Retribution (9 page)

Small gray squirrels gathered acorns from the plethora that lay scattered among pine needles and leaves. The air smelled clean, fresh with hints of a floral scent.

Being outside was wonderful. Even though the start had been rough, an exciting thrill ran through Lillian. She could rise above the difficulties of staying in the home of a pregnant woman whose father hated her, the discovery that her predecessor had been murdered, and the stench of her office. Her smile broadened and her pulse quickened. She could do this.

At Founders Hall, she took the stairs to the second floor. A few students passed, carrying backpacks slung over shoulders, water bottles dangling from their hands. Pushing open the office door until it hit the back wall, she steeled herself for the sanitized smell. Swallowing against the gag, she unpacked the mug, zip drive, and a card she had purchased for Beth, each item gracing the barren desktop.

A soft knock sounded on the door. “Dr. Hunter?”

“Agnes Brown, isn't it? Please call me Lillian.”

The middle aged woman fanned her hand in front of her face as she stepped into the small room. “Whew, it still stinks in here. I told them we should keep this door open, but too many gawkers forced Dr. Roman to order it shut.”

“Too many gawkers?”

“You know how morbid some people can be. And not just the students. We had plenty of faculty and staff members wander by, too.”

Her muscles stiffened, knowing she didn't want to know what the department secretary would tell her.

“It's not every day someone gets murdered on campus. Everyone wanted to see the room where it was done, you know, kind of like folks staring at a car accident, hoping to see the gory aftermath.”

Air caught in Lillian's throat as she tightened her grip on the back of the desk.

“Found strangled right there at that very desk.” Agnes pursed her lips and shook her head. “Dr. Roman sent me to tell you the faculty meeting will be in room 115. Welcome. And if you need anything, let me know.”

Another death. And in the room she had inherited. Those had been Hazel's books. Her desk. Lillian jumped from the chair and staggered away from the desk. As she stared, a woman appeared in the chair, scribbling notes on paper. The gray bun secured on the back of her head matched the gray rim of the glasses perched on her nose. As quickly as the image had come, it melted away. Gasping, she backed out the door.

Her mind had been playing tricks on her, but even so, she couldn't stop trembling as she headed toward the staff meeting. No wonder the office reeked of disinfectant.

Something bumped her from behind, and she jumped.

“Sorry,” a girl mumbled, as she continuing to plow down the hall.

In a blink, it all became clear. She existed within an earthly nightmare created for those who deserved to be in purgatory when they died, but by grace would land in heaven.

Her terror was just beginning.

8

Roger played solitaire on his cell phone as he sat parked across the street from Takis, the local 1950s restaurant. He had followed Lillian from Francis Marion to the restaurant, and he knew she would leave there and go directly to the bed and breakfast. Over the past three days, she had not deviated from this pattern. He scratched his chin, digging under whiskers for the errant itch. Soon he could introduce himself again and extend the hand of friendship. By the weekend she should be getting lonely, ready for companionship in the evenings.

A police cruiser drove by, the nerdy Paul Studler behind the wheel. What kind of a name was Studler anyway? His jaw tightened. He couldn't afford for Lillian to turn to someone else for friendship. His plan depended on her trusting him, being willing to be alone with him.

The door of the restaurant opened and his heart thumped as she appeared. Fed and ready to go home, he knew which way she would turn. As she pulled onto the street, he pulled out four cars behind, safely hidden, a lion stalking his prey.

She turned between a fast food restaurant on one corner and a laundromat the other.

Two cars behind, Roger caught a red light. Not a problem; he knew where she was going. Oh, to be so predictable. Most people deviated very little day-to-day from a set routine. Lillian conformed just as he had expected. Even from this distance, the odor of cooking burgers made his stomach rumble. During an active chase, he never ate, but mindless work made him hungry.

Breaks squealed. Tires bit into the pavement. Lillian's car slammed to a stop. She jumped out and ran toward the front of the car. Headlights glared against her slim body.

He hissed out his frustration, squeezed his car out of the traffic, parked on the sandy shoulder, and sprinted across the fast food parking lot.

A ragged man sat on the road, illuminated in the headlight's glare.

“Talk to me, please! Are you all right?” Lillian's voice held a ragged edge as she knelt beside the man. “I didn't hit you, did I?”

He touched her shoulder and she spun around, eyes wide. “He walked out right in front of me!”

The driver behind Lillian's car sauntered their way.

A teen dressed in baggy jeans and a Clemson sweatshirt waved a cell phone. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?” A skinny girl gripped his other arm.

Roger swallowed against the hard knot in his throat. He didn't need complications. He had worked too hard to cover all the possible scenarios. If Lillian made friends, he would know about them. He would know where she went, and who she was with. Her world had to be his world. But now this.

“Let me handle him,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, hoping to end the drama before the
News and Press
showed up, or, more likely, the police. He groaned, realizing Paul Studler was on duty.

Weathered skin conformed to the man's bones, like shrink-wrap to yesterday's leftovers, his whiskers standing out from his drawn face. Dressed in pants that might have been blue and a nondescript sweatshirt beneath a sweater with the front pocket hanging loose, the man looked as if he needed a trip to the laundromat, body and all. The more-than-one-day stench clashed with the aroma of the burgers. Roger knew this kind; he dealt with them all the time at the County Housing Office. A free-loader. Probably looking to earn a fast buck.

“Hey, buddy.” He forced himself to sound friendly. “We need you to move to the sidewalk.”

The man struggled to his feet.

Lillian grabbed his arm. “We'll call an ambulance.”

“No.” The man pushed against Lillian's hand. “Not hurt. Not hurt.”

The teen, still holding the phone, shrugged his shoulders. The girl whispered in his ear, and they moved on.

“He's all right.” Roger brushed his hands together and turned to Lillian, but her attention remained fixed on the man.

“I didn't even see you until I was almost on top of you.” Lillian tightened her grip. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“No hospital.” The man tried to pull away.

Knots of people gathered on the sidewalk, their forms blending together in the darkness. Faces peered out of the brightly lit windows of the fast food restaurant across the street. From within, the animated bodies of the two teens reflected their version of the accident.

Roger groaned, knowing how stories grew. “Look, Lillian, he's fine. He says you didn't hit him, and it was his fault.”

Roger put his arm around her shaking shoulders and tried to pull her to the side. They were running out of time before Paul Studler showed up, or worse, the press with their flashy camera. Her picture would appear on the front cover of the paper. People look through strangers, but tend to notice a familiar face. He needed Lillian to remain overlooked.

“You need to get home,” Roger said through clenched teeth, turning his face from the huddled groups on the sidewalk. “I'll drive your car and then run back for mine later.”

She ignored him.

He glanced around, searching for cameras, listening for the sound of a siren, frustrated at any attention.

“Where were you going?” she asked.

Head slumped, the man shuffled back and forth. “Pearl Street.”

Roger blew a breath between pursed lips. “There's a homeless shelter on Pearl Street. He'll be fine there.” They needed to get away, leave the chaos behind.

Lillian bent and peered into the man's face. “I'll take you.” She pulled the stranger toward the car.

The homeless shelter was not Roger's destination of choice, but anyplace was better than sticking around here. After another glance around, he jumped into the driver's seat of her car and gagged. The man's last place of residence must have been the city dump.

“The shelter is in the old post office,” Roger said as Lillian sat opposite him in the front. “About a year ago, after a newspaper story came out about finding a homeless man frozen to death on the square, the local churches set aside their theological differences and convinced the mayor to rent them the space.”

Lillian stared ahead, her right foot tapping the floor.

Roger barely had time to stop the car before she jumped out.

“I'll take him in. He should be watched tonight for any medical problems—”

“There's nothing wrong with him, Lillian.”

Narrow slits peered back at him.

Alarm dribbled into his body, like an intravenous flow, one deadly drop at a time. When had her strength returned?

