Where Evil Lurks

by Robert D. Rodman

  Just before waking I dreamed, but the dreams were more like nightmares, literally. I was in the football stadium of nearby Marquis University. They were playing Notre Dame, who had the so-called Four Horsemen from bygone years in their backfield. I was trying to name them but I was confused. I kept coming up with Famine, Pestilence, Destruction, and Death: wrong horsemen. They made me leave the stadium because I didn’t know the players’ names.

  On the road outside, a man in a flowing robe, riding a blue Pegasus, pursued me from the air. I tried to run but my jeans were too tight. They soon caught up to me, but when the horse landed it became a large dog, a German shepherd. The man had disappeared. I knew that the best way to handle a dog is to act like the Alpha. I tamed it and it became my friend. We were walking back to the stadium to see who’d won the game, when I woke up.

  It was late morning and I was stiff from sleeping on cushions. The morning light hurt my eyes and my mind was still half in the dream. I pulled myself upright, blinking to adjust to the brightness. Churchgoers were already walking home from services. Children were yelling and racing about. Several were tossing a mini-football around. A woman called out to her kids not to dirty their Sunday clothes, while her husband, now in his shirtsleeves, practiced his golf swing with an air-club.

  I settled back, my fingers locked behind my head, to think about the dream before the memory of it faded. The tendrils that connected my dream to reality were easy to trace. It was football season; I’d seen flying horses on TV; and the blue Pegasus is the logo of Marquis University, whose football team is dubbed “The Flying Horses” by the sportswriters. The key insight, though, was the man on the blue Pegasus. He fit the image I had formed from Ashley’s description of the belt buckle of one of her rapists. That raised the possibility that one of the men had been a Marquis student or alumnus.

  I got up and walked into the kitchen with the hounds on my heels. I took a drink directly from the faucet and splashed my face. The cold water brought me fully awake. My face, reflected in the chrome, was indented with the pattern of the sofa cushions, and that, together with the state of my hair, would have competed well in a beauty contest for orangutans. My breath was at least as bad as the dogs’, but they didn’t seem to mind. I dried, gave them both a good-morning rub, and let them out back.

  In the house behind mine lived five young men and women who ran a small internet company from the premises. One of the women was washing her car with a power brush. She saw me open the door to let out the dogs and waved. I didn’t exactly feel like being seen—I’d intended to hop into the shower—but I didn’t want to be rude either, and when I saw who it was I got an idea that made me forget how I looked.

  I waved back and walked over to the low picket fence that separated our properties, while licking my fingers and applying them to unruly strands of hair. The woman switched off the power brush and came to meet me. Lily is a woman of Philippine extraction. She had grown up in California, had attended Stanford, and had received her computer experience working in Silicon Valley. She was smart, definitely one of the brains behind the company’s success in a highly competitive industry.

  “How’s it going, Lily?”

  “S’ going great. I’m so glad fall is here. I never get used to the humidity. It’s a great pleasure to wash a car on a morning like this.”

  “Say, how about coming over when you’re finished for a cup of coffee. I’d like to ask your advice about something. Would you, please? I’d appreciate it.”

  Lily agreed. I went back inside, grabbed a one-minute shower, and made a small breakfast of fruit, cereal and skim milk while the coffee was dripping. I took my breakfast standing at the counter, and when I’d finished eating, I refilled my coffee cup and carried it to my office. The room was awash with the warm noonday sun and the leafy scents of autumn wafted in through the half-open louvers. Lily’s power washer hummed in the background. I sat down at my desk and punched in Ashley’s landline number at home.

  A child’s voice answered, “Hello.”

  “Hello. May I please speak with Ashley Bloodworth?”

  The receiver was put down with a clunk and the same voice cried, “Mother, there’s a telephone call.”

  I could hear Ashley admonishing the child in the background. “Benton, please don’t answer my telephone. You have your own telephone.”

  The child said contritely, “Sorry, Mother.”

