All Around the Town (12 page)

She picked up the letters and threw them across the desk. "I expect a written apology, and if this has leaked out just as everything that happens in this office seems to leak out, I demand a public apology and retraction of this stupid accusation. As for Professor Grant, I considered him a good friend, an understanding friend at this very difficult time in my life. Clearly I was wrong. Clearly the students who call him 'Sexy Allan' and gossip about his flirtatious attitude are right. I intend to tell him that myself, immediately." She turned and walked rapidly from the room.

She was due in Allan Grant's class at 3:45. It was now 3:30. With any luck she'd catch him in the hallway. It was too late to go to his office.

She was waiting when he strode down the corridor. His cheery greetings to other students as he made his way to the classroom ended when he spotted her. "Hi, Laurie." He sounded nervous.

"Professor Grant, where did you get the preposterous idea that I wrote those letters to you?"

"Laurie, I know what a tough time you've been having and..."

"And you thought you'd make it easier by telling Dean Larkin that I was fantasizing sleeping with you? Are you crazy?"

"Laurie, don't be upset. Look, we're getting an audience. Why don't you see me in my office after class?"

"So we can strip for each other and I can see your gorgeous body and satisfy my lust for it?" Laurie did not care that people were stopping and listening to their exchange. "You are disgusting. You are going to regret this." She spat out the words. "As God is my witness, you are going to regret this."

She broke through the crowd of stunned students and ran back to the dorm. She locked the door, fell on the bed and listened to the voices that were now shouting at her.

One said. Well at least you stood up for yourself for a change.

The other screamed. How could Allan have betrayed me? He was warned not to show those letters to anyone. You bet he's going to regret it. It's a good thing you have the knife. Kiss-and-Tell will never have to worry about hearing from us again.

Chapter
38

BIC AND OPAL flew to Georgia directly after the Sunday program. That night there was a farewell banquet for them.

On Tuesday morning they started driving to New York. In the trunk were Bic's typewriter, their luggage and a can of gasoline carefully wrapped in towels. No other personal possessions would be forwarded. "When we pick a house, we'll get ourselves a state-of-the-art entertainment center," Bic decreed. Till then they would live in the suite at the Wyndham.

As they drove, Bic explained his reasoning to Opal. "That case I told you, where a grown-up woman remembered something her daddy did and Daddy's in prison now. She had vivid memories of what happened in her house and in the van. Now suppose the Lord tests us by allowing Lee to start remembering little bits of our life with her. Suppose she talks about the farmhouse, the way the rooms are laid out, the short steps to the upstairs? Suppose somehow they find it and start going back to see who rented it those years? That house is visible proof that she was under our protection. Other than that, well, Lee's a troubled woman. No one ever saw her with us 'cept that cashier who couldn't describe us. So we got to get rid of the house. The Lord has dictated that."

It was dark when they drove through Bethlehem and arrived in Elmville. Even so they were able to see that little had changed in the fifteen years since they'd left. The shabby diner off the highway, the one gas station, the row of frame houses whose porch lights revealed peeling paint and sagging steps.

Bic avoided Main Street and drove a circuitous route the five miles to the farm. As they neared it, he turned off the headlights. "Don't want anyone to happen to get a look at this car," he said. "Not likely of course. There's never anyone on this road."

"Suppose a cop comes along?" Opal was worried. "Suppose he asks why you don't have lights on?"

Bic sighed. "Opal, you have no faith. The Lord is caring for us. Besides, the only places this road leads to are swamps and the farm." But when they reached the farmhouse, he did drive the car behind a clump of trees.

There was no sign of life. "Curious?" Bic asked. "Want to take a peek?"

"I just want to get out of here."

"Come with me. Opal." It was a command.

Opal felt herself sliding on the ice-crusted ground and reached for Bic's arm.

There was no sign that anyone was living in the house. It was totally dark. Windowpanes were broken. Bic turned the door handle. The door was locked, but when he pressed his shoulder against it, it squeaked open.

