Rhapsody in Red

by Donn Taylor

  My struggle between emotion and will seemed endless. Again and again I told myself, fiercely, that my mission was to comfort a distraught friend, nothing more. Through dogged repetition of that fact, and by forcing the seductive music back into a remote corner of my brain, I somehow managed to restrain my rebellious hand.

  Mara’s grip remained tight on my other hand, but her sobs grew less violent and further apart. Gradually, they subsided into deep, steady breathing. Eventually her fingers relaxed and she dropped off into sleep. When I was certain she slept, I eased my hand away from hers and tentatively raised the other hand from her back. She did not stir.

  By now the aching muscles had spread from my thighs up my back, and I had to drop down on all fours before I could move away. At that moment, during the agony of returning circulation, I sank into the deepest caverns of despair. We would never escape the gunmen outside or the police now waiting to arrest us, and the faculty hearing committee would take away our jobs. We had no hope.

  It occurred to me then that I should pray. I’d neglected prayer ever since Faith’s death, and it seemed cowardly to beg divine help now that I’d gotten myself into a fix I couldn’t get out of. Yet I had no alternative. There on all fours on the motel-room floor I bowed my head and tried to pray.

  I found I could not. No matter how hard I concentrated, all that came out were incoherent blubberings for help. Even those seemed to bounce back from the ceiling more meaningless than when they’d gone forth.

  In the end I gave it up and simply remained on all fours until the ache left my muscles and control returned.

  When I could stand, I moved to the window and looked out. The door-damaged SUV stood in the same place, exhaust from its engine condensing as a billowing cloud behind it.

  The thugs had not given up.

  CHAPTER 42

  Conflicting music. Something lyrical in my head, something hideous outside: body-jarring bass and a voice wailing above it, indeterminate male or female. Radio.

  Eyes still closed, I reached over and silenced the thump and yowl. Only the lyrical remained. Back to sleep.

  “Press, wake up.”

  Whose voice? Eyes open. Daylight. Not home. Motel. Clean smell of soap. Mara.

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The internal lyric continued.

  “I hated to wake you, Press, but it’s morning. We have to decide what to do.”

  She sat on the other bed, fresh as the morning itself. She didn’t look like someone who’d run through snow and fought through a midnight emotional crisis. Instead, she radiated an inner calm I’d not seen in her before.

  “Who turned on the blasted radio?” I sounded peevish, but that was how I felt.

  She spoke as if to a child. “I was afraid to shake you because I didn’t know how you’d react. I remembered you’d been in Special Ops.”

  I squinted against light from the uncurtained window. We apparently had a clear, cold day after the snowfall. “Okay,” I said. “I’m awake. What now?”

  She sat with hands clasped in her lap, tranquil in a mysterious way I’d not seen in her before. “The SUV is gone from the parking lot. I don’t know if the men went with it or came inside. We need to unbarricade the door and decide what to do next.”

  I took time to splash some water on my face and run my pocket comb through my hair. My brown suit didn’t look any more rumpled than usual, so I declared myself ready for whatever the day might bring. It would probably bring bad news. The clock said ten past eight, and we had no idea what we’d tell the faculty hearing committee at one thirty.

  If we lasted that long.

  We spent a few minutes putting the furniture and TV back in place. It seemed more difficult than it had last night. Less adrenaline, I guess.

  Mara gave me a doubtful glance. “I suppose we should check out that continental breakfast.”

  “I’ll go get it,” I said. “The goons may have come inside, so there’s no use risking both our necks. Lock the door behind me. If I’m not back in ten minutes, sneak out any way you can.”

  She frowned. “Surely they wouldn’t try anything in front of witnesses.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.” I showed her a grin more confident than I felt. I left unsaid the fact that I didn’t want her involved if the gunmen were there.

  As a precaution, I used the stairs instead of the elevator and moved cautiously into the lobby. Nothing suspicious there: only a bleary-eyed woman at the desk and the sound of a TV and mumbled conversation from the tiny breakfast room. I peeked around the corner, advancing slowly enough to survey each occupant in turn. The dining area was full, no vacant chairs. But it was full with the usual tourist-looking crowd, and none seemed out of place.

