At Risk

by Judith E. French

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said.

  “See you around.”

  “Jack. Wait!” There was a soft click as he hung up the receiver.

  Liz curled up on the bed and hugged the feather pillow. She didn’t know if she could deal with Jack Rafferty on top of Tracy’s murder. Jack was a part of her life that she’d thought she’d put behind her. He was the reason she’d almost refused the position at Somerville, and it was because of Jack that she and her only sister ignored each other except for cheery cards on holidays.

  The Raffertys were watermen, commercial crabbers and fishermen. When Liz’s dad had been sober, he had captained a boat for Jack’s father. The families had been friends and enemies for as long as Liz could remember. But when she’d become a teenager, her dad had threatened to shoot Jack and his brother George if they came near his daughters. He always said that the pair of them would end up dead or in jail, and he wasn’t far from wrong. George was doing ten to fifteen for running cocaine up the Delaware Bay on one of the Rafferty fishing boats, and Jack had just gotten out of jail.

  Jack calling her . . . after all these years.

  She and Jack had been an item the summer she’d turned seventeen. They’d been hot for each other until the romance came to an end when he dumped her for her sister Crystal. God, had it been that long since she’d spoken to him?

  The first haze of a migraine flashed a rainbow of colors in her head. She thought longingly of the bottle of Scotch gathering dust in the kitchen cupboard. A drink might be what she needed to stave off the headache, she thought as she padded down the back stairs to the kitchen in her T-shirt and Jockey hi-cuts. Considering what she’d been through in the last twenty-four hours, maybe she deserved a double.

  She had her foot on the first rung of the stepstool and was reaching for the cupboard’s wooden latch when common sense took over. Rule #1: Never drink alone. Rule #2: Never drink because you need one. Rule #3: Alcohol is a waste of calories that could be used for chocolate.

  Muttering under her breath, Liz shoved the stool back in front of the fireplace and fished two Excedrin Migraines out of the bottle in the cupboard. She was washing the tablets down with a glass of chocolate milk when the phone rang again.

  Liz answered with trepidation, but this time she was rewarded by her daughter’s voice. “Hi, Moms! What’s up? Don’t tell me you’ve got a boyfriend.”

  “No such luck.” Liz licked the chocolate off her upper lip and sank into the cushions of an oversized rocking chair.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  Liz wondered where to start.

  “Moms?”

  “No, I’m good.” Darkening Katie’s world with the horror of Tracy’s murder seemed as foolish as trying to dilute her own worries in a glass of Scotch. “Just missing you.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “You sound a little weird.”

  “I’m fine.” Lying to Katie had to be better than scaring her half to death. And she couldn’t bear to go over the gruesome details again tonight.

  “Got another headache?”

  “I wanted to hear your voice,” Liz said. “Is that a crime?”

  “Not checking up on me, are you? I’m an adult.”

  “Nineteen or not, I’m still your mother, and I’m paying the bills. Isn’t this a little late to be getting in? Don’t you have an early class?”

  “S.U.C., Moms. Situation under control. I was at the pub with Niall and Liam.”

  “Pubs close at eleven.”

  “We went to Niall’s to study.” Katie rattled on, full of gossip about new friends, a pair of Italian sandals she’d found at half price, and a rock concert in Glasgow that Niall had bought tickets for. They ended up talking for the better part of an hour, and finally said their good-byes so that Katie could get some sleep before her first class.

  “Be careful,” Liz said. “When you go to Scotland, stay with Niall and don’t wander off with strangers.”

  “Not unless he’s six feet tall, gorgeous, and wearing a kilt. I’ve always wanted to see what they wore underneath.” Katie giggled. “Not to worry. I can take care of myself. Give Michael a hug. Love you much.”

  Liz checked all the doors and windows to make certain they were securely locked, then turned on both the front and backyard lights before going upstairs. “Next I’ll be jumping at shadows,” she said to the cat, who trailed after her. Muffin meowed softly in agreement.

