At Risk (11 page)

It was close to two o’clock and dark as pitch, but he didn’t need light to guide him. He knew where he was going and he had his night-vision goggles. He’d driven the road that ran past the professor’s lane twice. Though it was impossible to tell if anyone was parked in the yard, he knew that no state troopers were patrolling the area. Still, he took no chances, crossing woods, fields, and marsh to approach the brick dwelling without the possibility of being seen.

No cars were behind the house or pulled up beside the nineteenth-century barn or in the sheds. He entered the house, as he had before, through the outside cellar entrance. The heavy board-and-batten door was locked, but opening it was child’s play, easier and faster than letting himself into the professor’s office had been.

Inside, he moved slowly and silently down the brick steps and across the main room. An open passageway, leading to several smaller rooms, ran the length of the structure. A wooden staircase rose from one of these narrow chambers. Using a tiny flashlight, the Game Master climbed to the first-floor hall and made short work of that lock as well.

The house sounded empty, but he took no chances, examining each room before he set to the task of removing electrical switch plates and floorboards to plant electronic devices in strategic positions. The last of these, miniature cameras, he installed in the professor’s bedroom and the largest bath. The tasks were time-consuming, but setting up the game board was a necessary part of the game.

Lesser men might be content with the satisfaction of the kill, the scent of blood, and the cries of their victims. Those aspects were enjoyable, even immensely fulfilling, but it was the sport of the chase that thrilled him the most. Stalking his lovelies, watching as ever-increasing fear consumed their lives, kept the game new and challenging. That . . . and—something he prided himself on—the fact that he escalated the danger to himself with each challenge.

He longed to look deep into the professor’s eyes at the moment of her death, had imagined killing her in so many delicious ways, but he could wait. Patience made his appetite keener and his ultimate prize greater. He promised himself that when the time came, he would deny himself nothing. He would taste and feast on her blood and flesh. He would consume her bit by bit, and he would keep the spark of life in her sweet body for a long, long time.

These little toys would serve twofold—frighten her, and let him fully enjoy each move of the game. He would know what she was thinking—planning—perhaps even before she did. And he would savor each bite of her terror until the moment of his triumph.

He glanced at his watch, then turned to glance at the old-fashioned iron bed. It was covered with a floral spread, not expensive, probably from some mail-order house. He wondered when she’d last changed her sheets and if they would retain her scent.

He went back to the bed, lifted the coverlet and bent to sniff a pillowcase. Percale. Not new, but acceptable. But she didn’t hang her sheets on the line to dry. No, these had been dried in a dryer, probably with one of those little white sheets of fabric softener. Women today were so slothful, unwilling to take the time to properly care for a home.

He fluffed the pillow and smoothed the bedspread over it. “Sleep well,” he said softly. “Enjoy your bed while you can. Your next bed will be somewhat colder.” He smiled at his own joke. “And damper,” he added with a chuckle. “Much, much damper.”

“Are you reading my mail?” Liz flung her briefcase on a chair and advanced on Cameron. Administration had assigned her a space in this glorified storage room while her office was being painted and new carpet laid, but the worst part was that she had to share the area with Cameron Whitaker. “Have you lost your mind? What gives you the right to—”

“A simple thank-you would do,” he said. “You don’t have to bite my head off.” He looked around at the stacked chairs lining one wall. “I could have let you set up your own computer.”

“Please get out of my chair.” She glanced at the screen, scanning the screen names and the ever-present advertisements for enhanced sexual organs and weight loss.

“Your filing cabinet’s over there.” He gestured toward a corner of the room. “They dented it up moving it in here.”

“Have you been snooping in that as well?” She glared at him. “Did you send flowers to Katie?”

“Katie who?”

“You know damned well what Katie. My daughter. In Dublin. Was it your idea of a sick joke?”

“Look, Liz. I know you’re upset about what happened to Tracy, but there’s no need to make absurd accusations. We’re colleagues—friends.”

“Friends? Hardly. Now, get out of my chair and away from my computer before I file a formal complaint against you for violating my privacy. And I’d prefer that you address me as Dr. Clarke.”

“Pulling rank? Considering that we are more than acquaintances, I think—”

“That’s it, Cameron. That’s all we are.”

“Funny, I’d say that you showed more interest than that. You went out with me.”

