Fool's Journey Page 17

  “You hear anything?” Malone whispered.

  Manny cocked an ear. A faint tapping came from farther down the hall. “Someone’s working late. You said another professor called this in?” Manny asked.

  “That’s what the dispatcher said. That must be who it is. Where the hell’s my back-up?” Malone stepped to the window and looked out over the campus. “There’s the problem. Must be four, five hundred kids out there. The boys‘ve got their hands full. I’d better find out who else is in the building.”

  “Looks at least an hour old,” Manny said, indicating Willard’s body. “Whoever did this is long gone, I’d guess. I can help you check the floor. It’s a labyrinth up here–offices cobbled together hit or miss. Lots of cubicles and closets.”

  “Well, I don’t want any kids snooping around here, that’s for sure.” He paused a moment, considering. At last, he said, “You go that way – if there are any students, just make ‘em sit tight till I get there. But that’s all. Don’t ask any questions.”

  Manny nodded and headed down the hall. He passed Deirdre’s office. The door was shut and, trying the handle, he found it locked. Good. He followed the sounds of typing down the hallway to a door that was partially ajar. The sign read "Prof. Bess Seymour". He tapped on the door.

  “Come in.”

  As he entered, a gray-haired woman looked up from her computer keyboard. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused. “Are you the police?” she asked.

  “No. I’m a friend of Deirdre’s.”

  “Ah,” she smiled. “Good for her. I’m glad she’s got someone. Things are going to get exciting here pretty soon. You might want to get out of the building.”

  “You mean because of Willard?”

  She nodded and yawned. “Published and perished. I killed him about an hour and a half ago. He was going to hurt Deirdre, but everything will be all right now. I’ve gotten rid of his evidence, trashed the hard drive on his computer.”

  The calmness of her voice sent a shiver down Manny's spine. Her face was absolutely serene. Her hands were trembling, though: the only sign that this distinguished-looking woman had just taken another's life.

  He sat down in the visitor’s chair across from her desk. “And then you called the police?” he asked.

  “Yes. I just finished writing my confession.” She hit a couple of keys on her computer and the printer at her side whirred into action. She smiled weakly. “That way, there won’t be any nonsense involving anyone else in the investigation.”

  She took the page from the printer tray and signed it. Then she pushed the document across the desk towards him. He glanced at the words and saw a brief description of her motive, the story she’d told Deirdre days ago.

  “I’m glad you came up here,” she said. “Tell Deirdre I’m sorry for everything she went through. I should have killed the bastard twenty-five years ago.”

  XXXIII.

  All alone now, Deirdre clutched the jacket Manny had left draped around her shoulders like an embrace. From outside came the rising of the wind and a spatter of rain. It was a good night for a storm, one that would cleanse the sky and clear the air. She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, then set out a china pot and spooned in some chamomile tea.

  At the back of the cupboard, she spotted a bottle of sleeping pills that had been prescribed for her a few ago. Her mind was spinning with ideas, her heart with emotions. She knew she might never sleep unless she took one. She’d have to sleep if she was going to be any good tomorrow, and there was so much to do. She’d have to sleep if she was going to be any good tomorrow, and there was so much to do. She glanced at the label—it wasn’t that far out of date. She shoot a pill into her palm and downed it with a handful of tap water. As she recalled, these pills worked quickly. Good.

  She wandered to the living room again. The message light on her answering machine was blinking, but she ignored it. Panda could wait until morning. And there were classes tomorrow–she'd almost forgotten, but she could plan those in the morning. Instead, she pictured Manny standing at the door where she had last seen him. Now, she indulged the fantasy that if she opened it again, he would still be there. On a whim, she went to the door and threw it open. Only the wind rushed in.

  The storm circled around her, and the raindrops flew against her face, fresh and cool. Manny, of course, was gone. She had heard him drive off some time ago. But the restive spirits of nature whirled in the door. The air was charged.

