“Don’t touch me. Just go.”
“Can we talk, Helen?”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
Helen moved toward the door, but Wilson stepped in front of her, the gun bulging at her side. No one knows where I am. No one could guess. Helen had only Wilson’s word that the gun wasn’t loaded.
“Please, Helen.”
Helen backed away slowly and sat back on the bed.
“I shouldn’t have taken you to this shitbag motel without telling you who I was. I thought you knew. You looked at me, and I just…thought you knew.” Wilson looked down. “Whatever you came for, I think it was the same thing I did, but you didn’t want to do it with me. I fucked that up. I always fuck it up with women I like.
“Don’t look surprised. I like you Helen. I know from past experience, I’ll mess things up so monumentally you’ll never speak to me again.” This time, her sadness was naked and raw. “I’m horrible with women. I’m horrible at love. But I am a good teacher.” Wilson’s lips tightened. “I know Carrie Brown. I know she would not disappear right before a performance, no matter how much she wanted to transfer.”
It took Helen a minute to reorient. “You want to talk about Carrie Brown?”
“I don’t believe the story about the homeless woman found in the train, and you don’t either.”
“I checked Banner,” Helen whispered. “All the paperwork is in order. Carrie transferred to UMass.”
“I checked Banner, too, but have you talked to her? She’s not there. And there’s something else.”
“What?”
Wilson sat on the bed next to Helen. “The trains that run the Berkshire–Western track start in Holyoke and go all the way to Chicago. A few go to the West Coast. You can track them online. The train that came through Pittock the night the legs were amputated…that train was in Idaho the day the torso was found. But the legs were found under a train in Pennsylvania. See? It’s not the same train. I think there are two different bodies.”
Helen took Wilson’s hand and squeezed it. She felt the heat rising from Wilson’s bare shoulders. She smelled sex and beer and cologne on Wilson’s skin. This is the end of my career. No matter what happens with the legs, this is the end.
“Tell me about Anat Al–Fulani.”
Wilson put an arm around her shoulder. Despite everything and against all rational thought, Helen relaxed at the touch.
“Anat worked at Pittock as a janitor. She was a wonderful woman. Smart. Resourceful. Hard-working. She had come through so much to get to this country. She was from Egypt and had once been very wealthy. In Pittock, she lived in a trailer behind the asylum. Anat emptied my trashcan and took out recycling for the theater. She got off work at 10:00 p.m. and walked home every evening along Asylum Road. One day, she was cutting across the grounds and was attacked by Marshal Drummond.” Wilson didn’t hesitate as she made the accusation. “She said he was like an animal. He appeared out of nowhere. His hands were shaking. He was babbling, saying she owed him sex and that he would rip her apart if she didn’t shut up and take it. When she ran, he came after her. Luckily, a car passed by. It was one of my students, and he brought her to me.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“I did, and they conducted an investigation. It wasn’t just Hornsby and his Boy Scouts then. There was another cop, Roger Albon, who took it very seriously. But when it came down to it, Michael Warren, the president at the time, swore Drummond showed up at the Pittock House around 9:30 p.m. Michael was already sick. I think Drummond just told him the story and somehow convinced him. Anat swore it was Drummond. She didn’t speak a lot of English, but she wasn’t confused. And she was no liar.”
“What happened?” Helen asked, her mind racing. Could it have been Ricky? Although he resembled his father, no one would mistake one for the other. Plus, he would have been younger then. Too young.
“About a month later, INS came in the middle of the night, and Anat was deported. The student who picked her up lost his scholarship and went back to Texas. After that, Michael died, and Drummond said there was no budget to hire a replacement.”
“And you think all this was a cover up for…what?”
