Carry Me Home (12 page)

POWER PLAY

“Sorry,” Zoe told the middle-aged woman at the front desk in the housing office a few hours later. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on seeing the director himself, because it’s urgent. Richard Winston, is that right? Could you please call Mr. Winston and tell him we’re here?”

The woman sighed, her heavy face a mask of resignation. “Look. Everybody’s got an emergency. I told you. You need to request an appointment.”

“I’m sorry,” Zoe said again, “but it can’t wait.” That was one thing she was positive of. The way Amy had looked this morning, and then hearing her story—Zoe had known that however much she had on her plate, nothing was more important than this.

Now, she looked at Amy’s white face, then back at the staffer, impatiently tapping a pen, and made her decision. “Come on,” she told Amy, and set off around the edge of the cubicles and down the hallway, eyeing the nameplates beside office doors.

The woman had gotten out from behind her desk, was hustling after them. “You can’t do that.”

“Ah.” Zoe stopped, rapped on an open door, then stepped inside with Amy following her, the staffer puffing up behind them.

The man behind the desk looked up in surprise. “Well, hello,” he said, taking in the little procession.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winston,” the woman said. “I told her she needed an appointment, but she just came on back. I couldn’t stop her. Do you want me to call security?”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. I think I can handle it.” He smiled at Zoe. He was pretty good-looking in a fit, sandy-haired way, and she smiled back. Maybe charm would work. She might as well start with that.

“Thank you,” she said. “As I explained, I wouldn’t have insisted, but it really is urgent.”

He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I do have a lunch meeting, but I can give you five minutes.”

He didn’t invite them to sit, but she took a visitor’s chair and gestured to Amy to do the same, then put a hand across the desk to shake his.

Winston held up his hands in response, and she realized for the first time that his dress shirt concealed braces covering both wrists. “Sorry,” he said. “Carpal tunnel. Take my advice, don’t get this thing. It’s a bear.”

She pulled her hand back again. “Sorry to hear that,” she told him. She smiled, didn’t get much in return. It looked like her feminine wiles weren’t going to help much after all, not that they usually did. Back to her default mode. Businesslike. “I’m Zoe Santangelo. Assistant professor of geological sciences, and a member of the president’s task force on Recruitment of Underrepresented Students in Science and Engineering.” She gave it a name it didn’t even have yet, because that was how the game was played.

“Didn’t realize we had such a thing,” the man said. “Rich Winston here, by the way.”

“It’s being set up now,” she said. “Frank just invited me to be part of it, to help work out the most effective use of Cal Jackson’s recent donation. You may have heard about that. Exciting times.” Which was a blatant power play, but whatever it took.

“Well,” Winston said, favoring her with another smile, “that does put a little different light on things, doesn’t it?” He opened a leather-bound notebook case and pulled an engraved pen from an onyx holder. “So how can I be of help in this effort?” he asked. “All hands on deck, that the idea? I’d be happy to set up a regular meeting to discuss it, although I’m not sure I see how housing fits into the picture.”

“Ah. Well, it’s an issue of female students feeling safe living on campus,” Zoe said. “Which we think could be quite important for recruiting.” She didn’t specify who
we
was. “This is Amy Corrigan, by the way. One of those female students.”

“Hi,” Amy said.

Winston merely glanced at her, then looked back at Zoe. “And are women not? Feeling safe, that is? We’re not exactly a hotbed of crime here in the Palouse.”

“I don’t know if it’s a hotbed,” she said, “but it looks to me like you’ve got a rapist on your hands. That’s why we’re here, because Amy needs your help.”

“Excuse me? A rapist? Are you aware of an issue I’m not?”

“It sounds like I am. Amy was attacked last week, after a man broke into her apartment in the middle of the night. Luckily, she was able to chase him off and a police report was filed, but the police don’t seem to have much to go on, and he’s still out there. That’s the issue.”

“I didn’t hear that we’d had a break-in,” Winston said. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he told Amy. “I’m glad it wasn’t more . . . serious, I take it?”

“No,” Amy said. “I chased him off, like Dr. Santangelo said.” She sounded a little stronger, and Zoe guessed it helped her to say that.

“And . . .” Winston said. “I still don’t see how this involves me.”

