21 Dares: A Florida Suspense Mystery (3 page)

Chapter
3

R
ain swept into Tampa that afternoon, which was
unusual for late October. Abbie hardly noticed though. For most of Behavioral
Science, she just sort of sat there, taking up space. A portly girl with purple
streaks in her bleached-white hair sat to her right. The girl squirmed and shifted
in her seat, distracting Abbie from the professor’s lecture.

Professor
Cunningham spoke as a projector beam cut through the dark classroom, shining
onto a pull-down screen at the front. The Professor was in his late forties—
at least
—with telltale grey streaks in
his short black hair. He walked between the aisles of desks until he blocked
the beam with his body. A disjointed image appeared on his sleeveless sweater
vest, just below the hint of a blue tie knot and a starched white collar. He
spoke in a slow, monotonous tone that could put hummingbirds to sleep.

“
German psychologist
and scientist Mario Gollwitzer examined one of our deepest instincts—satisfactory
revenge,” he said. “Gollwitzer coined two theories as to why revenge is so
appealing to the human psyche.
” The Professor held the projector remote in his right hand,
and aimed its red laser on the wall. Sometimes he would aim the beam at a
student as he asked a question. He moved out of the projector beam and the
image of a black SUV with a smashed windshield grew clear on the screen behind
him. A pick axe had been lodged into the glass.
 

“
The first is the idea
that simply seeing an offender
get
his come-uppance
restores a so called emotional balance
,” he said, looking from the screen to the class. The slides
changed to reveal several examples of revenge and the class laughed at the
photos. “
Who hasn't said,
‘I hope he gets his,’ or wished that Karma would strike sooner rather than
later?
”

The
blonde girl sitting beside Abbie shifted in her seat again, and ran a finger
through the purple streak of hair that ran as a strand from her widow’s peak
and disappeared behind her ear. The Professor glanced their way as he spoke. “
The second theory is a
little darker.
A little deeper.
Here, the offender’s come-uppance
is not enough. Instead, the offender must understand the direct connection
between the retaliation and the instigating action
.”

The
Professor clicked the remote and the image changed to a cherry red convertible
with the words “
Hope she was worth it
”
spray painted in black along the driver’s side doors. Abbie chuckled, along
with several other students. The Professor looked at her, but pointed the
remote’s laser at the fidgety blonde. A red dot lit her shirt, and the girl
froze. Abbie didn’t know this classmate by name, but knew she was struggling.

“Miss
Larson,” Professor Cunningham said, twirling the dot then aiming at the center
of her chest, near her heart. “
What
were
Gollwitzer’s
two theories called
?”

Miss
Larson stuttered. Her cheeks turned red. Abbie actually felt bad for her.

Professor
Cunningham always called on this girl for answers and, inevitably, the chubby
blonde would stammer for a solid fifteen seconds before he moved on, pointing
his little laser beam at the next student. He did this in every class, and it
really wasn’t funny. The Professor, in Abbie’s opinion, was a bully—plain and
simple.

“Miss
Larson?” Professor Cunningham leaned against the desk at the front of the room
and folded his arms across his tacky sweater vest. “We’re waiting.”

The
girl’s eyes widened.

Abbie
discretely scribbled down two phrases: “Comparative Suffering
” and “Understanding Hypothesis
.”
She ever so slightly tapped the notebook with her pen, catching Miss Larson’s
eye. Abbie didn’t want to draw attention to
herself
,
but she wanted to help. The professor cleared his throat. “Miss Larson? Do you
have an answer for us?”

Miss
Larson looked at Abbie, then down at the notepad. Abbie pointed to the two
phrases with her pen. “It’s, um…” Her voice wavered as she spoke. “It’s
Comparative Suffering and
Understanding Hypothesis
.”

The
Professor unfolded his arms and lowered the remote. The beam vanished.

“Interesting.
Yes, that’s absolutely
correct.” He gave Miss Larson a sidelong glance of utter disbelief.
Maybe he hadn’t caught on?
Abbie
thought. She hoped. The Professor lifted his hand again and aimed the remote to
change the projector slide.

The
girl’s eyes narrowed, glancing at Abbie, and she mouthed the words “thank you.”
Abbie returned the smile,
then
noticed the Professor watching
her. He shook his head. Abbie sank back in her seat.
Guess he did notice after all.

The
Professor changed the slide and moved on with the lecture. “
Gollwitzer found that
revenge can succeed only when an offender understands the reason for the act of
vengeance
.”

The
lecture continued for another half hour and Abbie’s mind drifted to her
birthday, moving to Tampa, and about Clinton Reed. She should really buy a bus
ticket and go back home to visit him this week. She didn’t have any plans for
her birthday, much less the weekend. When the Professor assigned a paper due by
the next class, Abbie sat-up straight in her seat. She had no idea what she was
supposed to write about. She’d tried to pay attention, but between Miss Larson
squirming beside her and the rain falling outside and of course her
twenty-first birthday, Gollwitzer’s revenge study didn’t stand a chance
.

Professor Cunningham dismissed the class and
Abbie rose with the other students. She grabbed her purse and made her way
toward the door, when she heard her name called.

“Miss
Reed. May I speak with you for a moment, please?”

The sound of the Professor’s voice made her
pause. She didn’t want to turn back. She should just keep moving. When he
called her name again, she had to turn around.
“Yes?”

The Professor motioned for her to follow. She
knew this was about helping the blonde girl in class. He’d noticed. Or this was
about the paper on some unknown subject. She hadn’t paid attention. So she
followed him out the classroom. Together, they walked through the crowded
hallway.