She turned to the man. “Do you have a headache?”

Frustrated over her unwarranted concern, irritated because she spurned his help, and concerned from the resurrection of her past personality, Roger slammed the door behind him, rounded the car and leaped the half dozen cement steps to the door.

Already across the room, Lillian and a middle-aged woman, most likely one of the church ladies doing her good deed for the month, stood in conversation.

Roger stayed in the shadow of the door, not wanting to draw attention to himself any more than necessary. The old post office had been vacant since before he had arrived in Darlington, and he had never been inside. The fifteen-foot ceilings still wore their painted tin tiles, and two pillars stood about twelve feet apart, half way from the door to the back wall. Six pendant lights, probably original to the building, provided dim light, perfect for his purposes. The scent of supper made his mouth water. Whatever they were serving didn't smell like bologna sandwiches.

Bright light spilled through a door on the back wall. Only a corner of the room was visible, but that was enough to reveal long rows of tables and several men with their heads bent over plates of food. Lined up as they were, the men looked alike: losers with nowhere to go, burdens on a social system that encouraged misuse.

Normally meticulous about her appearance, Lillian had dark stains on the knees of her slacks. As she waved goodbye to the woman and moved toward the door, her footsteps staggered and she swayed.

If Roger had not been watching her, she would have hit the ground. Instead, he grabbed her around the waist and she slumped against him. He felt her heart beating against his chest, and she felt more real to him than at any other time.

Lillian pulled away, and wiped a hand across her forehead. “Thank you. I…I guess almost hitting a man upset me more than I thought.” Her hazel eyes didn't waiver from his own.

With his sworn enemy recently clutched in his arms, and now with her expressing appreciation, both feelings of glee and of self-hatred comingled in his mind. Roger shook his head, trying to sift out the ambiguity.

Back in the car, the smell of the drifter remained. Would the stench ever fade from the upholstery?

She leaned her head back against the seat. “You don't know how glad I was to see you.” Her hands shook as she adjusted the seat belt. “I'm thankful you were close by.”

He remained focused on the road, grateful to escape with little attention, but acutely aware of the woman at his side. How much of a risk would it be to drive her somewhere quiet, and end it now? Roger could be in the Pacific Riviera this time tomorrow.

“You must have been going somewhere,” Lillian said, “and I interrupted your plans.”

“Actually, I was headed home, sitting at the traffic light when I heard the brakes. I didn't realize it was you until I reached your car.”

“You jump to the rescue of everyone?”

He felt the warmth of her eyes studying his face. “It must have been fate. You needed help and I showed up.”

“Isn't this where we should turn?” Lillian asked.

“I thought I would take you somewhere quiet and give you time to settle your nerves before going to the bed and breakfast.”

“No, really, I appreciate your help and all, but I want to go home.”

The sharpness of her voice reminded him that she would not succumb to his plans quietly. His shoulders slumped as he turned toward Cashua Street.

A halogen light illuminated the yard behind the bed and breakfast. A tan SUV sat where Lillian usually parked her car. Apparently, a new guest had arrived.

Roger pulled into a spot farther from the house and escorted a shaking and rumpled Lillian through the kitchen door.

“Hey, Roger…” Ted's eyes widened.

“She had a run in with—”

Trina entered the kitchen. “I thought I heard your voice, Roger.” Her expression turned to concern as she spied Lillian. “You're as white as a ghost. Do you want to lie down?” She wrapped an arm around Lillian's shoulders and guided her toward the parlor.

When Ted started to follow, Roger tapped the man's arm. Now would be a good time to plant a seed of doubt about the infamous attorney. A blot on Lillian's integrity would be invaluable later. He smirked behind shielded eyes. This might work out better. “Some bum jumped out in front of her car on Broad Street.” He turned on the kitchen faucet. Hot water ran over his hands.

“No wonder she looks as if she's in shock. Is the man all right?

“He's fine, just playing her for sympathy.” He meticulously soaped his hands, rinsed and finally pulled off a paper towel.