Joyce’s cell phone would be on the whole time, and tucked into her jacket. She had a Bluetooth earpiece that was hidden by her hair, not that anyone was likely to notice it late at night anyway. She could talk to Duncomb anytime she wanted.
“Okay,” she said hesitantly. She hadn’t even told her husband, Malcolm, what her security duties had entailed of late. He would have freaked out. But he was between jobs, and they needed her income. So she’d kept him in the dark.
Joyce hoped Duncomb’s instinct was on the money. That they’d get this guy tonight and she could return to checking locked doors and sending drunk kids back to their dorms.
“Now,” Duncomb said, “Michael, Allan, and Phil here, and me, are all going to be walking the grounds, no more than a minute away. Anything fishy happens, you just say the word and we come running. Okay?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Let’s roll,” the security chief said, Joyce thinking, The guy believes he’s in a TV show or something.
Just because it was dark didn’t mean the campus had gone to sleep. Far from it. Students were heading to and from evening lectures. Music spilled out of the residences. Two young men were playing Frisbee in the dark.
Very few women were walking alone. Thackeray’s president had put out a carefully worded advisory that it made sense for female students to walk in groups after dark. In pairs, at least. In an earlier statement he’d suggested women find male students they trusted to escort them from one part of the school to another, but that triggered a social media shitstorm within the college. Many young women were outraged at being told to find a man to protect them. Twitter hashtags like #needaman and #walkmehomeprez and #dontneedadick began to spread. Joyce thought, political correctness aside, it made a hell of a lot of sense, but she figured students were always just waiting for something to get angry about, and the president had played right into their hands.
Duncomb thought the walk between the athletic center and the library was a good location. It was nearly a quarter of a mile long, with a wooded area along one side and, for about half the stretch, a road on the other. Even better, it was not as well lit as it could be, which made it a prime spot if you were a would-be rapist. One of the three women who’d reported being grabbed said she’d been attacked along here.
Duncomb wanted Michael and Phil to walk back and forth between the two buildings, one going one way, one the other. He ordered Allan to wander the wooded area. And Duncomb would be in a car parked alongside the path, where he had a reasonably good view of everything. Plus, he’d be on the phone at all times with Joyce.
Once everyone was in position, Joyce entered the athletic center. The plan was that she would stay there about five minutes, then come out and start walking in the direction of the library.
“Okay,” she said, standing in the center’s foyer. “I’m coming out.” She had a long-strapped purse slung over her shoulder, one hand planted inside it, resting on the gun.
“Got it,” Duncomb said. From his car he saw Joyce come out the front doors and head west, or left, toward the library a quarter of a mile away. “I see ya. You’re looking good. You know, you could easily pass for nineteen or twenty. You know that?”
“So you’ve said,” Joyce whispered, her head down, not wanting it to be obvious that she was talking to anyone. An attacker might be deterred if he thought Joyce was already on the phone with a person who could send help.
“I’m just saying, you keep in shape. I bet your husband appreciates it.”
She’d thought about going to the college’s human relations department and filing a complaint about Duncomb. Thackeray had a sexual harassment policy, which was brought in years ago to keep professors from jumping on their students, but it applied across the board. Even though the policy, which was there for everyone to read on the college’s Web site, stressed that no individual’s employment would be placed in jeopardy by lodging a complaint, she knew the real world was very different. Sure, she might be able to keep her job, but would she want it? It was a small department, and everyone in it was male except for her. Whenever Joyce thought of Michael, Allan, and Phil, what came to mind was Larry, Darryl, and Darryl, the backwoods clowns from that old TV show. She’d have a hard time building a case without their support. She’d broached the subject once with Allan, after Duncomb had asked her what she thought about something he called “the lifestyle,” which evidently was a fancy name for swapping spouses. Joyce had said, “Not much.” She decided to talk to Allan about it, given that he was the only one on the team who seemed to have an IQ higher than a pomegranate’s. He’d said Duncomb was just goofing around, that she shouldn’t take him so seriously.
“You there?” Duncomb said. “You’re not saying anything.”
“I heard you, Clive,” she said.
There was a male student coming from the direction of the library. Black, six-foot-six, thin. Wearing jeans and a gray school hoodie that zipped up the front. The hood was down and his head was held high.
“Got someone coming my way,” she whispered.
Their paths crossed. He kept on walking toward the athletic center; she continued on to the library. There was another young man headed her way, but it was Phil.
“Rrruffff,” he whispered as he passed.
She didn’t want to make a show of turning around, checking behind her, but she couldn’t resist. She wanted to make sure Michael was back there somewhere. Joyce did not see him.
“Where’s Michael?” she said.
“He’s around,” Duncomb said.
“Yeah, well, is he around somewhere near me?”
“Where are you, anyway? I lost you where the lights are spaced too far apart.”
God, Joyce thought.
“I’m almost to the library.”
“Oh, yeah, I see you.”
“I’m going in for five minutes, then coming back out.”
