The Devil Makes Three (8 page)

“Oh. What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

I’d slept for over nine hours. Grimacing I sat up and set my laptop on the coffee table. “Well then I only went to sleep about four hours ago.”

“That doesn’t help me if there’s a break in.”

“I know that. It won’t happen again.”

I gathered my stuff together and hurried out into the hall. My mother stood arranging a spray of flowers on a table.

“I can’t wait for spring. Then we could have some daisies around here. Maren always loved daisies,” she said as I passed. “Would you like me to cook you some breakfast, dear?” she asked as an afterthought.

“No. I’ve got to go.”

“Where? You never have class this early.”

“I’ve got a paper to write.”

#

For a lack of anything better to do, I found myself in the library at the university once more. Entering the stacks I could hardly miss the large sign reminding students that climbing on shelves was against policy and that stools were provided for exactly this purpose.

Provided, my foot.

Settling down in a chair I pulled up my syllabus for Professor Cade’s class and read the requirements for the research paper. They were vague to the point of obnoxiousness, like most paper topics, and I found it little help.

I decided to wander back to the Crim section and began browsing through books. Settling on the floor I pulled books at random and attempted to ascertain their topics. Many subjects presented themselves but I wasn’t sure if any of them could sustain a twenty-page paper, despite the voluminous books surrounding me.

“I don’t recommend that one.”

I looked up in resignation to find Mr. Multiple Personality leaning against a shelf. “Oh. Sorry. Am I in your way?” I asked, trying to determine to whom I spoke. His stance was casual, and he wore black slacks and a white button shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, leading me toward Professor or Agent Cade over Corbin.

“We keep running into each other. Did you cognate your notes?”

Professor then, I thought. “Better you than the other one, I suppose.”

“Pardon?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Why not this book?”

“It’s written by Norval Thomas. I find his analysis dry. Not to mention biased and not just a little bit bigoted.”

“Well, tell me how you really feel, Professor.” I tossed the book aside.

“That sounds so formal. I wish people would just call me by my name.”

“You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

“Collin.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I assume you’re looking for a paper topic.”

“I’m not here for kicks, that’s for sure.”

Crouching down he snagged a book from the bottom shelf. “You’ve got lots of time to worry about it. Try this one. If you don’t like it I could suggest something else.”

I took the book and surveyed the title. “I don’t know if this is for me. White-collar crime really isn’t my thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be your thing. If any of the paper topics were your thing, I’d worry. Do you give your other professors this much trouble?”

“I’m not trouble. You’re the one who interrupted me.” I kicked the sassy tone up a notch, but somehow I didn’t think he’d mind. His smile proved me right. And it was just as enticing as Corbin’s. Of course, since they came from the same face that made sense. Feeling myself cringe and blush at the same time, I turned back to the book. “Is there a specific aspect you wanted me to focus on, or just white-collar crime in general?”

“You could focus on the effects of white-collar crime, or since you’re a history major perhaps you’d enjoy the development of the crime over the last century.”

“The subject sounds a little dry. I prefer more spice.”

“Yes. But I would prefer not to read 30 papers on serial killing. It gets a little old.”

I glanced at him and noticed he averted his gaze to the book to avoid my eyes. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps insanity. But perhaps I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed these little encounters. Talking with Professor Collin was much more pleasant than speaking with Corbin. Our conversations had no underlying threat of exposure or violence.

He glanced back, and I kept my eyes intent on his face, refusing to turn away first. So he did it again, turning to the bookshelf. The silence that hovered over us was thick and tense, escalating the impression of contained energy and emotion.

As he studied the shelf I considered the man before me. He obviously had legitimate credentials since he had classes and an office. He was a genuine professor, albeit a very young one and probably a very crazy one. Certainty abounded that he would not get himself involved in something that would damage his career. To have gotten so far so early in life he had to be smart, and smart people didn’t make moves that would negate their previous work.