“You’re a bright student, Miss Reed,” he
said, moving past several students loitering near a water fountain. He rounded
a corner and Abbie followed. He glanced back at her, over his shoulder. “
You don’t say much in class.”

“You
don’t ever call on me. I didn’t even know you knew my name.” Abbie saw that
they were headed toward the faculty offices. He came to a closed door with a
title plate reading “Professor Cunningham” in large block letters. Inserting a
key into the door knob, he nodded toward Abbie.

“Do
you know why?”

Abbie
shrugged.
“Comparative suffering?”

“Interesting.”
The Professor glanced
away, his expression unreadable. His coolness was evidence enough; he was not
amused. He opened the door and turned on the lights. Abbie followed as he took
a seat at his desk. He pushed out an extra chair along the side and motioned
for her to take a seat.
Abbie
sat, hesitantly, as he positioned himself in his own chair. The Professor
leaned back, arms folded across his sleeveless sweater vest. “That’s an
interesting notion—comparative suffering. But, no, that’s not the reason.”

Abbie didn’t make eye contact. She waited for
him to drop the hammer, start the lecture,
tell
her
she needed to pay attention. Anxiously, she focused on his desk cluttered with
papers and folders. A tan rain coat draped over the far left corner, covering
even more paperwork. The wall behind him was a collage of framed diplomas,
degrees and photographs. They took up every square inch of wall space.
 

“Do
you want to know why I don’t call on you, Miss Reed?” His voice was courteous
but patronizing.
“Because you already know the answers.”

Abbie
acknowledged that. “Is that why you always call on that girl?”

“Miss
Larson?”

“Yes,”
Abbie said. “Miss Larson.”

“I
know everyone’s name in my class. I know their story and their potential.” He
unfolded his arms and leaned forward. His gray eyes darkened as he held her gaze.
“I take an interest in all my students.”

Now
Abbie leaned back. She read the framed Master’s Degree hanging behind him. He’d
graduated from Florida State University. Along either side of the degree were
black-and-white photos: Professor Cunningham shaking hands with President Obama
at a banquet and, the other, standing beside Tiger Woods on a golf course. He
didn’t smile in any of the photos.

“Miss
Reed, I’m aware of your past.” He shuffled papers on his desk. Abbie wondered
if he was looking for something, and watched as he addressed her. “I think
you’ve done an admiral job overcoming certain…” He hesitated, picking up a
folder and scanning its contents. After a moment, he finished his sentence with
a single word.
“Adversities.”

Abbie
stared at him, waiting for a point. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I
knew your father, Miss Reed. He was a good man.” He set down the folder and
suddenly swiveled in his chair. He reached for a picture hanging on the wall
and removed it using both hands. He stared at it,
then
handed it to Abbie.

 
Abbie took the photo. It looked old, like it
had been taken fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. The professor was sitting in a
bar with several other young men. One of them, the man sitting directly
opposite him, was Clinton Reed. He looked so young, care free. A mere shadow of
the man he was today. They were holding up mugs, laughing. It was a side of
Clinton Reed she’d never seen before.

She
looked up at the wall where the picture had been hanging just a moment ago.
There were dozens of framed photographs.
Professor Cunningham
accepting an award from Buzz Aldrin.
Professor Cunningham
in a robe, speaking behind a podium.
Professor
Cunningham posing with the mayor and the chief of police.
There didn’t
seem to be any photos of family, a wife or kids. The closest to anything fun
and personal was an oddly colorful cartoon cel of Gareth the Goodhearted Ghoul.
The light gray cartoon character was flying against a brilliant blue sky with
white puffy clouds and a bright yellow sun. An autograph was scribbled in the
lower right-hand corner, barely visible in the cheap black frame.

It
looked strangely out of place. Abbie brought a hand to her necklace and wrapped
her fingers around the silver unicorn pendant. She squeezed it. The small horn
pressed into her palm.

“Miss,
Reed…” At the sound of his voice, Abbie lifted her head and listened. His left
brow
rose
a fraction. “Did you hear what I just said?
What happened to your older sister was a tragedy that—“

“I
don’t like to talk about it.” Abbie pushed back in the chair and stood. She
handed the framed photograph back to him. “If you’ll excuse me, I really have
to get to pre-algebra.”

He
took the picture, then wheeled around in the chair again and hung it back on
the wall. “How is Clinton, your father?”

“He’s
fine.”

“We
were good friends.” His jaw clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed. After a moment,
he mumbled, “But that was a long time ago.”

She
took a step back. It was almost as if he was trying to tell her something.
Asking her to read between the lines.
Did he have a point to
all this? She looked at the wall of pictures again. For a second, she thought the
cartoon cel of Gareth the Ghoul actually winked her. Her legs trembled.
Stuttering, she backed away from the desk. “I—I’m going to be late.”

“You’re
doing a remarkable job in the class, Miss Reed, and I expect big things from
you.”
The professor rose from
his desk, his chair scraping against the floor.
He shot her a rather awkward grin, as
if he wasn’t used to smiling. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be reassuring
or intimidating.
“I’ll be watching you,” he said.

Abbie
stared at him, biting her lower lip.
Okay!
Intimidating it was
.

The professor picked up the rain coat from
the edge of the desk and slipped an arm into the sleeve, dismissing her.
More than ready to amscray, she turned on her heel and rushed out his
office
.

*
 
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