Harlan Coben - Six Years

I have learned that human beings are all about incentives, so I cut the president some slack. His job, though couched in haughty terms of academia and higher learning, was all about raising money. Period. That was, and perhaps should be, his main concern. The best presidents, I had learned, were often the ones who understood this and thus came in with the least lofty agenda. By that definition, President Tripp was doing a pretty good job.

“Sit, Jacob,” Tripp said, looking past me to Officer Stemmer. “Evelyn, close the door on your way out, would you?”

I did as Tripp asked. Evelyn Stemmer did too.

Tripp sat at the ornate desk in front of me. It was a big desk. Too big and corporate and self-important. When I am feeling unkind, I often note that a man’s desk, like his car, often seems to involve, uh, compensation. Tripp folded his hands on a desktop large enough to land a helicopter and said, “You look like hell, Jacob.”

I bit back the “you should see the other guy” because, in this case, the rejoinder was in serious bad taste. “I had a late night.”

“You look injured.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should get it looked at.”

“I have.” I shifted in the seat. The meds were making everything hazy, as though my eyes were covered in thin strips of gauze. “What’s this about, Jack?”

He spread his hands for a moment and then brought them back to the desk. “Do you want to tell me about last night?”

“What about last night?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

So we were playing that game. Fair enough. I’d go first. “I went drinking with a friend at a bar. Had too much. When I came back to my place, two men jumped me. They, uh, kidnapped me.”

His eyes widened. “Two men kidnapped you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“They said their names were Bob and Otto.”

“Bob and Otto?”

“That’s what they said.”

“And where are these men now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they in custody?”

“No.”

“But you’ve reported the matter to the police?”

“I have,” I said. “Do you mind telling me what this is about?”

Tripp lifted his hand, as if he’d suddenly realized the desktop was sticky. He placed the lower parts of his palms together and let the fingertips bounce off one another. “Do you know a student named Barry Watkins?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Is he okay?”

“You know him?”

“Yes. One of the men who grabbed me punched him in the face.”

“I see,” he said, as though he didn’t see at all. “When?”

“We were standing by the van. Barry called out to me and ran over. Before I could so much as turn around, one of the guys punched him. Is Barry okay?”

The fingertips bounced some more. “He is in the hospital with facial fractures. That punch did serious damage.”

I sat back. “Damn.”

“His parents are rather upset. They are talking about a lawsuit.”

Lawsuit—the word that strikes terror in the heart of every bureaucrat. I half expected some lame horror-movie music to start up.

“Barry Watkins also doesn’t recall two other men. He remembers calling out to you, running toward you, and that’s it. Two other students recall seeing you flee in a van.”

“I didn’t flee. I got in the back.”

“I see,” he said in that same tone. “When these other two students arrived, Barry was lying on the ground bleeding. You drove off.”

“I wasn’t driving. I was in the back.”

“I see.”

Again with the “I see.” I leaned closer to him. The desk was completely bare except for one too-neat stack of papers and, of course, the requisite family photograph with the blond wife, two adorable kids, and a dog with floppy hair like Tripp’s. Nothing else. Big desk. Nothing on it.

“I wanted to get them as far away from campus as possible,” I said, “especially after that display of violence. So I quickly cooperated.”

“And by them, you mean the two men who . . . were they abducting you?”

“Yes.”

“Who were these men?”

“I don’t know.”

“They were just, what, kidnapping you for ransom?”

“I doubt it,” I said, realizing how crazy it all sounded. “One had broken into my home. The other waited in the van. They insisted I come with them.”

“You are a very large man. Powerful. Physically intimidating.”

I waited.

“How did they persuade you to go with them?”

I skipped the part about Natalie and dropped the bombshell instead. “They were armed.”

The eyes widened again. “With guns?”

“Yes.”

“For real?”

“They were real guns, yes.”

“How do you know?”

I decided not to mention that one had taken shots at me. I wondered whether the police might find bullets near the highway. I’d have to check.

“Did you tell anyone else about this?” Tripp asked when I didn’t answer.

“I told the cops, but I’m not sure that they believe me.”

He leaned back and started picking at his lip. I knew what he was thinking: How would the students, their parents, and important alumni react if they knew that gunmen had been on campus? Not only had they been on campus, but if I were telling the truth—questionable at best—they had kidnapped a professor and assaulted a student.

“You were quite inebriated at the time, were you not?”

Here we go. “I was.”

“We have a campus security camera in the middle of the quad. Your walk was rather more of a weave.”

“That’s what happens when you have too much to drink.”

“We also have reports that you left the Library Bar at one A.M. . . . and yet you weren’t seen weaving across campus until three.”

Again I waited.

“Where were you for those two hours?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m investigating an assault on a student.”

“That we know took place after three A.M. What, you think I planned it for two hours?”

“I see very little need for sarcasm, Jacob. This is a serious matter.”

I closed my eyes and felt the room spin. He had a point. “I left with a young lady. It’s totally irrelevant. I’d never punch Barry. He visits my office every week.”

“Yes, he defended you too. He said that you’re his favorite professor. But I have to look at the facts, Jacob. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Fact: You were drunk.”

“I’m a college professor. Drinking is practically a job requirement.”

“That’s not funny.”

“But true. Heck, I’ve been to parties right here. You’re not afraid to hoist a glass or two yourself.”

“You’re not helping yourself.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to get at the truth.”

“Then, fact: While you are being vague, it appears as though after drinking you had a one-night stand.”

“We shouldn’t be vague,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. She was over thirty and does not work for the college. So what?”

“So after these episodes, a student got assaulted.”

“Not by me.”

“Still, there is a connection,” he said, leaning back. “I don’t see where I have any choice but to ask for you to take a leave of absence.”

“For drinking?”

“For all of it,” he said.

“I’m in the middle of teaching classes—”

“We will find coverage.”

“And I have a responsibility to my students. I can’t just abandon them.”

“Perhaps,” he said, with an edge in his voice, “you should have thought of that before you got drunk.”

“Getting drunk isn’t a crime.”

“No, but your actions afterward . . .” His voice trailed off, and a smile came to his lips. “Funny,” he said.