Like pursue romantic episodes with their students when it went directly against the university code of conduct.

“So…” I picked up another book at random and turned it towards him. “I was thinking about this one.”

He took the book and read the title with skepticism. “The criminal mind and the Occult?”

“It was just a thought.”

“I’m thinking you’ll have difficulty finding enough to fill your paper. At least enough reputable information. The internet is packed with junk on the topic. And of course, it will always lead you back to--”

“Son of Sam?”

“Exactly, and others like him.”

“White-collar crime it is then.”

He smiled and rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help me up. His skin felt soft and warm to the touch.

“Use the bibliography in the back of the book to point you to others. You should have no trouble getting your 20 pages.”

“Thanks. It’s one less thing I have to worry about now.”

“When you get your thesis and introduction written give it to me and I’ll be happy to give you suggestions.”

“Okay.”

We stood there in silence for a moment which was broken by a sentence I couldn’t believe escaped me.

“Do you act like this with all your students?”

He blinked once and stepped back, smiling a sort of half grimace. “Oh, well I try to be helpful. I remember what it’s like to have a bunch of classes and every professor thinking theirs the most important. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t say that, Collin,” I said, trying to ease his tension. If he felt a bit more interest than professionally accepted between professor and student, I didn’t want to scare him off. After all, I’d certainly dated less worthy candidates.

With shock I realized what I’d decided. I’d decided I wouldn’t rebuff him if he tried to pursue something. But hooking up with professors was not my style. Of course, usually my professors were either female or old and wrinkly, not to mention sane, and they were less than interested in me as a person, let alone as a woman. On the flip side, my fellow students had the same chance at getting my attention as I had of getting a professor’s attention. I found people my own age vapid, spastic and totally random.

He fit neither of these categories.

A couple of students wandering into the main aisle woke me from my considerations and seemed to do the same to him. Taking a deep breath I held up the book. “I better go check this out and get reading.”

“Good luck.”

I turned and left, nervously aware that he stayed on the aisle, watching me go.

Chapter 8

In which Gretchen doesn’t take the out she’s offered.

Corbin didn’t make contact for a while. I deposited the few thousand I had left in a CD and prayed the situation had come to a close.

It seemed reasonable that Collin was the real personality of the three. I had nearly forgotten Agent Cade in all of this: I hadn’t seen him since he came to the funeral home asking questions about Martins’ murder. He obviously served as the sort of enforcer or conscience of the three, while Corbin represented the id, seeking pleasure and pursuing his own agenda at any cost to others. Collin was the happy medium between the two.

With wry amusement I noted all three had an obsession with crime, only solidifying my suspicion of the true nature of their singular identity.

I also couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden lack of communication from Corbin. Had something snapped in Collin, enabling him to repress that particular portion of his personality? For that matter, I’d only seen Agent Cade once. Maybe something had happened, allowing Collin to say a permanent farewell to the others in residence.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed ogling him in class. I made it a point to get there on time everyday and to pick a seat up front, utilizing my new battery power. He smiled the first time he saw me there and shook his head. After that he just smiled. I felt fairly confident that he had enjoyed our little experience in the library, and that I was not the only one to feel the underlying sensual tension. And yet, neither of us made another move, as if hesitant to explore further. The reasons why were obvious.

When my phone rang one night and the caller ID showed up ‘professor’ my heart skipped a beat, my mind automatically turning to Collin. Then reality set in. But perhaps I worried for nothing. Perhaps it really was Collin rather than Corbin, though I couldn’t imagine what would prompt him to call me.

“Hello?” I asked, flipping it open.

“Temptress, the sound of your voice affects me like a drug, lulling me to ecstasy.”

“I had hoped I’d heard the last from you.”

“Do you find me that intense? You just can’t handle me?”

I was ashamed to recognize the electric skitter that ran from my toes to various body parts. “I wouldn’t know. I’d prefer not to find out.”

