Her Own Drum

by Ali Franklin

  Contents

  Her Own Drum

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Her Own Drum

  Book One in the Haverwood College series

  By Ali Franklin

  1

  Ryan set her jaw and glowered across the lush outfield. “I will not let you down” she whispered to Teddy, who was sitting behind the wall with her. Teddy was dead.

  “I know how much you hate to lose, sweetie,” Teddy said with a smile. “Just make sure you take out a few more of them before you grab their flag.” She sat up straighter. “Rrememberr,” she had donned her flawless Scottish accent. “They may take ourr flag, but they’ll neverr take…ourr frreedom!”

  Ryan took a deep breath and reset her goggles. “Here goes.” She peeked around the wall once more to gauge the distance to the nearest obstacle, then ran like hell in its direction. She slid into the back side of the fake boulder like she was breaking up a double play. She landed with a thud, unharmed and unpainted. She turned to give Teddy a thumbs-up and saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Like a flash, she was shooting around the side of the boulder. Pfft-pfft.

  “Awww, dangit!” screamed Bobby Schmidt. He laid back on the grass, two bright pink paint splatters centered on his chest. “I had you!”

  “Apparently not, Bobby,” said Ryan with a grin. She moved back to the far side of the obstacle to take stock of the situation. With Bobby out, she figured there were only two people still between her and her prize. And she was going to get that prize. In the five years she had taken part in this tradition, Ryan’s team had never lost.

  “C’mon out now, Ryan,” said a voice somewhere beyond a copse of trees to her left. “You know we’ve got you outnumbered. If you throw down your gun we can all get out of this hot sun and just go have a dra-ahnk.” The drawl was just overdone enough to make the message sound faintly ominous.

  Ryan stared toward the trees, trying to pinpoint where Abby Weppler Strimple was hiding. With a start, she realized Abby was behind her, not between Ryan and the flag. She tensed, preparing to run the last fifty yards to where she knew the prize was hidden. Then she remembered Oscar.

  “Hey, Oscar?” Ryan yelled, trying to make it sound like she had a question. No response. Damn, she thought. He must be right next to it. She peeked around the boulder again. There was only one more obstacle between her and the first-base dugout where she knew the flag was taped to the underside of the bench. It was an easy spot to defend. How was she going to get Oscar far enough away so she could get in there?

  She looked back toward the copse of trees. Abby was moving toward her. Ryan took a deep breath and closed her eyes, visualizing the field of play. She was fifty yards from the dugout. Forty yards in the other direction was Abby. And somewhere — she had to assume somewhere near the dugout — was Dr. Oscar Martinez, president of Haverwood College, waiting to light her up with neon green paint.

  Ryan wasn't worried about Abby or Oscar reaching her team’s flag. They obviously had no idea where it was. Otherwise, their team members would not have been shot so far away from Henley Pond. None of them had even ventured beyond the amphitheater.

  Ryan silently congratulated her teammates. It was genius to hide their team’s flag on the south end of the bridge at the pond. There was open space for fifty yards in every direction, which would have made it easy to see if any of the administrators had thought to look over there. But they hadn’t, and Ryan’s team of intrepid faculty members were on track to win the coveted Bandera, the framed bright red and yellow kerchief that had served as the losing team’s flag the first year of the faculty versus administration Capture the Flag competition eight years ago.

  As dean of students, Ryan was usually on the administrators’ team for the annual contest. But Jane Lawton, chair of the sociology department, had left early for her summer vacation, and Cora DeLuca, who taught percussion in the music department, had not shown up for the game today. That left the faculty team two members short. Like many of the small college’s administrators, Ryan was also a part-time faculty member. She volunteered to play on the faculty team and the game had gone on.

  It was the first Monday after spring graduation. The students had moved out of the residence halls and fraternity and sorority houses over the weekend to start the summer break. For the next two weeks, the only people on campus would be the staff, administrators, and those faculty members who wanted to work on personal projects or prep for summer classes. Ryan was looking forward to two weeks of quiet, with no classes to teach or fraternity parties to monitor.

  But today was Capture the Flag Day, and Ryan was her team’s last hope. She decided the best way to get the flag would be to even the odds. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Abby leaning casually against the nearest tree, paintball gun slung carelessly across her chest. Ryan peered into the shady space. Was Abby filing her nails?

  Suddenly, Ryan broke to her right, running toward Milton Hall. It was about fifty yards, but she made it to the northwest corner before Abby realized what she was doing. Ryan looked back to see Abby slinking into the shadows beneath the trees. Abby probably realized where Ryan was going, but that didn’t mean Ryan couldn’t succeed. There was plenty of cover between Milton Hall and the amphitheater behind Abby’s hiding place. And there were enough routes that Abby wouldn’t be able to cover them all. On her current path, Ryan had a good chance of meeting Abby one-on-one or coaxing Oscar away from his guard post near the flag.

  Ryan heard the Alumni Bell ring three o’clock. The game had started just after one-thirty, so they had been at it for almost ninety minutes. It was only June, but that was long enough to run around in the Texas heat.