Bic set down the gasoline can and took a pencil-thin flashlight from his pocket. He directed the beam of light around the room. "Looks pretty much the same," he observed. "They sure didn't refurnish. That's the very rocking chair where I used to sit with Lee on my lap. Sweet, sweet child."

"Bic, I want to get out of here. It's cold and this place always gave me the creeps. That whole two years I was always so worried someone would come along and see her."

"No one did. And now if this place exists in her memory that's the only place it will exist. Opal, I'm going to sprinkle this gasoline around. Then we'll go outside and you can light the match."

They were in the car and moving rapidly away when the first flames shot above the tree line. Ten minutes later they were back on the highway. They had not encountered another car in their half-hour visit to Elmville.

Chapter
39

ON MONDAY Sarah had been interviewed by The New York Times and the Bergen Record about the Parker conviction. "I realize that he has a right to argue that the victim was the enticer, but in this case, it makes my blood boil."

"Are you sorry you didn't ask for the death penalty?"

"If I'd thought I could have made it stick, I would have asked for it. Parker stalked Mays. He cornered her. He killed her. Tell me that isn't cold-blooded, premeditated murder."

In the office, her boss, the Bergen County prosecutor, led the congratulations. "Conner Marcus is one of the two or three best criminal defense attorneys in this country, Sarah. You did a hell of a job. You could make yourself a bundle if you wanted to switch to the other side of the courtroom."

"Defend them? No way!"

Tuesday morning the phone rang as Sarah settled at her desk. Betsy Lyons, the real estate agent, was bubbling with news. There was another potential buyer seriously interested in the house. Problem was the woman was pregnant and anxious to get settled before the new baby arrived. How soon would the house be available if they decided to buy?

"As fast as they want it," Sarah said. Making that commitment felt as if she were taking a weight off her shoulders. Furniture or anything else she and Laurie decided to keep could be stored.

Tom Byers, a thirty-year-old attorney who was making a name for himself in the patent infringement field, poked his head in. "Sarah, congratulations. Can I buy you a drink tonight?"

"Sure." She liked Tom a lot. It would be fun to have a drink with him. But he'd never be special, she thought, as Justin Donnelly's face popped into her mind.

IT WAS seven-thirty when she unlocked the front door of the house. Tom had suggested going on to dinner, but she'd taken a rain check. The unwinding process that always followed an intense trial had been taking place all afternoon, and as she told Tom, "My bones are starting to ache."

She changed immediately to pajamas and a matching robe, stuck her feet in slippers and looked in the refrigerator. Bless Sophie, she thought. There was a small pot roast already cooked. Vegetables, potatoes and gravy were in individual plastic-wrapped dishes waiting to be heated.

She was just about to carry the dinner tray into the den when Allan Grant phoned. Sarah's cheerful greeting died on her lips as she heard him say, "Sarah, I started to tell you this the other day. I know now that it wasn't fair not to warn both you and Laurie before I went to the administration."

"Warn about what?"

As she listened, Sarah felt her knees go weak. Holding the receiver with one hand, she pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. The typewriter. The letters Laurie had been writing on the cruise and the way she'd been so secretive about them. When Allan told her about his confrontation with Laurie, Sarah closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears instead. Allan concluded, "Sarah, she needs help, a lot of help. I know she's seeing a psychiatrist, but..."

Sarah did not tell Allan Grant that Laurie had refused to continue seeing Dr. Carpenter. "I... I can't tell you how sorry I am. Professor Grant," she said. "You've been so kind to Laurie, and this is very difficult for you. I'll call her. I'll somehow find whatever help she needs." Her voice broke. "Goodbye. Thank you."

There was no way she could put off talking to Laurie, but what was the best approach to take? She dialed Justin Donnelly's home number. There was no answer.

