Fool's Journey (14 page)

           
The trail of water followed her down the carpeted hallway
to her office, blending with the wet footprints of others.
 
The hall was deserted, she was grateful to
see, and the door to the faculty lounge was closed.
 
As she scooted past it, she could hear the low
murmur of conversation. A committee meeting, she decided. Thank God she wasn’t
expected to be there.

           
When the door to her office clicked shut behind her,
Deirdre relaxed against it with her eyes closed for a moment. Her head was so
full she couldn’t think. A welcome silence closed in around her, and through
it, the muffled throb of her pulse. It was steady, almost calm.

Why
should that be, she wondered? Then it came to her. Though Bess’s story was
horrible, it revealed one very important piece of information: Deirdre knew now
she was not in danger.
 
Not physically, anyway.

           
The sudden realization that Freemont
Willard was behind everything banished the fear of being stalked by some
homicidal maniac. And though his intent was evil, he wasn’t going to kill her.
Much as she dreaded the exposure of her past, she knew now that, one way or
another, she would survive.

Death was the only thing she truly
feared. In death, she would have to meet her father again.

           
The emotion that overrode everything else was no longer
fear, but cold and deadly rage. She was furious, both for herself and Bess’s
dead lover, Diana Vibert. Two lives had been diverted from their paths and
changed forever for the sake of one man’s perverse amusement.

           
Diana Vibert. Deirdre had always felt a link with Vibert’s
desperate, beautiful verses, but she never imagined the bond would grow beyond
admiration into a strange communion of shared victimization.

Deirdre
plucked a book from her shelves and flipped through it to the last poem Vibert
had published before her suicide, “Scarecrow of the Damned.”

           
Let starlings come
with evil beaks–

           
I’ll scatter
seed. Perch upon my ragged fingers!

           
Feed, feed, feed!

The poet’s cry for release
from pain touched a chord within Deirdre when she first read it.
 
It resounded doubly now.

           
“I’ll avenge us both, Diana,” she whispered.
 
“I will not let this pass.”

           
Body, mind and spirit, Freemont had found a way to invade
them all, to desecrate and to rape. Diana Vibert had been subjected to the same
stalking and sadistic little tricks as Deirdre. That wasn’t all. Bess had not
named the acts specifically, just revealed that his demands had been prefaced
by a flurry of mysterious torments. She considered the events of the previous
days: the hair-cutting, the wreath, the line of poetry.

Just
the beginning, she thought grimly. At least now she could make plans to meet
the coming attack.

           
Deirdre stripped off her sodden coat and sweater, and
rummaged in her bottom file cabinet for a T-shirt she’d tossed in there last
year, a gift from one of her former students.

Poets Do It with Rhythm
,
it read. Not clever, but dry.
 
She pulled
it on over her head, then ran her fingers through her thick, tangled curls.
They were still dripping, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that.

           
Suddenly, she remembered she was supposed to meet Manny
Ruiz that afternoon. When?
 
She must have
written it down, but where?
 
So much of
the past two days were muddled.
 

           
She picked up her telephone to call him and heard three
beeps. Three voice mail messages. Maybe one was from him. She punched in her
code and listened first to two students deliver excuses for late papers.
Apparently the computer had eaten them.
 
The last one, however, was different. A voice came through a background
of music:
There’s a department meeting
you shouldn't miss. Tuesday. Two o’clock.

           
A department meeting? Not a committee meeting? Annoyed,
she glanced at her watch. Two-forty. She’d made a special point of checking
messages yesterday to avoid just such a glitch. She glanced down at her foolish
T-shirt and wet jeans. For a moment, she considered skipping the meeting on
that basis alone. After all, they must be well into it by now. Whoever had
called –

           
But who was it?
 
Not the secretary or any of the student aides. Besides, despite the introduction
of technology, reminders about department meetings were usually posted on the
bulletin board, or memos placed in mailboxes. She picked up the receiver,
reentered her code and listened again.

           
 
Odd. Very odd. It
was rare that department meetings were held on Tuesdays or Thursdays. Few of
the faculty came to campus on those days.
 
Her instinct told her she had better be there, appropriately dressed or
not. She pulled the sodden jacket on over her shirt and headed to the meeting.

XVIII.

           
Deirdre shivered under the damp weight of her coat as she
wound through the halls to the conference room. Maybe she was getting as
paranoid about department politics as everyone else, but there was something
very unusual going on. Just before she rounded the last corner, she heard a
door open and voices spill out into the hallway. It was over. She’d missed it
after all.

           
“I wish Freemont would stop dropping hints and come out
with his accusations,” a voice muttered. Monica Hartwell?

           
 
“If it’s as dire
as he’s insinuating, he’ll have to sooner or later.”

           
Deirdre recognized this voice instantly. Michael, the
chair of the English department.

           
“Must be juicy.” Monica’s voice sounded closer. “He
seemed pretty pleased with himself. I swear he almost licked his chops.”

           
Deirdre glanced back over her shoulder. Too far to get
back to her office now. She’d just have to brave it out and run right into
them. A second later, they rounded the corner. Monica’s mouth arrested
mid-word.