  Instead of running along the west side of Milton Hall and coming out near Abby’s trees, Ryan ran along Milton’s north side and around the east end, then crossed the quad to Xavier Hall. It was an additional fifty yards, but going around that end of the building meant she could use the line of bushes between the residence hall and the amphitheater to mask her progress toward Abby’s position. Abby would never guess Ryan was taking such a long route to reach her hiding place.

  By the time Ryan made the turn around the east end of Xavier and dropped behind the bushes on its south side, her goggles had fogged over from the heat and sweat coming off of her face. She still had plenty left in her tank, though, and congratulated herself for sticking to her five-days-a-week exercise regimen. She took a moment to visualize the copse of trees, the obstacles the teams had placed strategically around the north end of campus before the match began, and the dugout. Abby was a minor inconvenience. What Ryan really wanted was a chance at that flag.

  She peeked over the wall of shrubs. Abby was now circling the boulder where Teddy and Bobby were resting, glancing first left then right over her shoulders. Ryan grinned at seeing Teddy still on the field. She wouldn't have been surprised to find Teddy had already relocated to O’Leary’s, the pub across the street where both teams would go after the match to celebrate the end of another academic year.

  Ryan crept back toward the rec field, bending low so Abby couldn't see her behind the bushe
s. She reached the spot where the hedge began to curve away from the residence hall. There was a break in the bushes that would allow her to switch to the south side, keeping the curved hedge between her and Abby. As she passed through the opening, she glanced behind her to see Oscar Martinez peeking around the east end of Xavier.

  How the hell did he get over there? she wondered. She paused, not knowing whether to stay on offense or switch to defense and head toward her own team’s flag. She was fairly certain Oscar had not seen her, as she was hidden between the two halves of the hedge wall. But she had only a moment to decide her next move.

  She mentally paced off the distance between her position and Oscar’s, then the distance between Oscar and the flag. She was closer to Oscar and the hedge was still between them. Turning around, she moved east along the row toward the edge of Henley Pond. If she timed it right, she would reach Oscar just as he stepped onto the north end of the bridge. If she didn’t time it right, or if Oscar ran faster than she expected (which she doubted – the guy was still wearing his suit and tie under his coverall, for crying out loud), she could paint him before he made it anywhere near the south end of the bridge.

  Before she reached the end of the hedgerow, she heard the squeak of boards. The president had made more progress than she had expected and was already on the bridge. He was well on his way to the flag, though he might not have realized it was so close.

  There was nothing for it now. She was going to have to follow him onto the bridge and shoot him before he shot her or claimed the prize.

  She stepped lightly on the bridge, which meant he didn’t notice her until she was only yards away. “Well, hello there, Dean McCabe.” He turned and bowed with mock formality. Sweat ran down his face and his normally picture-perfect hair stuck to his forehead in clumps. “I’m surprised you would come all the way out here just to see me, when you know my flag is all the way over there.” He gestured toward the rec field with his gun. “I must be onto something. Perhaps your own flag is nearby?” He glanced around, never turning his back to Ryan.

  “You’re not even close, Mr. President,” Ryan answered, giving him her best stink-eye. “I just wanted to put you out of your misery.” She took a step toward him. They were a study in contrasts: the imposing president with his stocky build and dark hair and the smaller dean with her sandy hair and thin figure.

  Oscar glanced toward the rec fields and Ryan realized the sound of their voices might have reached Abby. If Abby came to investigate, she would see Ryan stuck on the bridge and would enter the north end. Oscar and Abby could pin Ryan between them – and find the flag.

  Ryan reached up and ran her finger along the uneven bridge of her nose. Then she lifted her weapon with both hands and prepared to shoot. I am not going to lose, she thought. She saw Oscar focus on something over her shoulder. She didn’t know if Abby had reached the bridge or if he was bluffing, but it was enough to make her act. With a scream supported by decades of vocal exercises, she leveled her gun and raced toward Oscar. His eyes widened for a moment, then he squared his stance and took aim.

  They both knew Oscar was a decent shot. Odds were good that he would hit her before she hit him. All she had going for her was the element of surprise, and she had already used that by screaming. He started shooting. She veered left and right as she closed the gap.

  As she barreled toward him, Oscar stepped backward, almost tripping on a pile of equipment that had been placed on the bridge in preparation for the annual pond cleaning. It was unbelievable what the grounds crew found in the water every summer: textbooks, used condoms, random pieces of clothing, and seemingly endless amounts of trash that students and staff would rather throw into the water than into the containers that dotted the grass around the pond.

  The president regained his balance and fired off another shot. Ryan wondered why he wasn’t firing more. She hoped he was low on paintballs; she needed every advantage she could get. As she neared the pile of equipment that had almost tripped him, she smiled with an idea. Running right toward the covered heaps, she stepped onto them and launched herself into the air. Oscar’s jaw went slack as he watched. Screaming again, Ryan let loose a hail of paintballs. Three of the little spheres hit Oscar in the shoulder and arm, making him wince in pain.

  Oscar reached for her and yelled something, but Ryan couldn’t make out the words. Looking down, she realized she had launched herself a little sideways and was positioned to come down right on top of the curved handrail that bordered the edge of the bridge. If she didn’t land just right, she was going to fall — either sideways onto the bridge or into the water.

  2

  She didn’t land just right. Into the water she went, yelling and trying to cover her nose and mouth with her gloved hand. Her goggles filled with murky wetness. She splashed around for a moment before she remembered what the grounds crew had told her one summer. It was amazing, they said, how much junk settled on the floor of a pond that was only a few feet deep. She put down her feet and stood. Waist-deep in the brownish green muck, she concentrated on not thinking about what she might be standing on.

  Surprisingly, she had held her paintball gun above her head while she had fallen. It seemed dry. She shot the top of a rock at the edge of the pond just to be sure. Yep, fully functional. All those years of watching TV had paid off.

  She considered pulling herself back onto the bridge but realized it would be faster to walk herself out of the pond. She made slow progress, curling her toes so she wouldn’t leave her shoes behind and trying not to splash any more of the water on her face.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk between the pond and the amphitheater. Abby was nowhere in sight. Ryan visualized the quickest way to the dugout: across the amphitheater lawn, past the copse of trees Abby had been in, and through the obstacle-strewn rec field. She would only be in the open until she got to the trees. Abby might still be there, but it was worth the gamble.

  Ryan was starting to tire. Maybe it was the acrid pond water that filled her pockets and shoes. Maybe it was the fact that it was over ninety degrees this afternoon. Whatever the reason, Ryan straightened her shoulders and started walking straight for the trees where she had last seen Abby.

  As Ryan ran, Abby waited at the northwest corner of Milton Hall. Assuming Ryan approached the rec field from the east, her hiding place was perfect. She smiled. Because she and Ryan usually played on the same team, Abby had never been able to shoot the dean with her paintball gun before. At least not while the game was in progress.

  Four years ago Abby had shot Ryan in the back after their team had won. They both played it off as an accident but Abby always suspected Ryan knew it wasn't. That happened to be the year Ryan was chosen over Abby to be the dean of students.

  Abby’s trigger finger twitched. She still hadn’t forgiven Ryan for getting that job. She would enjoy emptying her gun in Ryan’s direction.

  Ryan crept along the western edge of the rec field. She saw Abby looking in her direction, but hoped the controller would assume the movement was a few of the downed players gathering to go to O’Leary’s. Then she saw Abby smack the wall with the heel of her hand and start toward the field. At least she knew where Ryan was now.

  Ryan picked up her pace. After circling the copse of trees, she had moved along the south side of the rec field, keeping the obstacles between her and the dugout, where she had assumed Abby was standing guard. Ryan was happy to learn that Abby was all the way over at Milton. Abby was one hundred yards away and had a direct line to the dugout, but Ryan only had to cover half that distance.

  Only one more obstacle stood between Ryan and the dugout. She slogged toward it, tiring more quickly now. If she hadn’t been encumbered by wet pants and slippery shoes, she would have simply raced Abby to the dugout and not bothered with the obstacles. Abby wasn’t a very good shot, but it would only take one lucky shot for Abby to end the game. Ryan considered her last move.

  Suddenly Abby streaked toward the back side of the obstacle Ryan w
as using for cover. Ryan didn’t waste a second. Keeping the obstacle between her and her opponent, she ran in the other direction, away from the dugout. When Abby reached the obstacle, she faked going left, then went right around the side to the back, firing the whole time. Splat after splat of green paint covered the ground, but Abby didn’t realize Ryan was gone until it was too late. Ryan had made the turn and was now only yards away from the dugout, moving fast.

  Abby screamed and threw her gun toward Ryan, who walked into the dugout and felt around for the small green bandana folded beneath the bench. She came out of the dugout with the flag held high above her head.

  A rousing whoop of approval came from all sides as defeated players returned to the field from their resting places. The two teams gathered around the dugout, hugging each other and comparing “war wounds.” There were handshakes and back-slaps all around as the competitors congratulated each other on another successful match.

  Ryan walked over to where Abby sat on the ground. Abby waved away her offer for a hand up.

  “I think I’ll just hang here for a few minutes. Catch my breath,” said Abby.

  “All right,” replied Ryan. “See you over at O’Leary’s?”

  Abby nodded. “I’ll be over in a while. I think I’ll change first.” She gave Ryan a half-smile.

  “Me too.” Ryan motioned to her clothes. “I need a shower. See you over there.”

  She returned to her colleagues to find Teddy leading the way to the pub. “I’ll see you guys over there. I'm pretty sure Jamie won't let me into her bar smelling like this.”

  Ryan headed toward Glaser Hall, the building that housed the Student Affairs offices including Residence Life, Student Activities, and Diversity Programs. She needed to collect a change of clothes from her office on the third floor.

  She entered the building and paused for a moment to take in the atmosphere. It was always strange to be in this building, usually so full of sound and movement, when it was empty. Ryan always thought Glaser had a spirit of its own. When it was full, it absorbed the excitement of students registering for classes, running for student government, or hoping to get into a sorority. When it was empty, the feelings of possibility still drifted through the halls.