“Someone attacked Anat, and then had her deported. I think that person had something to do with the legs. And the legs are Carrie Brown’s.” Wilson stood and paced the small room. “The story about the homeless woman is a sham. Whoever is responsible is powerful. They won’t get caught if the police aren’t looking. Hornsby has turned a blind eye, and Tyron and Darrell can’t do anything without his permission. I know Drummond attacked Anat. I thought Ricky…” Wilson ran her hands through her hair. “It just doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t smell right.”
It was a relief to hear her own anxiety in another person’s voice. Helen felt a wave of tenderness toward Wilson. Still, there were so many layers, so many variables. Terri had told Helen she wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps Wilson wasn’t either. She saw Drummond’s gray eyes, his ubiquitous sport coat, his noble bearing. He loved his son, and he loved Pittock.
“I haven’t known Drummond long,” Helen said cautiously. “But I find it hard to imagine he’d attack a woman. I don’t know the depths of the human heart, but Marshal Drummond doesn’t raise any red flags. I’m speaking honestly, not as the college president, and not for PR. I’m not scared of Marshal.”
“What about Ricky?” Wilson said, her voice bleak.
“I don’t know.” Fear pulled Helen down like quicksand.
“What if he killed Carrie?” Wilson wrapped around her arms around body like a humble, frightened child. “What if he killed another woman to cover it up? He’s still out there. What about my students?”
The same questions were beating against Helen’s skull. I remember because Crystal broke a cigarette in half, and we said that was what a train did to a body. Snap you right in half like a butt.
Helen stood and held out a hand to Wilson. “I promise I’ll do something. Look at me. I care as much as you do. Now go home.” Please, don’t tell anyone about tonight. Wait until I figure something out.
Wilson shrugged on her shirt and jacket. Helen watched as she left, then peered through the window while Wilson descended the stairs and crossed the parking lot. A second later, she disappeared behind the Cozzzy Inn. In the parking lot, mayflies danced like snowflakes under the single streetlight. Wilson was gone as if she never existed, like a dream or a vision. Helen went into the bathroom and cried.
Chapter Thirty
When Helen had cried herself out, she straightened her clothes, retrieved her purse and exited the room, locking the hotel key inside. She would not be coming back to the Cozzzy Inn.
Hers was the only car in the parking lot. It crouched under the single streetlight that illuminated the lot. As Helen approached, she cursed. A flat. Just what she needed. She took out her phone and dialed AAA. As she waited for the automated voice to give her instructions, she noticed that it was not just the tire closest to her. Both back tires had gone flat.
The AAA operator came on the line. “Are you in a safe location?”
Helen walked to the front of her car. The front tires were also flat.
“I’m not sure.”
The bar had closed. One pickup truck remained parked in what might have been a handicap spot if anyone had bothered to pave and mark the lot. It looked like it hadn’t moved in years. In the front office of the Cozzzy Inn, the desk clerk spoke to a man seated in the lobby. The surrounding forest was dark and motionless. No traffic disturbed the rural highway.
“I think my tires have been slashed,” Helen told the operator.
Once the dispatcher had arranged a tow and given her an estimated wait time, Helen hurried to the light and safety of the lobby. It just doesn’t feel right.
“Checking in?” the clerk asked when Helen entered.
Did he not remember her? Or was “forgetting” the specialty of the house? She explained the situation.
The clerk fumbled with a cigarette pack and extracted a flattened cigarette. He had weathered hands and wore a baseball cap advertising a diesel repair company.
“Dang kids.” He held out the pack to Helen. She shook her head. “That’s the third time someone’s messed with the parking lot this month. Jimmy–O got his truck all keyed up. Then Sally Jenkins left her window open, cause it was so hot, and came out after her shift to see some crazy, old coot pissing in the backseat of her 4-Runner. Right through the window.”
The clerk picked up a small, no–smoking plaque from the counter and placed it face down. He lit his cigarette.
“That shit will kill you,” his friend said. To Helen, the friend added, “Sorry about your tires, Miss. This place is no good. I only come here ‘cause my wife says she can’t stand the smell of beer on me. Gotta spend a few hours with this asshole anyway.” He jerked his thumb toward the clerk.
