John Lutz - Pulse

Tangler stood up and walked to the open French doors. He went halfway outside and stared away from the lacrosse players and wide lawn, at the woods behind the house. The stretch of woods, mostly oaks and hard maples, ensured privacy from the direction of the campus. Crickets were chirping back there, making quite a racket. He mused that it wasn’t such a good idea to have woods so near a house. For security reasons.

“The cops have come and gone here,” he said, “and might come back.”

“True,” Schueller said. Letting the binoculars dangle on their leather strap around his neck, he produced the briar pipe he usually carried but never smoked. After filling its bowl with aromatic tobacco from a soft leather pouch, he tamped it down with a forefinger. He didn’t light the pipe.

“That lie we all told, about meeting in your office the evening of the Macy Collins murder-we still don’t know whom we were protecting.”

“Better if we don’t,” Schueller said. “It’s fortunate that it worked out that way.”

“But there have been more and similar murders. If we were asked questions again by the police, we’d have to lie again. We’re accomplices now.”

“Only if we’re found out. And we can’t be, if we simply stick to our guns. And don’t forget what else we don’t want the police investigating.”

“But Jesus, Linden, it looks as if we’re protecting a serial killer. We probably are protecting a serial killer.”

“I seriously doubt that. I do know we’re protecting ourselves. Besides, we have no choice. We’re in it too deep now, even if we wanted to tell the truth.”

“Getting rich through crime is one thing. Murder is something else.”

“True,” the chancellor said. “Murder doesn’t necessarily make you rich.”

Tangler stared at Schueller with those cold gray eyes, but Schueller didn’t wilt. A tougher guy than he appeared, Tangler thought. There were other, obvious questions he wanted to ask Schueller, but he knew he wouldn’t. Was it planned so we’d have no choice? Does someone control Schueller the way Schueller controls his wayward faculty members?

Questions left unasked.

We’ve waited too long and we’re stuck. No choice now, other than a conspiracy of silence.

Circumstances had turned a questionable business arrangement into something that had trapped them all.

“That kid in the blue shorts can really run,” Schueller said, looking again out the French windows but not in the same direction as Tangler.

“Needs coaching,” Tangler said.

“Don’t they all?”

“Did you ever consider more sports? Different ones?”

“Yes. But at this level, they cost more than they earn.”

“Hm,” Tangler said, coming back all the way into the study. “We can only hope Blue Shorts doesn’t get hurt and has to study during his college years.”

“If he enrolls here,” Schueller said, “studying is precisely what he’ll have to do.”

Through the French doors the chancellor could see one squirrel chasing another up a large tree, round and round. Neither squirrel was ever in a position to see the other, yet each knew the other was there.

For some reason that reminded the chancellor of that cop, Quinn.

S aturday in the summer. Hot, humid, lushly green. Hardly anything or anyone was moving fast in the area of Waycliffe College. Jody figured the campus would be nearly deserted today. That was in her favor.

She parked her rental car at the far end of one of the visitor lots, out of sight from most of the campus, including the administration building. There were a few other cars on the lot, mostly students’ vehicles, using the visitors’ lot because it was closer to where they were going than student parking. There were quite a few cars in the students’ lot.

As she left the cool interior of the car, she glanced around. There were only a few people visible, well off in the distance, and they looked like denim-clad students.

Jody walked hurriedly toward the psych building, but not so fast that she might draw attention, passing only a few students. Once inside, she was pleased to find that the only class being held was on the second floor. No one seemed to be on the main floor. She made her way down the deserted hall to Professor Elaine Pratt’s office.

Someone had once advised her that if she was going to do something illegal, she should do it fast.

She approached the door to the complex of offices and tried the knob. It turned and she was inside.

She was now faced with three other doors lined up ahead of her. She chose the one that was Professor Pratt’s office and rotated the doorknob.

But only her sweating hand rotated. The door was locked.

Prepared for this, Jody reached into her purse and withdrew an expired credit card with a honed edge. This was something Quinn had told her about. She was grateful for his know-how as she slid the card between latch and doorframe, depressing the latch, and the door opened. She was feeling better now. Her nightmare had been what would happen if the card didn’t work and fell down on the other side of the door, where she couldn’t reach it.

There was no point in agonizing about something in the past; it was best to move forward. Someone, in one of her classes, had stressed that to her.

She was in. Ready to go forward.

There was enough light streaming through the window that she wouldn’t have to switch on a lamp.

She immediately bent to the task of searching through Professor Pratt’s desk, and then her file cabinets.

Do it fast…

She was surprised when an hour had passed. And disappointed that she’d been unable to break the encryption code or find any sign of correspondence about her or anything else pertaining to Enders and Coil.

She did find a stock prospectus for Meeding Holding Company, which seemed to be a parent company of Meeding Properties.

So what does this mean? That Elaine Pratt is a shareholder?

So what would that mean? If anything important.

A faint shadow crossed the desk. Someone walking past outside?

She heard a door open and close, not near. Her heart began an accelerated beat and she felt flush, nauseated.

Another door, closer. Leading to the complex of offices. Coming her way.

That was when Jody realized that when she’d entered she hadn’t relocked the door to Professor Pratt’s office. She backed toward the wall the door was on, with its frosted panes. If anyone peered in, they wouldn’t see her. If anyone entered, Jody would… what?

Brazen it through, pretend I have an appointment and I’m waiting for Elaine Pratt?

No, won’t work!

Plan ahead!

When the door opens, run out of here like a scalded rabbit, keep my face hidden, become an unknown intruder who’ll eventually be forgotten.

Like that character in Chicago. Mr. Cellophane.

A figure appeared in dim silhouette on the frosted glass.

The doorknob slowly rotated.

Jody thought she might faint.

She held her breath, listening to her frightened heart, and pressed motionless against the wall.

The knob turned all the way and the door opened about six inches. A woman’s hand explored inside the office like some curious tentacled sea creature, found the knob, and turned the raised ridge that activated the lock. Then she pulled the door closed and tested the knob to make sure it was locked.

Jody got down behind Elaine Pratt’s desk and didn’t so much as breathe out for fear she’d make some slight noise that would be noticed. Someone had checked and assumed Professor Pratt had forgotten to lock her office door, and locked it for her.

Jody made herself wait ten minutes before moving. Then, since she was behind the desk, she slowly opened and closed its drawers, checking the contents. There was something damned curious there.