See No Evil

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Did you bring the Peking ravioli?” Drew demanded.

  “Drew! Don’t be rude,” Lauren said. “Say hello to Dr. Phipps. Do you remember him from the department picnic at his house last summer?”

  “You made me watch him on TV last week instead of ‘The Simpsons.’” Drew leaned on the toe of one sneaker.

  “Well, say hello anyway,” she ordered.

  Drew didn’t say a word. He just continued to stare at Gabe and rotate his foot.

  “You’re going to be watching him tonight too—it’s the last segment of his series,” Lauren said. “And if you don’t say hello, you won’t be watching ‘The Simpsons’ for a week after that either.”

  “I’m with Drew on this one,” Gabe said, winking at the boy. “I’d really like to get away from it all for an evening—Homer and Bart sound much more appealing than listening to myself pontificate on the American Revolution.”

  “But I want to see it,” Lauren protested.

  Gabe smiled at Drew and rolled his eyes. “Hasn’t your mom ever heard of a VCR?” he asked.

  Drew giggled. “She doesn’t like TV all that much, but I can tape it for her.”

  “Next time I’ll try not to be on TV during ‘The Simpsons,’” Gabe said to Drew as Lauren led them into the kitchen.

  “That’d be good.” Drew nodded emphatically. “You’re boring.”

  “Drew!” Lauren cried.

  Gabe laughed as he put the food on the counter. “Really, Lauren, you can’t believe I’d be insulted because an eight-year-old prefers “The Simpsons’ to events that happened over two hundred years ago?”

  “I’m seven.”

  Gabe looked at Drew carefully. “You look eight to me. Nine maybe. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

  Lauren watched Drew puff up with pride. Perhaps Gabe had failed to charm Nat, but he sure was doing a great job on Drew—no small accomplishment. And now that she was standing next to Gabe in her stocking feet, she realized he was much taller than she had thought; they were about the same height. She busied herself taking cartons from the bag, wondering what Jackie would think of this new twist in departmental relations.

  “Want to meet Herman?” Drew asked Gabe.

  “Herman?” Gabe squatted down so he was at eye level with the boy. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Not a brother,” Drew said, tilting his head shyly. “Herman’s my turtle.” He turned and dashed down the hallway. “I’ll go get him.”

  Within seconds Drew was back with Herman in his hand. He held the turtle out proudly for Gabe’s inspection. About twice the size of a silver dollar, Herman was the kind of small green turtle that had been popular in the fifties and sixties—until the species was banned from the country for spreading salmonella poisoning. Todd smuggled Herman in from Spain as a consolation present after he missed Drew’s seventh birthday. Drew loved Herman so much he had immediately forgiven Todd. Lauren had not.

  “He’s a beaut.” Gabe ran a finger along the ridges of Herman’s shell; Herman pulled in his head and limbs.

  “Don’t you think it looks like a birdhouse?” Drew asked, tracing a rough square of slightly darker green along the turtle’s carapace.

  Gabe considered the turtle’s shell carefully. “I sure do,” he declared, cementing Drew’s approval. Most of Drew’s friends, as well as his parents and Aunt Beatrice, had a lot of difficulty seeing the birdhouse.

  “Why don’t you bring Herman back to your room?” Lauren suggested, throwing a smile of thanks at Gabe. “And wash your hands. Dinner’s ready.”

  Lauren thoroughly enjoyed dinner. Gabe and Drew discussed turtles and exactly what kinds of guns and other weapons the minutemen had used at Lexington and Concord. Lauren and Gabe discussed a juicy bit of gossip about Terri, the department secretary, and a popular movie they had both seen and hated. They finished off both orders of Peking ravioli.

  By the time she put Drew to bed, Lauren had decided to show Gabe the poppet she had received in the mail. As she pulled the shoe box from the linen cabinet bookshelf, the phone rang. With the box under her arm, she went into the living room, where Gabe was sitting, to answer it. She was surprised to find the call was for him.

