Ughrrm," Burns mumbled.
"Fine, fine," Wayne said. "There's going to be another fire, I'm afraid, Dr. Burns. And this time you're going to be in it. You missed the other two by such a little bit, I know you're disappointed. This time you'll be right in the thick of things."