Stay of Execution (21 page)

 

Chapter Sixty-­Four

P
ROFESSOR
S
IMON POURED
three cups of coffee. Steam rose and fogged his thick bifocal glasses. He wore his starched, button-­down shirt tucked neatly into his pressed pants and his snow-­white hair combed close to his head. He carried himself like he used to stand an inch or two taller, his broad shoulders now hunched.

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked. He set the cups and saucers on the table and sat opposite Cancini and Talbot. “I don't know what I can tell you gentlemen, but,” he said, “if it helps in any way, so be it. I probably should've said something before.” His voice trailed off. “Maybe I didn't think it mattered then. But, what the hell? I'm an old man now, and I can say whatever I like.”

Cancini knew the old man had taught for many years at Blue Hill, even chairing the math department for more than a decade. Whatever his reasons for not talking before were his own. Cancini cleared his throat. “Why don't you tell us what you remember, and we'll ask questions as they come up?”

The old man looked at him through the thick lenses, his eyes clouded and opaque. He nodded, then spoke again. “Leo Spradlin was in one of my freshman math classes. Quite possibly the brightest mind I've taught, but it was wasted. I don't mind admitting I didn't like that kid. He had the audacity to correct me in class, in front of the other students, just to show them how smart he was. I could have put up with that, but when it came to tests and exams, he would sign his name and leave the whole thing blank. He thumbed his nose at it, at us.” The man spread his hands wide on the table and stared down at his wrinkled, gnarled fingers again. “He was only at Blue Hill because of his mother. From what I knew, she was a good woman, better than he deserved.” He paused then added, “And because of Baldwin, I guess, too. The man took a special interest in him. God knows why.”

Cancini's pen stopped moving. “Mayor Baldwin?”

“No, no. President Baldwin, Teddy's daddy. For some reason I could never understand, he took an interest in the kid. Maybe it was because he was a friend of Teddy's. I don't know. When Leo was failing my class, President Baldwin strongly recommended I give him a passing grade. I refused at first. But he made it clear that I would not be failing a kid who could show me a thing or two. I tried to argue his test grades were zeros, but he didn't want to hear it. Said I should give the kid a break.” Simon's pale skin turned pink. “It went against everything I believed in, but I passed him. Gave him a D. Turns out, there were other classes, other professors with the same issue.” He shook his head. “We figured Baldwin was trying to do Leo's mom a favor, trying to keep him in school. I'd heard she wanted him to graduate. She seemed like a good person, and I always got the impression she was a smart lady. There was something, though. She seemed beaten, sad. The entire faculty knew Spradlin was Teddy's best friend. The two were always together, even after Leo dropped out. At least until, well, you know.”

Cancini remembered the friendship between Spradlin and Baldwin as tight even when he'd first arrived in Little Springs. Old high school friends, they were part of a fun group back then, a bunch of young men in their twenties who liked to fish, and hunt. Most of them were in school at the college. Although Spradlin seemed to be the unofficial leader of the group, Teddy, already in his first year of law school, was the oldest. Cancini wondered when the friendship between Spradlin and Baldwin had begun to wane. Was it before the murders or after?

“Spradlin didn't care whether we passed him or not. He didn't give a whit about anything as far as I could tell. Not like Teddy. That young man wore his heart on his sleeve. Always felt bad for him, you know. He had a tough time with his dad.”

Cancini remembered some of the Baldwin father-­son issues. When Teddy's father wanted him to play baseball, he chose football. When his father wanted him to go into academia, he chose law school. They were minor issues really, but Cancini remembered the antagonism on Teddy's face when his father addressed him and the sarcasm that tinged Teddy's words when he answered him. Locked in his own struggle with his father, the young Cancini hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now he wondered if it was more than just a young man's rebellion. Was that why Teddy's father gave Leo attention, to gain favor from his only son?

Tapping his pen against his notepad, Cancini said, “I know it was a long time ago, but I never got the impression that Teddy and his father were that close. Why would President Baldwin take that kind of interest in Teddy's friends?”

“That is the question, isn't it? It's true Teddy and his father weren't close. Not at all. When Teddy was young, he seemed like most boys, you know, seeking his dad's approval. But after his mother died, that changed.” The old man gave a shake of his head. “When she was alive, there were rumors, but later . . . you could say that as a widower, President Baldwin was not a discreet man.” His mouth turned down. “There were stories, some of them quite unsavory. I'm sure Teddy heard his share.”