  Ashley came on the line. “This is Ashley Bloodworth.”

  “Ashley, this is Dagny. Can you talk now?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m surprised to hear from you so soon. I hope it’s a sign of progress.”

  It’s a sign that you and some money may soon be parted, I thought. I hadn’t cared for the way she’d been so curt with her son, but that was none of my business. This was a professional call.

  “It may be progress, it may be wheel-spinning, I really don’t know which. You have a decision to make.”

  I told her about the DMV tape and the possibility of a $25,000 boondoggle if the van wasn’t registered in North Carolina. I also pointed out the drawback of too much data. What would I do with a thousand names of Dodge van owners? She wasn’t worried about the money.

  “Buy the tapes. If you take your credit card to any branch of Southeastern Bank and Trust, they’ll cut you a cashier’s check. You can pay for the consultant and the computer time in the same way. Cross the too-much-data bridge when you come to it. Oh, and save the tapes. I may be able to resell them.”

  “There’s one other thing, Ashley. That belt buckle you described to me—it may be a Marquis University logo. One or more of those men might’ve been students, or former students, at Marquis. Does that ring any kind of a bell with you?”

  “I’ll think about it, but I’d like you to follow up anyway. My family earned much of their earlier fortune in tobacco. A goodly portion of the Marquis endowment came from tobacco money. Let me give you a name and number to call if you need assistance from officials at Marquis.”

  There was a momentary pause while she looked up the number. The name was familiar.

  “Did you say Theodora Jenkins? Isn’t she the…”

  “President,” Ashley finished. “When you call the number, identify yourself by name. Either Dr. Jenkins or her administrative assistant will direct you to the right person. Is there anything else?”

  “That should do it.”

  “Thank you, Dagny. Please keep me apprised.”

  I disconnected at the same time that Lily switched off the power washer. Shortly afterwards a quiet rap on the glass louvers announced her visit. I walked around to the side door and let her in. Sweat had beaded on her brow and she was flushed from the morning’s exercise.

  “Coffee’s ready, but if you’d prefer something cold to drink…?”

  “Actually, Dagny, I wouldn’t mind a beer. I’ve worked up a bit of a sweat. I hope I’m not too disgusting.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I told her. “Bottle or glass?”

  “A bottle is fine. Thank you.”

  I brought her a long-necked Black and Tan and refilled my coffee cup. The hounds, who knew Lily, were dozing unconcernedly in their nests under the piano. One or another of them had “passed gas” some minutes before Lily’s arrival. Traces of the odor remained, and I was hoping not to be blamed. This is a bane of dog ownership.

  “I need to ask your advice about something that’s come up. I may be acquiring magnetic tapes from the Department of Motor Vehicles that contain vehicle registration data. I’m wondering if you know a company that would search the tapes for certain information.”

  “Mag tapes from the DMV, huh? First thing is to get it all on CD-ROMs. You could process the data on a laptop if you had to.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Who’d be able to do that for me?”

  “There are a couple of places in Raleigh. I can look them up for you. Do you know how much data’s on the tapes?”

  “Ten gigabytes, I’m told.”

&
nbsp; She whistled. “You might want to transfer it to a hard drive, so it’s all on one piece of medium, you know. Otherwise, you’ll have a shitload of CD-ROMs. Do you know the database?”

  “No. I assume the tape comes with that information.”

  “Oh yes, it’d have to. May I make a suggestion?”

  “I was hoping you would. I’m kind of clueless.”

  “See if you can hire one of the DMV programmers as a consultant. They’d probably welcome the chance to earn some extra bucks. Be sure that you get someone who’s worked with the database. Buy some computer time somewhere and you ought to be able to do your searching.”

  “That’s a great idea, Lily. I’m glad I thought to ask you. But if I can’t get anyone, you can give me some guidance, right?”

  “I’d be happy to. Just let me know.”

  That evening I called Beth Martin. Philip answered.

  “Hello, Philip? This is Dagny Jamison. I’m glad you’re home. How’s the foot?”

