Fool's Journey (19 page)

           
Sometimes she felt more like a counselor than a writing
teacher. There were places she didn’t want to go with students, wounds their
writing opened that were too painful for exploration, but if all she did was
write her own cryptic notes in the margins with that infernal red pen, what
good did it do? Good writing didn’t take place in a vacuum, and it wasn’t right
to teach as if it did.

           
She glanced at her watch—she’d been there almost two
hours. There was nothing like reading poetry born of post-adolescent angst to
take her mind off her own troubles. She paid her bill, gathered her papers and
walked up the hill in the mist. It clung to her face and hair like nature’s own
perfume, refreshing and clean. Going home didn’t seem so bad now. As she slowly
mounted the stairs to her apartment, she glanced back over the city. The lights
twinkled at her, silver and gold like a troll’s treasure. She’d go to bed early
with a novel and a brandy and dream the night away.

           
She found the new key in her mailbox, as promised.
Turning it in the lock, she heard the satisfying sound of the deadbolt clicking,
and pushed the door open.

A
strangling bile rose in her throat, as the stink of cigar smoke rushed toward
her.

XXIV.

           
“Come in and shut the door,” a voice cut through the
darkness. “Don’t let the night follow you in.”

           
Freemont Willard. Here, in her home.

           
Why?
and
how?
withered before such questions
could even form; rage superseded any logical thought.

           
With a click the floor lamp came on, illuminating his
slouched form in her armchair, like a patient spider anticipating its prey.
Deirdre pulled the door shut behind her and faced him.

           
“Well, well!” he chuckled, tapping the ash from his cigar
on the carpet. “I think I truly have surprised you now, my dear! How
delightful! I was so very disappointed in your class today when you didn’t even
turn a hair. No reward at all for my pains. You even had a little surprise for
me.”

           
“Get out,” she said through clenched teeth. “Get out now,
or I won’t answer for what happens.”

           
“Get out?” He shook his head and smiled at her. “No. That
is not at all what I planned for this evening. We're going to have a talk, you
and I, and then it’s time for games. I think you’ll do whatever I ask, little
Emily. I’ve waited a long time to see what you’d look like naked, awash in that
sea of gorgeous hair. Or kneeling before me as you take my –”

           
“I’m not afraid of you, Freemont. You’re the one who
should be trembling now.”

           
He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t try to bluff
me. You’re a very good actress. I wouldn’t have guessed that. But the fact
remains that your future is mine. I can crumble it to nothing. On the other
hand, in exchange for a few hours of your time–and perhaps an ounce or two of
bodily fluid–I can give it back to you untarnished.”

           
He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, moving
into her physical space like a seeping odor. She could even feel the
temperature change as he approached.

“Come,
my dear. I already know the way to your little bedroom.”

           
Deirdre felt the sting on her hand before she even
realized she meant to slap him. The impact of the blow resonated all the way to
her shoulder. Freemont’s face dropped its unctuous mask and the cold anger in
his eyes frightened her more than any weapon could have. His hatred for her was
clear and astonishingly visceral.

           
“You will suffer for that,” he whispered. “Even that
Vibert bitch didn’t dare to touch me, and she had more at stake than you.”

           
Deirdre caught her breath. Something didn’t make sense.
Diana Vibert had had more at stake? Even in the repressive past, how could
being identified as a lesbian compare with her own sin of patricide?

Her
heart paused mid-beat.
He didn’t know
,
she realized with a start.

But
he certainly must think he did or he wouldn’t be here. What was it he thought
he knew? Even if it meant playing on his vanity, she had to know what trail
he’d followed and what it was he thought he had.

           
“You're more clever than I thought. How did you find
out?”

           
“Surely I don’t have to spell it out for you,” he said
coldly, still rubbing the side of his face. “You seem to know what Vibert gave
me.”

           
“Poems.”

           
“Yes, poems,” he spat. “That and more, as you’ll see soon
enough.”

           
She had to keep her questions as neutral, as empty of
information as possible. “I didn’t think anyone would ever find out about me.”

           
Freemont smiled slowly and shook his head. “Vanity,
vanity,” he sighed with mock regret. “It almost made a fool of you, professor.
If you had to turn to plagiarism to write your stellar verse, you should have
come to me for some advice. I’m one of the best.”

           
“Plagiarism,” she repeated slowly. Deirdre’s head spun.
What was he talking about? She knew that it stood behind his own supposed
accomplishments, but what did it have to do with her?

           
Freemont turned away from her and stalked to the window.
“I
am
a poet, you know,” he said
bitterly, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “You think I don’t look out over
this city, too, and see the poems in it?

           
“I have the greatness of a poet,” he went on.
“Masterpieces swell large in me, so perfect they bring tears to my eyes. But
the words—sometimes they don’t come. You know about that, of course. We share
that particular affliction, don’t we? We hunt and gather to make our poems as
whole as they can be.”

           
He shook himself and turned toward her again, drawing on
the cigar. It glowed red in the semi-darkness like the unblinking eye of a
child’s nightmare. “It’s an art in itself, isn’t it? This gathering of lines
and piecing them together.”

           
“What was the link to me?” she forced herself to ask.