Cancini glanced at Talbot and saw the same question on his face. “What do you mean by unsavory?”

The man sighed. Sad and tired, he looked past the men at the table to another time. “Most of the faculty lived on campus back in those days. That's not true anymore, but it was encouraged then, especially for those like me who weren't yet married. I was given a faculty apartment, fully furnished. A nice perk actually. The Baldwin family lived on campus, too, of course. They had that big house at the end of Blue Hill Drive. I think it's empty now.”

He folded his hands in his lap. “This was a Chris­tian college when I came here. President Baldwin had a national reputation. He preached about God and education and how the two should be joined together. I was mesmerized the first time I saw him speak. Even when he dropped ‘Chris­tian' from the school's name, he made a pledge to keep the Chris­tian spirit of the college intact. Most of us didn't like it, but we understood it was a business decision to get the young ­people here. I loved teaching. I loved the kids.” He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth napkin. He half smiled. “I'm sorry. I digress. You wanted to know about the unsavory behavior of President Baldwin.”

Glasses on again, Simon continued. “As I said, when his wife was alive, rumors circulated. Baldwin was a busy man, a religious man, and I admired and respected him. I put little credence in the talk, but after Marian died, gossip was more frequent and outlandish—­or so I thought at the time.” A shadow passed over his face. “But then there was what happened with Lilleth, my Lilleth.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “He killed her. Baldwin killed her.”

 

Chapter Sixty-­Five

D
IZZY AND UNSURE,
she blinked, trying to clear the haze, her only awareness a thudding noise and blinding pain. She groaned.

“Good,” a man's muffled voice penetrated the confusion. “You're awake. I like it better that way.”

Nikki's eyelids fluttered, and she slipped away for another few moments, this time waking to fingers pulling at her clothes and body.

“No,” she tried to say, but the word sounded strangled. He rolled Nikki on her side. “No,” she said louder, struggling to escape his iron grip. She was no match for his size or his strength. She kicked and bucked, head throbbing, until she was spent, muscles burning.

When she lay still, he brought his face close. “Finally with me? Good.”

Moaning, Nikki couldn't answer, the pounding in her head overwhelming everything else. She thought it might explode. Cold fingers reached under her shirt and touched the bare flesh of her stomach. His hand moved down to the waistband of her leggings. The throbbing subsided a little, and she tried to knee him but missed. “No,” she said, whimpering.

“Don't worry.” He laughed softly. “We're going to be friends now, very good friends.” Twisting and writhing, she tried to fight off his hands, but he pinned her legs down and pulled at her leggings. She tried to shift, but he had her trapped under his shoulder and hips. She wanted to claw him, scratch his eyes, but he had her wrists locked in a tight grip. He kept tugging until the leggings were around her ankles. Panting, he tore her underwear from her body.

The tile floor was cold against her bare skin. She twisted her head away. The strap from her backpack dangled over the side of the counter, in sight but out of reach. The gun. He fumbled with his pants, his weight shifting. She inhaled and slid backward. He grabbed her leg. She kicked hard, catching him in the thigh. He grunted but held on. She kept kicking harder against his overwhelming strength, sliding still closer to the backpack. His power seemed to grow the more she struggled.

He pulled his hand back and slapped her face. Her head snapped back, exploding in pain. “Be fucking still!”

Ignoring the sharp sting and ringing noise, she wrenched her wrists from his left hand. She tried to scoot farther away, but he yanked her back again. His erection strained the fabric of his linen trousers. His nostrils flared and his eyes reminded her of a wild animal, a predator. She froze. She knew that look, the crazed look of a man who liked the fight, who got off on his strength and absolute power. With every ounce of self-­control she had, she let her body go limp.

He awkwardly pulled down his pants while still keeping her in his grasp. She locked on his eyes, watching and waiting. Naked from the waist down, he slid her legs apart, bending over her. His flushed face was close, and sweat from his brow dripped on her forehead.

She fought her panic, desperate to distract him. “I know who you are,” she said, her voice soft.

He paused, half smiling. “Yeah, I guess you fucking do. Would be hard not to, now wouldn't it?” Crouching, he dropped on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight. His naked, sweaty skin pressed against her legs. His hot breath smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes. She turned away, fighting the bile rising in her throat, and focused on the upturned mixing bowl and dangling strap.

He stroked her hair with his fingers and whispered, “You're mine now.” His breath burned her ears.

Everything about him repulsed her, and every ounce of her being wanted to fight and fight hard. But she knew that wouldn't save her life. “Yes,” she whispered, tears rolling down her face. “I'm yours.”