  What Jack had suggested made her feel better. If the boyfriend, this Wayne something or other, had killed poor Tracy, other girls at school weren’t in danger. Hadn’t Michael said that the murder was probably a crime of passion? Certainly, she had nothing to worry about. Who would want her?

  Still, she mused, it wouldn’t hurt to get caller ID. And spending money on a security system might be a good investment. There was no telling when Katie might be here alone some night. She decided to ask Michael’s advice on the best one to buy without annihilating her budget.

  Budget. Liz grimaced. That was a sore subject. Putting a new roof on this house had cost double what she’d expected, and she’d been forced to have the whole place rewired. Painting, fixing the occasional leaky pipe, even a little carpentry, she could do. But electrical wiring was different, and hiring dependable servicemen who would come when they said they would was almost impossible. “I should have majored in electrical engineering instead of American history,” she muttered to the cat. “Then we’d all be living in the lap of luxury.”

  What was wrong with her? Was she so insensitive that she could worry about finances when Tracy lay in a drawer at the county morgue?

  Liz folded back the coverlet on her double bed before sliding between the sheets. She knew it was late, but she refused to look at the clock as she burrowed under the pillow. She had to get some rest tonight. She hoped she could do it without reliving the image of Tracy’s body sprawled in dark pools of blood on her office floor.

  Eventually, Liz drifted off, but memories of Jack and Tracy tangled her fitful dreams. She woke more than once in a cold sweat, listening to the creaking and shifting of the old wood in the house and the hoot of a great horned owl from the grove of trees outside. Sometime after four, the phone rang again, but when she picked up, an intoxicated woman demanded to speak to J.D. “You have the wrong number,” Liz said sleepily.

  “You tell him to get his sorry ass home, or else.”

  “You have the wrong number,” Liz repeated. “There’s no J.D. here.”

  The woman cursed her and slammed down the receiver.

  “Great start to another cheerful day,” Liz said to the cat. Pulling on a pair of jeans, she went downstairs to brew a pot of coffee.

  It was too late to go to bed and too early to go to school. She sat in front of the window and watched the sun come up over the marsh. The big, old house was quiet but peaceful, without any of the creepy emptiness she’d felt when Michael had dropped her off the night before.

  Michael had suggested she might want to take a few days off from school, and the dean had agreed. But Liz knew that if she didn’t go back to her office right away, she’d never be able to set foot in there again. Maybe she’d rearrange the furniture after the carpet was replaced and the walls repainted, she thought. Whatever she did, she wasn’t going to be frightened away.

  Donald Clarke had had a lot of weaknesses, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. “Whatever scares you is what you need to face head on, kiddo,” her dad had always said. “Otherwise fear grabs you by the throat and chokes the life out of you. You wake up one morning hiding from shadows.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” she murmured into the empty room. “I’m here, aren’t I? What more do you want from me?”

  On a whim, Liz decided to see if her car would start before she called the garage. She didn’t know jack about automobile engines, but the last time she’d called a tow truck, she actually hadn’t needed a mechanic. She’d flooded the engine. At $125 a pop, she couldn’t afford to make too many mistakes li
ke that.

  Apparently, her luck had changed. When she turned the key, the engine started. She called Michael to tell him she wouldn’t need a ride, got ready, and drove to the college, arriving there by seven-thirty.

  Somerville was a relatively new school, established only ten years ago, but Liz thought that the architects had done a marvelous job of blending the two-story, whitewashed brick buildings with the eighteenth-century mansion that had once been the heart of a colonial plantation.

  Massive oak trees, stone walls, and boxwood hedges graced the rolling green lawns adorned with marble fountains and wrought-iron benches. If she hadn’t remembered the dairy farms that had been on either side of the crossroads before the land was purchased for the college, Liz might have assumed that Somerville had been offering a quality liberal arts education to upper-class students for more than a century.

