I smiled, but felt raunchy about it.
Next time?
There won’t be a next time, fellows. You’re probably all in jail by now.
Rush’s program broke for news, weather, and a load of commercials. I sat at the table and stared at the radio, listening, hardly daring to breathe.
The news at the top of the hour regulary covered major late-breaking stories on the international, national, state and local levels.
For a local story, half a dozen homeless guys cannibalizing one of their pals under a campus bridge ought to qualify.
There was no mention of it.
At six minutes after eleven, the break ended and Rush came back.
I gaped at the radio.
How could they not cover a story like that?
All sorts of possibilities swirled through my mind: the cops had kept quiet about it (possibly to avoid feaking out the good citizens of Willmington); nobody had been sent to the scene in response to Eileen’s call; she hadn’t actually talked to a 911 operator; the cops had gone to the wrong bridge; or they’d gone to the correct bridge, but found no mutilated body, no evidence of murder.
Another possibility: a couple of cops might’ve gone to the correct bridge and gotten ambushed by the trolls. I strongly doubted that one, though. The dispatcher would’ve known where they went. If they failed to report in, all sorts of back-up would’ve poured into the area.
The news story then would’ve been enormous.
So what is going on? I wondered.
I had a couple of hours before my Shakespeare seminar, so I decided to head for campus early and do some looking around.
It was a wonderful October day, chilly and fresh, sunny, the air carrying a scent of woodsmoke. I wore jeans and a chamois shirt, my Yankees cap and sunglasses. The cap and sunglasses made me feel like a clicbé. They did, however, conceal some of my injuries.
Most of the people I passed on my way to campus and then through the quad paid no attention to me: they were hurrying toward urgent destinations, or ambling along and chit-chatting with friends, or dwelling deep in their own thoughts of glory, disgrace, nooky, or what have you. A few of them noticed me and nodded. I nodded and smiled in return.
Walking through the campus, I looked for signs that an alarming story was on the loose. I saw only the usual. Some students and faculty bopped along eagerly. Others seemed blasé. This one looked frantic, that one smug, this one blissful, that one petulant, this one cheerfully confident.
Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be going on.
Then Stanley Jones came striding my way. He was a fellow English major, so we’d been in several classes together. I’d even visited his apartment a few times last year when we were collaborating on a project about Edgar Allan Poe. He lived on the same block as Kirkus. Therefore, he couldn’t reach campus without crossing Division Street.
As he approached, I said, ‘Hey there, Stanley.’
Though he’d been looking glum, he raised his head and smiled when he heard my voice. ‘Hey, Ed.’
‘How goes it?’
‘SOS.’ (Translation: ‘Same old shit.’) Then his eyebrows flew up. ‘What happened to you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You get stomped or something?’
‘“My head is bloody, but unbowed.”’
‘Shit, man.’
‘Actually, I crashed and burned playing Frisbee yesterday. Ran into a tree.’
‘It messed you up, man.’
‘You should’ve seen the tree.’
Stanley laughed and shook his head. Then he frowned. ‘Hey, tough about Holly.’
I hadn’t expected that. It felt like a heat bomb exploding in my chest. ‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
‘Really sucks.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah.’
Grimacing, he said, ‘But you know what they say: can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.’
I’d heard it before, but I laughed a little anyway. Then I asked, ‘Who says so?’
Which got a pretty good laugh from Stanley.
‘Right on,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I gotta haul ass over to the library. See you later, huh?’
‘Right.’
‘Watch out for low-flying aspens.’
‘Good one, Stan.’
He continued on his way.
Tough about Holly.
Thanks for the reminder, pal.
He was just trying to be nice, I told myself. But I felt the loss of her all over again for a while. It might’ve lasted a lot longer, but the bench came into sight.
The bench, nearly hidden among the trees, was where Eileen and I had left our books last night before descending the embankment and going under the bridge.
Give it a quick look, make sure we didn’t forget anything.
I started toward it, then changed my mind.
I’ve gotta act like everyone else. The worst thing I can do is draw attention to myself.
I stayed on the walkway and continued striding along as if I had someplace to go. Someplace east of campus. Someplace on the other side of Division Street.
I looked straight ahead. I looked to my right. I looked up and down. But I didn’t look to the left.
Not until I stood at the curb of Division Street.
Before crossing, a person is supposed to look both ways.
I did so. And when I finally turned my head to the left, I saw not a single police car.
No cars or vans or trucks or vehicles of any kind at all were stopped on the bridge or anywhere near it.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I saw Eileen once that afternoon. I was on my way to Shakespeare, climbing the stairs toward the second floor of the English building when she came trotting down the stairs, her books and binders hugged to her chest.
She was indeed wearing my university sweatshirt and corduroy trousers. No hat, no sunglasses. She’d made no attempt at all to hide her injuries.
She had one black eye. She wore a small bandage above her left eyebrow, another on her right cheekbone, another on her jaw. She had a swollen, split lip, a bruise on her chin and a bruise on her left cheekbone.