  He walked over to her desk. “I hope you don’t mind that I had my calls forwarded here.” He shrugged sheepishly as he picked up the receiver. “Hollywood’s three hours behind us, so there are always deals cooking in the evening.”

  Lauren wondered whether she should go into the kitchen to give him some privacy. But then, figuring it was her house, she sat down on the couch. Feigning disinterest in his conversation, she lifted a glass of wine and took a sip. Then she opened an old copy of Newsweek and began flipping through it.

  “You’re kidding!” Gabe exclaimed, a wide grin animating his face. “That’s great, Nance. Good job.”

  Lauren remembered that Nancy was his agent. Her heart beat faster and she gave up any pretense of inattention. Something important was happening.

  Gabe burst out laughing at something Nancy said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  When he finally put down the phone, he smiled at Lauren the way Drew did when he was particularly proud of himself but didn’t want her to know. ‘“The Tonight Show,’” Gabe said. “They want to fly me to L.A. to be on the show.”

  “The real ‘Tonight Show’?” Lauren asked, incredulous. As much as she admired and respected Gabe, it was difficult to imagine that Jay Leno wanted to talk to him on national television.

  “The very real one,” Gabe said, flashing his irresistible grin. “Nancy said it was no joke—they actually want boring l’il old historian me!”

  “That’s fabulous,” Lauren said, handing him a glass of wine. She had never known anyone who had been on “The Tonight Show.” “To your success as a popular icon.”

  He touched her glass with his and his face glowed with happiness. “What an absurd—but admittedly appealing—concept.” He took a large gulp of wine and came to sit next to her on the couch. He looked at the shoe box. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, putting it under the coffee table. “It seems so silly and unimportant after your news.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Remember I said I wanted to get away from it all for an evening?” He ran his hands through his thick hair. “This ‘onstage’ stuff gets to be a bit much after awhile.”

  “Well, if you’re sure …” she said, reluctantly putting the box on the table. “It’s a Paul Conklin joke—I think. He sent one to me and one to Jackie.”

  Gabe lifted his eyebrows. “I thought he swore off the practical jokes after he got my car towed.”

  “See for yourself.”

  Gabe flipped off the lid and stared impassively at the doll. He read the note and looked up at her; his eyes were dark and brooding. “Jackie got one of these too?” he asked, his face paling as the full impact of the poppet and Jackie’s death hit him. “Poor bastard’ll never pull another prank again.”

  “So you think Paul sent them?”

  “He knew you and Jackie were going to get the chronicle—and it sure seems like his kind of gag.” Gabe picked the poppet up and inspected it more closely. “Ugly sucker,” he muttered. “Did you ask him about it?”

  Lauren told him exactly what Paul had said. Then she told him about Deborah’s curse.

  Gabe sipped his wine and stared at the poppet as she spoke. “So what did you think of Deborah?” he finally asked.

  “Intense,” she said slowly. “But very smart—and maybe very off her rocker. A real enigma.”

  Gabe nodded. “She’s an enigma, all right.”

  “You know her?” Lauren asked, surprised.

  “I used to.” He swallowed the remaining wine in his glass and poured himself another. “Why do you think it was Paul instead of your reincarnated witches who sent the poppets? The witches are more likely to mix their historical metaphors.”

  Lauren was intrigued and impressed by Gabe’s point. Historically, poppe
ts weren’t found in the home of the victim; they were kept by the sorcerer, who, through spells and incantations, used the dolls as conduits to work evil on his or her prey.

  “These new witches do things differently,” Lauren said thoughtfully. “My knowledge of contemporary witchcraft is pretty limited, but I do know that covens are encouraged to make up their own spells and incantations. To do things their own way.” She shrugged. “Maybe someone wanted to scare Jackie and didn’t care—or know—if it was ‘historically correct.’”

  “Seems logical.”

  “But it couldn’t have been Deborah. She’s the one who gave us the chronicle in the first place—and who else would care? I figure it must’ve been Paul,” Lauren said, realizing she was trying to convince herself as well as Gabe. “Even if he’s aware of the intricate details of Colonial black magic—which, given his specialty, is unlikely—my guess is he would take poetic license for a good practical joke.” She looked down at the deformed doll and shuddered. Replacing the lid on the shoe box, she pushed it under the couch with her foot.

