The Whisperer (Nightmare Hall) (3 page)

When Dr. Mathilde Stark walked into the room, her mouth was pulled into a stern, straight line.

“Uh-oh,” Dinah whispered to Shea, “fasten your seat belt.”

The professor stood front and center in the large, square room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began in a chilly voice, “I wish to call your attention to the fact that I did not fall off a turnip truck yesterday.”

There were giggles and titters in the classroom.

“When I leave an exam on my desk and my office door unlocked,” the professor continued, “I do it for a reason. I am well aware that in this modern age of strong ambition and weak scruples, the temptation may be greater for some than for others.”

Shea stopped breathing.

“I wish to weed out those weak links. They have no business on a college campus. Hard work is the only way to achieve an education, and that will never change. Furthermore, I do not wish to lock my door when I am out of my office briefly, and I see no reason to keep my teaching materials under lock and key. I shall continue these practices as long as I draw breath. That is not only my preference, it is my right.”

She knows, Shea told herself with a growing sense of horror. She
knows.

“In my pursuit of those weak-kneed fools who refuse to earn a grade by simple hard work and study, I have chosen to take advantage of this age of technology. I recently took the precaution of installing the latest in technological advances—the videocamera—in my office.”

Shea’s head began to throb.

“I should like to point out,” Dr. Stark added, beginning to pace back and forth in front of her captive audience, “that I took this measure four days ago. That is
four,
ladies and gentlemen. The camera has been operative ever since.” The skirt of her dark, long-sleeved dress slapped at her booted ankles as she walked and talked. “Now, I might add that I am particularly anxious to view the film from yesterday afternoon, as I have reason to believe that the exam which you are about to take has been viewed by eyes other than mine.”

Shea’s head swam. Videocamera? Film?

Of
her?

Yes.
Of
her.
The thief in question.

“If I am right,” Dr. Stark concluded with a cold, sly smile as she began to hand out exam papers, “a star has been born in the cinema filament. Perhaps, if the quality of the film is acceptable, we shall all view it in this room on Monday morning at this same hour.” Then she added with mocking glee, “Wouldn’t
that
be fun?”

Under her desk, Shea’s knees knocked against each other. She was on film, stealing a test? The entire class was going to get to watch her sneaking around her science teacher’s office? Filching the test from that pile of papers on the desk? Copying it? Dr. Stark was going to show her criminal act … in
class?

She wouldn’t. She
couldn’t.

Oh, but she could. Would. Of course.

The humiliation wouldn’t end there. There would be serious repercussions. Salem University’s honor code was sternly enforced. Cheating meant automatic expulsion.

What had she been
thinking
of? Why had she done it? She had worked her buns off to get to college, and now it was all going to end after only one-and-a-half semesters.

She
had
to stop Dr. Stark from showing that incriminating film.

S
HEA LINGERED IN HER
seat until everyone else had gone, telling Dinah not to wait for her. She had to confess to Dr. Stark. Had to throw herself on the professor’s mercy. Crawl on her hands and knees if necessary. And the sooner she did, the better.

Still, she didn’t get up. Her legs felt like water. She sat at her desk in the empty room while the teacher collected her briefcase and papers and moved out from behind the lectern.

Now! Shea ordered. Get your cowering self down there before she leaves …

A student appeared in the doorway. “Phone call for you, Dr. Stark,” the boy said.

“I’ll take it in my office,” the professor replied, and hurried out of the room.

Shea groaned. She’d blown it. Wimp! she thought with contempt. Now you’ll have to face the lion in its den. You’ll have to go back into that office and face her there.

Still she didn’t get up. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but eventually she became aware that many minutes had passed, and pulled herself to her feet. Reluctantly, feeling as if she were headed for a gallows, she left the bio room.

Up two flights of stairs, down the hall, around a corner … there it was, the office she had entered yesterday, a thousand years ago. With the door shut, it looked like any other office.