  No one gave me a second glance as I moved to the food line, though my flesh crawled as I turned my back on the crowd. The food was undistinguished in variety, and the thermal cups for coffee weren’t much larger than Brenda Kirsch’s teacups. I poured us three cups apiece and took three donuts apiece—glazed for me, chocolate for Mara. Fortunately, there were trays for carrying. Since no one paid any attention to me, I took the elevator back to the room.

  Mara sat on her bed and I on mine, with the tray on the bedside table between us. The aroma of fresh donuts and coffee overpowered her characteristic aura of cleanliness and soap. I realized I missed it.

  “You remembered my weakness for chocolate donuts,” she said.

  I tried to look nonchalant. “How could I forget? You presented a memorable appearance with chocolate on your face.” That seemed a suitably professorial remark.

  Blue fire flickered in her eyes. Then they softened. They seemed different this morning, mysteriously different. But I couldn’t define how.

  When we finished, she sat solemnly with her hands again clasped in her lap, apparently unaware of the chocolate smudges around her mouth. “Press, I apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have gone to pieces like that.”

  I tried to shrug it off. “With all the stress we’ve been through, no one could blame you for having a good cry. It cleans out your system so you can deal with what lies ahead.”

  She looked away, thoughtful. I waited, trying hard not to show my impatience. I needed her full attention. We still faced every problem that we’d faced last night. Maybe the thugs had backed off, but I could feel the clock ticking—ticking toward noon, when all of our murder suspects would scatter for Thanksgiving—ticking toward one thirty and the faculty hearing committee. We had to wrap things up this morning, and I had no plan at all.

  Mara brought her mind back from wherever it had been, and her eyes searched mine. “I wasn’t crying because of stress or danger, Press. It was something much worse. And much better. I finally faced up to something I’d been sweeping under the rug for years.”

  Her eyes grew softer than I’d ever seen them. “You know I was raised in a small country church. Not just fundamentalists, but the most extreme kind. They talked Christianity, but what they really believed in was male supremacy.”

  “You told me that. I can see why you rebelled against it.” The digital clock on the table between us ticked off another minute.

  “I wanted to get as far away from it as I could. I tried atheism, but I couldn’t muster the blind faith to maintain it.” She showed a rueful smile. “We humans have a built-in need to believe in something beyond the physical world. That’s how I wound up in Wiccan goddess worship. It filled the need for a godlike power to govern natural forces, and it was the opposite of paternalistic Christianity.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “I thought the Wiccan thing had a male god as well as a goddess.”

  She sniffed. “It does. Theoretically. But Wicca is cafeteria-style religion: take what you like and leave the rest. I chose to ignore the male god, if there was one, and worship the goddess Diana.”

  “So what happened then?” Time was flying, but this conversation was important to her. And I admit I was curious.

  “I hit some rough spots,” she s
aid, “but I managed to work around them. The first problem was finding a coven. I tried several, but other people’s cafeterias didn’t match up with mine. That’s how I wound up as a solitary.”

  “That worked out okay?”

  She sighed. “At first. Initially, I felt a satisfying presence when I prayed to the goddess. Then I began to suspect the presence wasn’t as beneficial as I’d thought. That’s when I got rid of my Wiccan paraphernalia and held the belief in theory rather than practice. And all the time I knew I was pushing back a question I’d have to answer sooner or later. That’s how things stood when I took this job at Overton.”

  “What happened then?” I’d never heard anything like this.

  “Do you remember our first burglary?” She fixed her gaze on me, but this time it didn’t burn. “We had breakfast in your car up above the river. You said you wanted a cross on the new fine arts building to dominate the view from the valley.”

  “I remember.” It was a pleasant memory. For a moment I forgot about time.

  She continued. “I explained the Wiccan Rede—‘An it harm none, do as ye will’—and the Threefold Law, that whatever you do in the world comes back to you three times. Do something bad, and three bad things come back to you.”

  “I remember all that.” I didn’t see where this was leading. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my consciousness, my musicians played something folksy on a zither.

  “You asked, ‘Where do the harm and the bad come from? What is the source of badness?’”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “And I ducked the question. You’d brought back the old problems I’d refused to think about. What is the nature of evil? Where does evil come from?” She sighed again, deeply. “I locked them in the cupboard again that day. Then last night those men tried to kill us, and I came face-to-face with an evil I couldn’t duck or deny.”

