…A Dangerous Thing (8 page)

"That kind of thing might go all right at some big atheistic state university," Mal Tomlin said.
 
"But not here at HGC."

Burns didn't think the idea should go well anywhere.
 
He was of the opinion that you either had freedom of speech or you didn't.
 
While he didn't feel it was necessary to refer to any particular group by an unflattering or offensive name, to use "hate speech" as it was now being called, he still thought he should have the freedom to do so.

He thought of an old paperback that was sitting on his shelves at home.
 
It was by James Hadley Chase, and it was called
12 Chinks and a Woman
.
 
Burns also had a later printing, titled
12 Chinamen and a Woman
.
 
He supposed that if the book were to be reprinted now, it would be called
12 Asians and a Woman
.
 
Of course, it would never be reprinted.
 
There was no chance of that.

Another thing that disappointed Burns about the list was the noticeable (to him) absence of such terms as
redneck
and
coonass
and
white trash
.
 
Did that mean those terms were OK?
 
In fact, there were no terms on the list that referred to white males.
 
Maybe it was nice to know that at least one minority group was still fair game for any gibes someone might want to throw.

While the list made Burns very uncomfortable, some of Holt's ideas weren't going well with the parents of his students, either, and Burns, as he had expected, got a number of calls.
 
He explained that HGC was simply being innovative and trying new approaches, that a college was a forum for ideas, and that all sides were being presented so that students could judge for themselves.
 
He hated himself for being secretly cynical about what he was saying.
 
The list created by Dr. Partridge and Eric Holt seemed to undermine much of it, but his little speech was effective.
 
The complaints grew less frequent.

There was no trouble about the dean's goats.

The campus seemed to be calming down and adjusting well until just after spring break, when Tom Henderson came flying out his office window,
 
falling to his death on the sidewalk.

I
t was a mild late afternoon near the end of March.
 
There was a slight breeze that stirred the branches of the pecan trees, and there were already a few stars visible in the dusky sky.
 

Burns had been home for a while and had just returned to the campus for his Tuesday evening class in twentieth-century American fiction.
 
He was walking from the street toward the east entrance to Main, his mind on the list of the characteristics of post-World-War-II fiction that he was going to go over with his students.
 
He hardly noticed that the pecan trees were leafing out or that the grass was so green that it would soon need mowing or that the birds were rustling around in the trees, choosing places to roost.

He was thinking about number eight on his list, "Fear of nuclear annihilation," when he heard the noise.

It was quite a noise, sticks of old, dry wood popping like pistol shots, followed by the peculiarly musical sound of shattering glass.

The windows in the offices of Main were tall, eight or ten feet.
 
They were divided into two halves, top and bottom, and either half once could have been raised or lowered.
 
That was no longer the case; the windows had been nailed shut when the building was air-conditioned in the early 1970s.
 
Permanently shut windows did not make for good fire safety, but they did prevent students and faculty from opening the windows and thus increasing the heating and air-conditioning bills.
 
The long panes were all in need of new putty, and the wind rattled them in the window frames whenever it blew more than five miles an hour.

The noise Burns had heard was caused by an office window that seemed to explode outward.
 
Shattered glass and splintered wood showered down on Burns, who had been reared to have a healthy fear of nuclear annihilation, instinctively ducked and covered.

Above the sound of the falling glass, Burns heard Tom Henderson's scream, and before Burns even had time to look up, he heard the awful sounds of Henderson hitting the sidewalk.
 
The sound his head made was the worst.

Burns looked up then, as much to avoid looking at Henderson as to see where Henderson had come from.
 
He thought he saw someone move in the shadows just beyond the shattered window, but he couldn't be sure.

He looked back down at Henderson.
 
There was something runny, something reddish gray oozing out of the back of Henderson's head.
 
The psychology teacher's eyes were wide open, staring upward at the darkening sky, but Burns was sure they were not seeing it.

Burns looked away.
 
He felt his stomach churn, and there was a warm, stinging sensation in his throat.
 
He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at Henderson again.

Then he became aware that someone was shouting nearby and that someone else was screaming.
 
Students who were on their way to evening classes were reacting to what had happened.

Only then did Burns realize that his hands were hurting and that he was bleeding from cuts on his hands and arms, cuts made by the falling glass.
 
The sidewalk where he stood was covered with glass, and there was even a glass shard lying on Henderson's stomach.

Burns swallowed again.
 
"All of you students go inside and wait on the first floor," he said, trying to keep his voice level.
 
He looked around for a student he knew, and his eyes lighted on a senior Bible major named Harold Kay.
 
"Harold, I want you to dial 911.
 
Get an ambulance.
 
And you'd better get the police.
 
I'll wait here until they come."

"Shouldn't you be doing something, sir?" Harold said.
 
Students at HCG still said "sir," or some of them did.
 
"CPR or something?"

Burns looked down into Henderson's staring eyes.
 
"I'll try," he said, knowing it would be of no use.
 
"You go make the call.
 
And get everyone inside."

"Yes, sir," Harold said, as Burns knelt down beside the body and brushed the fragment of glass on Henderson's stomach to the sidewalk.
 