The clerk glared at his friend from beneath wiry eyebrows.
“Did either of you see anyone near the black Lexus?” Helen asked.
“Well, shit, a Lexus,” the clerk said. “No wonder you got your tires poked. No one drives cars like that around here.”
“Did you see anyone?”
He looked away. “Nope.”
Helen took a few steps toward the counter, so that she could look him directly in the eye. The clerk played with his cigarette, rolling the glowing tip around the rim of an ashtray without looking at her. He was lying. She was certain.
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t see nothing from in here.”
Helen looked. Her car stood out like a single player on a spot–lit stage.
“I saw him,” the friend chimed in. “Buddy here is a pussy. Doesn’t want any trouble with the locals. He saw him too. Some college kid. I didn’t get a plate. I figured he was working up the nerve to go see a hooker. He pulled in. Sat in his car. Then left. Then came back about an hour later. I noticed ‘cause he never went in the bar, and he was driving this big, yellow truck. More like a Jeep. Bright yellow. Like those Tonka toys my boys used to have when they were growing up.”
****
It was late at night, and he was alone. He flipped through a hardcover book of antique medical equipment. The hemorrhoid forceps. The hysterotome, for amputating the cervix. The tonsil guillotine. These were just toys. He was looking for tools.
Finally, he found the knives. The curved amputation knife of the 1700s, the straight saw of the 1800s (such an innovation, despite the decorative engravings which were a breeding ground for infection). If he wanted to keep Ivers alive, he would have to be more skillful than he had been with the others. But there would be no electricity and limited light. He had to look to the forefathers. They had amputated without blood transfusions, sutures, or anesthesia. Some of their patients had lived. He would sterilize everything as best he could. That was already an advance over technology of the past. She might live for weeks. He dared to hope. Perhaps for years.
Chapter Thirty-one
Helen felt the campus watching her as she walked toward Meyerbridge Hall. There were eyes in the windows of passing cars. Eyes in the darkened windows of the basement computer labs, glinting through the shrubbery. They knew. They saw. It had been Eliza’s perennial complaint. “They’re watching me.” Now Helen felt it too. She had showered at the Pittock House, but she could still smell Wilson’s sweat on her skin.
At his desk, Patrick wore a knowing expression, a smile that said, “I see you.”
“How are you, Helen?” he asked. “I heard about Adrian Meyerbridge. That must have been a shock.”
This is the end.
When Helen passed Drummond’s office, Drummond pointed at her. He was on the phone, but he covered the receiver. “Wait.”
Helen’s blood ran cold. The smell of sex clung to her hair. It was under her fingernails. Her mind raced ahead, looking for an argument in her defense, but there was no defense. She could still feel Wilson’s body clasping her from behind. She had wanted it. Maybe she had even known it was Wilson. Maybe that was part of the thrill. One chamber. One bullet. I want to forget.
Drummond hung up the phone.
This is it.
But all Drummond said was, “Arts and Letters faculty meeting this morning. Patrick just put it on your calendar.”
Helen hurried to her office and closed the door like a woman pursued. They’re looking at me! Her breath came in deep huffs. She pressed her hand to her chest, as though the pressure could slow her breathing. She was taking in too much air, drowning in it. Her head swam, the oxygen expanding her mind and consciousness until she felt like she filled the whole room. She filled the campus with its many eyes. She felt it, and somewhere far outside her body she heard a whisper. Help me, Helen. Help me. This time, it was not Eliza. It was Carrie Brown.
The phone rang, and Helen jumped. She held her breath for a moment, trying to stop hyperventilating, to contract her mind back into her body. The number on the caller ID was from out of town. She picked up the phone. “This is President Ivers.”
