by Donn Taylor
“Take the Fifth,” I called after her.
Now I stood alone in my driveway, though a couple of policemen watched me from a distance. Maybe they thought I’d make a break for it or something. The night grew colder and the crowd waxed louder. The TV newspeople scurried around soliciting opinions from people who had no idea what was going on, which apparently is what TV news-people do best. But at last things were calm enough for me to think.
And think I did. I tried to remember what I knew about the pentagram. I knew it was ancient and ambiguous in meaning. In traditional Christianity it had symbolized the five wounds of Christ. I vaguely remembered it as the emblem on Sir Gawain’s shield, elaborated as five groups of five sacred or virtuous meanings. But I also knew some Christians viewed it as the devil’s footprint. Heaven only knew how many pagan significances it had. To nature worshipers, the five points represented spirit, air, fire, water, and earth. Anything beyond that escaped my memory.
I knew, though, that the pentagram was an altar symbol to Wiccans, and I’d bet my next paycheck (if I ever had one) that the quartz and dagger had Wiccan significance. But Wicca was supposed to be a religion of peaceful harmony, not violent crime. So was Christianity, but supposedly-Christian nuts bombed abortion clinics. Maybe the Wiccans had a few nuts, too.
But I was more certain than ever that Mara wasn’t one of them. And if, theoretically, she ever did commit a murder, she had brains enough not to incriminate herself with Wiccan paraphernalia. If anything, someone was trying to frame her by committing murder in the manner of a satanic cult. But Wiccans didn’t believe in Satan. So whoever killed Marcus Fischbach knew even less about Wicca than I did.
What, then, was I going to do about it? That’s where my brain dissolved into quicksand and my internal musicians mocked me with something hideous by Prokofiev.
So I dialed Dr. Sheldon’s number on my cell phone and told him what was going on.
“What are they doing with Mara?” he asked.
“Homicide is questioning her,” I said.
He harrumphed into the phone a few times before adding, “She may need more help than you or I can give. I know a good lawyer who represented me a few years ago in a rather unfortunate matter. I’ll call him if you think it warranted.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” I said.
He harrumphed again. “Do that, my boy. Right now I am deeply engaged in that research we discussed earlier this evening.” He rang off before I could answer.
I stood awhile longer in the cold, trying unsuccessfully to get my brain back in gear. Mara, Staggart, and the uniformed policeman emerged from the house. Instead of returning to me, they cut across the lawn to a police car. Mara and the policeman got into it. The car pulled away and headed toward downtown. Staggart collected his dogfaced sidekick and strode back toward me. I didn’t like the look on his face.
I took my cell phone and hit Redial.
“What is it this time?” Dr. Sheldon didn’t like his research interrupted.
“They’ve taken Mara downtown,” I said. “You’d better call that lawyer.”
CHAPTER 33
Come inside,” Staggart said. “You have questions to answer.” Dogface stood behind him and said nothing. I reconfirmed the fact that he looked like a basset hound and was considerably less attractive than the average mutt. It occurred to me that I’d never heard him speak. I wondered if he could.
“I’ll answer the questions here,” I said to Staggart, “and you can return my keys now.”
Staggart dangled the keys in front of me but kept them out of my reach. “You can come inside or come down to the station,” he said. “Your choice.”
He had me there. I was too tired to go downtown. “You can use the living room only,” I said. “Nothing else.”
Dogface and I settled into chairs in the living room. Staggart paced the floor. He was too smart to read me my Miranda rights. He knew if he did I’d take the Fifth and tell him nothing. As long as my words couldn’t be used to incriminate me, I’d play along.
He stopped pacing and pointed his finger at me. “What have you been doing since Wednesday afternoon?”
“On Wednesday evening I was getting slugged by an intruder in my house.” I pointed to the still-present knot on my head. “Since then I’ve been trying to stay alive.”
“Where were you trying to stay alive?” He resumed his pacing.
“It seemed prudent to get out of town—”
“With a good-looking blonde.” He stopped pacing and pointed the finger again.
“I’d been assaulted and she was being stalked,” I said, and summarized our itinerary. “If you’re even half a policeman, you already know we stayed in different motels. So clean up your suspicions.”
He stood with hands on hips. “Why did you go to those particular places?”
“Historical research,” I said.
His voice rang with sarcasm. “And it just happened that everyone you talked to had known Laila Sloan. Why were you interfering with my investigation of a murder?”
“We weren’t. We’re writing a posthumous appreciation of Professor Sloan.” I’d promoted her again, but Staggart didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy looking skeptical, so for good measure I added, “I don’t know anything about your investigation except that you’ve lied about me to Dean Billig. A competent investigator should have produced some results by now.”
“How well did you know Marcus Fischbach?” Staggart was smart enough to change the subject.
“He took one course from me three years ago and made an A. Practically no contact since then. I’ve seen him once or twice on campus.” This was literally true, but I was on thin ice. I might eventually tell Sergeant Spencer what Marcus said to me, but Staggart would only twist that information to convict me if he could.
“Why would anyone want to kill him?”