  It was late, but nervous energy coursed through her veins. What a change one day could make! She had opened her eyes and her heart to the world, and she could already feel a new life blooming within her with more purpose and intensity that any writing prize or offer of job security had done.

  As the wind and rain whipped around her, the possibilities swirled through her mind. She didn’t need to spend her life alone. She didn’t need to bury her despised treasure. Stashing away her father’s money hadn’t made the nightmare go away, but, strangely, using it for good had. From the kitchen came the shriek of the teakettle. She pulled the door shut and went to silence it.

  Later, sipping tea drowsily, she took in the changes Mrs. Ruiz had made earlier in the day. The woman was a wonder. She had not only cleaned, but reconfigured the apartment as well. The armchair where Freemont Willard had sat not so long ago now stood against the opposite wall. It was covered with a bright quilt she had purchased a few years ago but had never used. Her plants had been pruned to encourage new growth, and the smoke of burned sage still hung vigilantly in the air.

  She had feared that the memory of what happened here last night would linger. Even though her memory of the encounter was still fresh, the ghosts had been exorcised. She leaned back against the cushions and pulled Manny’s jacket more closely around her. She missed him. She missed what would have happened if she’d stayed with him.

  There would be a time for love, though. She felt the future opening before her, beckoning like a familiar, beloved dream. She’d led a cramped and fearful life—that’s all she’d known how to do—but now she sensed a stretching of spiritual and emotional muscles. It was a good and wholesome pain.

  Although she was getting sleepy now, ideas were still bubbling. Grabbing a notebook and pen, she began to make a list:

  Set up a trust fund to help the displaced children of migrant workers, safe houses and counseling for abused women and their children, cash to help them resettle. Teach a writing class to heal emotional battering.

  There was so much she would do now. Make the money grow so she could continue to give–that was the solution to that particular ghost. The hundreds of millions molding away in various accounts would be let loose on a wounded world.

  When she couldn’t keep her eyes open a minute longer, she made her way to bed. Mrs. Ruiz had remade it with fresh linens and turned down the blankets. Deirdre pulled off her clothes and, for the first time in her life, slipped between the cool sheets without wearing a long nightgown. She felt like a stranger in her own bed.

  Hugging the pillow to her, she settled herself in the memory of Manny’s arms and the comforting thrum of his heart. The fear of discovery, the fear of whatever Freemont could do, had fled now that she knew she would not have to face the future alone. How ironic that she’d kept herself isolated so long out of fear. It was the connection with another person that had finally brought her freedom.

  To the comforting rhythm of rain, sleep wrapped itself about her and she curled into it like a child.

  In the lobby of the theater, Mrs. Ruiz stood with the children waiting for Carlito to bring the car around. The clear autumn day had faded into drizzle and now it was raining hard. As the big Buick rolled around the corner, the children ran toward it and jumped in the back seat.

  “¡Abrochen los cinturones de seguridad!” Carlito called back to them. Grumbling, they fastened their seat belts.

  “Thanks, Carlito,” she said. “These two, they never remember.”

  “That is the way of c
hildren. They remember popcorn and candy, but never what they are told. You look tired, Rosa. The children are a trouble to you, no?”

  She smiled. “They come into my life, so they cannot be trouble. Just a blessing to drive me a little crazy.”

  “A troublesome blessing." He glanced over at her and cleared his throat. "There’s something else wrong? You did not pay attention to the film, I know.”

  She shrugged. “I kept thinking about a friend. She has troubles. I see danger, but now she’s safe, I think.”

  “This vision of yours is a burden. You should go to the priest.”

  She shook her head. “Not a burden. Another blessing.”

  “Maybe you should ask God to bless someone else.”

  She laughed. “Maybe you want to volunteer?”

  “Not this simple man. Why don't you tell me what you are feeling. Maybe if you talk, it won’t be so bad.”