“Got it. Remember, if you have to tinkle, I can hear everything.” Duncomb chortled.
She entered the library, and there was Michael, talking to two girls by the counter.
“I found Michael. He’s hitting on a couple of students. You want to give him a call and tell him to do his fucking job?”
“I’ve got him on walkie-talkie. Who are the girls?”
“How would I know?”
As she passed Michael, she heard the small radio clipped to his jacket squawk. “Gotta go, ladies,” he said. “Gonna catch me a rapist.”
Joyce took the elevator to the second floor, wandered through the stacks for a few minutes, then took the stairs back down. “Coming out,” she said quietly.
“Gotcha,” Duncomb said.
Strolling back to the athletic building, she crossed paths with Michael and Phil. Saw three girls walking together, briskly, to the library. A boy and girl leaning up against a lamppost, making out. She encountered half a dozen male students coming her way, but none tried anything.
Five minutes at the athletic building, then back to the library. Approaching, together, were Michael and Phil. Chatting, glancing back and forth at each other.
“Jesus, Clive, Darryl and Darryl are walking together, not split up!”
“They got out of sync,” Duncomb said. “We’ll get it sorted next time around. Also, just FYI, we’ve lost Allan for a while.”
“He’s not in the woods?”
“Call of nature,” Duncomb said.
“Are you kidding me?” Joyce said. “He’s in the woods!”
“First of all, it wasn’t the sort of thing you can do standing in the woods, and second, even if it was, you don’t exactly want someone to find you with your dick in your hands when there’s a sex pervert in the neighborhood.”
This was just getting better and better.
She was about halfway along the route when she heard footsteps behind her. Someone had caught up to her, but was not passing.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Yeah?” Duncomb said.
“I go
t someone on my tail. Can you see?”
“You’re just out of range. . . . Okay, yeah, I see you. Okay, it’s a guy, walking along, head down.” A pause. “Wearing a blue hoodie, head covered.”
Joyce felt her insides starting to melt.
“This could be it,” she said.
“He’s getting closer. Closer. Hang on, hang on . . . Nope, stand down. The guy’s heading for a car.”
Joyce gave herself permission to steal a quick glance over her shoulder. Duncomb was right. The guy had a remote in his hand. Lights flashed on an old van.
“I want to get a closer look at him anyway,” Duncomb said. “Back to you in a minute.”
“Okay,” Joyce said.
She was turning back to eyes front when someone came out of the trees and grabbed her.
He wrapped one arm around her body, placed a hand over her mouth, and lifted her off her feet. Joyce guessed he was three or four inches taller than her, putting him at five-eight or five-nine, maybe a hundred and forty pounds. She could feel the muscle in his arms as he carted her off into the bushes.
In the second that he whirled her around, she saw no other person on the path. Allan was off in the bathroom somewhere, Michael and Phil were probably approaching the athletic center about now, and Duncomb had gone to get a better look at the guy who’d just been on her tail.
At least she could still talk to him.
Except she couldn’t.
Not because her attacker had his hand clamped over her mouth, but because the Bluetooth device that had been clipped to her ear was gone. When the man lifted her off the ground, she’d felt the earpiece dislodge. It was back there on the path somewhere.
Which meant that she did not hear Duncomb say, “I don’t think that guy is up to much. I’m going back to the car. Hang on, think I’ve lost you. . . . Let me just touch base with Mike and Phil and I’ll get back to you.”
Once the man had her into the trees and beyond the view of anyone else passing along the path, he threw her down onto the ground.
His description matched that provided by the three women. His head was hooded, but even when Joyce looked up and directly into his face, she couldn’t make out anything about him. He was wearing a black ski mask.
Duncomb, unaware that he was not being heard, said, “Okay, I got them; they’re coming your way. Let me ask you this. If you’re a woman, can you take a pee in the woods?”
The man straddled her body. He had her left arm pinned down with his right hand, at the wrist, and his left hand over her mouth. Her right was trapped against her body, held in place with his thigh. But her right hand was still inside her purse.
Holding the gun.
“Okay, okay,” he said to her. She watched his lips move in the circular opening of the mask. “Don’t make any noise. It’s going to be okay. Just be cool and nothing’s going to happen.”
She had her fingers around the butt and was working to get her index finger on the trigger. If he’d relax his thighs just a bit . . .
“You just stay here for five seconds,” he said. “I’m going to take off.”
Duncomb said, “You there? Oh, I get it. I crossed a line with the peeing question. Okay, I’m an asshole. But tell me where you are, Joyce. I don’t know where the hell you are. Joyce?”
Joyce wondered what the hell this guy on top of her was talking about. He’d dragged her into the bushes so he could run off? Not that that was bad news, but it didn’t make sense.
Maybe he couldn’t get it up.
Whatever. She didn’t give a shit. She just wanted to get that gun out of her purse and blow this fucker’s head off in case he changed his mind.
“We good? Are we good?” he asked her. “Just nod if we’re good.”
