Marshall looked doubtful. “Please don’t make any more problems for me. I have enough as it is.”
“Sandy?”
Back to the really tough subjects. “We haven’t heard a thing yet, but we’re still calling around, checking with relatives and friends. We’re sure she’ll come home sooner or later.”
“Isn’t she in Langstrat’s class?”
Marshall answered with some bitterness, “She’s been in several of Langstrat’s classes—” Then he paused. “Don’t you think we might be blurring the line between unbiased journalism and … personal vengeance?”
Bernice shrugged. “I’ll only find what’s really there, and it’ll be news or it won’t be. In the meantime, I thought perhaps you’d appreciate a little background.”
Marshall couldn’t shake off the memory of his encounter with the fiery Juleen Langstrat, and he hurt more deeply every time he recalled the professor’s ideas coming at him through the mouth of his own daughter.
“If it’s a stone, turn it over,” he said finally.
“On my time or the Clarion’s?”
“Just turn it over,” he said, and started pounding his typewriter.
CHAPTER 9
THAT EVENING MARSHALL and Kate set three places at the dinner table. It was an act of faith, trusting that Sandy would be there just as she always had been. They had called everyone they knew, but no one had seen Sandy anywhere. The police hadn’t turned up anything. They had called the college to check whether or not Sandy had been to her classes that day, but so far none of her professors or teaching assistants could be reached for a definite answer.
Marshall sat at the table, staring at Sandy’s empty chair. Kate sat across from him, silent, waiting for the rice to steam.
“Marshall,” she said, “don’t torture yourself.”
“I blew it. I’m a wash-out!”
“Oh, stop it!”
“And the problem is, now that I know I blew it, there isn’t much chance of a retake.”
Kate reached across the table and took his hand. “There certainly is. She’ll come back. She’s old enough to be reasonable and take care of herself. I mean, just look at how much she took with her. She can’t be planning on being gone indefinitely.”
Just then the doorbell rang. They both jumped a little.
“Yeah,” said Marshall, “go ahead, be the mailman, or a Girl Scout selling cookies, or a Jehovah’s Witness …!”
“Well, Sandy wouldn’t ring the doorbell anyway.”
Kate got up to answer the door, but Marshall hurried ahead of her. They both reached the door at about the same time and Marshall opened it.
Neither of them expected a young man, blond and neat, college material. He carried no leaflets or religious propaganda and seemed shy.
“Mr. Hogan?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Marshall. “Who are you?”
The young man was quiet but assertive enough to do business. “My name is Shawn Ormsby. I’m a junior at Whitmore and a friend of your daughter Sandy.”
Kate started to say, “Well, please come in,” but Marshall interrupted with, “Do you know where she is?”
Shawn paused, then answered carefully, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Well?” said Marshall.
“May I come in?” he asked politely.
Kate nodded graciously, stepping aside and almost pushing Marshall aside. “Yes, please do.”
They showed him into the living room and let him have a seat. Kate held Marshall’s hand just long enough to get him into a chair and silently remind him to control himself.
“Thank you very much for coming,” Kate said. “We’ve been very concerned.”
Marshall’s voice was controlled as he said, “What’ve you got?”
Shawn was visibly uncomfortable.
“I … I met her on campus yesterday.”
“She went to school yesterday?” Marshall blurted, startled.
“Let him talk, Marshall,” Kate reminded him.
“Well,” said Shawn, “yes. Yes, she did. But I met her in Jones Plaza, an outdoor eating area. She was by herself and so visibly upset that, well, I just felt I had to get involved.”
Marshall was sitting on pins and needles. “What do you mean, visibly upset? Is she okay?”
“Oh, yes! She’s perfectly all right. That is, she hasn’t come to any harm. But … I’m here on her behalf.” This time both parents were listening without interrupting, so Shawn continued. “We talked for quite a while and she told me her side of the story. She really does want to come home; I should tell you that first.”
“But?” Marshall prompted.
“Well, Mr. Hogan, that’s the first thing I tried to persuade her to do, but … if you can accept this, she feels afraid to come back, and I think a little ashamed.”
“Because of me?”
Shawn was walking on some very thin ice. “Can you … are you able to accept that?”
Marshall was ready to be tough on himself. “Yeah, I can accept that, all right. I’ve been asking for it for years. I had it coming.”
Shawn looked relieved. “Well, that’s what I’m trying, in my own weak, limited way, to accomplish. I’m no professional—my major’s geology—but I’d just like to see this family together again.”
Kate said humbly, “We would too.”
“Yeah,” said Marshall, “we really want to work on it. Listen, Shawn, you get to know me and you’ll realize I came out of a pretty bent mold and I’m really tough to straighten out …”
“No, you didn’t!” Kate protested.
“Yeah, yeah, I did. But I’m learning all the time. I want to keep on learning.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Say … I take it Sandy sent you here to see us?”
Shawn looked out the window. “She’s out in the car right now.”
Kate was on her feet immediately. Marshall grabbed her hand and settled her back into her seat.