  “Dagny, good of you to call. The foot’s sore as hell. I’m using a cane to get around but they say it’ll heal. The doctor told me that your quick action saved me from being much sicker than I am. I want to thank you again.”

  “No problem. I’m glad it isn’t worse. Do you think I could speak with Beth for a minute?”

  “Sure, hang on.”

  He put down the handset, which picked up music in the background—Backstreet Boys singing “I Want It That Way”—which was interrupted by Beth’s voice after about thirty seconds.

  “Hey, Dagny, thanks for calling.”

  “Hey, Beth. I called to see how things went this morning, but I take it they went okay. Philip sounds good.”

  “It went just fine. I got my sister to drive me out to Cynthia’s to get the car. They both insisted on coming with me to the hospital, so we caravanned over. Philip had three women fussing over him, dripping with sympathy. I think he’d do it all over again just for that.”

  She made a small laughing sound, and I heard a faint “not on your life” in the background.

  “Sounds like he wouldn’t,” I said, smiling, “but do you remember our conversation last night? I have my client’s permission to purchase the tapes you told me about.”

  “Well, good, I can help you with that, like I said.”

  “Also, a friend of mine suggested that maybe I could hire one of your programmers as a consultant. Is that a possibility? I wouldn’t want to create a conflict.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not. Let me think. There’s one guy, KC Fu, who’s a bit of a workaholic. He’s accrued maximum vacation and needs to take some time off. And, he’s familiar with the tapes and the database. I’ll get the two of you together. Could you come to the DMV building on the corner of Scarboro and Morton at eleven tomorrow?”

  “Sure, I know where it is. How do I find you?”

  “There is just one entrance with a big DMV on a sign outside it. Come through the double glass doors into the lobby and ask for me at the receptionist’s desk. You can park behind the building. I’ll help you with buying the tapes, too.”

  “That’s great, Beth. I really appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The lack of solid clues in the Ashley Bloodworth case forced me to make guesses so that I could get off the spot, as it were. John called them “working hypotheses” in his book. One guess was that the belt buckle owner had some connection to Marquis University. Another guess was that the first names of the three men were in fact Tom, Dick, and Harry. A third guess was that one of them owned the van.

  I met Beth at the DMV’s main building at the appointed time. Looking sharp in a starchy light gray pants suit, Beth was the antithesis of the T-shirted, pot-smoking girl I had met barely two days earlier. She took me over to the clerk who dealt with the purchase of the data tapes and helped me fill out the forms. She suggested I write “Mail order sales” under “Purpose.” The cost was $26,750. The state charged sales tax on their product, which seemed a tad unfair. Next thing, they’ll be putting a sales tax on vehicle registration. Or worse—I thought inanely—a sales tax on the sales tax, and who knows what kind of state that would put us in? The good part was that if I returned with the cashier’s check by five o’clock, I could have the tapes by noon the next day.

  Beth led me through a labyrinth of corridors to a cubicle with the nameplate K.C. Fu. Inside was a diminutive Chinese man of no more than twenty-five, who wore wide, thick-rimmed glasses that covered half his face. He stood up when we appeared and I doubt he reached five foot two. The crotch of his baggy Bermuda shorts drooped below his knees and his Hawaiian shirt size was an excessive XXXL. A receding hairline left behind a high forehead that made his head seem far too large for his body. I knew a smart computer geek when I saw one.

  After introductions, I told him what I needed while Beth listened in. He left me impressed with his capabilities. I didn’t even have to persuade him to work for me because at the right moment Beth pitched in and said, “KC, things are slow around here now. You need to take some vacation days or you’ll lose them at the year’s end. Work for Dagny for a few days and earn some extra money. Maybe you can treat yourself to a short holiday afterwards. Why not?”

  KC didn’t look as though he’d know what to do with a holiday of any length, but he wasn’t about to argue with the big boss.

