Whom Dog Hath Joined (26 page)

Was it my imagination, or did Peter Bobeaux look directly at
me? I looked back at him and smiled.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to solve this easily,” he said.
“We’re done here.”

“I have something to add,” I said, and I thought that was
fear I saw in his eyes. “A request from the English department.”

The tension went out of his shoulders and I explained Lucas
Roosevelt’s request. “Other classes meet in those classrooms when English isn’t
using it,” Oscar said.

“I’m not asking for anything specific to English,” I said.
“I’m talking about standard academic format.” I handed around the pages I’d
printed.

“Dr. Conrad?” I asked. “Would you have any objection to a
science paper presented this way?”

She laughed. “Objection? I’d be delighted to have the
formatting done for them.”

Marie-Carmel Etienne agreed. “As you probably know, students
have to take a computer proficiency test when they arrive at Eastern.” I loved
listening to her, all those “th” sounds rendered as zees. “Those who score
below a certain range have to take a class in basic computer skills, where we
teach them how to change the defaults in various programs. But a lot of
students slip through the net and don’t have these skills themselves.”

“Even more reason why they should be learning them in
class,” Oscar said.

Jackie Conrad, Marie-Carmel, and I all began speaking at
once, complaining that we had too much of our subjects to teach to get into
such details.

Finally, Oscar held up his hand. “I’ll look into it,” he
said.

“Excellent,” Bobeaux said. “I’ll expect some feedback by our
next meeting.”

We left the building, passing a hipster girl with Ray-Ban
wayfarers and a white panama hat, carrying a trade paperback edition of
On
The Road
. Her companion was a young guy wearing a hot pink polo shirt with
a bright green T-shirt underneath, peeking out at the collar.

“College fashions,” Jackie said.

“When I went to school here I lived in polo shirts and
khakis,” I said. “My roommate was a T-shirt and ripped jeans kind of guy so we
never had confusion over wardrobe.” I had a sudden memory. “The only problem we
had was that we wore the same size and style of shoes—Sperry Top-Siders.” I
looked down at my feet, where I was wearing those very same shoes. “I guess
people don’t really change.”

“Some do,” Jackie said. “I wore sneakers in college and
looked down at the old ladies who wore sensible shoes. And look at me now.”

All the talk of shoes reminded me, as I walked back to
Lili’s office, of the faded Chucks Don Lamprey had worn. He never had the
chance to see his style change with age, but at least I felt we were closer to
figuring out what had happened to him.

32 – Gunshots

When I knocked at Lili’s office door, I got no answer except
the scrabbling of doggie toenails on the wood floor and snuffling at the door.
I tried the handle and it was unlocked, so I pushed it open. “Lili?”

Rochester launched himself at me. “Yes, I know, you missed
me,” I said, as he put his paws on my thighs and sniffed me. “Where’s Lili?”

I looked around the office. Lili was like my mother in that,
like nature, she abhorred a vacuum. Every inch of wall space, other than the
floor-to-ceiling windows, was covered with her own photos and the work of
others, friends, students, colleagues and idols. Her shelves were stacked with
big art books and souvenirs of her travels – South American fabric panels, an
enameled vase from Turkey, wooden animals from Africa.

I finally saw a post-it on her computer screen. “Steve: Had
to help a student with a darkroom problem. Talk to you later.”

I wrote my own. “Auntie Em: I hate Kansas. I’m leaving and
taking the dog.” I added my name, a heart, and a couple of Os and Xs.

It was still daylight when got home, so I took Rochester for
a long walk along the nature preserve and down toward the river. The current
was strong, bubbling around rocks and splashing against submerged tree
branches. Washington had made his famous crossing of the Delaware a few miles
upriver from where we stood, on a bitter Christmas morning.

As a kid, I’d gone to the recreation of that crossing, Grace
Kelly’s brother playing General Washington, local fathers and businessmen
dressed in colonial era uniforms rowing flat-bottomed Durham boats, letting the
current carry them down toward Trenton. I didn’t think, back then, of what a
daring leap those soldiers had made, braving not just the ice-choked river but
the Hessian soldiers garrisoned at Trenton, hoping that they’d be too wiped out
from holiday celebrations to put up a good fight.

