Stalking Death (23 page)

My assailant turned and ran, departing with the same rapid slap of wet pants that had signaled his arrival. I knew it was a male both from the pungent sweat scent as he bent over me and because of the horrid aftershave or cologne he wore. It was a nauseating combination, and when my knight in shining vinyl hauled me to my feet, that smell plus my swimming head nearly made me heave.

I'm a fine detective, so I figured from the commanding voice, the neon orange vinyl and the shiny shoes that I was in the presence of security, even before he gripped my arm and asked, in a painfully loud voice, "What happened?" followed slowly, as though he'd had to turn a page in his mind, by "Are you all right?"

We needed to find someplace warm, dry and well-lit, and one that had a toilet, sink and mirror, before I was going to be able to answer the second question, so I took a stab at the first. "Guy jumped out of the bushes and hit me over the head," I said.

"You get a good look at him?"

"I got no look at him. He hit me from behind."

"I have a car over here," he said. "I'll drive you to the infirmary."

Where were you five minutes ago?
I wondered, leaning on his arm and letting him lead me to his car. My head hurt. I was wet and dirty. I wanted to take a hot bath and crawl into a big soft bed. They had wonderful beds at The Swan. How long would I have to be polite to this man before I could excuse myself and go there? The constabulary, in my experience, liked to get every juicy detail of an attack. I had no juicy details. I couldn't even remember if I'd seen the bastard's shoes. I tested my aching head to see if it would divulge more information but the pathways were clogged.

"I'm fine, really... I think. I'd just like to get to my car. It's parked at the Administration Building."

"Students aren't allowed cars," he said firmly.

Ah, the wonders of a dark night. I was seventeen hours into my work day, ten hours since my last meal, and a couple years into my thirties. I felt a hundred long, dirty years old. "I'm glad to hear it, but I'm not a student. My name is Thea Kozak, and I'm a consultant working with Mr. Chambers on the Alasdair MacGregor killing."

"The infirmary," he repeated, as though my words were merely the confused mutterings of a crime victim. He took my briefcase in one hand, tucked a strong arm under mine, and propelled me to the car. I was in no shape to resist. He opened the door, handed me gently in, and closed it again, using his radio to call Security Central and report what had just happened.

With two guards off at the hospital with Shondra, and now this guy babysitting me, the campus was wide open for any evildoers who were out tonight. I hoped Chambers and Dunham had taken the fiasco at Cabot Hall seriously and made sure that all the dorm residents were in place and on guard, but I couldn't even count on them checking their messages.

The nurse on duty had a sweet face, a cloud of graying curls, and plenty of time on her hands to minister to my battered self. She directed me to a bathroom, where I washed my face, drank some mouthwash, and established that I didn't want to look at myself in the mirror. My barrette was back on the path and in the fog my hair had exploded in a wild tangle. Under fluorescent light, I was an unattractive shade of pale green. She checked the lump on my head, exclaimed in outrage at my story, then picked the gravel out of my oozing palm and wrapped it in gauze.

I listened politely to the lecture about possible concussion.

By this time, I probably could have written it. I was thinking of the luscious deep tubs at The Swan, my chances of begging a late night snack from the landlady, and the bliss of falling into bed. My dreams of delight were shoved abruptly to a back burner by the arrival of Todd Chambers.

Obviously, he hadn't come for any caretaking purpose. He looked far too aggrieved. The first words out of his mouth confirmed that he possessed all the compassion of a basking crocodile. "Look, are you going to be able to work tomorrow? Because we're up to our ass in this business and we need a consultant who can consult."

It was the most backbone he'd shown yet, but I wasn't exactly delighted that he'd decided to try it out on me. There were plenty of better venues to vent his wrath and plenty of more important projects that needed decisive energy. Still, I was supposed to be there for him, not he for me, so, in my new maturity, I didn't yell back, "Yeah, and the school needs a headmaster who can master." Instead, I unclenched my injured hand—I was only hurting myself—said of course I'd be able to work. "How is Mr. MacGregor?"

"Fortunately, it was a very minor event, and he's resting comfortably."

He cleared his throat, and I could see little lists ticking away behind his eyes. Suddenly, Todd Chambers was a man with an agenda. If I didn't cut him off before he got going, I'd never make it to that lovely soft bed. "And Shondra Jones? How is she doing?"

"What are you talking about?"

So he hadn't checked his messages. This was no way to run a railroad. In a situation like this, staying on top of things was crucial. I bit my lip and put a lid on my temper. "I'm talking about the message you didn't check. I'm talking about the fact that Cullin Margolin and I found her unconscious about half an hour ago in Coach Adams' office. Two of your security men have taken her to the hospital."

"Goddammit!" he said. "Isn't one of them in trouble enough?"

Like they were doing this to personally aggravate him. "Look, Todd, I'm dead tired and my head hurts. I need to rest so I can work in the morning. In the meantime, you have to pay more attention to what's going on. These are your students. This is your school and the buck stops at your door. You can't ignore messages or be out of touch for long periods of time. Being in charge means being informed."

I winced at my own words. They sounded like a t-shirt motto.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he smiled. He didn't sound good-humored, though. "Look, I don't need a lecture about how to do my job from some self-important woman consultant, thank you very much. This is MY school." He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

I was sitting in a prep school infirmary, battered, gritty and wet. Exactly how the self-important behaved. But something about his conduct suggested he was trying to make me mad, so I ignored his pique. "Call the hospital," I told his back. "Show some concern. And while we're on the subject of concern, has anyone from St. Matthews been to see Jamison Jones?"

"I've been busy!" he snapped.

"That's why you have a staff. Deans and assistant deans and school attorneys. Has anyone been in touch with Jamison and Shondra's grandmother?"

"I told you..."