  Beth looked at her watch. “It’s nearly time for lunch. Why don’t we go down to the cafeteria before it gets crowded—my treat. I’ll need to leave early and you two can talk business.”

  At lunch Beth brought me up to date on Philip, which was that he felt like shit and his foot hurt but his doctor expected him to recover fully. Under the guise of polite curiosity, I asked how they met and when they got married and similar things. I didn’t have much of a profile of Fatboy, apart from his body type and the missing toe, but from what Beth said about Philip it didn’t seem likely that he was a sadistic rapist. I didn’t ask outright, but I could tell that they weren’t overly religious people. Philip would not be the type to wear an ostentatious crucifix. I couldn’t cross him off the list—hell, he was the only one on the list—but I was about convinced that the missing toe was one of life’s cruel coincidences.

  KC had grown up in Hong Kong, speaking both Chinese and English—his English had the bare traces of an accent. His parents had moved to North Carolina when he was a teenager, and he’d gotten his master’s degree in computer science at State. I asked him if he’d work for me. I figured he must earn around $50,000 a year, or $25 an hour. I offered him $50. He agreed on the spot as long as it was okay with his manager, but since Beth was his manager’s boss, I didn’t foresee a problem.

  I gave him the names of the two computer companies that Lily had given me the day before. He said his cousin owned a company in Chapel Hill that could do the work for a fair price, if it was all the same to me, which it was. He even agreed to collect the tapes from the DMV if I’d give him the check for payment.

  “Basically, I’ll need, like, one or two days to get the data copied onto a drive. After that, you can tell me basically exactly what you want.”

  We exchanged phone numbers, and then as an afterthought I said, “Why don’t you come with me to the bank now, if you have the time? I think it’s within walking distance. They should be able to cut the check while we wait.”

  “Okay, I can do that. Basically, I don’t have too much to do this afternoon.”

  There was a branch of SB&T two blocks from the DMV building. I presented my credit card and asked the woman behind the counter for a cashier’s check made out to the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles for $26,750. She screwed her face into a question mark the way bank tellers do when you try to cash check number 0000.

  “Excuse me, I’ll have to show your card to the branch manager.”

  People behind me moved to other lines. KC stood patiently by, squinting every few seconds at the alien quality of life off of the computer scree
n. The branch manager was a crusty, slow-talking southerner who asked for a picture ID, studied it, studied me, studied the credit card, and then studied it all again. Finally satisfied, he turned on what charm he could muster and apologized for the delay. He ordered the teller to print the check while he waited to sign it, so as “not to inconvenience Ms. Jamison any further.”

  We walked back to the DMV building together. At the door I handed the check to KC, reminded him to keep track of his hours, and asked him to call me when he got the data transferred. He disappeared into the lobby with a small wave of goodbye.

  In my car, I called the number at Marquis University that Ashley had given me. A voice answered: “President Jenkins’ office, Sophia speaking.”

  “My name is Dagny Jamison and I—”

  “Oh, Ms. Jamison. I’ve been expecting your call. I’m afraid Dr. Jenkins is in a meeting. She told me to help you with anything you need.”

  “That’s very kind of you. If it’s possible, could I get a list of all students who were attending Marquis in March 1990?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. You need to speak with the Registrar of Records, Dr. Downey Bryan. Let me call him first. May I put you on hold for a moment?”

  After a short wait Sophia transferred me to Dr. Bryan, who suggested I come to his offices on campus and said he’d assign someone to help me.

  Marquis University was once outside the city limits amidst Marquis Forest, a tract of unspoiled woods and streams owned by the Marquis family. They had endowed it as a seminary in the nineteenth century. Its mission expanded over the years to encompass more general goals than simply the training of clergy, and it grew to become one of the nation’s fine private universities.

  Though some of Marquis Forest remains unspoiled, much of it was lost to libraries, dorms, gyms, labs, athletic fields and parking lots. Still, the planners left many acres of parks and gardens on the campus, so the school has a countrified ambiance.

  Marquis describes itself this way in its PR pamphlet: