Jason Frost - The Warlord

Just great! Now he was comparing her to a high school kid. Terrific. Change the subject, quickly. "That's quite a nice stereo system you've got here. Aren't you afraid someone will steal it? I hear thefts on college campuses are way up. I think we did a special report on that last month at the station."

Eric shrugged. "I keep the office locked when I'm not here. But I'm not worried. Besides, I do a lot of my grading here and I need some music to help get me through their turgid prose."

She nodded at the cassettes scattered on the desk. "Mozart, I bet. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and the rest."

"I didn't know I was so transparent."

"You college professors are all alike," she said, getting her confidence back. "Classics or nothing."

"Well, you're partially right." He swiveled around and popped the top cassette into the player. The small speakers on the bookshelves came alive with music.

"Please remember how I feel about you," the Beatles sang, "I could never really live without you/So come on back to me…"

"The classics," Eric said.

Tracy reddened. "What about the other tapes?"

"More Beatles. That's all I ever play, except occasionally the Supremes. And don't ask me why. I'm purposely avoiding analyzing it in case I don't like the answer."

She laughed, her nervousness forgotten. "I don't blame you. Sounds serious."

"Latent rock 'n' roller probably." He turned the volume down a little, stealing a glance at his watch. He still had to get to L.A. and back before the rush hour traffic. And buy those guns. "So, what's this mysterious business you mentioned, Ms. Ammes?"

"Tracy. Well, I only work part time at Channel 7, but in the past six years I've covered quite a few sensational trials for them, sketching everyone from the Hillside Strangler to the Magic Mountain Maniac. Anyway, some New York publisher was in town during the Dirk Fallows trial, saw my stuff on TV, and contacted me about publishing a book of my trial sketches."

"Ah, fame and fortune."

"I wish. The money's so-so and as for fame, I don't think Andrew Wyeth need worry just yet. But it's a start."

"What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to use some drawings of you in the book so I came down to get your permission." She started rooting through her purse. "I've got a release slip here somewhere if you don't mind signing."

"Sure, no problem. But I thought that since it was a public trial you didn't need our permission."

She reddened again. Shot down your big excuse, Trace. "Yes, that's true. But the publisher just wanted to cover all the bases. You know how nervous they get about lawsuits and such." She plucked the folded paper from her purse, smoothed it on the top of his desk and slid it across to him.

She watched him read it, his finger, the one that touched her lips, sliding absently along his scar. When his head was tilted just so, it caught the fluorescent light and seemed to almost flash. He grabbed a pen from his drawer and, with a sudden flourish, signed the form. He was smiling as he handed it back to her. "Good luck."

"Thanks," she said. Then added, just so he wouldn't mistake the innocence of her motives, "My boyfriend thinks he can get me a job doing storyboards on this movie he's working on."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he builds special effects models." And smells like glue a lot. "He's worked on most of the major sci-fi films of the past three years."

"Great. Is that what you want to do?"

"When I grow up, you mean?" she said sharply. "I'm twenty-eight."

"No, I just meant is that the direction you want your career to move in? Movies?"

Tracy shrugged. 'The money's good." She saw him glance at the clock again and stood up. "Well, I guess I'd better get back on the freeway. Thanks for your time and for your permission. I didn't mean to snap at you before. It's just that I get a little sensitive about why I'm twenty-eight and still hustling for a career."

"Twenty-eight is still young. You've got plenty of time."

She laughed. "Somehow I knew you'd say that."

"I'm still so transparent, huh?"

"Oh no, I'm not falling into that trap again. Forget I said anything." She held out her hand. He took it in his and shook. It was a friendly shake, nothing more. No extra squeeze or lingering touch. But somehow she wasn't disappointed anymore. She liked him, and under the right circumstances might even fall out-of-her-mind in love with him. But for now, she was pleased with herself for having the guts to come down and see him just because she'd felt the urge. Now she could go back to Barry and his glue and settle in for another few months. Maybe she'd even make Barry his favorite dinner tonight. Stir-fried eggplant.

"I'll look for your book," Eric said as he held the door open for her.

"I'll send you a copy."

"Autographed?"

"You bet."

"Bye."

He watched her walk down the hall, her athletic body twitching under the tight skirt. What his dad would have called a looker. Almost as beautiful as Annie. But not quite. No one ever was. He thought of Annie now, her long, thick hair always in their way when they kissed, getting in their mouths. He smiled, felt a longing ignite in his thighs, spread up along his groin. Shook it off.

First things first.

He snatched up his briefcase, turned off the cassette player, flicked the light switch, and locked his office door. If he hurried, he'd still make his meeting in L.A. on time. It had taken a few calls to set up, but finally an old army buddy he'd known before his Night Shift duty came through with a dealer. A couple cops who were responsible for transporting guns were pilfering a few and selling them on the side. The price was outrageous, the morality dubious, but none of that mattered to Eric. All he cared about now was protecting his family.

He half-jogged down the hall, nodding to familiar students that drifted through. Three graduate students were grouped around the bulletin board looking at the meager teaching job announcements. None of them were smiling.

He passed the open office door of George Donato, one of the best teachers Eric had ever seen. George always left his door open so he could flag down the pretty girls. His reputation as a scholar was almost equal to his reputation as a womanizer. He was a good friend to both Eric and Annie, despite Annie's attempts to fix him up with her friends.

"Hey, Eric," George called as Eric zipped by.

"Gotta run, George. Talk to you later."

"What about poker next week? You and Annie available? I need the money."

"Sure, where's the game?"

"Your place."

"Of course. See you later." Eric stopped at Betty's desk in time to get flashed a mouthful of capped teeth. "Betty, I'll be out for the rest of the day. If any of my young scholars come looking for me, set them up with an appointment for tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Ravensmith."

He'd given up trying to get her to call him Eric. She seemed to like the titles, as if she were the head nurse in a hospital full of doctors.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow."

"Fine. See you to-"

And it began.

The building trembled slightly, as if shivering against a great wind. Betty hunched over the papers on her desk, trying to keep them from being shaken to the floor. A stapler tipped over the edge, bounced onto the carpet. "My, my," she said. "Oh, my."

The students who'd been walking the halls or reading the bulletin boards looked around at each other, up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. One young girl flung her books down in panic and screamed.

"Under a table!" Eric shouted at them. "In a doorway! Move!"

"Oh, my," Betty repeated as the tape dispenser scooted across the desk and plunged to the floor.

The trembling became shaking now, as if the building were a salt shaker clutched in the first of an angry giant. Eric was tossed off his feet, his briefcase flying across the room as he fell. There was a loud rumbling sound, a groaning really, and suddenly the building began to lean.