  “It’s probably nothing. Just a lot going on lately. I know in my head that everything is all right, but my heart keeps turning—like something’s wrong. It happens that way sometimes,” she told him. “The vision isn’t perfect. Sometimes, I just get messages about what could happen, not what will.”

  “And so you worry?”

  “That’s not my job. I pray.”

  Manny stood outside the precinct office in the rain. Freemont Willard was dead, and now so was Bess Seymour. How had he not known what was coming? He’d left her to get Malone and before he’d reached the end of the hall, the gunshot came.

  He should have known she’d kill herself, too. She had been too calm when they spoke to be anticipating arrest.

  She was dying anyway. Why would she trouble her last days with police and jails? Why else would she have given him a message to deliver to Deirdre?

  He’d made his statement. Even though murder-suicides were tidy from a paperwork standpoint, and this case had been further expedited by Bess’s confession, it was well after midnight. He wanted to call Deirdre to tell her what had happened, but if he woke her with news like this, she’d spend the rest of the night awake.

  Who was to say, though, that wasn’t the case already? He was in no hurry to go home. He could spin by Deirdre’s and see if the lights were still on. He headed toward his car and into the night.

  XXXIV.

  Deirdre was dreaming of the Sargasso Sea. The water, blood-warm and thick with seaweed, pulled her down into its suffocating depths. The sinuous strands slipped around her and she thrashed silently among them, straining to swim upwards towards the light of the moon.

  Unthinking, she tried to scream. I’m dying. Manny, help me! The best she could do was a thin, wordless moan. Her mouth filled with the slick tendrils. She flailed about clumsily, desperately, trying to signal to him, but again she sank. The warm, clotted water closed silently over her head. Desperately pushing to break the green morass, she made a final effort and found herself propelled up into the moonlight.

  She gasped for breath in the silver light, consumed with relief and grateful to be alive. Then she saw him coming, walking toward her across the waves: her father, smiling. He reached for her: Take my hands. I’ll save you. She couldn't move as he came closer. Take my hand. Come home with me. His hand, with its perfectly manicured fingernails, opened before her and she let her body go limp, sinking once again under the blanket of waves.

  Deirdre dragged herself up from sleep, groggy from the pill she’d taken, and the air was thick with sleep. What an awful dream. The clinging softness of seaweed, the taste of salt water, her father’s smile—it had all seemed so fresh and real. Yet here she was in her room, safe and dry.

  What time was it? She leaned over, trying to see the luminous dial of her clock. Then a wave of panic swept over her.

  Hair.

  Both of her hands were tangled in hair. This shouldn't be. Around her feet and legs she felt the cool shiver of sinuous strands, like a thousand twists of raveled silk.

  Desperate now, Deirdre forced herself to penetrate the fog of sleep. She had cut her hair off. How it had come back to her?

  Mrs. Ruiz had made the bed fresh today. Everything had been fine when she’d slipped between the sheets. It was clear. Someone had put the hair into her bed while she was sleeping. That someone was here now.

  It could only be Freemont. No one else was so sick, so arrogantly sure of himself. But how? The lock had been changed. Then she felt her stomach lurch. Had she locked the door after she came back inside from watching the storm? The teakettle had whistled, she’d gone back in, but had she locked the door?

  She couldn’t remember. How could she be so stupid? After everything that had happened, how could she not remember whether she’d locked the door or not?

  It didn’t matter now.

  Steeling herself, she slipped silently from the bed. She was naked, vulnerable. Hair clung to her bare legs like sticky cobwebs. She swept it off in handfuls, then felt for the shirt and jeans she’d taken off earlier and silently pulled them on. That was better.

  She stood still and listened. Nothing.

  Then, step by step, she advanced. Her cell phone and gun were still in the living room. If she could get to either, she would have some measure of control.

  Slowly, she slid against the walls, tracing the perimeter of each room. When she reached the bathroom door, she thought briefly about locking herself in, but rejected it as more trap than refuge. Was there anything she could use for weapon, though? She did a quick mental inventory and almost laughed at the ridiculous notion of confronting Freemont with a can of hairspray and a disposable razor.