He blinked. Then his eyes narrowed to slits. “That's not the way it goes.”

“I'm doing what you want. I'm yours.” She did not move a muscle. He seemed to soften. Was she imagining it?

“This is bullshit.”

“No.”

“This isn't how it's supposed to go,” he said again. A vein in his forehead pulsed, and his face reddened. “Fine. Let's see how you fucking like this.” With his eyes locked on her, he balled one hand into a fist and punched between her legs. White light and hot pain flooded everything. Her body bucked, but she managed to swallow the scream, releasing only a small, guttural cry. He punched again, but Nikki braced, ready this time. She welcomed the pain; she was alive. “You bitch,” he said, his jaw clenched. His penis lay flaccid against her leg. Joy and a sense of power rose inside her. “You're playing games with me.”

“No, I'm not. I wouldn't,” she said, the words pouring out in a rush. “I'll do anything you want. I swear.” She tried desperately for a neutral tone. If he was the man she thought he was, he would enjoy her begging almost as much as her fighting. She had to be careful.

“For fucking cryin' out loud,” he muttered, scrambling to his feet. His erection gone, he hurried into his pants. “Have it your way then. We're gonna have to do this the hard way.” He pulled a thick rope from his pocket and threw the leggings in her face. “Get up and put your pants on.”

Exhaling, she moved slowly, the pain in her head and between her legs almost knocking her down. With each movement, she focused on the book bag, just a few feet out of her reach.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he hissed.

With one leg on, she pretended to stumble toward the countertop, reaching out to catch herself. Her fingers landed on the cold granite inches from her bag. Pulling herself up, she kept her eyes on him and slowly put her right leg in her pants. His gaze drifted to the large kitchen window, drawn by the squawk of crows.

This was the moment. Sliding her hand across the counter, she found the hard, cold metal on top of the bag. When his eyes came back to hers, he stared down the barrel of a gun.

 

Chapter Sixty-­Six

T
ALBOT SAT FORWARD.
“Killed her? What do you mean?”

A single tear trailed down the old man's wrinkled cheek. “What he did to her—­what he did to us—­it killed her.” His voice shook. “God forgive me, I've never spoken of it.”

“Take your time,” Cancini said, the words soft. The professor took several loud, noisy gulps of air. When the man calmed, Cancini leaned forward. “When did this happen?”

“1991. Before the attacks. But I should have said something then . . .”

“It's okay. You're telling us now.”

Simon nodded. “Lilleth and I were engaged to be married. She was so beautiful, so lovely.” He paused. “She'd only been teaching at Blue Hill for two years when we decided to marry. I was older, but she swore it didn't bother her. We laughed about it sometimes . . .” The tears flowed now. “A few weeks before the wedding, Baldwin asked her to join one of his research teams. She was thrilled to be noticed and didn't mind the extra hours. I didn't think anything about it.” He stopped, his words muffled through the sobs. Cancini and Talbot waited, silent. After a few moments, the professor spoke again. “One night, she didn't show up for dinner. At first, I assumed she'd had to stay late to work with Baldwin on the project, but when she didn't call, I went to her apartment. The windows were dark, but her car was in the parking lot. I knocked and waited. I knew she was home. I could hear her crying through the door. I knocked some more, but she wouldn't let me in. I didn't know what to do. I waited for close to two hours, but when she still wouldn't let me in, I had no choice but to go home.”

Cancini's shoulders tightened and he swallowed. Next to him, Talbot cleared his throat.

“The next morning, I went to her apartment again. I knew she wouldn't have a class until ten. At first, she refused to see me. I said I wasn't leaving and told her I'd canceled all my classes for the day. Eventually, she opened the door.” He shuddered as he spoke. “Her eyes were swollen and red and I knew she'd cried all night. There was a bump on her head and bruises on her arms. I asked what happened, but she wouldn't answer and shook her head. I tried to take her in my arms, but she backed away from me. ‘I'm dirty,' she said. I had no idea what she was talking about.” He paused again, his old hands tightening into fists. “It took hours to get it out of her, but—­” He raised his eyes again. “Baldwin forced himself on her.” His tone hardened. “They were alone in the lab and he told her how lonely it was being a widower, how he had needs. Lilleth wasn't like that. She was a virgin. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. She fought as best she could, but . . .” his voice died.

The old man hung his head, his slight shoulders rocking. The minutes ticked by until Cancini asked, “What happened after that?”