“Hey,” he said, “who’s being overanxious now?” He turned to Shawn. “How is she? Is she still afraid? Does she think I’m going to jump on her?”
Shawn nodded meekly.
“Well,” said Marshall, feeling emotions he really didn’t want anyone to see, “listen, tell her I won’t jump on her. I won’t yell, I won’t accuse, I won’t get sly or nasty. I just … well, I …”
“He loves her,” Kate said for him. “He really does.”
“Do you, sir?” Shawn asked.
Marshall nodded.
“Tell me,” said Shawn. “Say it.”
Marshall looked right in his eyes. “I love her, Shawn. She’s my kid, my daughter. I love her and I want her back.”
Shawn smiled and rose from his seat. “I’ll bring her in.”
That evening there were four place settings at the table.
THE FRIDAY EDITION of the Clarion was on the streets, and the usual postpublication lull around the office gave Bernice the chance she needed to do some hoofing. She had been waiting eagerly for a chance to get over to Whitmore College to talk to some people. A few phone calls had landed her an important lunch appointment.
The North Campus Cafeteria was a new addition, a modern red-brick structure with floor-to-ceiling blue-tinted windows and carefully kept flower gardens. One could eat inside at a small two- or-four-person table, or sit on the patio in the sunshine. The format was buffet, and the food wasn’t bad.
Bernice stepped onto the patio carrying a tray with coffee and a light salad. Alongside her was Ruth Williams, a cheerful middle-aged professor in economics, carrying a taco salad.
They chose a secluded table in the semishade. For the first half of their meal they indulged in small talk and general catching up.
But Williams knew Bernice pretty well by now.
“Bernice,” she said at last, “I can tell you have something on your mind.”
Bernice was able to be honest with her friend. “Ruth, it’s something unprofessional and distasteful.”
“Do you mean to
say you’ve uncovered something new?”
“Oh, no, not about Pat. No, that subject’s been dormant for quite some time. You can be sure it will reawaken if anything new comes up, though.” Bernice looked at Williams for a long moment. “You don’t think I’ll ever find anything, do you?”
“Bernice, you know that I support you in your efforts one hundred percent, but with that support I must add my sincere doubts that your efforts will ever uncover anything. It was just so … futile. So tragic.”
Bernice shrugged. “Well, that’s why I’m trying to focus my efforts only where they’ll do some good. Which brings me to the uncomfortable subject for the day. Did you know I was arrested and jailed Sunday night?”
Williams was, of course, incredulous. “Jailed? Whatever for?”
“Soliciting an undercover cop for an act of prostitution.”
That brought the right response from Williams. Bernice went on to tell her as much of the indignities as she could remember.
“I can’t believe it!” Williams kept saying. “That is disgusting! I can’t believe it!”
“Well, anyway,” Bernice said, bringing in the punch line, “I feel I have good cause to question Mr. Brummel’s motives. Mind you, I only have theory and speculation, but I want to chase these things to their end to see if anything really lies behind them.”
“Well, I can understand that. And what could I possibly know that would help you?”
“Have you ever met Professor Juleen Langstrat, over in the Psychology Department?”
“Oh … once or twice. We shared a table at a faculty luncheon.”
Bernice caught a glint of distaste in Williams’s expression. “Hmmmm. Something wrong with her?”
“Well, to each his own,” said Williams, stirring her salad absent-mindedly with her fork. “But I found her very difficult to relate to. It was next to impossible to start any coherent conversation.”
“How does she carry herself? Is she forceful, retiring, assertive, obnoxious …?”
“Aloof, for one thing, and I guess mysterious, although I use that word for lack of one better. I get the impression that people are nothing but a bore to her. Her academic interests are very esoteric and metaphysical, and she seems to prefer them to bland reality.”
“What kind of company does she keep?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’d almost be surprised to find her consorting with anyone at all.”
“So you’ve never seen her in the company of Alf Brummel?”
“Oh, and this must be the ultimate goal of your questions. No, never at all.”
“But I guess you don’t see her much anyway.”
“She’s not very social, so no. But listen, I really try to mind my own business, if you catch my meaning. I would definitely like to help you in any way I can to satisfy yourself concerning Pat’s death, but what you’re after this time is—”
“Unprofessional and distasteful.”
“Yes, you were certainly right on that score. But, accompanied with my own advice to disengage yourself from this thing, let me, as a friend, refer you to someone who might know more. Have your pencil ready? His name is Albert Darr, and he’s in the Psychology Department. From what I’ve heard, mostly from him, he rubs shoulders with Langstrat every day, doesn’t like her at all, and loves to gossip. I’ll even go so far as to call him for you.”
ALBERT DARR, A baby-faced young professor with stylish clothes and a certain penchant for ladies, just happened to be in his office grading papers. He had time to talk, especially to the lovely reporter from the Clarion.
“Well, hello, hello,” he said as Bernice came in the door.
“Well, hello hello yourself,” she responded. “Bernice Krueger, the friend of Ruth Williams.”
“Uh …” He looked to and fro for an empty chair, and finally moved a pile of reference books. “Have a seat. Pardon the mess.” He sat down on another pile of books and papers that might have had a chair under it. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, this isn’t really an official visit, Professor Darr—”
“Albert.”