When we converged on the stairway, others were above and below us. She met my eyes, flashed me a quick smile and trotted on down. I felt a soft puff of breeze as she passed me.
I wanted to turn around and watch her a while longer, but resisted the urge.
The afternoon edition of the local newspaper mentioned nothing about a murder under the Division Street bridge or anywhere else in town.
The five o’clock news said nothing about any killing whatsoever in the peaceful community of Willmington.
What gives? I wondered. It did happen, didn’t it?
At about seven o‘clock that evening, I was studying at my kitchen table when the telephone rang. I jumped. My heart lurched. Frightened, I hurried to the phone and picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, honey.’ Eileen’s voice.
Honey. ‘Hi. How’s it going?’
‘I don’t know. Not bad, considering. Strange, though. I’m glad I at least got to see you today.’
‘Same here. You had my clothes on.’
‘Hope you don’t mind.’
‘I like it.’
‘They’re nice and comfy. My own things are all messed up ... what’s left of them. I threw them in your hamper, by the way.’
‘Fine. Maybe I’ll do a wash tonight.’
‘Do you know how to get bloodstains out?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Maybe I’d better take care of it.’
‘Coming over?’ I asked.
‘Not tonight. Did you read my note?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think the less we’re seen together, the better. I mean, we’re both pretty messed up. Our faces.’
‘What’ve you been telling people?’
‘My boyfriend beat me up.’
‘Huh?’
She
laughed. It sounded good. ‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been saying Kirkus tried to bugger me.’
She laughed even harder. ‘Oh, that’s awful, Eddie. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Oh. I am, I am. What I actually said is that I ran into a tree chasing a Frisbee.’
‘That’s pretty good. In my story, I fell out of a tree.’
‘What were you doing in a tree?’
‘A kid’s kite got stuck in it. Over at the park? So I climbed up to set it free for him.’
‘That was very heroic of you.’
‘I know. I’m a wonderful person.’
‘We both have a tree motif,’ I pointed out.
‘Great minds,’ she said.
There was a pause.
‘So,’ she said, ‘do you suppose anyone’s listening in?’
‘Not likely.’
‘Not that it matters. I mean, we didn’t really do anything wrong. Right?’
‘Right,’ I said.
If you don’t count me probably killing a guy. Plus a small conspiracy to destory the evidence.
‘Have you noticed,’ she asked, ‘that nobody seems to know anything about it?’
‘I noticed, all right.’
“‘Tis passing strange.” ’
‘More than “passing.”’
‘Maybe the cops thought my call was a prank.’
‘Maybe that’s it.’
‘I mean, I’ve thought about this a lot,’ she said, ‘and nothing makes sense. I think they either didn’t send any cops to the bridge or the cops showed up but couldn’t find anything wrong.’
‘A good chance it’s one or the other,’ I said.
‘You know ... ? Shit! This isn’t good. I wanted those guys in jail, you know?’
‘Me, too.’
‘That bridge ... I go across it every day ... two, four, six times a day. And at night. Are they under there every night?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I took the long way around to get home this afternoon. I mean, I don’t want to walk across that bridge anymore. But they might be under any bridge, you know? And where are they during the day?’
‘Wandering around begging for money, I suppose.’
Eileen was silent for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘What’re we going to do?’
‘Well, they don’t seem to be grabbing people off the streets. We would’ve heard about it.’
‘We haven’t heard about this,’ she said.
‘I know, but the guy last night was one of their own. If a student got snatched, we’d never hear the end of it.’
‘That’s true, I guess.’
‘So I don’t think we need to worry too much. As far as we know, the only reason they ... bothered that guy was because he was already dead.’
‘If he was dead.’
‘Yeah.’ It was nice to think that maybe I hadn’t killed him.
I’ll never know for sure.
‘So what should we do about them?’ Eileen asked.
‘Stay out from under bridges.’
‘That’s a given. But do you think we should try calling the police again?’
‘If you want to. I don’t see much point in it, though. We called last night when it mattered. If they didn’t take care of it then ... maybe we oughta just figure they missed their chance. At this point, we’re probably better off if they never find out about last night.’
‘You think we should just stay out of it?’
‘Pretty much. It was one thing, you know, when they had a chance of catching the trolls red-handed. That won’t happen now. Too much time’s gone by.’
‘They probably scattered right after we got away,’ Eileen said.
‘Right. And by now, there’s been time for them to go back and clean the place up.’
What if they left the remains of the body, cleaned up after themselves but left Eileen’s shirt and panties there for the cops to find?
Would they be sneaky enough to do a thing like that?
‘I just hate to leave it this way,’ Eileen said. ‘What if somebody else goes under the bridge like we did, and they end up getting ... you know, attacked by those people?’
Something suddenly occurred to me. ‘You know what? “Those people” will probably stay away from there for months. They know they were seen.’
