“When the police don’t think they have enough to charge the accused, is that what the provost means when he refers to exaggeration?” Bud was leaning forward.
“No. Not exaggeration,” said Karen, her voice rising again. “More like intimidation. All sorts of pressures are put on these young women, many of whom are freshman and new to college. They are shy and uncertain, and it doesn’t take much to make them afraid of losing their reputations, or getting all their new friends angry with them.”
“I’m told that other girls are often the ones pressuring the victim to keep her mouth shut,” I said, remembering Nell’s words.
Karen nodded. “Absolutely true. Any of us who deals with sexual assault cases can tell you that happens more often than we would like.” Karen sat down heavily in her chair.
The group fell silent. Several pretended to search for something in their briefcases.
“Should we institute the same policy as California? Yes means Yes?” Howard’s question surprised me.
Karen nodded but before she could speak, the university attorney cut in.
“Let’s remember that a young woman who changes her mind midway, and doesn’t get her way, can cause real damage.”
“But what kind of young man keeps going when a girl says ‘Stop?’” I was beginning to see how this discussion was shaping up.
“A drunk young man,” said the coach.
“Or an entitled young man,” said Bridget. “Especially a man who doesn’t have much respect for women in the first place.”
“I think we should keep in mind that sexual activity among our students often starts in high school,” said the foreign language professor. “By the time they get to university, the young men expect sex. And sometimes the young women expect it, or assume it’s expected.” His accent was strong, but his English was exact. And he raised a point that had bothered me too. How much was a history of high school sex mixed with a new freedom to get blind drunk responsible for the degree of assault we were seeing?
“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Bud. “Let’s begin with looking at the current law. Karen, perhaps you could lead us through.”
When Karen was finished, one of the faculty, whose name I had forgotten, raised his hand. He was a big man seated at the other end of the table. His voice was soft but intense. “Is there anything that ensures the guy who’s accused gets a fair shake?”
Karen leaned forward. “Shelby, the law is designed to protect both male and female students.”
Now I remembered. Shelby Vane, a tall, large-boned professor from the College of Agriculture. “Yes, I’m sure it protects the victim of either sex. But how does it protect the accused?”
Karen frowned. Bud interrupted. “I think this is a point we should cover in our next meeting.”
Shelby Vane sank back into his chair and looked at the ceiling. For a minute, I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
The attorney again, “Dr. Vane, I assure you we will address your concerns, and we will address them thoroughly.”
As the meeting broke up, I sidled over to the attorney. We walked out together. In the hallway, I tapped his arm. “You seem to know Shelby Vane. Does he have a particular stake in this issue? He seemed visibly upset.”
The attorney looked uncomfortable and drew me aside. “Vane’s older brother did some time in prison for rape. Months later, the woman recanted her testimony, but the man’s reputation was ruined. I understand the entire Vane family was devastated by the matter. They had a big ranch outside of Landry, and most of them moved away. Shelby and his mother stayed, or I should say, his mother stayed, and Shelby returned after he got his doctorate.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to be objective about the work we are doing?”
“I don’t know. But I do know Shelby Vane asked the Provost to put him on this committee.”
“Well, perhaps he’ll help represent the interests of the accused.”
The attorney cocked his head, “Ever think about taking up the law, Dr. Solaris?”
Nope. Too busy trying to take up the work of a detective.
Jamie
Jamie could still feel the grip of the man’s hands on her shoulders and still see the flame in his dark eyes. But he hadn’t hurt her. And he said he wouldn’t do anything against her will except keep her locked up. She desperately wanted to believe him. But the basic fear sat like a rock in her stomach. He said he wasn’t going to hurt her, but he still could. He may not be ready to assault her, but he seemed determined to keep her prisoner. And his reasons struck her as irrational.
Insanity would explain his behavior. But what if he wasn’t insane, just cold and calculating, a leopard poised above, waiting for the perfect moment to leap and overwhelm his prey? What if, after he got what he wanted, he planned to kill her? Now more than ever, she had to get away. She had to get back to the closet in the empty room.
She turned on the lamp on her bedside table and picked up the leather journal. He had given her this particular book to read. Perhaps its contents would tell her more about his “objective” and more about who he was and why he had captured her.
The handwriting was elegant and precise.
Penmanship like this was no longer taught in schools, so Jamie deduced that this journal was written by a young woman who had been educated decades ago. The man’s mother? Or grandmother? Probably the latter, since the writing was infused with old-fashioned notions of submission and propriety. But certainly the writer was not the stepmother. These were not the words of a woman who had refused to “obey.”
Jamie took a deep breath when she came to: Every day, I shall prepare our home and my appearance before my husband comes home. I will take a few minutes to rest so I will be refreshed from housework. I will apply makeup and curl my hair. I will remember he has spent his day working hard and with others who make him tired and irritated. I promise to be light-hearted and charming when he comes through the door. If he needs a lift in his spirits, I will endeavor to provide it.
