The vice president of Harvard University walked to the microphone with a smile stretched across her face. With a nod to the dramatic, she paused in front of the microphone and surveyed the crowd one last time. Over five thousand students filled the vast majority of the Yard in matching red and black robes, offset by twice that many proud friends and family members pressed in behind them.
“Mr. Sheriff, please give us closure!” she trumpeted into the microphone, the crowd before her breaking into enthusiastic applause as the Sheriff of Middlesex County rose from his seat and walked stiff-legged across the stage to join her. Dressed in an old-time tuxedo and top hot, thick streaks of sweat lined his face as he leaned on his long, black cane, a golden orb gleaming from the top of it.
Stopping just in front of her, the sheriff dutifully lifted and struck down the cane three times. The base of it made a clacking sound against the stage, echoing out through the microphone and across the grounds. Drawing his breath in and dropping his voice several octaves, he leaned forward and called out, “I hereby bring these proceedings to a close!”
The words barely made their way out before a mighty roar engulfed them. At once, a sea of graduation caps rose into the air, blotting the sun from the sky. They hung suspended for several seconds before falling back to the ground, raining down on a throng of young adults hugging, laughing, and smiling.
Among them was Thorn Byrd.
Standing in the warm sunshine he turned in a slow circle, taking it all in, an eye in a storm of delirium. He watched as students grouped up and smiled for pictures, as grad students lit cigars and passed them between one another, as parents rushed forward and hugged their children in delight.
In total he gave the scene one full minute before reaching his fill and pulling away from the crowd, out past Memorial Church and toward the opposite end of the Yard. Around him he could hear classmates calling to one another and see them smiling for cameras, but he paid them no mind.
Instead, one of the largest men on campus slipped through the crowd as if it weren’t even there. By the time he reached the wrought iron gate marking the center of campus his cap and gown were already stripped away, nothing more than a tight ball beneath his arm.
Head down, Thorn cut a path toward his room on the outer edge of campus. Ambling slowly, he stretched the fifteen minute walk to twenty before finding the satellite building of his dorm and climbing the three floors of stairs. Upon entering, he dumped the cap and gown into an armchair and flopped his long frame down across the couch.
Letting out a long exhalation, he lay motionless, kneading the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The silence of the room settled in around him and, without opening his eyes, he pursed his lips together and whistled a soft note.
On cue, the sound of toenails clattering on a hardwood floor beckoned toward him.
A reflexive smile traced Thorn’s face as he dropped his hand and rotated on the couch, ready to receive his English bulldog as she padded out from the bedroom. Normally a font of playful exuberance, the smile faded from Thorn’s face as he watched her timid approach, her body hunched, hindquarters set low to the ground.
“Abigail, what’s wrong?” Thorn asked, raising himself to a seated position. Already he could feel his pulse rise a beat within him, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, body poised to receive his canine charge.
In measured steps Abigail shuffled toward him, keeping her eyes to the ground as she came to a stop, her front paw resting atop his foot. She raised her soft brown eyes toward him to reveal a thin tendril of blood running from her left nostril before looking away, her response seeming to be equal parts embarrassment and shame.
“What the hell?” Thorn said, his eyes narrowing. He strode into the bathroom and threw a quick glance around before stepping into the bedroom where a splash of white offset against his dark green comforter caught his gaze.
A single white note card, printed in simple script.
Observatory. Top floor. Now.
Chapter Five
Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel Page 6
