The Book of Kills (8 page)

Leif Quinlan, as his name suggested, was a hybrid. On the paternal side, he was disposed to be loyal to the university where he had taught some twenty-five years; on the maternal side he was a Viking eager to descend on the coast of Ireland and strike fear in the hearts of the inhabitants. Quinlan was president of the faculty senate and member ex officio of all its standing committees. Under his direction, the senate had perfected its techniques of harassing the administration, invoking
the stated mission of the university against its actual practices. Quinlan had not shown his reluctance when he gave the green light to the campaign against the administration’s cruel treatment of homosexuals. Homosexuals already controlled, through puppets, the student publications and were the constant object of friendly attention there. But their organization was not officially recognized by the university so they had to add to their numbers in the usual way. Quinlan was personally appalled by the salacious solicitations written minutely between the tiles over urinals; he had stopped looking at the graffiti vandalously inscribed on desktops in the classrooms. Quinlan had once been a Marine and had been taught harsh ways of dealing with the phenomenon. But now he was a professor and a senator, and principle was principle. Academic freedom was at stake. The Inquisition must be held at bay. When the chancellor made his biannual appearance before the senate—a custom and not a requirement—Quinlan badgered him mercilessly on the subject. But his heart of hearts was not in it. The recent calling into question of the legitimacy of the university’s possession of the land on which it stood had come as a blessed relief. Here was an issue to which he could devote less troubled enthusiasm.

“Was he a student?” Trepani the sociologist asked without preamble. Her chipmunk teeth did not need her wicked smile to be seen.

“What else?”

“I hope they persecute him.”

But this course required a straightforward spunk that had not seemed in great supply in the administration. He feared that they would seek to wriggle free of a definite stand.

“We must pray that they will.”

“I will speak to Anita Trafficant.” There was a sisterhood of
solidarity among the females on campus which encompassed faculty and staff and even one or two gate guards.

“Do that.”

Trepani closed her mouth and seemed to be biting her lower lip. She nodded resolutely and went away.

Quinlan had confidence in her. Meanwhile, he moved among the fans in the lobby of the Morris Inn as a Greek god might have moved among the foe of the forces he favored. No one recognized him here and he felt the enormous power of anonymity. These were the rabid fans, the big donors, the plutocrats for whom the university could do no wrong. He was delighted to hear references to the halftime interruption. Some laughed, others frowned. In either case, the deed had registered. Quinlan was determined that the senate would stand behind that plucky lad. He would call an emergency meeting of the inner council of the senate on the morrow. His arm was jostled and he turned to face an irked expression.

“Sorry.”

“Where’s the chancellor?” Something in this fellow’s proletarian scowl caused Quinlan to make a leap of logic. Could this be one of them? “Oh, they’re in the library, probably discussing how to handle the lad who spoiled halftime for them.”

“What will they do?”

“Have him prosecuted, I suppose.”

The scowl gave way to a smile. “Do you think so?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“President of the faculty senate. Leif Quinlan.”

The small eyes focused and seemed to recognize a friend.

“Are you one of them?” Leif asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“The senate intends to back him all the way.”

“Good!”

“What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

Pros and cons took serial possession of the little eyes. “Plant.”

“Just Plant?”

“Orion.”

Quinlan put out his hand and, after hesitating, Orion Plant took it. Thus their solidarity was expressed.

ON MONDAY, BEFORE SEEK
ing out Professor Ranke’s now former graduate student, Roger Knight stopped by the university archives to consult with Greg Whelan. The archivist was at work in his cubbyhole and Roger paused in the door, not wanting to disturb his friend. They had not spoken for some time and he realized how he missed their conversations. Whelan was replete with lore about the university and he knew the archives like the back of his hand. Once he might have lamented the fact that his stammer had closed off the avenues his doctorate and his later law degree qualified him to travel, but his handicap had stood athwart both paths and he had resigned himself to becoming a librarian. This had landed him in the archives and from the first day there he felt he had come home.

He turned, startled, then smiled. “Roger.” It was a blessing of their friendship that Whelan did not stammer when they talked, his handicap neutralized by Roger’s obesity.

“You’re busy.”

Whelan rose from his computer as if to indicate the relative unimportance of his task. They moved to one of the closed rooms where visiting scholars worked but which this morning was empty so they could converse without danger of disturbing some important research.

“Recent events have made me curious about the university’s title to its land.”

Whelan smiled.
“Moi aussi
. I have been creating a list of relevant items.”

“I should like to see it.”

“I’ll print it out for you.”

“Any surprises?”

The archives were a treasure house of surprises and even Whelan, with his encyclopedic grasp of their contents, was constantly coming upon the unexpected. He had no need of his recent assembled list of items to recall what he had found. Roger listened enthralled. He was no longer surprised by Whelan’s memory: it would have rivaled that of a medieval master who had to hold in store hundreds of texts seen once and then no more.

Father Badin’s 1832 purchase of the land from the government was well documented and had been told in all the standard works. He had spent only a few years at the mission he established there, building the log chapel and several sheds, and ministering to the Potowatomi. In 1835, he was off again, after deeding the land to the diocese of Vincennes. Father Petit was one of the priests who succeeded him at Ste.-Marie-des-Lacs, as Badin called the mission. This was the property offered to Edward Sorin by the bishop of Vincennes. A few years later, Badin took up residence at what was now the University of Notre Dame, receiving an annuity from Father Sorin, a species of retirement plan that would make his many years lie less heavily on his shoulders. But there had been misunderstanding almost from the beginning. Badin was a shrewd bargainer but he had more than met his match in Sorin. Whelan gave a swift
precis of this oft-told story and then stopped. His expression was promissory.

“What then?”

“Attention is then drawn to legitimacy of the transfer to Sorin of title to the land.”

“Ah.”

This story was unknown to Roger and he listened attentively. Whelan looped back to the saga of Father Petit, who had identified himself with the dispossessed natives and when they were herded away had gone with them, as friend, as chaplain, as fellow martyr. He was buried in the crypt of Sacred Heart.

“I have developed a devotion to him,” Whelan confided. “I often visit him there.”

This straightforward acceptance of the communion of the saints warmed Roger’s heart. How few moved from acceptance of the doctrine to its realization. Saints have written of the angels that attend the altar on which the Mass is offered, the Church Triumphant as well as the Church Suffering there with the Church Militant as the central event in cosmic history was commemorated. For Whelan, Petit was a contemporary, separated only by the veil of death.

“But that was before Sorin came?”

“And after Badin.”

“Ah.”

Whelan went on. Speaking as a lawyer, he doubted that either Badin’s or Sorin’s title to the land could successfully be contested.

“Besides, who has status to contest it?”

“Descendants?”

“You must read of the death march to the Southwest to see how improbable that is.”

“Could someone come forward on behalf of those Indians?”

“They could try.”

“I think they are.”

Although cleared of snow, the campus walks were icy and Roger made slow progress in his golf cart to Juniper Road across which he inched, hoping he was sufficiently visible to traffic. Motorists sometimes seemed to think that if they had a clear shot at a crossing student they could take him out with impunity. He reached the library parking lot and headed across it as if it were frozen tundra. The tire treads were packed with snow and had lost their traction. An icy wind whipped at him, changing directions constantly as if to assault him on all sides. When he reached Bulla Road, he headed east toward the house where Orion Plant lived.

Once this road had been lined with residences. Now the Day Care Center and the vast village containing the buildings which housed graduate students commanded it. In one of those buildings was the apartment Roger shared with Philip, and he felt a powerful impulse to postpone his mission and return to the warmth of his workroom and his computer. But talking with Whelan had made this visit seem even more important. What he and Phil had been commissioned to do was something he could do more easily than his brother. Faculty status should be an Open Sesame to the Plant residence.

Five minutes spent shivering on the doorstep, wondering if he should sound the bell yet again, made Roger doubt he would be admitted. Lights were on, he had the sense that someone was in the house, though the racket of the wind would have whisked away any sound that might have come to him, even if
his ears had not been hidden away beneath the woolen cap he had pulled down firmly over his head. There was a taste of winter in the air, though the prediction was that there were still warm weeks ahead. Indian Summer.

Finally there was the sound of the door being unlocked. It was opened and someone was vaguely visible through the steamed glass of the door. A woman’s hand cleared a porthole and peered out. Roger pulled off his hat and shouted to the wind that he was Professor Knight. Finally the storm door was unlocked and pushed open. Roger heaved himself inside and fell onto the sofa, huffing and puffing.

“Thank you. Is your husband home?”

“Who are you?”

“Roger Knight. Professor Knight.”

“In history?” Her manner had changed from wary to sympathetic when he sat on the sofa without hesitation. Now she was wary again.

“No, no. I am a university professor.” He smiled. “A man without a country.”

She was an unprepossessing young woman. Suddenly a man appeared from another room. He stood and looked with disappointment at Roger.

“I’ve heard of you.”

“Word gets around. I know your dissertation director Otto Ranke rather well. He mentioned you.”

Orion’s reaction to this was edgy and odd. He swung on his wife. “Get us some coffee, why don’t you?”

She gave an impatient sigh and then said to Roger, “Would you like coffee?”

“Please. Not for me.”

“I want coffee,” the presumed Orion said, glaring at her.

“Then I’ll have some too,” Roger said cheerfully. He had a hunch that Orion had not told his wife of the demise of his academic life. This seemed an advantage of some sort, he wasn’t sure why.

“So you know Ranke?” his host said when they were alone.

“I’m Roger Knight.” Roger rocked forward and extended his hand.

“Orion Plant.” They shook hands. “So you know old Ranke?”

“I was reminded of something he once told me about things that have been happening on campus.”

“What things?”

“Silly things, by and large. I didn’t see it myself, but I understand someone dressed as an Indian brave made himself conspicuous during halftime.”

“I heard about that.”

“You weren’t at the game?”

“I never go.” Roger had met members of that fraction of Notre Dame people who professed never to follow any university sport, never to have seen a game. But it was not on principle with Orion. “How’s a graduate student supposed to afford a ticket?”

“I suppose the stipend is small.”

Orion looked thoughtfully at him. “What exactly did Professor Ranke say about me that brought you out on a day like this?”

“It is terrible weather. Totally different from Saturday. I don’t suppose any one would run around half clothed on a day like today.”

“You seem fascinated by that.”

“Actually, it was merely a catalyst. Not unlike the wedding at the log chapel a few weeks ago.”

“What was that?”

“You don’t know?”

He might just as well have denied hearing of the halftime incident. If anything, the disrupted, or at least postponed, wedding, received more attention. Certainly student attention. Perhaps they imagined their own future weddings made a pawn of by someone’s idea of fun. Roger described the scene, tendentiously.

“Dressing up and demonstrating is one thing, depriving someone forcibly of their freedom quite another. I say nothing of the sacrilege.”