Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (16 page)

“Presto! A pump log.” Sammy was fascinated.

“Not so easy,” Brewster advised. “Ordinary person could well go wrong. If the borer forgets to remove the wood shavings inside the opening, when the auger freezes in the clogged hole, the only way to fix it is to chop the log apart to free the tool.” Brewster pointed to the photo of his old friend. “Dunn was the best pump logger there was. Doing it with his dad since he was seventeen.”

Sammy studied the man in the picture, now appreciating the history.

“So, what can I do for you, Miss Greene? I’m a might busy this morning.”

Sammy didn’t argue, though no one else was in the shop. She
found the roll of film in her purse and placed it on the counter. “I’d like these developed as soon as possible.”

Brewster shook his head. “You New Yorkers are always in a hurry.” Reminding her that New York and Vermont were miles and worlds apart.

“I need them for a story I’m reporting.”

Brewster had already turned his back on her. “All right. They’ll be ready first thing tomorrow mornin’. That soon enough?”

Sammy smiled as she watched the old man tack up yet another photo, this one a black-and-white family portrait. “Thank you, Mr. Brewster. That’ll be just fine.”

Outside the photo shop, Sammy blew hot breath on her ungloved hands and turned up the collar of her peacoat. Yesterday’s rain had stopped, but the air was biting. Even her nostrils tingled from the cold.

Hands stuffed in her pockets, Sammy stepped off the curb. She was midway across the narrow street when she saw it out of the corner of her eye — a late model Ford hurtling toward her at breakneck speed.

“What the —?”

The mustachioed driver seemed to be staring directly at her. She momentarily froze, then, off to one side, she heard a high-pitched scream.

In a second, the car’s chrome bumper was less than ten feet away. Afraid she wouldn’t make it across, she started to run back, but her feet gave way. Sliding the last few feet as the car sped by her, she rolled into the gutter by the roadside.

Sammy heard the brakes squeal, felt the wind from the car’s rear fender careen past her. Shaking, she lifted her head to observe its disappearing outline, but saw only the faces of Carl Brewster and a few frantic passersby standing above her.

“You all right?” Carl helped her to her feet.

She took a shaky breath. “I think so.” Her legs were weak as she tried to stand, but, thankfully, she felt no pain.

Once upright, she turned to Carl with concern. “What happened? Did you see that car?” She surveyed the gathered observers. “Anybody?”

One shrugged.

Another suggested, “Green Chevy?”

“Black Toyota.”

“Dark blue.”

The witnesses argued among themselves.

Carl helped brush off her coat and whispered calmly. “Blue Ford Taurus.”

“Get a license?” Sammy asked.

“Nope. Too busy watchin’ you.”

Sammy tried to recall the sequence of events. Stepped off the curb. Saw the car coming. The driver seemed to look at her. Then? “I, uh, guess I slipped.”

“Seems so.” Carl agreed. “Midwinter rain here’s worse than snow. A good old-fashioned gullywasher can make ice as slick as deer guts on a doorknob.”

Sammy almost laughed at the old man’s colorful metaphor. “Thank God I got lucky.”

Stepped off the curb. Saw the car coming. The driver seemed to look at her. Then. Then what?

A crazy, diabolical thought peeked through an empty corner of her mind.

“Yup. Got to be more careful next time,” the old man was saying.

Yup, she agreed to herself, shooing the thought away. Mr. Brewster was right. It was simply a close call. Nothing sinister.

Still, she was lucky she hadn’t been killed. Smiling at the Vermonter, she said, “I will, I promise.”

It wasn’t just Luther Abbott’s hand that throbbed. Now the pain racked his whole body, making it impossible to concentrate on his English midterm:
Discuss the symbols that Hemingway uses in the
Old Man and the Sea
to develop the Christian theme
.

Christian theme?
Luther’s thoughts became disconnected snatches: the fisherman and the boy. Christ and his disciples. Christ and Reverend Taft.

The outline of the words in his blue book blurred as he placed his hands on either side of his head, squeezing the ache into submission.

Can’t think!

Hurts too much!

Try!

His hand seemed to drift off the page.

Help me!

“Are you all right?” The proctor was shaking him.

“Call Dr. Palmer — Student Health.” Abbott barely got the words out before he lost consciousness and toppled forward onto the floor.