           
“Ah, serendipity! A happy accident, as we say. Our young
friend Todd came to me quite concerned last term. It seemed he had found some
poetry on the Internet that sounded familiar. Although it was attributed to
another poet, some lines were almost word for word the same as one you
published last year. I was, naturally, quite anxious to exonerate you in a
student’s eyes, so we searched further. It only got worse, Deirdre. It was
obvious you’d incorporated lines from another poet’s entire body of work. Not a
good idea. Pick and choose, my dear. Pick and choose. And one more thing, if
you’re going to steal someone else’s words, choose someone no one will notice.
Artfully revised, I must say, but still there is no mistaking it. To think,
that little McClellan girl from the tabloids wrote so beautifully.”

           
Deirdre sank back against the door. He didn’t know. All
of this, and he didn’t know. He had missed her darkest secret and seen only
himself. It seemed so logical now. Of course when he saw the similarities
between her earlier work and what she wrote now, he would automatically
conclude she had done what he had: stolen another poet’s work. So he had
nothing! He thought she was a mere plagiarist! The relief was extraordinary.
She felt the laughter rise like a phoenix. It spilled out uncontrollably until
the tears ran down her cheeks.

           
Freemont stared at her. “I’m so glad you can enjoy this
moment, Deirdre.”

           
Rallying herself, Deirdre took a breath and opened the
door. “You can leave now, Freemont. You’ve lost this game. You have nothing on
me. I can reveal so much more to your detriment—you have no idea."

           
Freemont cocked his head and stared at her for a moment,
then drew on his cigar slowly and flicked another ash on the carpet. “So sorry,
Deirdre,” he grinned. “You really should get an ashtray, you know.”

           
 
He turned away from
her with slow deliberate steps, eased himself back into the armchair and put
his feet up. “You can shut the door again. I don’t think I’ll be leaving just
yet. Forgive me if I think out loud for a moment. I find it helps to articulate
a problem.”

           
The sound of a clock ticking marked the passing seconds.
She felt her upper hand slipping away as he contemplated her, drawing on the
cigar.

           
Freemont broke the silence. “What I’m wondering, my dear,
is why you don’t just call the police now? Stealing a few poems is nothing
compared to breaking and entering. Not that that’s what I did, by the way. Your
landlord is very nice, but criminally stupid. He was very glad to tell me where
the key was when I told him I was your father, visiting from out of town. He didn’t
even ask for identification—merely seemed happy to promote a nice surprise for
you. Still, I did misrepresent myself. You could have had me locked up, at
least for tonight.”

           
A cold, damp wind blew past Deirdre through the open
door.

           
“So, why not, sweet Deirdre? Why not? Why would you pass
up a chance to humiliate, if not ruin, someone you so clearly hate? This is a
quandary indeed!”

           
She knew she should say something, anything, to distract
him from this line of reasoning, but as she stood in the wind, Deirdre felt as
if she were in the path of a car spinning inexorably toward her in slow motion.
Numbness was all she felt in the zone between relief and danger.

           
“Come to think of it, I met someone last week,” Freemont
mused. “She came to the department looking for you. I thought it rather odd at
the time—she seemed an unlikely sort for you to know. Brassy. Ingratiating. I
was intrigued enough, though, to keep her card. Shall we look at it, Deirdre?”

           
He reached for his wallet, pulled a small stack of business
cards from it and began to sort through them slowly. Finally, he held one up to
the lamp beside him. “Well, well,” he said. “A Eunice Fisher. Eunice McClellan
Fisher.”

           
Freemont stood and turned on the overhead light. Deirdre
blinked against the sudden glare and exposure. “McClellan. Katie McClellan,” he
whispered. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

           
Now it was Freemont Willard’s turn to laugh. “So our
sweet little Emily isn’t so sweet after all! Oh! This is rich! The prim,
pristine poet is a murderess!”

           
“Be careful, Freemont,” she said through her teeth. “I
wouldn’t think twice about murdering you. I’d smile as I did it. Just like
before. I didn’t stop smiling for days.”

           
“How exciting and dangerous! Even so, I don’t think
you’ll do anything to stop me. You have far too much to lose. Just to be on the
safe side, though, I’ll be sure to bind your hands when I fuck you, Katie. Rest
assured, I will be smiling, too.”

           
Deirdre’s stomach heaved and her knees turned to water.
Still, the anger she felt kept her upright, strong enough to do whatever was
necessary. There was a small table within arm’s reach. She opened the drawer
and pulled a gun from it. Then she pointed it at Freemont.

           
“It was good of you to turn the light on, Freemont. It
makes my job so much easier. When I killed my father, it was very dim. I had to
shoot him several times to make sure he was dead.”

           
Freemont’s face went pale and his cigar dropped to the
floor. Dispassionately, Deirdre hoped it wouldn’t burn the carpet. It was an
old Persian, red and indigo, and she was very fond of it.

           
“Pick up the cigar, Freemont, and put it in your pocket.”

           
He complied quickly, never taking his eyes from her.

           
“Now, I am going to step away from this door and you are
going to walk through it. When you get home, you are going to write a letter of
resignation to the university. You are never going to teach again.

           
“My eye will be on you, Freemont. As you might guess, I
can afford to have you watched until the day you die. If you step out of line
even once, I will come and kill you. I would do it now, but you’d make a
terrible mess in here.”

           
A moment of stillness filled the space between them. Then
Freemont stood and walked toward her. She stepped to one side, leaving a clear
path to the door.