Now that I’d made a few dangerous crossings myself, I
appreciated more what they’d done. I hadn’t risked my life the way soldiers
like Tamsen Morgan’s husband had, but I had launched myself into the unknown a
few times, stepping through the prison gates that first day, then stepping out
a year later completely on my own. Coming back home to Stewart’s Crossing with
my tail between my legs, starting my life over.

I had come to understand how precious this life was, and how
much the love of those around me mattered. When we reached Ferry Road, I tugged
on Rochester’s leash and turned him inland, toward home.

Darkness fell quickly as we walked inland. Cars whizzed by
us in the deepening gloom, some drivers without headlights on. The pines and
firs in the nature preserve huddled together, blocking my view of anything to
the right or left. An owl hooted somewhere and a nearby car horn blared.

We had just reached the entrance to River Bend when I heard
three gunshots, one after another, very fast. Rochester spooked and reared
backward at me, knocking me to the ground.

Like many dogs, Rochester hated sudden, loud noises like
thunder and firecrackers. He was even more phobic because he was there when Caroline
was shot to death while walking him.

The gunshots made him completely nuts. While I was trying to
get up from the ground, he was pulling on his leash as if he was going to tow
me all the way back home. I scrambled forward on my  hands and knees, tugging
him toward me like he was a fish I was reeling in. I caught up with him by a
big oak tree, and wrapped my arms around his neck. “It’s all right, puppy,” I
said. “It’s okay.”

As I leaned back against the oak and sat on the sidewalk, holding
his head against my chest, I realized that someone might have been aiming directly
at me. Fortunately, we were blocked by the massive trunk, and I couldn’t hear anyone
coming toward us, on foot or by car.

My body started to shake but I struggled to hold myself
together for Rochester’s sake. He was already freaked out, and if he sensed I
was scared that would only make things worse for him. I took a couple of deep
breaths, then felt my arms and legs. No blood, no pain.

I stayed there on the sidewalk, holding Rochester, until we
both stopped shaking, then stood up. He immediately lunged forward, eager to
get back home. I race-walked behind him, and as we got closer to the house my
brain was able to work logically again. Why would someone want to shoot me? I’d
put myself in danger a few times, but I always knew who I was up against. Now,
I was baffled. Had they been warning shots? Scaring me away from investigating
the body in the Meeting House? Was it someone Rick and I had spoken to in the
course of the investigation?

From the speed of the shots, I figured they had come from a
moving vehicle. Since there were only three, and I didn’t know of any gun that
could only shoot three shots before needing to be recocked or reloaded, I
figured that the shooter and his or her weapon had probably gotten out of range
by then.

As soon as we got inside, Rochester scrambled up the stairs
and crawled beneath my bed, his place of refuge during storms or loud holidays.
I sat Indian-style on the floor beside him, one hand petting his tail, the only
part of him I could reach, and took a couple more deep breaths, trying to push
the tension away. Once my heart rate and pulse had returned to normal, I called
Rick.

“I think somebody shot at me this evening,” I said, when he
answered.

“You think?”

“Well, I’m not bleeding.” I explained how I had heard the
shots, and how Rochester had freaked out. “That’s what made me think they were
bullets, because of the way he reacted. Dogs have pretty acute hearing—I bet he
can distinguish the sound of gun shots. Probably reminds him of when Caroline
was killed.” I stroked his tail once more. “He’s under the bed now.”

“Could it have been a hunter?” Rick asked. “That area along
Ferry Road attracts wildlife, and you’re close to the river there. Duck season
doesn’t start for a couple of weeks, but that doesn’t stop some folks.”

“I suppose it could have been.” My voice started to shake,
which I hated, but I couldn’t help it. “But what if it was someone shooting at
me or Rochester? Maybe Eben Hosford. He has a shotgun, I saw it.”

“He’s a Quaker,” Rick said. “They’re supposed to be
non-violent, remember? Doesn’t eliminate him, but still. Anybody else you might
have pissed off lately?”