  Inch by inch she made her way farther towards the front of the apartment. Then she froze as the floor creaked. Had it come from her own footstep? She swallowed hard and waited, her heartbeat marking the seconds. Still nothing but silence.

  She ventured another step. Then another. Noiselessly she made her way toward the living room. Only a few more feet and she could get to the drawer where her gun lay hidden. Then she’d go for the telephone.

  She was poised mid-step when the light flashed on and a familiar voice greeted her. “Hello, sweet Katie. Going somewhere?”

  Manny pulled up across from Deirdre’s apartment, just as the lights came on in her window. He glanced at his watch. One in the morning. He’d been right. She was having trouble sleeping.

  He opened the car door and stepped into the rain, now missing the jacket he’d insisted Deirdre wear. He was glad she’d taken some part of him, though. It was a way of staying with her, even when he’d been sent away.

  He glanced up at her window and saw a silhouette. He started towards her apartment, but stopped a heartbeat later. Something was wrong. The shape he saw wasn’t right. The way it moved seemed foreign. It wasn’t her.

  He snapped the cell phone from his waist and quickly punched in Deirdre’s number. It rang three times. Then someone picked up.

  “Deirdre! Is everything all right?”

  Silence. Then the connection was broken.

  Manny cursed under his breath and shoved the cell back in its holder. Sprinting across the street, he reached the building and flattened himself against it. He wished now that he hadn’t repaired the window in her bedroom. As far as he knew, the only other way in was the front door. Except—hadn’t she said there was a door that connected her rooms with the rest of the old mansion? He remembered talking with her about it—the door was nailed shut, but maybe he could find a way to get it open. He’d have to wake the landlord and convince him to give it a try.

  Manny moved silently along the wall and behind some shrubs. To get to the landlord’s entrance, he’d have to cross a broad expanse of lawn illuminated by streetlights. Someone could be watching from upstairs, but if he was quick, he could get to the front of the building without being noticed. He glanced left and right, then crouched low, ready to run. I’m coming for you Deirdre. Hold on.

  Then came a sharp blow and blackness.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Eu
nice McClellan Fisher dropped the cell on the sofa and plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her raincoat. She stretched her mouth into a red-lipped grin, then winked broadly. “Why, you left the door open, honey,” she drawled. “I thought you must want company.”

  On seeing her aunt rather than Freemont Willard, Deirdre had almost laughed with relief, but now anger took precedence.

  “If you want more money, you might have noticed the banks are closed.”

  “Maybe I don’t need a bank. Those bills you gave me were old, like they’d been stored, so when I came here I was hoping you’d have a suitcase of cash under the bed. But I found all that hair in a paper bag, and I just couldn’t resist. How’d you like your little surprise?”

  Deirdre clenched her fists at the memory. “You need to go now,” she said.

  Eunice stayed where she was. “You sure are a deep sleeper—you sleep like the dead. I thought you’d wake up when I came in, but you didn’t even stir when I turned on the bedroom light. So, I just let you sleep while I poked around.”

  It was raining hard outside, but Deirdre noticed that her aunt’s raincoat was almost dry. She had been here awhile, slinking about.

  Eunice glanced around the room. “You surprise me, honey. You really do. You could have anything, be anywhere, but you choose this bird’s nest, and decorate in Goodwill chic.”

  “Call yourself a cab,” Deirdre said.

  “In a bit.” Eunice smiled. “I’ve got a few things to do here first.”

  “That’s not your choice.”

  “Think what you please.” She kicked off her shoes, sank down on the sofa and curled her feet up under her. “You know, Katie, I never bore you any ill will, not even when you killed my brother. I thought, well, hallelujah! Somebody’s got some guts. Now your mother–she was a worm. Took everything he dished out without even a whimper.”