Stalking Death (44 page)

I woke around three, jolted into consciousness by something dropping into place. My brain must have already been up and working, because the realization fit neatly into a web of questions I'd had about Todd Chambers' behavior. On the morning after the murder, Todd Chambers had been unavailable. When he had finally appeared in response to Bushnell's summons, he'd appeared dazed and ineffectual. At the end of the day, he'd gone off to the hospital to check on Gregor MacGregor. By the time he'd returned that night, his demeanor had changed. He'd become arrogant, indifferent to my advice and to the needs of his community.

His absence in the morning was better explained by the necessity to keep Alasdair out of sight at his home than by his wife's supposed breakdown; his confusion by the difficulties of working out a plan while being forced to deal with the cops and a real crisis, including the fact that someone was indeed dead, and by his inability to convey private information to Gregor MacGregor. At some point while he was away from the school, two things must have happened. He had conveyed the information about Alasdair's faked death to Grandfather MacGregor; and he had been reassured that if Aladair was gotten safely away from the reach of the law, the hoped-for arts center donation would still be made.

It was a comfort, if only a small one, to understand that it wasn't that I'd managed the situation so badly, or that I'd failed to communicate effectively with my client because I was a poor communicator. I'd correctly sensed the resistance and the fact that something was intimidating his staff. I'd even recognized that major changes needed to be made on the campus to make his students safe. What I hadn't recognized—and few people would have—was the depth of personal corruption, and consequent indifference to his community, that I was dealing with.

I thought of how hard I'd struggled to avoid judging my client; to keep an open mind and stay on St. Matthews' side. To put a good face and a positive spin on the situation for the St. Matthews community and the outside press. Feeling like a weasel and a fraud the whole time. Could I have done it differently? Should I have trusted my instincts when even my own partner was urging me to lighten up and try to get along?

Some might say the instincts I should have trusted were Bobby's. He said we should pack our bags and leave. But if I'd packed my bags and left, Shondra would have been disgraced and expelled, if not outright killed, Jamison would have stood trial, and Alasdair would have gone away and assumed a new identity, having gotten away with murder. And all the students at St. Matthews would have gone on living with the same level of unsafe indifference. Especially the girls.

Had Chambers even recognized he was condoning rape and murder? Had he cared? Or had he simply fixed his eyes on the drawings of his arts center, listened to Miriam's insidious voice at his side, and locked that knowledge out of his brain? I could tangle with a hundred bad guys, and never understand how someone could be that corrupt.

They must have left an armed guard or the world's scariest "Do Not Disturb" sign, because no one bothered me until almost four. Then there was a tattoo of insistent knocking. I was ready to emerge from my cocoon and start dealing with life again, so I yelled, "Just a minute," minced on sore feet to the closet, and wrapped up in a cozy white robe. My visitors were Shondra and Jamison Jones. I'd never seen them together before, and it was a sight. They more than filled the doorway.

I didn't even see Mrs. Mitchell standing behind them until they'd moved into the room. "I'm sorry," she said, "but they've been waiting downstairs for hours. I guess they got impatient and slipped past me."

"It's all right," I said. "I wanted to see them anyway. I don't suppose..."

"Coffee?" she said. "Tea? Some sandwiches? I could fix you all a tray." She glanced at my bandages, then quickly lowered her eyes. "I heard about last night. It must have been terrible."

"I wouldn't want to do it again."

"No," she agreed. "I don't guess you would." Impulsively, she reached out and patted my shoulder. "You look like you could use some soup. I've got a lovely one if you're up to it—creamy pumpkin with ginger and smoked mussels. And some scones?"

Who would pass up an offer like that? I was at The Swan, after all, and Mrs. Mitchell was a wonderful cook. I nodded eagerly.

She plucked an envelope out of her pocket. "Your partner asked me to give you this."

I took it reluctantly. It wasn't like Suzanne to communicate by notes, and the way things had been going, I wasn't sure reading it was going to be a pleasant experience. She probably wanted to dissolve our partnership because she couldn't stand the scrapes I kept getting into. Today, I almost didn't blame her. I wasn't enthused about my scrapes, bangs, cuts or bruises, either. Anymore than I was pleased to be adding the memory of being chased with an axe to the gallery of horrors in my head. The word 'hatchet' would never again summon images of diligent boy scouts.

I stuck the envelope in my own pocket and invited Shondra and Jamison to sit. The room might not feel so crowded if they weren't towering over me. He thanked me politely in his wonderful voice and took a seat. Shondra remained standing, shuffling her feet and staring down at her shoes.

"Sit down. Please," I said. "You're making me uncomfortable."

She looked at her brother. He nodded and she sat down beside him on the couch. I sat in the chair and waited. I'd expected her to speak. She was the one who seemed to have an agenda, but it was Jamison who finally did, splaying his fingers on his knees and leaning forward earnestly. "We're sorry to be barging in like this... so soon and all. I don't expect you're feeling up to company. You don't look so... like... uh." He wisely let that drop. "But me and Shonny... we wanted to..."

His huge hands were doing pushups on his knees. He looked at his sister, but she was still studying her shoes. "You were the only one around here who believed in us, and here we almost got you killed."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, Shonny knew Woodson was dirty... but she run... ran away and left you with him, when she could have told you what she knew."

"Yeah. And I could have told you about those tapes... showed you what I had... and then we both would have known, only, you know... you worked for
them
." Shondra said. "And by then, I didn't trust nobody. When Woodson showed up, I figured you were in on it."

"I don't blame you," I said. "You had good reasons. Both of you. There are a couple things I still don't understand that you might be able to explain?" Jamison nodded, Shondra reluctantly seconding him. Still extremely cautious, despite her choice to come here. Had it been her choice? She might just be doing what her brother told her to do.