           
“Hello, Michael. Monica,” Deirdre greeted them as calmly
as she could. “I’m sorry I missed the meeting. I was caught in the rain.” She
gestured toward her sodden jacket.

           
They didn’t have to say anything. Their faces registered
a mixture of surprise and chagrin at seeing her here.
 
Upset though she was, it was clear they were
far more ill at ease.

           
After a long moment, Michael summoned up a hearty chuckle
and allowed his face to fall into an approximate grin. Deirdre hadn’t guessed
until now that acting school was a prerequisite for an administrative position.

           
“Just the usual ho-hum, Deirdre,” he said. “You didn’t
miss anything. Better go dry off.” As an added touch, he gave her arm a squeeze
as he stepped past her, then hastened down the hall.

           
Deirdre turned her attention to Monica. She was only a
few years older than Deirdre and had just been awarded tenure the year before.

           
“I didn’t miss anything?”

           
Monica sighed and pursed her lips. “Don’t ask me.
 
I left that message for you – that’s all I
could do.” Then she too hurried past, ducked into her office and shut the door.

           
Deirdre slumped against the wall and folded her arms. So,
she had a friend with a little bit of courage. A very little bit.

           
Why had she never thought about the other women who had
passed through the department in the brief three years she’d been at the
university? Some had applied for positions at other universities before they
had even finished their first year; others had simply not passed muster when it
came time for their third year review. There were reasonable enough explanations
for most of these departures, but at least two stood out now, not because of
any furor at the time they left. It was the opposite, in fact. The women had
simply resigned without a word of explanation, and Deirdre had been too caught
up in her own world to ask why.

Freemont
wasn’t wasting any time, was he? How was she to respond? Fight, and face the
inevitable exposure? Simply fade away and start again? Or erase him like an
ill-chosen word.

           
He'd made a big mistake, Deirdre thought as she retraced
the hallway to her office. For once, being underestimated was working in her
favor. The role of pawn in a devious game was something she had advanced beyond
years ago. She had learned that passivity bought nothing but time – and when
that time was spent in Hell, it was no gain. Knowledge of the game was one
asset, and the courage to play another.

           
As soon as she reached her office,
she shut the door again, picked up the telephone.
 
Another message had come in during the brief
time she’d left on her aborted attempt to attend the department meeting.
Hesitantly, she selected the retrieve option.

           
Good afternoon,
Deirdre
. Freemont Willard’s oily voice was immediately recognizable
. I’m sorry you missed our little meeting
today. I’m sure you’d have found it fascinating! I just wanted to let you know
I’ll be dropping in on your intro class tomorrow in preparation for your
review. I’ll be sitting right up front. Just like the teacher’s pet – tongue
hanging out and all!

           
Deirdre slammed the receiver back in the cradle.
 
He must really be sure of himself and of her
silence to leave a message that reeked so strongly of sexual harassment.

           
Anger was welcome, though.
 
Anger was almost the same as courage.
 
She’d need both to even the score for herself
and all the others Freemont had hounded throughout the years, to spin his Wheel
of Fortune and let him languish upside-down in the muck of his own evil. Above
all, she wanted to make Freemont afraid, very afraid.
 
No one was better trained than she to
accomplish it.
 
The curriculum of fear
that molded her youth could be turned to her own purposes easily. Revenge could
be sweet, but it had its consequences. For one burdened with a conscience,
there led the way to madness. That was not a road she wanted to travel twice.

           
Deirdre released a ragged sigh. If only some wise Mentor
would suddenly appear who could advise her without judging.
   

           
Rosa Ruiz, she thought at once. She reached for the
telephone, then stopped herself, her hand poised on the receiver. Mrs. Ruiz was
wise, true, but the notion of explaining the intricacies of department politics
and personalities, let alone the story of Deirdre’s own past, was daunting. If
only there were someone who could advise without asking questions she was
unwilling to answer. Deirdre shook her head, feeling more alone than she had in
years.

           
Suddenly the telephone jangled beneath her hand, and she
was startled into an involuntary cry of surprise. Heart pounding, she raised
the receiver to her ear and listened.
 

           
An instant of silence was followed by, “Deirdre? Are you
there?”

           
She nodded, then realizing what she’d done, said, “Yes,
sorry. This is Deirdre Kildeer.”

           
“Manny Ruiz here. You scared me.”

XIX.

           
Deirdre met Manny at an espresso bar a few blocks off
campus several hours later, just as the lowering autumn sky changed from gray
to the lavender of evening. A street musician stood outside the door in the
rain, his guitar case open in front of him on the sidewalk. Every time
customers came in, his toneless rendition of "Moonshadow" followed
them in through the open door. He sounded even more pitiful than he looked.
Deirdre wondered vaguely whether anyone had ever offered him money to stop
singing.

           
“So,” Manny began as he lifted his coffee cup, “anything
new today?”

           
Where to begin? How much should she tell? How little?
There was one thing she was sure she should confide, though. She looked Manny
straight in the eye.

           
“I know who’s doing it,” she said simply.