Jamie frowned a few pages later when she read: Obey! I must not shrink from the word even though it sounds harsh and unreasonable. Instead, I will ask myself if it is truly so difficult to obey him when he commands affection and tenderness. I must find a way to remind myself every day that obedience to my dear husband is Divine Will.
Jamie closed the journal. She understood the carvings on the wooden toilet seat covers. And she was beginning to understand just what was expected of her. If she’d been afraid he might kill her, the journal convinced her that, at some point, she might have to kill him.
Chapter 16
As I walked back from the committee meeting, the same argument bounced around my tired brain. We needed more time than the provost had given us. No matter what, we couldn’t discourage survivors from reporting crimes committed against them. That sort of suppression had gone on for much too long, and in too many cases, had cost good people years of sleepless nights and injured marriages.
Nor could we rush into a policy that denied the accused any chance of self-defense. Even if, most of the time, the survivors were truthful, we couldn’t foreclose the possibility that someone could be framed.
We needed more time. But we couldn’t wait too long. We had already waited too long.
Three people greeted me in my office.
“Wynan and I have decided to take you two hard-working women to dinner.” Joe kissed my cheek and Wynan and Nell stood together off to one side. Wynan nodded, his handsome features softened with a slight smile.
I think that was the first time I had seen him smile. I credited Nell for that. In contrast, Nell looked serious and gave me a wan grin as if to say she was making an effort to enjoy the idea of dinner.
“Great. Where are we going?” I said, still eyeing Nell who seemed miles away.
“We thought we’d try that new restaurant
down the street from your house,” said Joe.
“Good thought. We’ll leave the cars at my house and walk. I could use a stretch.”
“So could I,” said Nell, still looking dismal.
On the way, Nell and I walked together with Joe and Wynan behind us. I wanted to find out what was bothering her.
“Oh, this afternoon I had a bit of a run-in with George Weinstein,” she said. “He may be a senior tenured professor, but he always gives me heartburn.”
“Tell me about it. What was today’s problem?” I said, hoping it would be minor, but, judging by Nell’s demeanor, knowing it was not.
“First, he was angry because you were away at that meeting. And second he wanted me to give him a copy of Larry Coleman’s paper. The one Larry told you about. I gather George hadn’t read it, but today he wanted it.”
“Do you have that paper?”
“Yes. Larry gave me a copy for his personnel file. But I told George he should ask Larry. I don’t feel comfortable giving out professor’s stuff from their file.”
“And George was annoyed?”
“Annoyed hardly covers it. I got a ten-minute harangue on how my obligations were to the school and the entire faculty, not just the dean, and how my withholding Coleman’s paper was ‘way out of line,’ as he put it. I’m sure you’ll get an earful tomorrow.”
I felt my neck get warm. Damn George. Pompous, self-important George.
“I’ll deal with that bastard tomorrow. You are the assistant to the dean, Nell, and you don’t have to take that kind of crap from George or any of them.”
Nell patted my arm. “I know. My first responsibility is to you, and believe me, I like it that way.”
The restaurant was cool after the walk and several tables were already filled. Good sign.
We were seated in the back where we could talk, “privately,” as Joe had said to the hostess. We ordered drinks. No one spoke.
“Any word on that gray van?” asked Nell finally. I guessed Wynan had told her everything.
“I’m waiting for a report on the DMV search,” said Joe. “Maybe later this evening.”
We fell silent again until the waitress returned. We ordered food. Not much for any of us—salad and small plates. No strong appetites at the table. We fell silent again after the food arrived.
“It’s been too many days,” said Wynan, putting down his fork and taking a gulp of wine.
“That’s just conventional cop thinking,” said Joe. “Jamie could still be okay, even if she’s confined and can’t reach you.”
“You and I both know better. The longer a girl’s missing, the more likely she’s dead.”
“Oh. Surely not.” Nell’s hand was on his.
“Do you want to bring in the FBI? We can try that. Even without a ransom note or witnesses, we could ask for their help. My team has searched the area pretty thoroughly. At the very least, I can put out the Missing Persons and we all can start putting up posters.”
Wynan sighed. “I probably should have asked for all that sooner. But when the FBI comes in, they’ll take over and keep me out of the deal. That’ll drive me crazy.”
Joe’s cell phone buzzed and he took the call. “Right. We’ll be there in ten.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “That was my guy checking the DMV. He thinks he has a match for the partial plate and an old gray Ford van.”
“Go,” Nell and I said simultaneously.
Later, Nell and I waited in my living room. “I can’t go home without knowing,” she said.
“Then keep me company. I could use it.” I walked into the kitchen to make some coffee.
Nell followed and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “As long as we don’t talk about George and Larry. God, I am sick of the two of them.”
“Agreed. How about we talk about you and Wynan Congers?”
Nell blushed. “I haven’t had feelings like this for a long time. It’s a little dizzying.”