Frosted earth reflected an almost-full moon, making glittering jewels of the meadow just beyond the law library. Sammy watched the digging for some time before she wondered what the man was doing there. His back to her, she could see that he was tall and strong; he seemed to lift each spadeful of dirt effortlessly. Slowly, he began to disappear from sight, although the pile of dirt continued to grow higher. Then he hopped out, pushed what looked like a large sack into the hole, and jumped in again.

Curious now, Sammy ventured from behind the tree where she’d been hiding. Cautiously, silently, she edged forward, until she was less than a foot away. Jesus! The man was digging a grave!

Horrified, yet needing verification, she peered in. Narrow, but deep, the hole already contained a body. Sammy’s heart pounded with fear. She couldn’t see the victim’s face — the man blocked her view.

She stepped backward, a frozen twig cracked loudly beneath her feet. The man spun around and stared directly at her. She gasped as she saw his fiery eyes and large black mustache. Instead of anger at
being caught, the man smiled at her, his hideous grin widening like some horrific jack-o-lantern carved from ear to ear. Laughing, he moved aside just enough so that she could view the face lying in the dirt.

Oh God, no! No! Her screams drowned out his maniacal laughter as she gazed down onto her own frozen face.

She
was the victim!

She held up her hands, hoping to erase the terrifying image, as her screams and the howling wind merged in an agony of pain.

It was the wind rattling against her bedroom windowpane that finally woke her from her nightmare.

Her eyelids fluttered open. The room was pitch black. The luminescent face of the clock radio by her bed read 4:00 a.m. She lay in the darkness, shaking.

Just a dream. Just a dream.

Not until the next morning did she finally remember where she’d seen the mustachioed face before. The image came back to her with sudden clarity. It was the driver of the car that had almost run her down.

T
UESDAY

Snow predicted for Sunday arrived Tuesday morning.

Great soft flakes kissed cheeks, then fluttered down to the bottom of the pit sunk deep within the earth, creating a fluffy comforter of snow. Several hundred mourners — mostly Ellsford faculty, administration, and students — formed a silent wall beside the open grave, watching Barton Conrad’s casket lowered onto that blanket of white.

“We are gathered here . . .”

Sammy stood among them, off to one side, listening to the minister’s eulogy. The chill wind whipped up his words, carrying them into the heavens where Conrad, she surmised, might at this moment be angrily arguing policy with Saint Peter.

“God’s will . . . the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh . . .”

Ironic, Sammy thought, since Conrad had taken his own life.

“. . . and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

Faith. Her mother had none in man or God. Conrad, too, had seemed too cynical to be religious. If they had been, would that belief have kept them alive as Luther Abbott suggested yesterday?

“Untimely death . . .”

“Eternal hope . . .”

Sammy frowned. Why did Conrad give up when he should still have had hope? Dean Jeffries admitted the issue of tenure hadn’t been settled yet.

“A tragedy we can’t explain.”

Reed said that people don’t commit suicide until they feel all hope is lost. It just didn’t figure.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister intoned, throwing a handful of soil atop the polished coffin with a final “amen.”

“Amen,” the mourners echoed.

The graveside service concluded. Chancellor Ellsford, his face creased with concern, walked up alongside a somber Dean Jeffries to pay his respects. Among the sad-faced groups of students, Sammy recognized a few other administrators and faculty. Even Coach Grizzard and Bud Stanton had come. If only Conrad had known how many people cared about his life.

Sammy watched each in turn step forward to throw a flower on the casket.

Flowers on the grave.

She blinked back tears as the scene stirred old, painful memories.

Barely seven, she was too young to be responsible, but in Sammy’s mind, her mother’s death had been her fault. If only she’d been a better child, if only she hadn’t cried so much when Daddy left, if only she’d gotten home earlier.

They hadn’t let her go to the cemetery — just the funeral parlor. Later, after she’d begged Grandma Rose, they’d visited her mother’s grave together, bringing flowers — even though it wasn’t Jewish custom. Her mother had loved roses. She’d laid the petals on the ground so carefully, one by one.