  Gabe nodded. “My guess too.”

  “But the worst of it is,” Lauren continued, “because of Jackie’s death, Deborah and Cassandra are now convinced their curse has come true. And, as long as they believe that, no chronicle for me—or Nat.”

  “And Nat’s not a man who’s easily swayed,” Gabe said, refilling her glass.

  Once again touched by his interest, Lauren took another sip of the red wine; it tasted quite bitter on her tongue. “Nat’s obsessed with that chronicle—he wants supernatural, reincarnation, spooky, weird. I want history, feminism, social psychology.” She shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “He’s got all the power, all the money, and all the control.”

  Gabe ran his finger around the rim of his glass; she liked the tight, hard look of the muscles along his arm. “So what’s your plan?” he asked.

  “Figure out a way to keep Nat happy.” Lauren sipped her wine and wondered why she kept drinking it. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just a caboose—being pulled along by everyone else. Reacting to situations that other people create.” She took another sip, but as soon as the taste registered she put the glass down on the table. “And I don’t want any more wine,” she added emphatically.

  “Okay,” he said, shifting his weight so that he was slightly farther away from her on the couch. “You don’t have to have any.”

  “Sorry. I guess it’s been a long day.” She looked down at her hands, thinking that if this had been a date, it surely wasn’t any longer. She noticed that the turquoise stone in her ring had fallen out. The ring hadn’t been expensive, nor did it have any sentimental value; nonetheless, Lauren felt a pang as she slipped the ring in her pocket. It seemed she was losing so much lately.

  Gabe leaned toward her. “But how can you do what you’re told when Nat tells you one thing and your witches tell you another?”

  “I’m just going to have to give Deborah and Cassandra time to cool down and then ask again for permission to read the chronicle.” She shrugged. “Nat’s the boss—he has to win.”

  Gabe looked over at Lauren’s desk, heaped with books and file folders. “What about Jackie’s other leads?”

  Lauren followed his gaze. “There’s plenty of weird stuff, but none of it’s as relevant or commercial as the reincarnated witches.”

  “So make it relevant,” Gabe said. “Make it commercial.” He tapped her leg with his finger and she felt a jolt flow from the spot he had touched. “There’s got to be great stuff in there. Stones and circles and curses. Amulets and chants and magic symbolism. Things your coven did in 1692 that are still being done today. I’ll bet you can come up with an interpretation that’ll explain why the coven disappeared.”

  “One that’s good enough to satisfy Nat?” Her voice was full of doubt. “As good as the chronicle?”

  “Why not?” Gabe stood up and grabbed a few files. He flipped through them. “This is great stuff: the black mass sequel, the necromantic invocation, the conjuration of a girl … Hey, look at this—she’s got a list called ‘local witches.’ Can you believe the woman? There are even phone numbers,” he said triumphantly. “Call them all. I’ll bet you can find what you need for Nat without ever having to go back to that crazy store.”

  Despite his persuasiveness and her desire to believe, Lauren was still skeptical. “But what if it’s not linked enough—or spooky enough—for Nat?”

  Gabe grabbed Lauren’s hands and sat down next to her, closer than before. “Oh, it’s spooky enough,” he said. “All you have to do is find a connection. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about historical connections, it’s that if you look long enough, you’ll find them. I just never give up until I get what I want.” He grinned at her. “You can do this, Lauren. I know you can. As a matter of fact, I’m so convinced you can pull it off that I’d be willing to work with you on it.”

  Mesmerized by both his words and the touch of his hands, Lauren didn’t move. The great Gabe Phipps, willing to work with a lowly graduate student? The man who was going to be flown to L.A. to be on “The Tonight Show”? As her mind whirled, a part of her remained acutely aware of the strength of his grip, of the thick dark hairs on his forearms.