"I heard you, Todd." I waited until he'd turned to face me. I wasn't speaking to his back. "Maybe you've forgotten this, but while you were off wandering in the desert, looking for your lost wife, the Trustees hired me to help manage this crisis. My job is to see if I can keep you out of trouble and keep St. Matthews from losing students." Another tick on my own checklist. First thing tomorrow, get a contract signed.

"However pigheaded you choose to be, I'm still going to do my job as long as your trustees want me to."

I considered what else his careless indifference might have prevented him from knowing. "Both of the residents in Cabot Hall were lured away to a false meeting with you this evening, leaving the dorm unattended. While they were gone, Shondra Jones's room was trashed. She's in the hospital. Someone attacked me while I was walking on the campus. I know all this seems overwhelming, but it has to be dealt with. You must pay attention to communication... have some strategy for your staff to determine whether phone calls have actually come from you. You may need to beef up your security staff, temporarily."

"My God. How does your husband stand you?" he said. "Nothing comes out of your mouth but criticism and orders."

"Luckily for both of us, I don't want you to marry me, only to pay attention and deal with things."

I didn't for a second believe his complaint was genuine. Was he trying to make me so mad I'd lose it and he could fire me? Did this pissant little Headmaster think he was a formidable opponent? What could possibly have happened in the last few hours that made him so cocky? Even if he'd been scarfing down his wife's antidepressants, they didn't work this fast.

I put on a fake smile. "I'm heading over to The Swan to get some sleep. What time do you want me in the morning?"

"I don't want you," he said, rude as a peevish child.

"Shall we say eight-thirty?" I was all sweetness and light.

My mother would have been so proud. I was as cheerful as little Mary Sunshine. A Little Mary who didn't want to miss her breakfast at The Swan. I picked up my briefcase in my uninjured hand and headed for the door. Not as steady as I'd like to be and every step jarred my poor head, but getting away from him was relief enough to outweigh that.

The boor didn't even hold the door. Must not have had a nice mother. Lousy mother. Lousy wife. Wait a sec. Why not blame his father? It's fathers who teach their sons to hold doors.

I fired up the Saab, driving with gritted teeth the short distance to The Swan. I rang the bell, did the necessary paperwork, and was given a room. Mrs. Mitchell, the landlady, offered to bring me a tray of tea and sandwiches without my having to ask. As I started upstairs to my room, she called after me, "Would you like my husband to bring up your suitcase?"

It was such a contrast to Chambers' loutish behavior I almost went back and hugged her. She didn't seem like the hugging type, though, so I settled for a grateful "yes" and handed her my car keys.

I'd taken off my shoes, peeled off my socks, and dumped my jacket on a chair when there was a knock on the door. Luggage or sandwiches? Either would be fine. I walked carefully across the room—years of experience with knocks on the head have taught me caution—and opened the door.

Lt. Bushnell pushed past me, walked over to my armchair, and sat down. Another contestant in today's rude man competition? "We've finally got a chance to have our little talk," he said.

"Why don't you make yourself comfortable," I said. I know cops act this way, but I was tired and Chambers had had a corrosive effect on my mood. Bushnell tipped his head back and closed his eyes. I instantly regretted being snappish. At least I'd gotten a few hours sleep last night. He'd gotten none.

"Mrs. Mitchell is bringing up some sandwiches. Are you hungry?"

His lids lifted slightly. "Coffee?" he asked.

"It could probably be arranged. I'm having tea."

Another knock on the door. This time the Mitchells arrived together, he with my suitcase and she with a tray. She slid it onto the coffee table in front of the fireplace, picked up a device that looked like a TV remote, and ignited the gas logs. "I brought along some coffee for the lieutenant," she said. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No. Thanks. This looks wonderful."

"Oh, before I forget. Your husband called. He said..." She tipped her head sideways, and placed one finger along her jaw, as though that helped her remember. "Oh, yes. He said to tell you he's sorry that he hasn't called... but the whole house is a crime scene... and he doesn't expect to be finished anytime soon. He says he's in cell hell, so you probably won't be able to reach him. He'll call in the morning." She tapped the finger twice. "Does that make sense to you? He said you'd understand."

"Perfect sense," I agreed. "Thanks."

The Mitchells departed, leaving me alone with Bushnell's funny look. I closed the door behind them and went and sat on the edge of the bed. It took willpower not to say, "nite, nite," and fall back against the fluffy pillows.

"The whole house is a crime scene?" he said. "That some kind of inside joke?"

"Not exactly. He's working a homicide."

Bushnell gave me an appraising look that took in my bandaged hand and lousy color. "A homicide detective? What happened to you?"

"I assume those two sentences are unrelated?"

"What? Oh. Right." A smile creased his tired face. "I think I need some coffee." He poured himself a cup, then added cream and sugar.

"I think you need some sleep."

"You'd be right there," he agreed. "You were the last thing on my list."

"People are always saying that. I don't know what it is about me. Maybe this habit I have of telling people what to do."

"That's what you're here for, right? To tell people what to do?" He drained his cup, poured another, and reached for a sandwich.

I thought of the miles that separated me from Andre. Wondered if he had coffee and sandwiches, knowing he'd be as tired as Bushnell. Whether the case he was working was awful. The only good side to not being able to call him was that I didn't have to tell him what had happened. He respects what I do and who I am, but he worries. What husband wouldn't worry about a wife like me, always mixing it up with bad guys? I smiled at an image of the two of us in front of the mirror, comparing bruises and scars. We had to be one of the craziest couples in the history of the world.

"What's so funny?" Bushnell asked.

I tried to wipe the goony look off my face. "I was thinking about my husband," I said. I waggled my left hand. "We just got married last summer."

"Congratulations." He opened his notebook. "What happened to your hand?"