His sweaty palm still over her mouth, she forced a nod.
“Okay,” he said.
He took his hand off her mouth, released his grip on her wrist, and started to get off her.
Joyce got her right arm free. Brought the gun up fast.
“Jesus!” the man said, bringing his left arm back, then swinging it hard against Joyce’s arm.
The gun flew from her hand, landing in the blanket of leaves covering the forest floor.
The man dived for the gun, his legs draped over Joyce’s. He got his hand on it, scrambled to his knees, and pointed the weapon at Joyce. She’d started getting to her feet, but froze.
“Goddamn it,” the man said. “I was never going to do anything.” He angled the gun away, so that if it went off, it wouldn’t hit Joyce. “It’s all for show, a gig, a kind of social experiment, he called it.”
“What?” Joyce said.
“No one actually gets hurt or anything, so—”
There was a stirring in the bushes to the left. Then a deafening bang. One side of the attacker’s head blew clean off.
Joyce screamed.
Clive Duncomb emerged from the brush, gun in hand.
“Got the son of a bitch,” he said.
THIRTY-ONE
David
“HI,” I said, extending a hand to Dr. Jack Sturgess in Marla’s hospital room.
He took the hand, gave it a firm shake, and said, “Marla really needs her rest.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand that.”
“You were with her this morning,” Sturgess said, keeping his voice low, drawing me toward him out of Marla’s range of hearing. “You found her with that woman’s child.”
“That’s right.”
He raised his index finger, a “give me two seconds” gesture, then stepped around me and approached Marla. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m just going to see your cousin out; then I’ll come back and check on you.”
I guessed that meant I was leaving. Sturgess led me into the hall, let the oversize door to Marla’s room close, and said, “I just wanted to thank you for looking out for her this morning.”
“I didn’t really do anything. I was just trying to sort out what happened.”
“All the same, thank you. She’s in a very delicate condition.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
“What did Marla tell you about how she got hold of that baby?”
“Same as she’s told everyone else, I suppose,” I said.
“Yes, yes, the mystery woman who came to her door. A delusion, more than likely.”
“You think?”
The doctor nodded. “I’d say yes. But it might be helpful, in understanding her state of mind, to know just who she believes it was who delivered this child to her.”
“I don’t know if I’m following you.”
“Well, let’s say she saw a tall, dark stranger. That might signify something totally different than if she’d seen a six-year-old girl.”
“Dr. Sturgess, are you Marla’s psychiatrist?”
“No, I’m not.”
“If anyone should be trying to read anything into Marla’s fantasies, wouldn’t it be her psychiatrist?”
Sturgess cleared his throat. “Just because I’m not Marla’s psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’m not interested in her mental health. A person’s mental state is very much related to their physical well-being. For God’s sake, I’m treating her for a slit wrist. You think that doesn’t have something to do with her state of mind?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to help this girl.”
“So am I,” I said.
Eyebrows shot up. “How?”
“I don’t know. Any way I can.”
“Well, coming here, visiting her, letting her know you care, that’s good. That’s a very good thing to do. She needs that kind of love and support.”
“I was thinking of doing more than that,” I said.
“I don’t understand. What else could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know. Ask around, I guess.”
“What does that mean? ‘Ask around.’”
“What it sounds like,” I said. “Ask around.”
“Are you some sort of private detective, David? Because if you are, it’s never come up. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“My recollection is . . . didn’t I used to see your byline in the Standard? But that was a long time ago. You were a reporter once?”
“I used to be at the Standard. Then I was at the Globe, in Boston, for a while. Came back here to write for the Standard just as it closed down.”
“So, this asking around, then, it’d just be something to do to keep busy?”
I gave myself a couple of seconds, then asked, “What’s your problem with this, exactly?”
“Problem? I didn’t say I had a problem with it. But since you’ve asked, in case you haven’t noticed, the police are very much involved in this. They are doing plenty of asking around. That’s kind of what they do. So I don’t see what purpose there would be in your going around troubling people at a time like this with a bunch of questions. And that would begin with Marla. It’s great, your stopping by to say hello, but I don’t want you subjecting her to some kind of interrogation.”
“Really.”
“Really. The last thing anyone involved in this horrible business needs is some amateur sleuth poking his nose into things.”
“Amateur sleuth,” I said.
“I mean no offense,” Sturgess said. “But Marla’s in a delicate condition. As is Mr. Gaynor. The last thing he needs—”
“Wait,” I said, raising a hand. “You know Bill Gaynor?”
Sturgess blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You know the Gaynors?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” he said. “I’m their family physician.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, why would you? What business would it be of yours to know who my patients are?”
“It just seems like quite a coincidence,” I said.
Sturgess shook his head condescendingly. “Promise Falls is not that big a place. It’s hardly shocking that I could end up treating two families with a connection. Oh, look.”
Aunt Agnes was striding down the hall, her husband, Gill, a few steps behind her. Her eyes landed on me and she offered up one of her rare smiles.