“Well, I think there are two issues,” Zoe said. “Both of them pretty urgent. First, it seems like a good idea to let female students know that you might have a problem, warn them to take precautions.”

“And if the campus police tell me we’ve got a problem,” he said, his voice not quite so cordial anymore, “I will certainly do that. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. And now,” he said, rising from his chair with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m afraid that meeting’s calling my name.”

Zoe didn’t budge. “The second thing you can do, the reason I’m having to press here, is that Amy needs new housing. Right away. I know that might take some extra effort, and that’s why I insisted on seeing you personally. Because I’m sure that you’re the one person who can do it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid that’s not possible. If you’d like to apply for a change of on-campus housing,” he told Amy, “you’re free to do so. There’s a waiting list, though, I believe.”

“Yes,” Zoe said before Amy could answer. “There is. And there are times when exceptions need to be made. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is one of those times.”

“And you would be the one to decide that?”

“No.” This wasn’t going so well. Time to press harder. “I’m just the one pointing it out so you can help Amy find a safe living environment. She was the victim of a serious assault, and her roommate has already moved out, leaving her alone. Her attacker was stalking her previously, and now he’s broken into her apartment by force and uttered some very serious threats. It’s not possible for her to stay there. I’m sure you can see that.”

He looked at her a minute more, then turned and punched a few keys on his computer. “Can you give me the address of your apartment, please?” he asked Amy.

“One-forty-one Hawthorne,” she said, her voice coming out a little shaky again, and if even saying her address scared her, she really did need a new place. “Apartment 115.”

He put in the address, did some scrolling. “I show that there was an incident there,” he said. “Last Wednesday.”

“Yes,” Zoe said. “As I mentioned.”

He raised his eyebrows again at that. “And that we fixed a lock.” He lifted his hands from the keys, swiveled to face them again. “Looks to me like we corrected a security issue, and the problem is solved.”

“But it was broken because he
broke
it,” Amy said. “It wasn’t broken before.”

“Uh-huh.” Winston didn’t sound convinced, and Zoe’s blood was beginning to boil. “We always advise that our female students take care. That they watch where they’re walking, watch their drinking, keep their windows and doors locked. And nine times out of ten, they don’t. They come from little towns where nobody locks a door, where they know everybody and everybody knows them. Then they get to college, go to parties, drink too much, and . . .” He shrugged. “We’re a college campus with a transient population. Incidents happen, and that’s more than regrettable, but there’s only so much advising we can do. If you’re worried, though,” he told Amy, “you might consider installing some inexpensive alarms. Perhaps that would make you feel safer.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t go back there.” The words came out in jerks, and Zoe could tell she was fighting the tears again.

“This isn’t just Amy’s problem,” Zoe said, keeping her voice level with an effort. “It’s housing’s problem, too. You’ve got an issue here, I’m sure you can see that. A lawsuit waiting to happen, if you don’t mind my mentioning it.” He minded, she could tell, and that was good. “Amy signed a contract to live in campus housing and abide by its rules. She’s kept her part of the bargain. In fact, you could say she’s done more than keep it. She kept herself safe under some pretty extreme pressure. Now it’s up to the university to keep your—to keep
our
part of the bargain, by finding her someplace safe to live.”

“It is?” He sat back and stared at her, and she stared right back at him. “What exactly do you propose that I do? I can’t magically conjure up a new apartment for her. There’s a waiting list.”

“I’m guessing,” Zoe said, “that those apartments she’s in are pretty coveted. Apartments generally are, aren’t they? Here’s my idea. You take a couple big, strong guys living in a dorm, tell them it’s their lucky day, put them in that nice, safe . . . furnished . . . ?” She glanced at Amy, got a nod. “Furnished apartment, with its fixed door and all. You put Amy and her roommate in a dorm, on a high floor, and the problem’s solved. Today. Just like that.”

“You seem to have a lot of answers,” he said, his voice as cold as his eyes. “I don’t know how things were at . . . wherever you came here from, but that’s not the way it works around here. People tend to ask for their favors a little more nicely, and brand-new assistant professors generally don’t ask for many favors at all.”

“Ah.” She pulled her phone out of her bag. “If that solution won’t work, maybe we should get Dr. Oppenheimer on the phone. He might be able to help us figure out another one. In fact, I think he has a lunch meeting with Cal Jackson today. I know Cal pretty well, too. Maybe he could help. He’s a pretty helpful guy.” She’d made up the meeting. She hoped she hadn’t made up the help. Except that she didn’t actually know Cal’s number. Damn.

Winston still had a faint smile on his face, but his eyes were anything but friendly. Zoe sat still and met his gaze, and the seconds ticked away, one after another.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said at last, and Zoe tried not to let the relief show. “You’ll have to give me a few days. Leave your phone number with the front desk,” he told Amy, “and we’ll let you know if we can find you a spot.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t going to work.” Zoe sat back, settling into her chair as though she were planning to stay awhile. She’d bluffed once. She could do it again. “She needs a safe place now, tonight, even if that place is temporary. Even if it’s a room you keep at the campus inn for visiting professors or those star athletes you’re recruiting. It could even be the VIP suite at the faculty club, but she needs to sleep someplace safe tonight. I know that might take a while, but that’s all right. We’ll wait.”

FAMILY TIES

“Stay,” Cal told Junior, pulling his key from the ignition and grabbing his workout bag from the floor of the truck.

The dog wagged his tail twice, then, as Cal slammed the door, lay down across the seat.

Cal didn’t bother to lock it. Sixty pounds of ugly brown mutt was a pretty good antitheft device. He took off across the high school’s parking lot, populated by only a few cars at six thirty on a Friday morning. Luke’s truck was here, he noticed, in the “Principal” spot near the door. His brother liked to get in early, get a jump on the day. Came from growing up on a farm.

He opened the front door with his key and entered the familiar lobby, uncharacteristically silent now. His athletic shoes didn’t make a sound as he crossed to the gym, past his old locker. He wondered how old you got before you forgot your locker number.

One last door, and he was dropping his bag onto a bench in the boys’ locker room, stripping down to a T-shirt and gym shorts, going on through to the weight room, and climbing on the rowing machine to warm up.

A dancer took class every day, the routine of studio and barre as familiar as family. A jockey rode horses. And a jock went to the gym. Except during the very busiest weeks of the year, when he didn’t do anything but work, eat, and fall into bed, Cal always got in his hour or two. His mind settled as the sweat flowed, and the problems seemed to solve themselves. However he felt when he walked in, he always felt better walking out.

Not that he anticipated feeling bad today, because he was seeing Dr. Zoe again in a few hours. He’d need his wits about him, though, and a workout was good for that, too. He smiled at the thought, rowed a little harder.

He’d worked his way through his Friday program and was on the bike, doing a little aerobic conditioning to finish things off, when the door behind him opened. He turned his head, expecting Luke, coming in with some last-minute idea. Or some last-minute insult, more like.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Luke. It was his cousin Greg, heading over to the weight racks, and Cal’s heart sank a little.

Why he was here, Cal couldn’t imagine. Greg normally did his workout at the university rec center. He hoped his cousin wasn’t going to start coming to the high school instead, because a little Greg went a long way.

“Hey,” he said now, giving the other man a nod.

Greg didn’t look much happier to see him, although he didn’t look surprised. He stacked weight onto his bar, winced a little as he lifted it over his head, settled it on the meat of his upper back. Probably put too much weight on it to impress Cal, as if Cal would care.

“I didn’t know you were still coming over here,” Greg said, beginning a set of squats, because of course he had scorned his warm-up. Always looking for a shortcut, always thinking there was an easy way. “I figured you’d have built your own weight room by now.”

Cal didn’t stop pedaling. “Nope.” And because Greg was his cousin, and that mattered, he added, “Kinda enjoy being back in the old stomping grounds, actually. Scene of our former triumphs.”

His former tight end answered that one with nothing but a grunt, and Cal gave a mental shrug. Well, he’d tried.

Greg stood, hoisted the barbell overhead, his face twisting with the effort, and dropped it from a little too high up so it bounced on the mat. “I wouldn’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t live in the past.”

That one about had Cal choking. He grabbed his water bottle instead, took a sip. “Good for you.”

