Red Queen's Run

by Morris, Bourne

  Joe’s eyes twinkled and he shifted in his chair.

  “And what would you have written about my body?”

  I told him what I had planned to write about his shoulders and his back and his mouth. It was getting harder for me to sit still and keep hugging my knees.

  A wicked smile creased his face. “Are those the only parts of my body you think about?”

  I felt bolder. “No. Not the only parts. You should never have slept with a journalist because, one of these days, I will figure out how to describe that particular part of you I most desire.” I could feel myself blushing but I kept on. “Suffice, it’s the best—and the first instrument of its kind—that has ever made me come practically every time.”

  Now Joe was out of the chair. “Practically every time? How often have I failed?” He was standing over me. He leaned down, unlocked my hands from my knees, and pulled me to my feet.

  “I’m going to take off my shirt.” He was directly in front of me, inches away.

  “That would be nice.” I locked onto those dark, now smoky green eyes. He removed his shirt and I stared at the hair on his chest, daring myself to put my fingers into it.

  “And now I’m going to take off your shirt.”

  “Oh, I love this part,” I said, as he reached for the buttons and I shivered at the touch of his hands on me.

  “What you just referred to as my instrument is tuning up, so to speak.”

  “It’s a grand instrument, Detective Morgan.” My shirt fell to the floor. He removed my bra and his hands rested on my breasts.

  “And getting grander by the minute.” He picked me up and held me in his arms. “You like the music?” he said into my hair.

  “It’s classic, Detective Morgan.”

  He carried me to the bed. “‘1812 Overture’ coming up,” he said, and an ache grew at the base of my belly. Then our clothes were off and we were on the bed and his hands held my arms over my head and his mouth began its journey from my neck all the way down to the rest of me.

  That night a full moon shone on the trees outside the cabin window. The moon was so bright you could see all the tall evergreens clearly, their huge branches laden with white. I felt safe. Even with Henry’s killer still unidentified, I felt far away from the apprehension that accompanied me every day in Landry.

  As I lay in bed looking at the window, I noticed a shape by the windowsill. Charlie was sitting on the floor looking out the window, too. Carefully sitting up, I got out of bed without waking Joe and walked over to stand next to Charlie.

  “Lovely isn’t it?” I said to the dog that leaned into my bare leg. “It’s so bright reflecting off the snow we could take a walk without needing a flashlight.”

  “It’s really cold out there,” came a hushed voice from the bed. I turned to see Joe with his arms around the pillow. The moonlight turned his face to silver.

  “Stand there for a minute. God, what a gorgeous body you have.” He leaned up on his elbow. “I think I missed your body almost as much as your blazing intellect.”

  “Smart ass.” I moved to the side of the bed. He put his hand between my legs.

  “Come back to bed, beautiful. We’ll go for a walk in the morning when the sun is up.”

  I crawled back into bed and put my head on his chest. I twirled his chest hair between my fingers. I loved the smell of him, musky and salty and male. “What made you change your mind?” I said into his chest.

  “About what?”

  I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. “You know what. About us being together before the investigation was over. About not wanting to feel vulnerable.”

  “Oh, that,” he said combing my hair with his fingers. His eyes darkened. “After the captain took me off the case, I decided to stop going crazy staying away from you. I decided to risk vulnerability.”

  “I hate being away from you—I feel incomplete.”

  “Me, too. But I meant it about not being objective when I’m with you. I still worry I’ll miss something important, not see or hear something that could put you in danger.” He kissed me. “I want to protect you. But when I’m with you, especially when I am making love to you, the Iranian army could attack the house and I wouldn’t hear anything but that little growling sound you make.”

  “Hmm,” I snuggled into his neck. “No Iranian army in Graeagle at this time of year,” I said. “Little growling sound? Want to hear it again?” and I reached for him just as he reached for me.

  On the drive back to Landry, Joe told me more about his police work in Chicago and why he was glad he had returned to Landry.

  “I like the police work in Nevada and I like the people. I like my captain. He’s very smart and much more reasonable than my superior in Chicago.”

  “Did the captain really ask you off the case?”

  “Yes. But not forever. Not because he was angry with me or even because of my spending time with you, but because my team and I weren’t getting anywhere. And I think he was right. A new set of eyes may be a good thing for this investigation.”

  “What’s the new team concentrating on?”

  “Trying to identify the tall man who entered the journalism building on the Sunday Henry died.”

  George. I was almost sure. I told Joe about my last conversation with George. Joe looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should be there when you give Weinstein his evaluation next week.”

  “Joe, you can’t be there every time I have to have a difficult conversation with a faculty member.”

  “I don’t mean in your office,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I could just be in Nell’s office, visiting or pretending to read something.”

  “Oh yeah, a bodyguard no one would notice.” I smiled back.

  “Think about it,” he said.

  Chapter 28

  By the Friday following our weekend at the cabin in Graeagle, I had convinced Joe I could talk to George Weinstein about his annual evaluation by myself. Joe did not need to be in the building. Nell would be in her office next to mine and she would call Joe’s cellphone if needed.

  I had finished all my faculty evaluation meetings except the ones with George and Max and all of them had gone well. Even Edwin had been calm but then, thanks to Henry, Edwin’s evaluation was stellar and he was due for a sizable merit raise. He had patted his thin, sandy hair as he sat in the chair in front of me. He was courteous and attentive and it occurred to me that, since the crisis caused by Simon’s letter, Edwin had been cool but polite.

  “Thank you, Meredith. This is most reassuring,” he said. He was dressed in a pale blue sweater and gray slacks. Trim as ever, he looked slightly thinner as if he had lost some weight. As he rose to leave my office, I had one last question: “Edwin, the letter you and George wrote defending the school against Simon, did you write it together?”

  “I wrote the basic letter. George edited,” he said. “I was the one who had the data we needed in my office and mine was the better institutional memory.”

  That figured. Edwin was not only the better writer, he was probably the instigator of the response. For once, George just went along.

  Nell came in to say Max was out sick with flu and would probably be gone for several days. I was relieved. George was due in my office at 4:30. I inhaled, tried to focus on the joy of seeing Joe later that evening. George was on time and tense as a cat—a big cat, stalking prey. He sat uneasily in the chair opposite my desk. He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the collar. His belly strained against the fabric. I could see sweat beads on the side of his neck.

  I handed him a copy of the evaluation I had written and watched him read it. After a moment he looked up at me, his eyes bright and narrowed. “My overall evaluation says my performance has been satisfactory but not excellent,” he said between his teeth. Excellent is the grade required to be eligible for a merit raise.

  I brac
ed myself, pressing my knees together and glad I was behind a desk. “Yes, that’s so, George. If you look at the paragraph dealing with your research, you’ll see why you didn’t get an ‘excellent’ this year.”

  A sound emerged from George’s mouth as he forced air out between his lips. “My research was my book and, as I specifically told you, Meredith, I fired my publisher so I haven’t published this year. But I intend to do so. You’ve read my book, correct?”

  “I have, George, and I think your publisher was justified in asking you to make revisions.”

  “What the hell do you know about my topic?” The sweat beads on his neck now seemed to have migrated to his chest, making his shirt damp.

  Keeping my voice low and even, I said, “I may not know about your topic, but I do know good writing when I see it and your writing needs work before anyone will publish your book.”

  George was on his feet, his face beet red. “Says you, Meredith Solaris. Says you. What about my teaching?”

  “As the evaluation reads, George, your teaching has been very good.” My stomach muscles contracted but I kept control.

  “What about my contributions to the school, my letter to the deans to refute Simon, my vote for that twit Larry Coleman’s tenure?”

  “Larry Coleman deserved tenure in spite of all your efforts to prevent it. As for Simon’s letter, I doubt he ever would have written what he did if you and Edwin had not encouraged his mischief and his rants against Henry.”

  George sat down heavily. His voice still menacing. “I deserve better than this Red. I have given my life to this school and I deserve to be acknowledged. I have been a significant contributor.”

  “And you have also been a bully, George. And a huge problem, not just for me but also for Henry and several of the others. You started the argument over the curriculum to get back at Henry, not because you truly disagreed.”

  George opened his mouth but no sound came out.

  I went on. “Your unending diatribes in faculty meetings were boring and unproductive. Your attacks on Larry Coleman were unconscionable.”

  George stood up and stared at me. His huge hands made fists and I thought about calling for Nell. I pressed my hands down on my desk to conceal any trembling.

  “I’ll go to Stoddard about this,” George said between clenched teeth.

  “Stoddard might relish the chance to tell you what he thinks of your behavior.” My voice was steel.

  “I’ll file a grievance.”

  “Take your best shot, George. The faculty will not support you.”

  His breathing was heavier. “Goddamn it, no woman has ever...”

  “Maybe it’s time one did.”

  He stood, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce.

  I stood up and glared back. “You don’t deserve an excellent evaluation this year, George. You barely deserve the satisfactory I gave you. And you most certainly don’t deserve a merit raise.”

  He looked as if I had thrown hot coffee in his face. His shoulders slumped. His swaying stopped. “I’ll mow you down, Red,” he croaked, falling back into his chair.

  I cocked my head to one side. I was ready for battle.

  “Take your evaluation and go home, George. Change your shirt and change your attitude. You are a good teacher and, if you work on your book, I am sure you’ll do better next year.”

  He sat for several moments twisting the paper in his hands, staring down at the rug. The cage door slammed shut. Despair replaced anger and, suddenly, I knew he was no longer dangerous. George the loud, George the belligerent was now a scared, heavy-set lump in a chair in front of me.

  He rose awkwardly and walked slowly to the door, an old man with a bad back. He opened the door and stood looking at me, his face moist, knees locked together and bent like a child who had to urinate. And then he turned and left.

  I was exhausted but triumphant. I knew at that moment that George may have been angry with Henry but he wouldn’t have had the guts to kill him. More than that, I felt certain, for all his threats, he wasn’t going to hurt me. Under the bullying and bluster, George Weinstein was a coward. He knew it and I knew it.