I turned my palms up in the French salute. “I don’t know. But putting him in Professor Thorn’s car looks like further harassment of her and me. You know what I mean: those fake e-mails, my getting slugged, her being stalked.”
Staggart waved a hand. “You could have staged all of those.”
I rubbed the knot on my head. “If I ever do stage anything, I’ll make sure it hurts less.”
He must have seen he wasn’t getting anywhere. He tossed my keys into my lap a bit harder than necessary and headed for the door. “Keep your nose clean, Press,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Take your dog with you,” I called after him.
Dogface gave me a dirty look, but he made no comment as he followed his master out.
Through the windows I could see that Mara’s car had been towed. The street would never be normal again, but at least it had begun to look normal. The TV people had decamped, and the crowd had gone wherever crowds go when the entertainment ends.
I sat still for a while and wondered about Staggart. Except for taking kickbacks, he’d been a competent Special Ops officer. He’d even pulled off some enviably good operations. Yet his homicide investigation, what little I knew of it, seemed hopelessly incompetent. Was it really that bad, or was something significant going on beyond my field of vision?
I was still mulling that question when the phone rang.
“Press, my boy,” Dr. Sheldon boomed. “My diligent researches have been rewarded.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Did you know it was almost midnight?”
“Spare me your sarcasm, child,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know President Cantwell graduated from Bi-County Consolidated the year before Laila Sloan entered as a freshman. Since they came from different towns, he probably did not know her.”
“Wouldn’t his family have told him the scandal when she and her gang got caught?”
“By that time Cantwell was a senior in an out-of-state college, and his family had moved away. There’s a good chance he never heard about Laila.”
Dr. Sheldon rang off, and I stood there wondering what to
do next. My body ached with fatigue, but Staggart had stirred my adrenaline too much for me to sleep. My car still held Mara’s luggage, so I decided to drive downtown and hope the police didn’t keep her overnight.
I’d just parked near the police station when its door opened and Mara emerged with an impressive man who stood about four inches above six feet. He was blessed with the facial features of a male movie star. He also had broad shoulders, wore a dark gray fedora above a navy blue overcoat, and carried a polished leather briefcase. I didn’t have to guess his profession.
“Press,” Mara said. “I’d like you to meet Brice Funderburk. Dr. Sheldon sent him to act as my counsel, and he got me out by threatening to file a petition for habeas corpus.”
The way Funderburk looked at her left no doubt he wanted to win more than just the case.
“Oh.” She looked like someone ambushed by an idea. “Brice, this is Press Barclay.”
His professional smile looked sincere. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Barclay.”
“Likewise,” I said, and made the mistake of extending my hand.
Funderburk had huge hands and used them like the Jaws of Life. I was lucky to escape without an emergency room visit.
“I’m glad you’re here, Press,” Mara said. “Now Brice won’t have to drive me by your place to get my luggage.”
“My taxi is at your service,” I said.
Funderburk looked put out, but touched his fedora and took his leave with practiced professional dignity.
“What happened with the cops?” I asked as Mara and I drove toward her apartment.
She turned up her nose. “They told me about the Wiccan artifacts in my trunk. They didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t keep any. Somehow, they got a search warrant and brought back a load of them from my apartment. They said I’d get off lighter if I’d confess murdering that student. Things looked pretty bad for a while.”
Her chin lifted. “Then a policeman who’d searched my place last week told them none of the Wiccan things had been there then. About that time Mr. Funderburk came in and told me to take the Fifth. They let him talk to me alone. After that, he made the habeas corpus threat, and before you could say ‘scat,’ they let me go.”
“He must be pretty good,” I said as we pulled up in front of her apartment. I’d never had any luck telling police to scat. Maybe I’d do better if I carried a briefcase.
“I’ll take it from here, Press,” Mara said as I lifted her bag out of the trunk.
I said nothing.
She started up the walk toward the apartments, then turned and flashed me a smile. “I did enjoy the trip, Press. Thank you again.”
She walked away, carrying her suitcase as lightly as if it were filled with helium. I watched until she disappeared around a corner. As it had in Bullerton, her departure made the car seem empty.
It must have been one thirty by the time I climbed into bed. Fatigue ached in every cell of my body, the lump on my head throbbed, and my internal orchestra featured fluttering strings as background to a squealing oboe.
For a while I lay there wondering if Mara would have enjoyed her western trip more with Brice Funderburk. I banished that thought by reviewing everything that had gone wrong since Mara and I found Laila’s body. There’d been so many mishaps, it seemed mathematically impossible that anything else could go wrong.
Based on past experience, I knew better than that.
CHAPTER 34
Sunday morning brought gray skies and a wet wind that promised rain or snow. I dragged out of bed around eight, labored through another ham-sandwich breakfast, and phoned President Cantwell before he left for Sunday school. I was lucky he wasn’t out fishing.
I apologized for the early call and said, “I need to talk to you today, sir. It’s important to the college.”
“University,” he corrected. “But I must tell you now, Professor Barclay: I will not Exert Presidential Authority or Usurp Dean Billig’s Prerogatives in the Matter concerning you and Professor Thorn.”