“Shared dinner in a public restaurant,” she said. “Nothing more. I met you there, if you recall, and I paid for my own meal.”

“I offered.” He scrolled down and tapped a key. “Look at that. Weird, isn’t it?”

Liz stared at the screen. The image of an oyster knife revolved from left to right. Under it, written in red, were the words
Your move, Professor.

“Oh, God,” she murmured. “Look at—”

“Want me to—”

The screen went to blue.

“Oops.”

“Did you delete that?” she demanded.

“What?”

“Didn’t you see it—right in front of you?”

“See what?” Cameron asked smugly.

“Damn it.” Liz’s heart thudded against her ribs. “You deleted it. Bring it back. What was the screen name?”

“It was spam. You wanted spam?”

“Am I interrupting something here?” Amelia stuck her head in the open doorway. “What’s up? Are you two—”

“There was an e-mail,” Liz said. “And a picture. Of a knife.”

Cameron stood up. “I didn’t see any knife.”

“There was a knife,” Liz repeated. “An oyster knife.”

“I think she’s imagining things,” Cameron said.

“You had to see it,” Liz insisted. “There was a message, in red. You saw that, didn’t you? It read, ‘Your move, Professor.’ ” She glanced at Amelia. “He deleted it. But it’s got to be in the hard drive, doesn’t it? I’m going to call security.”

Cameron backed away from the computer. “There was some junk, the usual stuff. It might have been red. I think you’re losing it, Liz.”

She sat down and ran the mouse over recently deleted mail. “Wait, it’s got to be here,” she said. “I’ll prove it to you.”

Amelia approached the chair and put her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I think your class is waiting for you, Cameron,” she said.

“Oh, yes, Roman Pottery Along Hadrian’s Wall.”

“I can’t find it,” Liz said. “Where could it have gone?”

“I told you, I didn’t see—”

“I think you’d better get to your students before Liz makes you the second victim in this wing,” Amelia said.

“I’d get her to a therapist if I were you,” Cameron said as he headed for the doorway. “She should be on different medication.”

Liz swore between clenched teeth. “I’m telling you, I saw it. I’m not losing my mind.”

“Probably just another of Cameron’s attempts at humor,” her friend said. “You know what a computer whiz the prick is. If there was some twisted message, he probably sent it to you.”

“Maybe,” Liz said. “I think he sent flowers to Katie. Funeral flowers.”

“To Katie?” Amelia glanced at her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my next class. Why don’t you cancel your morning lecture and come home with me for some real coffee and you can tell me all about it.”

“I shouldn’t. My kids—”

“Your kids will be delighted. Come on, Liz. What is the administration going to do? Discipline you? You shouldn’t even be back to work this soon after what’s happened.” Amelia’s beautiful, chocolate features creased with genuine concern. “What do you say? Coffee, Irish cream, and a shoulder to cry on. What more could you ask for?”

“I’ve got the house to myself for a few days,” Amelia said as she poured coffee into bright orange pottery mugs adorned with stylized African wildlife. “Thomas left for Virginia Beach this morning.” She ran slender fingers through her close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Bad timing, but we had some repairs done to the deck, and he wants to be certain the contractor completes the work before he writes the check. The same contractor who built the place for us—the man Thomas brags is so reasonable, the man we’ve never had a minute’s trouble with. But . . . you know how anal-retentive Thomas is. He has to check up on everything.”

Liz smiled in sympathy and then glanced out the window at Amelia’s elegant back yard with its marble bench and fountain, and beyond that at the greenhouse where Amelia’s husband grew prizewinning orchids. “You said you’d lost some shingles in that March storm.”

Amelia took a chair across from her at the small breakfast table. “One of the joys of owning property a block from the ocean.”

The coffee was rich and dark, too hot to drink, but Liz lifted the gazelle cup to inhale the aroma. “Mmm, trust Thomas to buy the best.” Amelia’s husband did all of the shopping and most of the cooking. Liz knew that Thomas was particular about his coffee, buying only organically grown beans and grinding them himself. “Will your nieces be coming for the summer again?”