It was Meyerbridge’s lawyer. “Good morning, and good news for you.” He had a voice like a genial grandfather. “Everything is in order to the best of my knowledge. Very generous of Mr. Meyerbridge to make this gift, I’m sure. Such a good cause too. You know my granddaughter went to Pittock.”
Helen tried to focus. The sooner she could finalize the Meyerbridge gift, the better for Pittock. The college was close to running a deficit. She could do this much for the college. She could at least finalize the gift transaction before she was discovered.
“When can you write the check to the Pittock foundation?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m not the trustee. I drafted the will, but Mr. Meyerbridge’s trustee is…” The attorney shuffled some papers. “Here it is.” He read aloud. “The entire donation will be granted in unrestricted funds. Investments to be liquidated upon the grantor’s death. Established at the request of Adrian Meyerbridge. The trustee is Marshal Drummond, your provost if I’m not mistaken. That will be convenient, won’t it?”
“Very,” Helen said.
The attorney chuckled sympathetically. “Well that’s done, then.”
“Wait, I have a question.” Helen exhaled. “How do I put this?”
“Say it plain,” the lawyer suggested.
“Are you certain Mr. Meyerbridge did not make any provision for a gift to the ALS Foundation?”
“There is nothing in the will. Why do you ask?”
“We talked…”
Helen stopped. There was no point in sharing Meyerbridge’s last words. A conversation at a cocktail party would never supersede a legal will. If the college had been on the other end of the situation and the ALS Foundation had laid claim to Meyerbridge’s estate, Helen would have taken the issue to court.
“Never mind. I’m sure everything is in order.”
****
At a quarter till ten, Drummond knocked on Helen’s door. Together they made their way across campus.
“The faculty will want to talk about the budget, professional development grants, and curriculum,” Drummond said as they walked. “We will have to debrief about the legs, of course. I think that is the most important thing: to reassure them that the legs are a closed case. The less they worry, the less the media can feed on their fears. The less attention it will draw to the issue.”
“The sooner we can proceed with our real lives,” Helen added.
Inside her skull, Carrie clamored for attention. Help me, Helen. Help me.
****
The Arts and Letters affair was a simple meet–and–greet, but Helen’s heart raced as she surveyed the crowd in the library reading room. In the back of the room, leaning against one of the built–in bookshelves, Wilson stood with her hands in her pockets. Helen tried not to look at her, but her eyes were drawn back repeatedly. Wilson’s presence was commanding. Even her colleagues seemed to move in her orbit. Deferential. Enamored.
Sh
e wore her usual cargo pants and t–shirt, but this was no Dockers–and–Fruit–of–the–Loom outfit. Everything she wore was beautifully tailored. The clothing clung to her body in sumptuous gray and beige, as though made of heavy, un–dyed silk. On her fingers, she wore several silver rings. They were hand–forged art pieces, not costume jewelry. When Helen finally met her eyes, Wilson cocked her lips in a faint intimation of a smile. She was gorgeous. And Helen felt Wilson’s body pressing into her back, the holster of the gun hard between their ribcages.
At Helen’s arrival, the audience settled. Helen outlined her improvements to campus security. She mentioned the discovery of the torso in the Pennsylvania train yard, keeping her description as bland as possible.
“What does this all mean?” one of the professors asked.
Helen felt Drummond’s hand on her shoulder. “What Dr. Ivers is saying is that the mystery is solved. We have every reason to believe this was the result of a tragic nexus of opportunity, accident, and mental illness. The tragedy brought a lot of media attention, but it is over.”
Wilson’s eyes flared. Her face grew pale.
No, Helen mouthed, her eyes locked on Wilson’s.
Wilson relaxed. Beside her, a professor in a tweed jacket stood. “John Hodson. Music and Performance.” He gestured toward Wilson. “Dr. Wilson has been very discreet, but I have to bring this up. For three years, the budget has included a $10,000 allotment for theater refurbishments, but by the time the school years starts, that money is always gone. Can you tell us where that money is going?”
The Admirer Page 15