Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

Business at the quad and HoJo's and Baskin-Robbins fell to nothing as parents refused to let their daughters go on dates after dark. Exam grades at Auden went up as students who would normally be outside groping under clothing or pledging fidelity over the long summer months stayed home and broke the spines of books. A number of students were taking incompletes and returning home three weeks early.

A lot of town dogs were kept hungry.

Corde's awkwardly phrased press statement, meant to reassure the people of New Lebanon, in short, had no effect on the hysteria.

Bob Siebert came home late to his trailer on Route 302. He opened the door and in the dark kitchen found himself staring at his five-year-old son, who was aiming Siebert's Ruger.225 deer rifle more or less at his father's heart. Standing silhouetted in the moonlight, afraid to speak, Siebert froze. It was only after the short click of the firing pin that he began to breathe again. He lifted the gun away, laughing madly and thanking the Lord that his son had not known how to chamber a round. His smile faded when he opened the rifle's bolt and the misfired shell spiraled out. Siebert's legs went slack, his pants went wet and he dropped sobbing to the floor. The boy said, "I thought you was the Moon Man, Daddy."

And on Tuesday, one day before the full moon, the first graffiti went up.

No one saw who'd done it and in fact hardly anyone recognized the drawings at first. Clara and Harry Botwell were returning home in their 1976 Buick Electra from the Shrimp 'n Salad Night at the Wrangler, Clara driving, being the less impaired. Harry pointed to the wall of the First Bank of New Lebanon and said, look, somebody had painted a big gumdrop on the side of the bank, and Clara studied the wall and asked, why was it on its side and anyway why would anybody paint a gumdrop?

"Sweet Mary," she said, "that's no gumdrop, it's a half-moon." In panic she gunned the big engine and shot through a red light, broadsiding a Celica. The couple escaped unhurt, though the driver of the Toyota went to Memorial with a broken arm.

The bank wasn't the only site of a half-moon. Three hundred citizens punched in 911 that night (most of them for the first time in their lives) to report a half dozen of the graffiti moons. The callers were all pretty shaken up; the paint the artist had used was blood.

This evening, Randolph Sayles, professor and dean, student of Union economics and apologist for the noble Confederate States of America, sat in his backyard smoking a cigarette and staring at the evening sky bright with moonlight. He held a drooping fax in his hand. Sayles tapped an ash to the ground in front of him and looked at it. Beside his muddy boots a tree root had grown out of the earth and then, only a few inches away, had returned underground as if even this short excursion into the world was intolerable. He heard footsteps. He recognized them.

Joan Sayles was an angular woman with short-cropped blond hair and abrupt hips and long breasts. Tonight she wore a white blouse, tied in the front & la Lana Turner, and skimpy, baggy shorts. She sat beside her husband. Dimpled bands of white flesh hung from her upper legs.

A full professor of sociology at Auden, she was one year older than Sayles and had an IQ two points higher than his, though they both fell in the ninety-ninth percentile. When they met, their last year of undergraduate school (on this same campus), one of them had been a virgin and it hadn't been Joan. Even as a grad assistant she had professorial drive and an instinctive grasp of institutional politics. He appreciated these talents in her although he realized too late that she used these to pursue not only tenure but Sayles himself. She was successful on both fronts; they were married the day after he sat for his doctoral orals. And if he'd never felt a moment of resounding passion for her – nothing close in fact to what he felt when he stood at the lectern – that was all right. He loved her (he believed). Anyway he needed a wife (he was pretty sure), stability and a brainy spouse being Doric columns of Midwest university success.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, squinting in the violet moonlight. The gesture pulled the corners of her mouth up in a wet grotesque smile that Randy Sayles did not want to look at. She noticed a small muddy shovel next to him and her eyes dipped to his boots. "Moonlight gardening?"

He imagined that her question, which sounded simply curious, was in fact laced with mockery.

He thought: What does she know?

Taking in the air, he answered. "You had a meeting tonight?"

"Completed." She was holding a batch of white, stapled papers rubber-banded together. She had made many notes and marks on the first page of the top paper. He noticed C/C+. She was a bitch of a grader.

"What are you doing?" she repeated. When he did not respond she asked, "Are you ignoring me for a reason?"

He apologized with a sincerity that surprised them both, then handed her the fax. The state had rejected Auden's application for an emergency loan.

"Ah." She handed it back and lit a cigarette. It hung from the side of her lips and this made her mouth even sloppier and more lopsided. Joan inhaled then lifted a long finger to her tongue and touched away a fleck of something. "I'm sorry."

Sayles squeezed her knee in response. She said, "Do you know what one of my students wrote? The issue was whether a population center like New Lebanon had an inner city. He wrote that it didn't. Rather, he said, it had a wrong side of the tracks. I gave him an A minus, solely for that."

Sayles said, "Clever."

"You know, if I had it to do all over again I'd pick something frivolous. Romance languages or art appreciation. No, I know. Russian literature."

She touched the side of her tongue again, probing, as if she wanted to make sure it wasn't numb.

He said, "The police want to see me."

"About that girl in your class? The one who was killed?"

Sayles nodded.

"You were sleeping with her?"

This was not truly a question. So she does know.

His silence was an answer she could read. "Did you enjoy it?" she asked.

"On occasion."

"They don't think you had anything to do with it, do they?"

"Of course not."

How does she know?

Joan finished her cigarette and dropped it on the ground. She did not step on it. After a moment she shuffled the papers in her hand and said, "You know, I'm astonished at how college sophomores cannot put sentences together," and walked back to the house along a narrow patch stained red and purple by droppings from a row of mulberry trees.

Where T.T. Ebbans wanted to be: standing in the exact position of the man he was talking to, the man leaning on the bent branch beside the muddy Des Plaines and connected to a hook sunk in murky water by twenty feet of fishing line via a Sears rod and reel. The man in the red hat.

"Those're some flies," Ebbans said, nodding at the hat.

"Yessir."

Ebbans leaned over and looked into the Rubbermaid bucket where three pale catfish floated motionless. "A fly fisherman doesn't get bored feeding stinkballs to suckers?"

"I don't fly. S'only the hat. Was a present from my wife." A moment later he added, "I got a license. Only I left her at home."

"Uh-huh," Ebbans said. "You by any chance fishing on Tuesday evening down at Blackfoot Pond?"

"This is my evening."

"How's that?" Ebbans asked.

"I work owl at the container plant. Get off at seven in the a.m. Go to bed. Eat. Fish. Go to work. That's my life. Your evening's my day."

"Some fella there saw someone fits your description."

He grunted.

Ebbans said, "We had a girl killed over there on Tuesday."

"That was there? Shitabrick. I didn't know. Yeah, I was there on Tuesday."