“Thank you. Albert. I’m actually here on a personal matter, but if my theories are right, it could be important in a newsworthy sense.” She paused to indicate a new paragraph and a difficult question. “Now, Ruth tells me you know Juleen Langstrat—”
Darr suddenly smiled broadly, leaned back in his piled-up chair, and rested his hands behind his neck. This was going to be an enjoyable subject for him, it seemed.
“Ahhhh,” he said gleefully, “so you dare to infringe on sacred ground!” Darr looked around the room in mock suspicion, searching for imaginary eavesdroppers, then leaned forward and said in a lowered voice, “Listen, there are certain things no one is supposed to know, not even myself.” Then he brightened up again and said, “But our dear professor has had many an occasion to hurt and slight me and therefore I feel indebted to her not in the least. I’m dying to answer your questions.”
Evidently Bernice could just dive right in; this guy didn’t seem to need formalities.
“Okay, to begin with,” she said, readying her pen and pad, “I’m really trying to find out about Alf Brummel, the chief of police. I’ve been informed that he and Langstrat see a lot of each other. Can you verify that?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“So … they do have something going?”
“What do you mean, ‘something’?”
“You fill in the blank.”
“If you mean a romantic fling …” He smiled and shook his head. “Oh dear. I don’t know if you’ll like this answer, but no, I don’t think anything like that is going on.”
“But he does see her quite regularly.”
“Oh yes, but a lot of people do. She gives consultations in her off hours. Tell me now, doesn’t Brummel see her on a weekly basis?”
With ebbing spirit Bernice answered, “Yes, every Tuesday. On the dot.”
“Well, there, you see? He goes to her for regular weekly sessions.”
“But why won’t he tell anybody? He’s very secretive about it.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Everything Langstrat does is a deep, dark secret! The Inner Circle, Bernice. No one is even supposed to know about these so-called consultations, no one but the privileged, the elite, the powerful, the many special patrons that go to her. That’s the way she is.”
“But what’s she up to?”
“Mind you now,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “this is privileged information, and I might also caution you that it is not entirely reliable. I know very little of this from direct observation; most of it I’ve just managed to pick up around the department here. Fortunately, Professor Langstrat has made enough enemies that few of the staff feel any commitment or loyalty to her.” He repositioned himself into an eye-to-eye posture. “Bernice, Professor Langstrat is, how should I say it? Not a … ground level person. Her areas of study go beyond anything the rest of us have had any desire to tamper with: the Source, the Universal Mind, the Ascended Planes …”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, none of us know what she’s talking about either. Some of us are very concerned; we don’t know if she’s very brilliant and making some real breakthroughs, or if she’s somewhat deranged.”
“Well, what is all this stuff, this Source, and this Mind?”
“All right. Uh … as nearly as we can tell, she derives it from the Eastern religions, the old mystic cults and writings, things I know nothing about and don’t want to know anything about. As far as I’m concerned, her studies in these areas have caused her to lose all contact with reality. As a matter of fact, I may even be mocked and maligned among my peers for saying this, but I don’t see Langstrat’s advances in these areas as anything other than foolish, neo-pagan witchcraft. I think she’s desperately confused!”
Bernice now recalled to mind Marshall’s strange descriptions of Langstrat. “I
’ve heard she does strange things to people—”
“Foolishness. Sheer foolishness. I think she believes she can read my mind, control me, put spells on me, whatever. I simply dismiss it and try very hard to be elsewhere.”
“But does any of it have credence?”
“Absolutely not. The only people she can control or affect are the poor dupes in the Inner Circle who are stupid and gullible enough to—”
“The Inner Circle … you used that term before …”
He held up his hand to caution her. “No facts, no facts. I coined that title myself. All I have is a two here and a two there, which make a very persuasive four. I’ve heard her admit that she counsels these people who come to her, and I’ve noticed that some of them are quite important. But how could a counselor with such warped ideas possibly straighten out anyone else? Then again …”
“Yes?”
“I would expect her to … claim a special advantage in such a situation. Who knows, maybe she holds seances and mind-reading sessions. Maybe she cooks slug tails and newt’s eyes and serves them with breaded spider legs to evoke some answer from the supernatural … but now I’m getting facetious.”
“But you do see this as a possibility?”
“Well not nearly as bizarre as I’ve described, but yes, something along those lines, in keeping with her occult interests.”
“And these people in the Inner Circle see her regularly?”
“As far as I know. I really have no idea how it’s set up or why people even go. What on earth could they be getting out of it?”
“Can you give me some for-instances?”
“Well …” He thought for a moment. “Of course, we’ve already mentioned and verified your Mr. Brummel. Oh, and you might know of Ted Harmel?”
Bernice just about dropped her pen. “Ted?”
“Yes, the former editor of the Clarion.”
“I worked for him, before he left and Hogan bought the paper.”
“Uh, the way I understand it, Mr. Harmel didn’t just ‘leave.’”
“No, he fled. But who else?”