It tinkled when it hit and split into three pieces.

"W
ell, well, well," Chief R. M. "Boss" Napier said.
 
"Well, well, well."

Napier was a burly man who liked leather bomber jackets and denim jeans.
 
He had dark blonde hair and a face that might be called ruggedly handsome by anyone but Burns, with a once-broken nose and ruddy cheeks.

There were all sorts of rumors around Pecan City about his personal life, rumors that said, for example, that he sometimes went deer hunting with only a Bowie knife and a bullwhip.
 
Burns had never been able to verify the rumors, though he wouldn't have been surprised if they were true.
 
The things that Burns knew for a certainty, however, were much less sensational, such as the fact that Napier collected and painted miniature action figures.
 
And that he had an eye for Elaine Tanner.

The two men were in a vacant classroom on the first floor of Main.
 
Burns had been treated by the paramedics who came with the ambulance, and both his hands had a number of plastic bandages stuck to them.
 
None of the cuts was deep, and none had required stitches.
 

Burns had sent Harold Kay up to dismiss his class, and he was sitting in a student desk, looking at Napier, who was sitting on top of the metal-and-wood teacher's desk.

"You don't really look so bad, considering," Napier said.
 
"You're just lucky that Anderson fella didn't fall right on top of you."

"Henderson," Burns said.
 
Napier had problems with names.
 
"His name is Henderson."

"Was," Napier said.
 
"His name
was
Henderson.
 
Past tense.
 
An English teacher should know about stuff like that.
 
The paramedics tell me you tried to bring him back, though.
 
You should've known it wouldn't do any good.
 
The back of his head was cracked like a soft-boiled egg.
 
His brains were—"

"I know," Burns said, holding up a bandaged hand to stop Napier before he went into the gory details.
 
He'd seen Henderson's head; he didn't need to have Napier describe it.
 
"I just thought I ought to try."

"Yeah.
 
Well, I guess that was a good idea.
 
No use in taking any chances."

"Did anyone tell his wife?" Burns asked.

Samantha Henderson taught keyboarding at HGC on a part-time basis.
 
She and her husband both taught on Tuesday evenings, but her class met in the tiny Business Building, actually nothing more than an old house converted to classroom use, that was down the street from Main.

"One of the students sent someone," Napier said.
 
He slid to the edge of the desk and stood up.
 
"You know, Burns, ever since I got to know you, there have been bad things happening around this college."

"Now wait just a minute," Burns said.

Napier walked around behind Burns, who turned to look at him.

"I'm not saying it's your fault," Napier said.
 
"It just seems to me that Pecan City used to be such a nice, quiet little place.
 
My job used to be a whole lot easier before you started mixing in things."

"I'm sorry you're having to work so hard," Burns said.

"Sarcasm."
 
Napier walked back to the front of the room and sat back down on the desk.
 
"I can recognize sarcasm.
 
My English teachers always used to be sarcastic with me."

"You can't blame me for that, either," Burns said.
 
He found himself wondering what kind of essay Napier could write, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"I don't blame you," Napier said.
 
"But I was just wondering."

"Wondering what?" Burns said.

"Well, it seems like every time something goes wrong around here, you're right in the big middle of it.
 
First it was that business with Dean
Endore
—"

"Elmore," Burns said.

"Right, Elmore.
 
And then that mess with Skeet—"

"Street," Burns said.
 
"His name was Street."

"Sure.
 
Street.
 
That was it.
 
You were right in the middle of those, weren't you."

It wasn't a question, so Burns didn't try to answer.

"Anyway," Napier went on, "what I'm betting myself is that you're up to your neck in this one, too.
 
Am I right?"

"I don't even know what happened," Burns said.
 
"How could I be involved in it?"

"Well, now, I don't know what happened yet, either, not for sure.
 
The boys are still going over that office up there.
 
But what we can speculate on is that Mr. Sanderson—"

"Henderson."

"—that Mr. Henderson either fell through that window by accident, which doesn't seem very likely; jumped through that window; or was pushed through that window. "

Napier slid off the desk again and hulked over Burns.
 
"Do you have any ideas you want to share with me about those three things, Burns?
 
That's what you touchy-feely types like to say, isn't it?
 
'Share with me?'
 
How about it, Burns?"

Burns thought about what he thought he'd seen, someone moving just out of sight beyond the broken window.
 
But he wasn't certain he'd seen a thing.
 
It could have been nothing at all.
 
But he couldn't think of a reason why anyone would push Henderson through the window, much less think of a reason why Henderson would jump.

"I don't know any more than you do," Burns said.

"Well, that's just fine," Napier said.
 
"That's just about what I expected you to say, Burns.
 
And I hope it's the truth. I really do.
 
I don't want to find myself stumbling over you while I'm investigating this case."

Burns didn't know exactly what to say to that.
 
He could have said something like, "Who solved your last two murder cases for you?" but he didn't think that would be wise.
 
He didn't think it would do any good to mention the shoplifting case he'd solved for Napier during the Christmas break, either, or the thefts he'd solved in the city's River Bend section during the same holiday season.