  I sat still, savoring my new insight, and wondered: if not George, who had been with Henry on November 6th?

  As I walked out of the journalism building to my car, I saw the small green noses of daffodils poking up in the dark ground next to the parking lot. Driving home through the dusk, I saw a few more bits of green scattered on the straw colored front lawns, and, at a stop sign, the tall branches of a lone forsythia. In a week the forsythia would start to bud and, in a month, it would be gold. Maybe, by the time it bloomed, we would know what had happened to Henry Brooks and who had made it happen.

  As I sipped hot coffee the following Saturday morning, I realized that, in spite of difficulties at the school, at home I was reasonably content.

  Joe called or came over two or three times a week. He fixed the faucet in the powder room. He rebuilt the trellis for the rose bushes that would start to green up the first of May. Charlie was delirious. Which may explain why, several days after Joe and I began to see each other again, on a Saturday morning when I was in the kitchen and Joe had gone to the bakery for croissants, Charlie heard Joe’s car and raced out the kitchen door the moment I opened it.

  It wasn’t Joe’s car, but Charlie kept heading across the lawn. I didn’t see so much as hear what happened. The squealing of brakes. The dog’s anguished howl. I raced out of the kitchen and tore across the lawn to the street. Charlie lay on his side. His front right leg was gashed and blood was all over his yellow fur.

  The street was empty. Whoever had struck the dog had driven away without stopping, leaving Charlie to die. Coward. God, I was sick of cowards.

  I knelt down beside the whimpering dog. He was breathing heavily but his chest seemed uninjured. His leg was a mess and his pain was obvious. I patted his head. “Stay calm, Charlie. I love you. You’ll be all right.”

  Another car pulled up and the car door banged. Joe was kneeling beside me, his hands under Charlie’s body. He lifted Charlie into his arms and carried him to the back seat of his car.

  “Call the vet. I’ll see you there,” was all he said.

  Half an hour later we sat in the waiting room of the veterinary hospital. Charlie had been taken into surgery before I arrived.

  “I told them he was my dog,” said Joe. “I didn’t want to have to wait for you.”

  “He is your dog.”

  Our dog. No, at that moment, he was our first-born child and he was badly hurt. Neither of us spoke again until the veterinarian came out.

  “He’s going to live,” the vet said. “I’m less sure about the leg. I’ve done everything possible to clean it up, but it’s a deep wound and may infect. If that happens, we may have to operate. I may even have to amputate. I’ll know more in a day or so.”

  That night Joe stayed over.

  He slept fitfully. I didn’t sleep at all. All I could remember was how I had curled up with Charlie the night I had gone to Joe’s apartment. We held each other for three days while Charlie was in the hospital.

  On the third day, we brought Charlie home in a dog crate. His leg was heavily bandaged and he wore a large white collar around his neck to keep him from fussing with the wound. His golden fur was dulled. Protest lit his brown eyes. He would spend the next week collared until his leg healed enough to let him walk around. Joe and I took turns caring for him. Sadie came over to help when we both had to work. Elaine got a babysitter for her children so she could spell Sadie. The next Saturday, Vince showed up at the door to help Joe give Charlie a sponge bath. Charlie began to heal. His gold shined again. The vet said he would walk with a limp for a while, but he would walk on four legs.

  Charlie was the tie that binds.

  The doorbell woke us. It was 6:30 on a
Saturday morning and still dark outside. “I’ll see who it is,” said Joe, grumbling and getting out of bed. “It’s too early to be good news.” He grabbed his pants and a tee shirt and headed downstairs. The doorbell rang again, insistent.

  I got up and went for my robe and slippers. As I padded down the stairs, I heard a woman’s voice talking to Joe. It sounded tearful.

  The voice belonged to Celeste. Her clothes were disheveled and her face swollen with a large bruise under her right eye.

  I had hoped Celeste Cummings would stay sober, earn a degree in history, and graduate with honors. So much for hope. I hurried to her and put my arms around her. “Oh, Celeste. What...”

  She clung to me. “Max found me, Dean Solaris.” Her voice was low and depressed. “He found out where I lived. He came to my apartment last night.”

  “Were you alone?” said Joe and I simultaneously.

  “Yes, my roommate is away for the weekend.” She went limp in my arms. I led her to the couch in the living room. Joe went for a glass of water and returned.

  Celeste looked first at Joe and then me. “Max was in pretty bad shape when he showed up last night. He’d been drinking a lot and hadn’t shaved in days.”

  There was another pause. Joe and I kept still, waiting while she sipped the water.

  “So I cooked him some food and got him to drink some coffee.”

  “And?”

  “And, he was much too drunk to drive so I showed him to the couch so he could lie down. He passed out almost immediately and started snoring. I went into my bedroom and, after a while, when I could still hear him snoring, I went to bed.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I woke up. It was about five this morning and I heard a noise. I put on my robe and went out into the living room. Max had found a bottle of my roommate’s vodka in the kitchen. It was on the coffee table in front of the couch and most of it was gone. He was drunk again. I should have known better but I yelled at him about drinking and wrecking his life and damn near wrecking mine and...and he started to cry.”