  This was the last place she’d expect a murder.

  The school was a private institution, with tuition comparable to Penn State, but Somerville had already received national acclaim for the high priority of academics over sports. Liz knew how lucky she was to hold a full professorship here, even if she’d been forced to face old demons and memories of Jack Rafferty to accept the position.

  She mulled over how lucky she was to have a position in such a respected school as she pulled into the parking area. Gritting her teeth, she steeled herself to enter Jacobs Hall and walk down the corridor—a simple act that had been routine until yesterday.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” she muttered. “You can do this.”

  The morning was sunny, so she chose a parking space under a big pin oak. As she was getting out of the car, she heard the roar of a motorcycle, and quickly turned to see a black and silver Harley coming toward her. It looked like the same bike she’d seen yesterday.

  Liz hesitated, uncertain. Should she wait to see who the rider was or be cautious and go inside? Curiosity won out. She was pretending to check her door lock as the driver braked and tugged off his helmet.

  “Morning, Lizzy.”

  “Jack?” She turned and stared at him, her throat dry, tongue frozen to the roof of her mouth.

  Jack Rafferty was trouble in tight jeans. His dark hair was frosted with streaks of gray, but the years had only honed his roguish looks and air of danger. Pirates, her dad had called the Rafferty brothers. No description could have fitted Jack better. Give the man a cutlass, and he could have stepped off the set of a Johnny Depp movie.

  Liz felt a chill as she realized that Jack had been the stranger she’d seen driving away yesterday morning. He’d called her in the middle of the night to ask about Tracy’s murder. And he’d never explained exactly how he’d gotten her unlisted phone number.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. The years had been good to him. His craggy features were a little more weathered, but it was the same old Jack. Liz experienced the breathless sensation of leaping blindfolded into an abyss.

  “I was looking for you,” Jack said. “I went by your place, but you’d already left.”

  “You went to my house?”

  “It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “We’re not exactly strangers, Lizzy.”

  “I saw you in this lot yesterday morning.”

  “Dropping Tracy off. She told me she had an appointment with you.”

  “She did.” Liz glanced around. Ernie Baker, one of the security staff, was coming around the corner of the building. “Why did you bring her to school?” she asked Jack.

  “I told you. Somebody slashed her tires. She asked for a ride.”

  “The weather was good. Why weren’t you out on the bay fishing?”

  “What is this? Twenty questions? You think I killed Tracy?”

  “Hold it, buddy!” Ernie shouted, waving and breaking into a trot. “I want to talk to you.”

  Jack ignored him. “I went by Wayne’s this morning. The trailer was empty. His truck’s gone.”

  The guard was breathing hard. He slowed to a walk. Sweat glistened on his broad face. “Let’s see some I.D. The police have some questions for you.”

  “See you around.” Jack nodded to Liz.

  “Jack,” she insisted. “The state police—”

  “The cops never had trouble finding me before.” He wheeled his motorcycle in a tight circle and gunned it.

  Ernie punched in numbers on his cell phone, presumably to summon help, but Liz knew the Harley would be gone long before the first security vehicle appeared. “You all right, Dr. Clarke?” Ernie’s gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts above the modest vee neck of her blue angora sweater.

  “Fine.” Ernie had a habit of ogling students and female staff alike. It made Liz uncomfortable. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

  “Yeah, uh . . .” He made a show of pulling out a crumpled pad. “I’ve got to make a report of this,” he said with feigned importance. “You can corroborate my story, Dr. Clarke, that the trespasser was uncooperative.”

  “He wasn’t trespassing,” she said, suddenly feeling protective of Jack. “His name is Jack Rafferty, and he was here to see me.”

  Ernie scowled, licked his full lips, and hurried toward the beige van marked Somerville College Security that was pulling into the lot. The driver, a young Asian man Liz knew only as Barry, pulled the vehicle to the curb and rolled down the passenger window.

  As the two men talked, Liz went in search of Michael. She had another appointment with a police detective Wednesday morning, but she couldn’t wait to tell Michael about Jack. She might even mention those hang-up calls she’d received earlier in the night.

  “Rafferty may have something,” Michael said, ushering Liz to a seat in the security office on the far side of the campus. Maneuvering his wheelchair to the counter, he poured her a cup of coffee. “Just a little milk, right?”

  She nodded. “It’s annoying that Jack was able to get my unlisted number, but he’s no murderer.”

  Michael opened the refrigerator and frowned. “Looks like Ernie forgot to pick up milk this morning. All we’ve got is that powdery white stuff. That okay?”

  “Fine.” She poured cream substitute into her coffee and stirred it with a clean stirrer. The coffee was strong and hot. It steadied her nerves and pushed back the gathering migraine. “Jack told me that he brought Tracy to school on his motorcycle yesterday. He was the man Amelia and I saw leaving the parking lot.”

  “She saw him too?”

  “Yes—remember I told you that Amelia came to a full stop because his bike threw up gravel when he pulled out?”

  “You did tell me that. And you went directly to your office when you arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonder why he wasn’t gone by then. You said you were forty minutes late for the appointment. What was Jack doing all that time?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Michael frowned. “You say he thinks that this Wayne Boyd could have killed her?”

  “Jack said that Tracy had a protection order out against Wayne—that he’d vandalized her car.”

  “If she had papers on Boyd, there’ll be a record of it. I imagine those questions are already being asked.” Michael’s gaze met hers. “You realize that you shouldn’t be talking about this to anyone but the police. Jack Rafferty could be a killer, and you’d be putting your life on the line as well as clouding a murder investigation.”

  “You’re saying that I shouldn’t be discussing this with you either?”

  Michael nodded. “We’re friends, Elizabeth. I care about you, and I’d do anything to protect you. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to proceed. What you’re doing is understandable but dangerous.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly last night.”

  “You told me that Rafferty just got out of jail. What was he in for?”

  “Assault and attempted murder.” Even in California, a world away, Liz h
ad heard the story. Her sister had sent a clipping from the Delaware State News. Headlines had read “Local Waterman Convicted in Four-Day Trial.”

  “I think I remember that one,” Michael said. “A dispute over crab traps, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Rafferty. Rafferty.” Michael looked thoughtful. “Wasn’t he involved in a drug-running operation on the bay? Something about picking up shipments of cocaine from Colombian vessels off the coast and—”

  “That was George, Jack’s brother.”

  “No, I’m certain it was two of them. And I think a Rafferty boat was confiscated.”

  “George was convicted. The drug charges against Jack were dropped.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.” Michael took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “It means the D.A. didn’t think he had enough evidence to convict. Jack’s conviction on the assault and attempted murder proves he’s capable of violence.”

  “He’s a waterman, Michael. They take robbing traps seriously.”

  “Dead seriously, apparently. Don’t make excuses for him. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to cast blame on Tracy’s boyfriend. You’re in deep water, Elizabeth.”

  “But why would Jack want to kill Tracy? And why do it here, at the school?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. There were no prints found in your office. We’re not dealing with a stupid criminal. Most of them are idiots. But not this one.”

  Liz forced herself to speak lightly. “Now you’re jumping to conclusions, aren’t you? You said he. How do we know Tracy’s murderer wasn’t a woman?”

  “If she was, she would have had to be an unusually powerful female. A wound such as Tracy suffered was delivered from behind, one quick slash. And from the angle of the cut, her assailant would have had to be close to six feet tall.”

  The coffee lost its flavor, and Liz placed the cup on Michael’s desk. “How concerned should we be that the killer may be on the prowl for another victim?”

  “There’s no way to tell. Until he’s safely behind bars, we have to assume that any woman could be the killer’s next target.” Michael shut down his laptop and closed the cover. “Could you take a few weeks off, fly to Dublin, and spend time with Katie?”