"Okay. Last night they said you had a tape of Woodson having sex with a student. How did you get that?"

Shondra grinned. "I stole it."

"From him?"

"Of course not. From Cassie. That's where I got the camera, too. That's what they were looking for when they trashed my room."

"Cassie had a tape of Woodson having sex with a student?"

"Cassie had a tape of Woodson having sex with her," Jamison corrected. "It was part of their insurance policy—Alasdair and them. A way to keep Woodson and his security force off their backs."

The U.S. government wasn't this thorough. What a tragedy that such clever young minds were wasted on such sordid works. Stalking. Blackmail. Rape. Murder. "The things they did," I said, "why would she want to be a part of that?"

"Not the sharpest tool in the shed," Jamison said.

"And she thought Alasdair was a hunk," Shondra added. "She did stuff to make him happy. Like he told her that she was a part of their special club, you know?"

So I'd gotten that right. While all this was happening, where were the adults? "So, Shondra, you took their camera and used it to spy on them?" She nodded. "And where's that camera now?"

"Gave it to that cop."

"Bushnell?"

"Yeah." She followed this with a string of expletives. And why not? Until he'd rescued me from a would-be axe murderer, I'd felt the same way about him. He'd showed us both his hard side.

"I learned something, though. That I've got friends I didn't even know I had," she said.

"That's something, isn't it?"

She went back to studying her shoes. I wanted to leave her to it, she was only sixteen and she'd been through a hell of a hard time, but I had one more question. "The drug overdose. What was that about?"

"I was dumb."

"Meaning?"

"I already told that cop," she said, sullenly.

"Shonny," Jamison said. "The woman maybe saved your life."

"Cassie," she said, giving the words up like they were her last treasures. "When I saw what they done... did... to my room, I felt sick. She's standing there, holding this Coke and she shoves it at me, says am I gonna throw up, I'd better drink it 'cuz it would help. I was that mad I wasn't thinking about what she was and all, so I did. Then I took off down to the gym. It's where I go when... you know... I get upset. The door to Coach Adam's office was open. I went in. I was feeling pretty strange by that time, so I lay down on the couch."

She shook her braids, as though the sequence still puzzled her. "Next thing I know, I'm at the hospital."

A knock signaled Mrs. Mitchell's return with a big tray holding tea and soup and scones and a plate of homebaked goodies that made Jamison smile. We settled into eating in an almost companionable way, both kids falling on the food like it had been days since their last meal. It might have been, for all I knew. It's hard to eat when you're upset, and their past few days had been terrible.

My big questions had been answered, but I had another. "Are you two planning to stay at St. Matthews?"

"I think I will," Jamison said. "Have to hope that with Mr. Chambers gone, things'll get better. Shonny?"

She picked up the last brownie, shot us a defiant look, and popped it into her mouth. "I was gonna leave," she said. "But last night, after we called that cop and everything, me and Lindsay and Jen sat around, waiting to hear what was happening. Mrs. Weston, she let me stay in the dorm with them and she made us cocoa and popcorn. She started a fire in her fireplace and made us sit there. And we. And they..."

Her voice trailed off and she shot looks at me and her brother, like she was daring us to challenge her. Whatever came of this, the chip on her shoulder had become so huge it was going to take a long time to wear it away. Then she dropped her eyes. "They told me how much they wanted to be my friends and how hard I always made it. How much I mattered to them and that they didn't want to give up. They told me how much I meant to the team. Lindsay said how just by being there I made everyone else a better player."

She looked up again, straight at me. "No one ever said a thing like that to me. They said I probably didn't know it. That people hadn't told me 'cuz they figured I already knew. They said I
was
the team. That I was the heart and soul of it." Her beautiful eyes were filled with wonder at how, in the midst of all this ugliness, she'd been given a gift. "Jen said that when I play ball, it's like watching magic happen."

"Shit, girl, and you believed that?" Jamison's teasing voice was warm with pride.

She tossed her head. "I'm tryin'."

And I was crying. Too damned grateful that something good had come out of all this to act grown-up and distant. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Tried to say something, but I didn't have any words.

Jamison went into the bathroom and returned with a box of tissues. "You'll be tired," he said. "We'd better go."

"Yeah." Shondra got up, too.

"Jen and Lindsay," I said. "They'll be good friends to you, if you'll let them."

"I know that." She swept out of the room.

Jamison lingered. "My sister..."

"I understand about your sister," I said.

"Yeah." He smiled. "I guess maybe you do."

I was alone again, my brain beginning to generate lists. Things to do. People to call. Details. Details. Details. As I crossed to the desk to grab a sheet of paper, the envelope in my pocket rustled. Suzanne's note. Might as well get this over with. I pulled it out and tore it open.

Inside were a folded sheet of paper, and something wrapped in tissue. I unwrapped the tissue and a small, exquisite angel on a golden chain spilled into my palm. It wasn't one of those cute little cupid-like angels. It was an elegant, rather fierce-looking angel, with powerful wings and a big sword. I slipped it over my head and the angel settled, firm and hard, against my skin.

Suzanne had written:

Mea culpa. I should know by now that you're not impulsive and abrasive, you are compulsive and incisive. That's why I made you my partner and why I should do everything in my power to hold you rather than driving you away. I'm sorry I've been so distracted. It's not you. It's me. We can only hope that this, too, shall pass. Here is your guardian angel. When I saw it, I knew it embodied the attributes of the Thea Kozak I know and love. Wear it in GOOD HEALTH.

She had underlined 'Good Health' three times.

I set down the note and reached for another tissue, my sturdy little angel shifting gently against my chest. I'd only worn it for two minutes, but I felt better already.