Dr. Sheldon would have responded by saying “horsefeathers,” but with commendable effort I refrained. Indeed, I took great care to remain both civil and subordinate.
“It’s not about that, sir,” I said. “It’s about Marcus Fischbach getting murdered. I’ll be talking to the police about it, but since it involves the college I’d rather talk to you first.”
That shocked him so much he didn’t correct me for calling the university a college.
After a pause, he asked, “What do you want to tell me?”
“Nothing over the phone. But privately, in person, I’ll tell you what Marcus said he was going to do about the college.”
Another pause. “See me at one thirty in the executive center. I trust you have Something Substantive to report.”
“Very substantive,” I said, and rang off.
So what would I do with the long, empty morning ahead of me? I could grade research papers, but in my suspended status I probably didn’t have authority to do that. I could try to make sense out of Mara’s and my investigation, but I’d already hit the wall on that. I’d long since learned that successful research depends on asking the right question. So it finally occurred to me to ask, “Why is the morning empty?”
The answer was simple. The emptiness was not in the morning, but in me. Nor was it a new phenomenon. It was the spiritual numbness I’d lived with ever since Faith’s death. So I chose a radical solution. I went back to church.
To avoid well-meaning friends, I sneaked in late and eased into one of the back rows. I’d no sooner settled in than a familiar sense of pain and loss descended on me like a poisonous fog. These morning services had been special times that Faith and I enjoyed together—no, more than enjoyed, for that special sense of being close together and close to God had become part of our very being. To be here without her seemed more than I could bear. I’d been right to stay away, and I shouldn’t have come today.
I decided to leave. But my entry had drawn inquiring stares from neighboring pews. A premature exit would draw even more. I would have to remain and endure.
Then the solemnity of organ music flowed in to fill my emptiness and soothe the pain. My internal musicians held silent, and with a conscious decision I surrendered to the blessed sounds of the organ. That instrument’s meditation was joined by congregational singing, and the deep harmonies of the hymn reinforced my sense that here in this place, in this experience, was the true reality, and the conflicts that had troubled me outside were trivial by comparison. Even without Faith, this was the closeness I’d known before.
But then doubts and questions intruded. If this was something Faith and I had enjoyed together, what right did I have to come seeking it without her? My action seemed somehow unfaithful to her memory. For a few moments I accepted the guilt—indeed, almost welcomed it—as a just punishment for my unfaithfulness. I could only purge that guilt by returning to the empty numbness that had been my life for the past three years.
My emotions commanded that penance, but then my rational faculty demanded to be heard. The closeness Faith and I had known here together was the best of earthly reality. But now she lived, unchangingly, in perfect closeness to the divine Presence—in the heavenly reality of which this earthly reality was only a pale imitation. Surely she should not feel guilty for experiencing a perfection beyond anything I could experience here on earth. Nor should I feel guilty for seeking the best that mortal experience could provide as preparation for the perfect reality of heaven.
In this realization, my guilt and doubt flowed out from me like an ebbing tide. With their departure I again let the prayers and the deep harmonies of hymns prepare me to receive Pastor Tammons’s sermon.
His message from Revelation 3:2 was profound: Wake up, and strengthen the things that remain, which were about to die; for I have not found your deeds completed in the sight of My God. The pastor had told me before that God wasn’t through with me yet, but now he applied that principle t
o everyone: We all must continue our development and our service until the Lord calls us home. Whatever struggles we were going through now were part of that development process.
As he spoke, I felt a quickening through all my being, and a complete inner peace I hadn’t felt since losing Faith. In the last analysis, spiritual truth has a divine simplicity. Its peace had been here waiting for me all the time; all I had to do was come and embrace it.
Nevertheless, I left quickly afterward. I still wasn’t ready for people with good intentions to welcome me as the returning prodigal. But the inner peace stayed with me, a solid foundation of certainty beneath my churning anxieties. My investigation might fail and my career might be wrecked, but the fundamental truth of the Eternal would still stand. Somehow, that made all the difference in how I felt.
That underlying calm stayed with me at one thirty, when an impatient President Cantwell met me at the executive center. He sat behind his desk and seated me in front of it. That meant this meeting was very, very formal, but he nevertheless did not speak in his usual rhetorical mode.
“Well, Professor Barclay,” he said, “what do you have to tell me?”
“Marcus Fischbach came to my office on Thursday. He said he thought there was ‘something funny’—his words—with the campus computer network. He said he intended to find out what. I cautioned him not to do anything illegal, and he said he wouldn’t. The next I heard about him, he was dead.”
President Cantwell greeted that information with a hostile stare. “What did he say was ‘funny’ about the computer network?”
I met his gaze. “He didn’t say. We didn’t finish the conversation because Dean Billig sent for me and I had to leave.”
Cantwell pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk. “And you assume Marcus’s interest in the computer network led to his death.”
“No, sir, I don’t assume it. But I do infer it as a possibility the police will have to investigate. In any case, I thought you’d want to ensure the integrity of your computer network, and I thought you’d want to do it quietly.”