She reached Dr. Carpenter. His questions were brief. "Laurie adamantly denies writing the letters? I see. No, she's not lying. She's blocking. Sarah, call her, reassure her of your support, suggest she come home. I don't think it's wise for her to be around Professor Grant. We've got to get her in to see Dr. Donnelly. I knew that at the Saturday session."

The dinner was forgotten. Sarah dialed Laurie's room. There was no answer. She tried every half hour until midnight. Finally she phoned Susan Grimes, the student who roomed across the hall from Laurie.

Susan's sleepy voice became instantly alert when Sarah identified herself. Yes, she knew what had happened. Of course she'd look in on Laurie.

While she waited, Sarah realized she was praying. Don't let her have done anything to herself. Please God, not that. She heard the sound of the receiver being picked up.

"I looked in. Laurie's fast asleep. I can tell; she's breathing evenly. Do you want me to wake her up?"

Relief flooded through Sarah. "I'll bet she took a sleeping pill. No, don't disturb her and please forgive me for bothering you."

Exhausted, Sarah went up to bed and fell asleep instantly, secure in the knowledge that at least she didn't have to worry about Laurie anymore tonight. She'd call her first thing in the morning.

Chapter
40

THAT REALLY PUTS the icing on a perfect day, Allan Grant thought as he replaced the receiver after his call to Sarah. She'd sounded heartsick. Why wouldn't she? Her mother and father dead five months, her kid sister well into a nervous breakdown.

Allan went into the kitchen. One corner of the largest cabinet held the liquor supply. Except for a beer or two at night, he was not a solitary drinker, but now he poured a generous amount of vodka in a tumbler and reached for the ice cubes. He hadn't bothered much with lunch, and the vodka burned his throat and stomach. He'd better get something to eat.

There were only leftovers in the refrigerator. Grimacing, he dismissed them as potential dinner material, opened the freezer and reached for a frozen pizza.

While it heated, Allan sipped the drink and continued to debate with himself how badly he had botched the business with Laurie Kenyon. Both Dean Larkin and Dr. Iovino had been impressed by Laurie's adamant denials. As the clean pointed out, "Allan, Miss Kenyon is quite right when she says that it's a typewriter anyone in her residence might have used, and that a similarity in handwriting style is hardly proof that she is the author of those letters."

So now they feel that I've started something that may embarrass the college, Allan thought. Great. How do I deal with her in class until the end of the term? Is there any chance at all that I'm wrong?

As he took the pizza from the oven, he said aloud, "There's no chance that I'm wrong. Laurie wrote those letters."

Karen phoned at eight. "Darling, I've been thinking about you. How did it go?"

"Not well, I'm afraid." They talked for twenty minutes. When they finally hung up, Allan felt a lot better.

At ten-thirty the phone rang again. "I'm really okay," he said. "But, God---it's so good to finally have it out on the table. I'm going to take a sleeping pill now and go to bed. See you tomorrow." He added, "I love you."

He put the radio on the SLEEP button, tuned the dial to CBS and promptly fell asleep.

Allan Grant never heard the soft footsteps, never sensed the figure bending over him, never woke up as the knife slid through the flesh over his heart. A moment later, the sound of the flapping curtains muffled the choking gasps that escaped him as he died.

Chapter
41

IT WAS the knife dream again, but this time it was different. The knife wasn't coming at her. She was holding it and moving it up and down, up and down. Laurie sat bolt upright in bed, clamping her hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Her hand felt sticky. Why? She looked down. Why was she still wearing jeans and her jacket? Why were they so stained?

Her left hand was touching something hard. She closed her fingers around it and a quick stab of pain raced through her hand. Warm, wet blood trickled from her palm.

She threw back the bedclothes. The carving knife was half-hidden under the pillow. Smears of dried blood covered the sheets. What had happened? When did she cut herself? Had she been bleeding that much? Not from that cut. Why had she taken the knife from the closet? Was she still dreaming? Was this part of the dream?