Simon shook his head again, sniffling. Finally, he said, “Lilleth was so ashamed. She gave me back my ring, told me she was unworthy of marriage. She blamed herself. I told her I loved her, but nothing I said made any difference. A few days later, she swallowed a bottle of pills and she was gone.”

Talbot spoke then, “And Baldwin?”

“He denied it. Said Lilleth had fallen in love with him on the project, but he'd refused her for my sake. He said she was angry and hit him over and over. She lost her balance and hit her head. He made it sound so logical.” He twisted the napkin in his hand.

“And you never told anyone?” Cancini asked.

The professor blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “Who would have believed me? You don't know how convincing he could be. God forgive me, I almost believed him myself.” His shoulders seemed to sink further into his chest. Cancini looked away. Professor Simon wasn't the first man to make such a mistake, to lose a woman he loved. But the depths of his sadness and guilt were his alone.

Cancini had the truth, though he didn't know which truth. The professor's story didn't add up to evidence, at least not the kind the FBI could use, but it did paint a picture of the past. And it framed the present, an ugly and twisted picture of the present, and possibly, the future. The old man had no reason to lie. Lilleth was long gone, having taken her own life only days before their planned wedding. The professor, immobilized by grief, had done nothing. When the shock had faded, still he'd done nothing, his grief matched by fear. Now, he was near the end of his life, that time when men with regrets seek redemption and forgiveness. It was sweet relief to speak the words he'd kept inside so long.

Cancini stood, pushing back his chair. Simon needed to be alone with his memories. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

The old man nodded but did not raise his head. He sat still, knotted hands folded in his lap, his heavily lined face wet and tired.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Talbot said. They left the man in the kitchen and walked back through the spotless house, letting themselves out. Neither said a word as they got into the car. Cancini gazed out the window at houses and yards slipping in and out of view. They passed through the campus, the bluestone buildings fading into gray sky.

Talbot turned onto the highway and headed back to town. He broke the silence. “Simon's an old man, Mike. Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off. Cancini understood. Finding certain truths was the worst part of the job, and what did it really tell you? Where could it lead? The answers were sometimes the worst part of all. “You knew Baldwin's father. Do you believe him?”

Cancini rubbed at the edges of his notebook. The stories carried some truth after all. They both knew the man wasn't lying, but knowing and wanting to know weren't the same thing. “Yeah, I believe him.”

Talbot was quiet a moment. “Yeah, okay, I do, too. There was more going on in this town than I would have thought.” He clucked his tongue. “Strange to think about the president of a Chris­tian college being . . . doing the things he did.” Cancini said nothing. “But President Baldwin is dead. I don't see how it ties in now.”

It was a good question. The past and the present. Cancini didn't know how they were connected, but he guessed Teddy had learned what his father was like, particularly as he got older and the rumors spread. According to the professor, the father-­son relationship had been strained after Mrs. Baldwin's death and Cancini knew this to be true. He just hadn't fully understood the reasons until now. And Simon was right. Teddy had always worn his heart on his sleeve, always struggled to rein in his emotions. Cancini's neck ached and his head pounded. Teddy hadn't changed.

“Maybe it doesn't,” he said. “But Teddy's father, the things he did. It means something. I know it does. I just can't put my finger on it yet.”

The men rode another ­couple of miles in silence.

Talbot pulled the car onto Main Street, finding a spot near the hotel. The lobby teemed with reporters, many of them nodding toward Talbot and Cancini as they entered. Cancini scanned the crowd. Julia wasn't there.

Talbot shifted his weight, keeping his eyes on the reporters. “I'm heading to the office. Coming?”

“Yeah, in a minute. I've got something to take care of, and then I'll be right over.”

The old church bell chimed ten times, echoing down the street. The early ser­vices had ended. Cancini wasn't a man of faith, at least not the way most ­people defined it. Still, he understood many locals in Little Springs were, and, as the professor had reminded them, the college was founded on religious principles. When the sounds faded away, he went to the front desk.

“Could you ring Ms. Manning's room, please?”

The clerk nodded. After a moment, he shook his head. “There's no answer, sir.”

The detective looked around the lobby. “Have you seen her this morning?”

“No, sir.” The phone on the desk rang. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” Cancini said, frowning. He walked toward the elevators, staying out of sight of the reporters. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It rang five times, then six, then seven. Walking through the lobby again, he checked the street outside. He checked the bar and the business center. He dialed her again. Still no answer. She'd called him several times over the last two days, and now she didn't pick up. Something was wrong.