I reached for Rochester’s head, but he scooted away. “I was
in a meeting with Peter Bobeaux this afternoon. And I sort of tried to get a
rise out of him.” I stopped. “Oh, Christ. Lili told me that he used to hunt
with a rifle when he was in the UAE.”

Rick groaned. “What the hell are you doing meeting with this
guy? Didn’t I tell you I was going to handle things?”

“It wasn’t a one-on-one. A committee meeting. We were
talking about the possibility of identity theft at Eastern. I hinted that a
student could apply under a false name. And that there were academics out there
with faked credentials.”

“I can’t believe you were that stupid. You got to stop baiting
suspects, Steve. You’ve had too many close calls already. Someday you’re going
to get hurt.”

“Come on, Bobeaux is a college administrator. Not some homicidal
maniac.”

“Experience has shown that somebody doesn’t need to be a gun
nut to shoot at you, Brother Joe. You bring out the best in people.” He took a
deep breath. “Listen, I’m finishing up here. I’ll get Rascal and come over. The
dogs can play and you and I can talk.”

While I waited for Rick, I called Lili. “I’m pretty shaken
up,” I said. I told her about the incident.

“But you’re all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about Rochester. He’s still
freaked out.”

“Who could want to shoot you?” she asked. “You’re not teaching
this term, so we can eliminate disgruntled students from the mix.”

“Ha, ha,” I said.

“Don’t laugh. I read this article the other day – did you
know there have been over fifty school shootings since 2010? I lock my
classroom door five minutes into class and make anyone who’s late knock to be
let in.”

“I talked to Rick and we came up with two choices, but
neither of them sound reasonable. Eben Hosford and Peter Bobeaux. An old hippie
Quaker and a college administrator. Neither of them sound like the kind to cruise
down Ferry Street taking pot shots.”

“Don’t knock Peter out so quickly. He’s said several times
that he’s a big NRA supporter.”

“Yeah, I wish I had remembered what you’d said about his
hunting habits before I baited him at the meeting.” I heard Rick’s truck pull
up in my driveway, so I said goodbye to Lili and I left Rochester under the
bed.

“I stopped at Genuardi’s and got us both salads,” he said,
handing me a grocery bag. “We’ve both been eating too much rich food.”

“You just want to be slim and handsome for Tamsen,” I said,
trying to lighten the mood despite the shivers I felt.

“I told you, I’m not sure I want to get involved with her.”
He sighed. “But she arranged for Justin to go home with one of the other kids
after the game on Saturday so she and I can go out to dinner.”

“Face it, you’re hooked,” I said, as Rascal shot past me and
dashed up the stairs, following Rochester’s scent.

“Moving on to the purpose of this visit,” Rick said, as we
walked into the kitchen. “Tell me exactly what happened. Where were you when
you first heard these shots?”

I started with our walk back from the river, and noticed
that my hands were shaking as I unpacked the food.

“After dinner we’ll walk out there and you can show me where
it happened. Tomorrow I’ll go out and look for shell casings.”

“Will you talk to both of them?”

“About what, Steve? I have no evidence to suggest that
either of them had any motive to shoot at you. And honestly, knowing you, you
could be snooping into a dozen other things without telling me.” He pulled his
salad toward him. “When you go online, you camouflage your identity, don’t
you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you done something online that would get
somebody mad at you, somebody who could track you down in the real world?”

“That’s not the kind of thing I do, and you know it,” I
said. “All I ever do is look for information. And the only place I’ve been that
I shouldn’t have was that reunion database. I doubt that one of Peter Breaux’s
classmates has come after me.”

He just shook his head. The dogs scrambled downstairs and
began running around us in circles. Rick grabbed a piece of grilled chicken
from one salad, broke it in half and fed a piece to each dog. “Now settle down,
you vultures.”

Rascal fell to the floor, looking up at his daddy, and
Rochester did the same thing.

“When I spoke to Tamsen today, she said that Eben Hosford
has been acting weird. There was a meeting of the renovation committee, and he’s
changed his tune—instead of arguing that they should leave the Meeting House as
it is, now he says the building is cursed, and it ought to be torn down as soon
as possible.”

 “You think our finding the body changed his attitude?” I
asked.