“Not Natasha, but Regina will. Natasha got an internship in Washington. Regina’s coming, and she’s bringing her roommate, Yejide. Lovely girl. You’ve got to come down while she’s with us. She’s Nigerian, but she grew up in Cape Town. Pre-med.” Amelia chuckled. “It should be an interesting ten weeks. According to Regina’s e-mails, Yejide’s had quite a time adjusting to American life. Yejide’s parents had numerous household servants, and the girl had no idea how to make her bed or wash her clothes. Regina said Yejide drowned the dorm laundry in suds and ruined two loads of her good clothing with bleach.”

“Should keep you and Thomas from getting bored.”

Amelia toyed with a gold hoop earring. “His idea. On the plus side, Yejide doesn’t date and attends church twice a week.” She stirred cream and artificial sweetener into her coffee. “However, Regina claims that Yejide’s half of the room looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. I’m giving Yejide the crow’s nest, the attic room with all the windows on the third floor, a view of the ocean, and her own whirlpool bath. Thomas doesn’t need to see the mess until September, and by then the Merry Maids will have worked wonders.”

“Sounds like a plan. So long as she doesn’t do laundry.”

Amelia’s liquid brown eyes grew thoughtful. “It’s you I’m worried about. I can only imagine how you must feel. No one should have to go through what you did. Why don’t you stay here for a week—for as long as you want? There’s no need for you to be out there all alone, not when you’re being stalked by some nutcase.”

“Thanks, but . . .” Liz cradled her mug with both hands, met her friend’s gaze, and exhaled. “Amelia, I think it’s Cameron.”

Amelia sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “I know he’s an annoying prick, but funeral flowers and threatening e-mails? If he’s guilty, he could go to jail. He’d certainly lose his slot at Somerville and probably any hope of working for anyone else in the academic world.”

“I’ve thought of all that, but I can’t come to any other conclusion.” She placed the cup deliberately on the striped tablecloth and gazed at it.

“You don’t believe he murdered Tracy Fleming, do you?”

Liz looked up from her musing and smiled. “Hardly. He may be taking advantage of the situation, but I don’t believe it’s in Cameron’s nature to be violent. And to give the devil his due, I’ve never seen Cameron speak to any of the girls outside class. I think he reserves his lechery for older women.”

“Well, if he didn’t kill her, who did?”

“Jack says it was her boyfriend Wayne . . . who may well be dead himself, now.”

“Jack. The just-released-from-prison Jack? The drug runner ex-item?”

For a minute, Liz was sorry she’d revealed so much of her past to Sydney and Amelia that night at dinner. “It was Jack on the motorcycle that we saw coming out of the parking lot that morning.”

“Any chance he could be the murderer?”

“No-o-o.” Liz felt her cheeks grow warm. “At least, I don’t want to think he could be. Jack’s a little rough around the edges, but . . .”

“Still hung up on him, aren’t you? Why is it women never get over their first lay?”

Liz nibbled her lower lip. “He wasn’t, actually. He wanted it. I wanted it. But I didn’t completely trust him, and I was scared that giving in would mean an end to my dreams.”

“So you didn’t trust him then, but suddenly he’s worthy of your trust now?” Amelia asked.

“Jack can be a real bastard, but I can’t believe he’d murder Tracy—or any woman, for that matter.”

“But he’s capable of killing a man?”

Liz sighed. “You don’t know watermen. It’s hard to explain. They’re a breed apart. They make their own laws and live by a code that’s almost archaic. It’s a macho thing, tied up with honor and loyalty. If you haven’t grown up with them, it’s difficult to understand.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Yes, I suppose that under the right circumstances, Jack could kill someone,” Liz said. “But, given extraordinary conditions, any of us could.” She paused and asked, “If it was life or death, don’t you think . . .”

“No, Liz, I don’t. I can’t imagine any circumstance that would force me to take a life. And I don’t think you could either.”

“You couldn’t kill someone to save Thomas?”

Amelia shook her head. “You’re losing your perspective, Liz. You should talk to someone.”

“The police? I’ve—”

“No. Professional help, a counselor. You’ve had a terrible shock. You may not be thinking logically.” Amelia arched a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “This isn’t something you just get over, Liz. Finding a murdered girl in your office . . .”

“You think I’m losing it?”

Amelia tasted her coffee, then added another spoonful of dark honey and stirred. “It’s only been a week. Seven days. You need to seek help.”