“But good?”
“Yes. Very good.” Nell glanced out the window. “After my husband died, I thought I would go to my grave without ever meeting another man who interested me.” Her gaze returned to me. “Thanks for being my friend as well as my boss. It’s good to have someone to talk to.”
Charlie left his spot by the kitchen door and went over to Nell. He put his head on her knee and she accepted his invitation to stroke his soft fur. “I used to have a dog like you,” Nell said to Charlie, who responded by licking her wrist. “I should get another one.”
“When it comes to love, dogs are even more reliable than men.”
“I know,” she said, scratching Charlie’s chest fur. “But being with a good man makes life ever so much richer. Don’t you think so?”
My chest tightened. “I do.”
Joe and Wynan came in a little after ten o’clock. Joe kept his jacket on and shoved his hands in his pockets. His green eyes were serious and his jaw was set. Wynan looked more tired than ever and barely made it into in a chair.
“The van was registered to an old ranch hand who lives in an apartment a few miles from here,” Joe said. “He didn’t like the two of us bothering him at night, and at first, didn’t respond to questions with more than a monosyllable. But Wynan charmed him and he agreed to show us the shed where he had kept the van.”
“Had kept?”
“Yep. He says he sold it for cash last month to some guy he described as white, tall, wearing work boots and jeans.”
“Our suspect,” said Wynan, breathing heavily. His shoulders came forward, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. Nell got up and went over and put her hands on his shoulders that were visibly shaking.
“Joe, did you get a name for the guy who bought the van?”
“No. The suspect paid cash when he bought the van from the old ranch hand. We checked and the van hasn’t shown up again on the DMV records, so that means he never registered it. We figure the man bought the van for some secret purpose and never intended to have it found.”
“Do you think the old ranch hand you interviewed is colluding with the man in the boots?”
Wynan shook his head. “We don’t think so. Once he realized we were investigating a possible kidnapping, he seemed perfectly willing to tell us as much as he could remember about the suspect and the van. He said the man looked like he might have been a member of a family called Lassiter. The old man said his late aunt had been friends with a Lassiter family years ago. She used to go to revival meetings out in the boonies somewhere, and one of the Lassiters would drive her to and from. The old ranch hand said the man who purchased his van had looked like that driver. So we have just spent an hour checking county computer records for anyone named Lassiter. Nothing.”
I didn’t like the look on Joe’s face.
Jamie
Jamie awoke and heard her bedroom door open earlier than usual. It was still dark out. Her whole body tensed.
“Get up,” said the man. “I have to leave early today.”
She dressed hurriedly, and just as she was about to leave the room, picked up the leather journal and tucked it under her arm.
She placed the journal next to where she sat for breakfast and went to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and milk and butter.
“Have you been reading it?” He sat at his place, watching her put the food on the counter.
“It’s interesting. Who wrote it?” She cracked eggs into a bowl and tried to sound casual.
“My grandmother. What’s interesting?”
“Her handwriting is beautiful, but her thinking seems very old-fashioned. More like something from the nineteenth century than even the early twentieth. And, of course, her sentiments wouldn’t work at all today.”
He coughed and remained silent for a moment. “That’s the problem with women of your generation. You have no respect for the values
we used to hold sacred.”
“Like slavish obedience to men?”
“I wouldn’t call it slavish.”
“I would. That’s what I am now. Your slave.” She turned from the stove and faced him, her hands on her hips. “I’m even the appropriate color, aren’t I?”
She could see the redness rising from his shirt up to his chin. He was breathing heavily and his fingers curled into fists. Oh, God. She had gone too far. But she realized some of her fear had been overcome by anger. She had to try, she had to challenge this man, she had to know more about his thinking so she would have a better shot at persuading him to let her out of his awful house. If he turned out to be insane, then she had to know that.
The man seemed to be struggling for self-control. At length he looked up at her. His voice was hoarse and his face gleamed. “I’m not a racist. My stepmother was African-American and I loved her.”
She turned back to the stove and poured the egg mixture into a skillet. Neither of them spoke. She served the food and sat quietly across from him. He ate without looking at her.
She tried again. “You may not be a racist, but you are an enslaver. You lock me up every day, you force me to work for you against my will and with no compensation.”
“I don’t mean to enslave you.”
“Then let me go. Unlock the door.”
He stood up and walked away from her and stood with his back to her facing the barred kitchen window. The sun was up and the light played against his hair, illuminating the gray strands among the brown. “I can’t let you go. You’ll…you’ll leave me.” His voice choked on the last phrase.
Perhaps he was not going to use physical force, but neither was he going to free her. He wanted her. For what? Sex, perhaps. More than that. Submission. He wanted her to want him, to want to be with him, to want to obey him. And as she stared at the back of his bowed head and his broad heaving shoulders, her anger turned to a new kind of fear returning to the pit of her stomach. He wanted her to be his for a long time.
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 33