“Heard you gave a bunch of money to the university last week,” Greg said after a minute, hoisting the bar again. “Only a matter of time until they name the high school after you, I guess. Funny, I always thought football was a team sport.”

“Yep,” Cal said. “It is. I remember you blocking for me, back in the day. I remember that you’re my cousin, too. Trust me, if I didn’t remember, I’d have kicked your ass a long time ago.”

Greg snorted, started another set. “You wish.”

“You know,” Cal said, “we’re not actually in high school anymore. It’s not about who’s got a bigger dick, or more money.”

“Easy for you to say.” Greg leaned over for a set of dead lifts. “When you’re handing it out like candy.”

“Well, hey,” Cal said with a sigh, “tell you what. When I pay to replace the urinals in the locker room, I’ll have them name them after you, how’s that?”

He could see the red rising up Greg’s dark, thick neck, into his unshaven cheeks, black with beard. He shouldn’t push him, he knew. But since nothing else was working, why the hell not?

“Knock yourself out.” Greg dropped his bar again, wiped down his dark hair, still cut nearly Marine-short after all these years, like if he didn’t keep reminding people, they’d forget he was ex-military. Like anybody cared. “But then,” he continued, “I suppose if I had as many things I wanted people to forget as you do, I’d keep shelling it out like that, too. Otherwise, people might remember that even with all those millions of dollars, you still couldn’t keep your wife in line.”

Now Cal was the one whose color was rising, try as he might to control it. The taunt wasn’t new, and neither was the satisfaction he could see on Greg’s face, so why should he let it bother him all this time later?

“But hey,” Greg said, “what can you do? I guess some guys know how to control a woman, and some guys don’t.”

Cal climbed off the bike, wiped it down with deliberate motions, then walked over to stand in front of Greg. His cousin had switched to the lat pulldown machine now, was sitting on the bench, his hands behind him as he worked the bar.

Cal shot a hand out, grabbed the metal handle in the middle while the weights were at the top of their extension, felt Greg straining to hang on. “If you’re pushing Kathy around,” he told his cousin quietly, “you watch yourself. I don’t know what all’s happening over at your house, but I’ve heard rumors. And if I hear anything more . . . I’m not going to ignore it.”

Greg’s face was purple with effort and temper by now. He finally let go of the handles, because he had no choice. Cal felt it happening and loosed his hold at the same time so the weights crashed down with an almighty
clang
, making Greg jump.

“Oh, so now you’re out to get me?” his cousin asked, swinging his leg around to stand with the bench between the two of them. “Just because I don’t kiss your ass like everybody else? What happens between me and my wife is none of your goddamned business.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cal assured him. “It’s my business. I’ll make it my business.”

“What, you going to make a report?” Greg laughed, short, sharp, and contemptuous. “Ever hear of the thin blue line?”

“I won’t be making any report.” Cal stood for a minute, let it sink in, then turned on his heel, veered back to the bike for his water bottle and towel, tossed the towel over one shoulder, and headed for the locker room.

He could feel Greg’s eyes on him, the red heat all but radiating off him, but didn’t look back. Greg wouldn’t be coming after him, he was almost certain of it. Greg was a bully, and a coward.

The tension remained all the same through his quick shower and change. He left the building and headed back across the lot to where his truck was parked, with Greg’s own glossy black rig, shinier than Cal’s, newer than Cal’s, parked right next to it. And when he got around to the driver’s side, he saw the fresh ding in his door, too.

Not that he cared about the ding. The day you cared about messing up the paintwork on your truck was the day you handed over your man card, as far as he was concerned.

He threw his bag inside, climbed up, and gave Junior, who had sat up to watch him, a pat. “Hey, boy,” he told the mutt. “Next time Greg bashes my truck, how about doing me a favor and biting him? I won’t rat you out to animal control, I promise. It’ll be our secret.”

Junior had stopped listening. He was on his feet, staring out of the passenger window, the hair on his back standing up in a ridge, a low, soft growl coming from his chest at the sight of Greg coming out of the building.

Cal turned the key, backed up, and drove past his cousin without speeding up, slowing down, or looking at him, because ignoring him, he knew from long experience, was the ultimate insult.

“Yep,” Cal told the dog. “He’s an asshole. Every family’s got one.”