‘That’s true,’ Eileen said. ‘I bet you’re right.’
‘Wanta go under and look around?’
‘Oh, sure, the very moment hell freezes over.’
I wondered if I should go under just to see what they’d left behind. The idea of it terrified me.
Not a chance, I thought.
But I should.
I won’t.
‘Not to change the subject,’ I said, ‘but how long do you want to stay away from me?’
‘I don’t want to stay away from you at all. I just think it’ll be the wise thing to do. Don’t you?’
‘I guess so.’
In a voice lower than before, she said, ‘I already miss you.’
‘I miss you, too.’
‘We’ll have to just be phone friends for a while.’
‘It’s not the same,’ I said.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘In a way, it is. It was my big idea to go under the bridge last night. If we hadn’t done that, none of this would be happening.’
‘It was worth it.’
She made a quiet laugh. ‘Think so?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’re so ...’ The way her voice went, I knew she was starting to cry.
‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘Everything’s fine. We’ll just stay apart for a few days ... till our faces heal up, right?’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘Then we’ll be back together and everything will be fine and we’ll stay out from under bridges forever.’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘In the meantime,’ I said, ‘this’ll give us a chance to catch up on our studies.’
She sniffed. ‘And our sleep.’
‘Exactly.’
By the time we hung up, we were both still in agreement on the two major issues: we wouldn’t give the police another call and we would stay away from each other for the next several days.
I stared at the phone and sighed.
I missed Eileen badly. I missed the sound of her voice and the look of her and the feel of her. I wanted her here in my apartment. Sitting on the sofa with me. Sipping wine. Wearing maybe my robe and nothing at all underneath it.
But since that was not to be ...
My heart racing with excitement, I went into my bedroom and set my alarm clock for 11:00 p.m. Then I shut off the light, took off my clothes and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold at first, then warm.
For a while, I felt too agitated to sleep. Too many thoughts, some exciting, some unpleasant, were swirling through my mind.
Calm down, I told myself. Just settle down and fall asleep and eleven’ll be here before you know it.
Chapter Thirty
I slept hard. When the alarm blared at eleven o’clock, I shut it off and considered getting out of bed.
Forget it, I thought. I need a full night of sleep. I need several full nights of sleep.
Anyway, it’s too dangerous out there.
‘And every fiend, as in a dream,
Doth stalk the lonesome night.’
I didn’t know where the lines came from, but they sounded like Coleridge.
Eileen might be able to identify them.
She’s not here.
That’s the point, I realized. That’s why I set the alarm, to wake me up to go wandering, to go looking for the mystery girl.
Do I really want to do that? It’s bad out there.
Too damn many fiends. I just need to go back to sleep.
Go out tomorrow night. Better yet, don’t. Who needs it?
If I keep going out, they’ll get me.
But if I don’t go out, I’ll never see her again.
I didn’t see her last night. I won’t see her tonight, either, if I stay in where it’s nice and safe.
Suddenly, sleepy no more, excited and frightened instead, I climbed out of bed. My room was chilly. I shivered as I hurried into my clothes.
Downstairs, the Fishers’ door stood open.
Oh, great.
What am I, their entertainment?
I ought to move out, I thought. Find myself a place where I can come and go without a couple of spies keeping track of my every movement.
Face forward, I raised my hand in greeting and walked quickly past their doorway. On my way by, I heard Andy Kaufman doing his Latka voice. A Taxi rerun.
When their doorway was behind me, I picked up my pace. I didn’t look back. As I turned the corner to the foyer, however, my peripheral vision picked up someone back near their room. A Fisher - I couldn’t tell which - was watching me from the doorway. He or she didn’t speak.
Take a picture, I thought. It lasts longer.
I hurried through the foyer, worried that the Fisher might ask me to come back.
No call to go rushing off. Come on back and chat a spell.
Thanks, but no thanks.
I got outside. Even as I put space between myself and the building, I imagined being called back to their door.
Say, what’re you up to, going out at this hour? Say, what happened to your face there?
‘None of your business, folks,’ I muttered.
You shouldn’t oughta go off roaming by yourself this time of night, I imagined the old man warning me. Ain’t safe. That’s when all the fiends come out, you know, and they’re lookin’ to give you the works.
Thanks for the warning, I thought. You’re telling me nothing I don’t already know.
In truth, I’d already taken certain fiends into consideration, choosing a route that would keep me west of Division Street until I was well north of the bridge.
I would not only stay away from Division until I was past the bridge, but also past the sorority house. I didn’t need memories of Holly inflicting themselves on me. Nor did I need Eileen to look out a window and see me walking by.
The road I followed northward was Fairmont Street. Like Division, it passed over the Old Mill Stream. Its bridge looked almost the same as the other, but older and shabbier. Four light posts were built into the parapets, two on each side of the street. They had old-fashioned white globes over their bulbs. All the globes were intact, but three were dark.
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