Maybe they’ll install a plaque over the door, Shea thought as she forced her watery knees forward. It’ll say, THIS IS WHERE SHEA FALLON MET HER DOOM.

Knock, she ordered herself. Don’t just burst in there like a fool. Knock first. Maybe she’ll give you points for good manners.

As if that would help. As if Dr. Stark would be swayed by an impressive show of etiquette.

Well, you never knew. A little ordinary courtesy
could
soften her up.

Shea knocked.

No answer.

She knocked again, harder this time.

No response.

She tried the doorknob and was amazed to find it moved. The door wasn’t locked.

Just like yesterday, Shea thought angrily. Does the woman never learn? If the door had been locked yesterday afternoon, the way it
should
have been, none of this would be happening.

It felt good to shift the blame to someone else.

Shea pushed the door open. “Dr. Stark? Are you in here? It’s Shea Fallon. From your nine o’clock advanced bio class?”

The only sound she heard was the familiar, maddening
tick-tock
of the wall clock.

There was no tall, stern professor seated behind the big wooden desk.

The desk … there was something wrong with the desk.

Shea took a step forward.

All of the neat piles of paper were in disarray, as if all of a sudden, a strong wind had ripped through them. And the lamp was gone, the green banker’s lamp that had tangled her in its cord yesterday.

Shea studied the top of the desk. Where was the heavy copper cube? The paperweight?

Someone had made a mess of Dr. Stark’s things.

Shea’s heart thudded. The mess looked
angry,
as if someone had swept a furious arm across the top of the desk. She glanced around the room, and then her eyes went to the door leading to the copy room. Was that angry person still here, in the office? Hiding, maybe?

She listened.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed through the larger office toward the copying room.

She kept going until she reached the open door.

Tick-tock, tick-tock
…

The room was unoccupied. The copy machine was still there, and the couch, but nothing … or no one … else.

Shea hesitated. It had taken so much energy to summon up enough courage to confront the professor. Now, she’d have to go through that process all over again. And if she left now and went to her other scheduled classes, who knew when she might catch the professor in? It wasn’t as if she had all the time in the world. This was something that had to be handled
now.
Before Dr. Stark strolled on over to the administration building and the Dean, with that disastrous bit of film in her hot little hands.

Should she just plop down on the couch and wait?

No. Bad idea. If Dr. Stark came back and found someone she probably already knew to be a cheat hanging out there and her desk in a mess, she’d assume Shea was responsible.

I’ll wait out in the hall, Shea decided. That way she can’t accuse me of anything … anything besides what I’ve
already
done.

Maybe she wasn’t even on that film. Maybe the camera had malfunctioned.

And maybe Dr. Stark is the sweetest, most generous person alive, Shea thought cynically, turning and aiming for the outer office door.

That was when she saw it. Sticking out from the far end of the desk, opposite the door. There was a smaller potted plant at this end of the desk. The plant, Shea realized, wasn’t real.

But the foot she was looking at
was.

A foot … in a black leather ankle-high boot, the hem of a dark-printed skirt lying against it.

Shea stood perfectly still.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Dr. Stark?” she whispered tentatively. After a moment or two of silence broken only by the ticking of the clock, she repeated the name, louder this time. “Dr. Stark?”

She knew then that she hadn’t really expected an answer. Hadn’t she already guessed that something was very, very wrong?

I can’t go over there, she thought, knowing even as she thought it that she had no choice. She
had
to walk over to look behind the desk. She couldn’t just
leave,
even though every nerve in her body was screaming at her to do just that.

Biting on her lower lip, Shea walked slowly, fearfully, over to the desk. Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, she bent forward to peer around it.

And groaned aloud, one hand flying to her mouth, her knees buckling. She slid to the floor and then quickly scuttled backward until she her spine slammed into a chair. She sat there, her eyes wide with disbelief, staring.

Mathilde Stark was sprawled awkwardly, arms and legs akimbo, on the hardwood floor. She was lying facedown, her head turned away from Shea. Her reddish-brown hair had fallen free of its customary bun and spilled across her shoulders. A quarter-sized splotch of bright red stood out vividly on the back of her skull, with a matching splotch at her right temple. More red spilled out across the beige carpet beneath her.

She looks younger unconscious, Shea thought numbly, all of her senses frozen. Not that Dr. Stark was all that old. It was the way she dressed, in those dark, plain clothes, and the way she wore her hair, skinned back from her face like that, that made it hard to guess her age.

But she certainly wasn’t old enough to
die.

Shea snapped out of it, then. If the professor was still alive, she would need help.

The first thing was to find out if she was breathing. That meant
touching
her. Shea felt sick. But it had to be done and she was the only one there, although she could no longer remember exactly
why
she was there.

Crawling on her hands and knees, she made her way over to the body sprawled between the desk and the taller potted plant. The hand that reached out to check a limp wrist was trembling wildly.

The limp wrist had a pulse.

Dr. Stark was still alive.

But for how long?

Shea sank back on her haunches. And noticed then, the lamp and the copper paperweight, both lying on the floor above the professor’s head, a few papers scattered between them. If either the lamp or the paperweight had struck her, no wonder she was unconscious and bleeding. They were both very heavy.

Shea, moving in a stunned fog, got up then and reached for the telephone on the desk.

She gave the location and Dr. Stark’s name to the emergency services dispatcher. But when she was asked for her name, she gasped and slammed down the phone. It had suddenly occurred to her that she could
not
be found in this room.

She was almost certainly on that videotape. Dr. Stark had announced to the entire class that she had caught someone cheating and that she intended to share with them the incriminating evidence. And then Dr. Stark had been attacked somehow, probably hit on the back of the head with something heavy. The paperweight?

And here was Shea Fallon, one of the professor’s students and possibly the star of an incriminating videotape, standing in this room at the very moment when Dr. Stark lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor.

The trouble I was in five minutes ago, before I entered this office, Shea thought dismally, was nothing compared to the trouble I’ll be in if I’m found in this room now.

It wasn’t as if she could help the victim. What did she know about first aid? Nothing. The woman needed paramedics, a doctor, a nurse. Not a terrified, shaking basket-case.

I’ve done everything that I can, Shea told herself as she began a hasty retreat. I’ve called for help. They’ll come and find her and take care of her. I don’t need to be here when they come.

But at the last moment, she ran back into the smaller room and grabbed an old afghan from the back of the leather couch and tossed it over Dr. Stark. Didn’t people always do that in movies when someone was hurt?

She heard a siren shrieking in the distance, approaching Wilshire Hall.

Taking one last, guilty look at the body on the floor, Shea turned and ran from the room.

T
ERRIFIED THAT SHE WOULD
run into someone in the elevator or the halls, Shea took the fire stairs, two at a time, down to the first floor. She knew she must look frightening. Her skin had to be as white as marble, she was unsteady on her feet, her eyes bulging. They might not think much of it now … a fight with a boyfriend, a bad grade? … but later, when they heard about Dr. Stark, they’d put two and two together and get … well, what they’d get could spell disaster for Shea Fallon.

She laughed aloud, a cold, hollow sound echoing throughout the dim, deserted stairwell. As if she weren’t already swimming in disaster, and with no help from anyone. She’d done that all by herself.

But as long as no one had seen her running from Dr. Stark’s office this afternoon, there was still a remote chance that she wouldn’t drown.

Then she remembered the phone call at Vinnie’s. If someone knew about the stolen exam, her chances of getting out of this mess weren’t remote … they were nonexistent.

Still, as if it were a life preserver, she clung to a tiny shred of hope that the call hadn’t meant anything. She would cling to it tenaciously until every last trace of hope was gone.

I shouldn’t be thinking about myself now, she thought in disgust as she reached the outside rear door and heard the nearby wail of a siren. She waited at the door until the siren abruptly ceased and a door slammed, then another.