“Well we can discuss what you want to find out later. Right now I have a job for you.”

I lay on my bed, reading the book Collin had recommended. Friday and Saturday nights were my nights off from the funeral home and I usually spent them firmly ensconced in my apartment.

“I hope you don’t mean tonight.”

“I do.”

“I’m kind of settled in.”

“Get dressed and go to the funeral home. I want you to wait until it closes. I don’t care what excuse you give your parents. Tell them your apartment’s noisy or something and you want to study there. Once they’re gone you’ll find an envelope tucked inside the pulpit in the main chapel. I’ll get it from you when I can.”

“What, no witty banter this evening?”

“Sorry Temptress, I’m in a hurry. Crimes to commit, lives to ruin.”

“What about Dustin?” Dustin worked as the part-time help that filled in on my days off. He went to Jamestown University like me, but had enough in student loans and grants that he didn’t have to work full-time.

“Don’t linger. Once you’re alone, get the goods and get gone. I don’t care what excuse you give him.”

With a growl and grimace I consented, but not before I informed him that I thought him a wacko. He simply laughed, a melodious sound making my flesh tingle with anticipation -- anticipation I feared to examine.

So why didn’t I feel that way about Collin?

The funeral home bustled with people when I got there. In viewing room number one we had Milton Gordon, a newly deceased ancient getting buried with nothing of value. I knew, because I’d already examined his body the night before and had read his file. In viewing room number two, we had Sylvia Hatter newly deceased from lung cancer and getting buried with a diamond engagement ring. Though I’d like to have it, I made it a policy never to hit the graves closed on my days off. Further evidence to implicate me? Maybe. But the longer a grave stayed closed, the harder it got to reopen and posed more potential for clues as to my activities. I’d rather forgo the ring than get busted opening a three-day-old grave.

Not to mention the smell.

The main chapel was deserted. Glancing back and forth between the crowded hall and the empty chapel I considered just walking right up there and gathering the contraband. But then, someone might see me. The wrong person might see me. Who that was I didn’t know, but I also didn’t want to find out.

I watched the crowd for a while, wondering who had dropped the envelope. It would be easy for a supposed mourner to do it; just blend into the crowd and slip away then blend right back in after placing it. But everyone I saw seemed engaged in friendly conversation. Everyone except a young woman staring at me.

Moving across the hallway, I watched her watching me. I was just about to run for the hills and tell Corbin he could get his own damn envelope when she approached me.

“Hi. I know you,” she said, getting closer, “but I can’t place you.”

I placed her the minute she spoke. “You’re Katie, right? You sold me a laptop about two weeks ago.”

“Oh, right. Gave me last weekend off. Thanks again by the way.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Who are you here to see?”

This girl struck me as overly assertive bordering on nosy, but I didn’t see any reason not to answer her. After all, I had a legitimate reason to be there. “My family owns this place.”

“Oh. You’re a Tanner. My family has used this place for years. Every time somebody goes toes up this is where we come. What’s your first name?”

“Gretchen.”

“I’m here for my Uncle Milton’s viewing. Well really he’s not my uncle. He’s my grandmother’s brother. But we just call him uncle to make things easier.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“No. Really I’m just here to keep my mother happy.”

I knew how that felt. Those motions were well known to me. They were why I didn’t have a normal job. “I should get back to work. I’m sorry about your uncle.”

“Thanks again for the commission.”

#

When the place had cleared except for employees, I ventured into the chapel. Dustin was out doing a round in the cemetery. My father and Robert, the senior mortician, busily moved the caskets back down to the prep room and gave the place a quick once over for messes. They didn’t notice me and my task.

The chapel always gave me the willies. The rows of pews seemed filled with people, even though vacant. It felt as if all the dead who had services here lingered. Hurrying up to the pulpit I bent down and opened the door revealing two shelves. On one lay a dusty bible. Tucked inside it was a brown envelope.