  “Thanks—that would be great,” she said, trying to match his enthusiasm, although she held out little hope for success. Gabe hadn’t seen Nat’s face when he had described the excitement at Boylston Press over the “witches’ bible.” “I guess there’s nothing to lose by giving it a shot.”

  “Good.” Gabe leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest, a satisfied smile on his face. They sat in silence for a few minutes as he glanced around the airy room, casually inspecting its double bay windows, its gaping fireplace, its wild and obviously uncared-for plants, its mishmash of furniture and functions: living room, study, playroom. “I like it here,” Gabe finally said.

  “So do I.”

  “You know, you’re a very comfortable person to be around.” He smiled—not his usual public grin, but a warm, intimate smile that touched something deep inside her.

  Lauren picked up her wineglass and took a sip. When the bitter taste touched her tongue, she burst out laughing.

  Gabe leaned over and took the glass from her hand. “You don’t want any more wine.”

  “Right, I don’t want any more wine,” she repeated, her eyes close to his.

  He set the glass on the table. “Guess it’s time for me to get going.” His statement was obviously a question.

  Lauren studied a lock of hair curling over the collar of his shirt. She wanted to reach out and touch it. “I guess it is,” she said.

  Gabe stood up. “I’ve got a few more hours of work to put in anyway.” At Lauren’s surprised look he added, “I’m a real night owl.”

  Disappointed, Lauren followed him through the hallway. Now that she really looked, she realized he might even be an inch taller than she was. She pulled open the door. “Thanks for the Chinese—” she started to say as he put his arms around her and kissed her.

  After the awkwardness of the past few minutes and the tension she had felt all evening, it was so comfortable, so right, to relax in his arms, to be kissing him instead of just thinking about it, to feel his muscular body instead of just wondering about it. As she pressed closer, she realized she had been thinking about kissing him all day.

  They stepped apart and smiled shyly at each other. “I had a great time tonight,” Gabe said. “Better than I’ve had in a long time.”

  This man is a charmer, Lauren reminded herself. And what they were doing right now might even be against university policy. She surprised herself by reaching out and running her finger along the strong line of his chin. She pulled her hand back. “Me too,” she said softly.

  “It’s probably not a good idea …”

  “Probably not,” she agreed, longing to lean over and kiss the spot under his chin where she could see his pulse throbbing.

&nb
sp; “So, how about a real dinner?” he asked. “Saturday night?”

  “I’d love to,” she said before her wiser self could intercede.

  Gabe touched her cheek. “I’ll call you later in the week.” Then he turned and walked down the stairs.

  Thirteen

  LAUREN SIPPED HER COFFEE, HOPING IT WOULD EASE the headache that neither the previous cup nor the aspirin she had taken earlier had been able to soothe. It was the damn red wine, she thought as the pain hammered behind her eyes.

  Somehow she had managed to get Drew off to school and had even called Aunt Beatrice to ask if she could baby-sit Saturday night, but she didn’t feel up to convincing Dr. Berg that Drew was just a normal little boy struggling to deal with adult problems. Rubbing her temples, Lauren glanced at the clock and noted that her appointment was in half an hour. Next time she would tell Gabe to bring white wine.

  Gabe. Just saying his name to herself caused her stomach to squeeze with nervousness—and her spirits to rise. There was no denying the attraction. On her side it was indisputable and, although she was no expert on men, Lauren was pretty sure that what she had felt from his side of that kiss had been real. She rubbed the goose bumps that rose on her arms at the memory. There was no way he would ever have agreed to help her with the book if he wasn’t attracted. Gabe Phipps had far better things to do with his time than guide lowly graduate students through their dissertations. He never even sat on anyone’s dissertation committee; she had heard he had a special exemption in his contract.

  As she dropped her coffee cup in the sink, the telephone rang. It was Todd.

  “I’m running a bit late, hon,” he said. “But I promise I’ll be there on time.”

  Lauren pressed her eyes closed for a moment. “You’ve got less than half an hour,” she couldn’t keep from reminding him.