Sammy fought to control long-suppressed emotions as she observed today’s procession. Near the end of the line, a dark-haired woman stopped for a moment and bowed her head. When she looked up again, Sammy recognized the face she’d seen in pictures on the professor’s wall: Mrs. Conrad. Or rather, the ex-Mrs. Conrad. Dressed in black, her face, while as pretty as Sammy remembered, was not smiling now. Tears streaked down her cheeks and her body seemed to shake with silent sobs — more a grieving widow than a woman who had left her husband for another man. Not what Sammy
would have expected. As she watched, a tall man in a trench coat took the crying woman’s arm, and led her to a parked Volvo station wagon. Sammy put the ex-wife on her mental list of people she planned to contact later that day.

“I suppose I should have seen this coming,” a voice nearby confided to Chancellor Ellsford. “Those who commit suicide are the forgotten tragedies, tortured souls who die of loneliness and broken hearts, ultimately destroyed by inattention.”

Sammy edged closer to eavesdrop on the chancellor and his well-dressed companion.

“Come on now, Bill, you of all people shouldn’t engage in self-recriminations. Conrad was depressed, yes. But inattention? You were there for him.” The chancellor conferred an avuncular pat on the back. “Always.”

“I certainly tried,” the man acknowledged, brushing off a few snowflakes that had settled on his cashmere coat. “If only the conference had been another weekend. I called Connie from New York the morning he —” the man’s voice cracked and he coughed to clear his throat.

Hey, guy, I’m worried about you. Let’s talk, okay?

Sammy recognized the deep voice she’d heard on Conrad’s answer machine: Professor Bill Osborne.

“You did all you could, Bill. Remember that. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The chancellor turned to several faculty rushing forward to shake his hand and deliver obsequious greetings.

So she wasn’t the only one who felt responsible, Sammy thought as Osborne broke from the cluster and set off briskly for the parking area. “Excuse me, sir.” She waved at the psychology professor.

Osborne spun around. Close up he was not so handsome as well-groomed. Barely six feet and trim, his face had strong, chiseled features: broad brow, cleft chin, and the straight nose of a Roman senator. Gray hair, now displacing black, was professionally styled, strategically hiding a nearly bald pate. “Yes?”

“Professor, my name is Sammy Greene. I’m a student here.”

Osborne’s smile was tentative, though his hazel eyes radiated warmth. “What can I do for you?”

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Chancellor Ells-ford. About your call to Dr. Conrad.”

The patrician forehead creased in puzzlement.

“I was doing a piece on the Ellsford Teaching Award for W-E-L-L.”

A glimmer of recognition. “Ah, yes, Greene. Station W-E-L-L.
The Hot Line
.”

“Right.”

Osborne’s smile widened. “I listen to your program whenever I get a chance. Helps me keep a pulse on student concerns. You do a great job.”

Sammy was pleased; the compliment felt genuine. She quickly explained how she’d come to interview the genetics professor.

“So Connie was going to do your show?” Osborne appeared bemused. “That would’ve shaken up,” he nodded at the administrators a few yards away, “some old soldiers around here. Shame he didn’t get a chance to talk to you.”

“Actually, we had a pretty good interview Friday night.” Sammy looked off for a moment, reliving the sad memory, then returned, resuming a professional tone. “Anyway, I went back to his house Saturday morning to clear up a couple of things and found him —” She didn’t finish the sentence. “Your call came while I was waiting for the campus police.”

“I’m sorry.” Osborne’s tone was filled with concern. “That must’ve been terrible.”

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “You think maybe I could talk to you? I mean, I have a few questions.”

“For your show?”

“No,” she replied honestly, “for myself.”

“Of course.” Osborne adjusted the heavy, silver ID bracelet embracing his left wrist. “I have a one-hour graduate seminar at five this evening. Why don’t you stop by the classroom around six? We can talk then.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there.”

As he walked away, Sammy felt a strange sensation of comfort. Osborne had such kind,
haimish
eyes, drawing you in for a figurative hug. No wonder Sergio had trusted the man with his secret. She looked forward to talking with him again tonight.

“My, my, if it isn’t the queen of talk radio.”

Sammy jumped, startled. She hadn’t sensed Gus Pappajohn sneak up behind her. The policeman wore a heavy wool overcoat, unbuttoned. Beneath it, Sammy noticed a sober, navy blue pinstripe suit — simply cut, but neat. On his feet were his regulation wing tips, spit-shined as always. It was the first time she’d seen him out of uniform and not clothed in a manner designed to claim a spot on Mr. Blackwell’s worst-dressed list.
Must be his day off
. “Something bothering you, Sergeant?”