  “That’s something of an understatement,” I said, my professorial pedantry asserting itself.

  She ignored it. “So I had to confront the reality of evil. And the only adequate explanation came from Christianity. No other theology I’ve studied could even come close. That meant I’d spent fifteen years devoting myself to a wrong cause.”

  “That’s why you cried? Not because you were afraid?”

  “That’s why I cried. I finally conceded that fifteen years of my life were a colossal waste.” Though she spoke of last night’s emotional explosion, her face radiated calm.

  “So what did you do?”

  “At first I gave in to despair. I’ve never cried like that before.” The blue of her eyes grew softer. “You helped me when I needed it.”

  “I was afraid to touch you,” I said. “I knew your aversion to it, and with the circumstances and all . . .” I meant the motel room, but I didn’t want to say it.

  That drew a smile. “You didn’t let me misunderstand, and you made me know I wasn’t alone.”

  “I’m glad it helped.” I didn’t tell her of my battle with desire or that my fingers still hurt from her karate grip.

  “And something else happened then.” Now she spoke more to herself than to me. “I prayed—to the Lord. I confessed with the sinner’s prayer and asked Him to take me back. I wasn’t sure it would work after all that I’ve done and said, but it was all I could think to do. And peace like I’ve never felt before came over me. It’s still here.”

  “Welcome back,” I said. But her words struck at my heart. I suddenly knew I needed to say the same prayer. My three-year retreat into spiritual numbness meant that I needed that prayer as much as she did. I said it quickly, silently, and turned back to her, for helping her seemed the most important thing now.

  “I feel welcome,” she said. “For the first time in years I feel welcome in this world. In retrospect, I feel awfully stupid that I let the warped actions of a few Christians convince me the whole thing was a lie.”

  “It’s an uncomfortable truth,” I said ruefully. “The most obvious argument against Christianity is the conduct of Christians.”

  “This wonderful Truth, this way of life . . .” She showed a beatific smile. “I’m still in awe of it. But I can’t stand still. How do I go on from here?”

  Her eyes again searched mine. At that moment I wanted more than anything to help. But I wasn’t the best advisor. Nor would the religion faculty be. She needed practical guidance, not more of the academic theory she already knew by heart.

  “You remember Urim Tammons? The minister we met in Dolt’s? He’s the best person I know for what you need. The only thing I’d tell you now is that you can’t re-create the emotional experience you’ve been through. Tammons can guide you beyond that to something more solid.”

  “Thank you, Press,” she said. “I knew you’d understand.” The faraway look left her eyes, and they focused sharp and clear on the present. “But right now we have problems to solve.” She glanced at the clock, which showed two minutes past nine. “We don’t have much time to solve them. What do we do next?”

  Aye, that was the question.

  I could only wish I had an answer.

  CHAPTER 43

  For a second time we looked at each other in silent despair. My internal musicians slogged through something mournful that I didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t know what we should do,” I said after awhile, “but we’re not accomplishing anything here. My car is shot, but I know a rental-car outfit that will deliver.”

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  “The police will look for us at my house or your apartment.” I scratched my head. “Our best bet is the campus. Lots of movement to hide in, and no one will recognize the rental car. If we can do anything toward solving the murders, it will be there.”

  I called the rental agency. While we waited for delivery, Mara busied herself making the room look like it had had single occupancy. She returned one bed to its pristine state, then turned back the covers and rumpled the sheets on the other. She gave its pillow a final swat to make an indention where the sleeper’s head would have lain.

  Her eyes twinkled as she advanced on me. “Be a good cupcake, Press, and let me have a hair to decorate that pillow.”

  I adjusted my trifocals. “Cupcakes don’t have hair,” I said.

  “Then you’re unique.” She seized a few hairs on the back of my head and yanked, then held them up for my inspection.

  “Too many,” she said. “We mustn’t overdo it.” She sifted the hairs back and forth between her fingers until only two remained. “There. Those will be just right.” She arranged them carefully on different parts of the pillow.

  This was a Mara I hadn’t seen before. “You’re acting like a character in a John le Carré spy novel,” I said. “What, exactly, did you do in the Army?”

  She answered only with a secret smile.

  “What about your room?” I asked.

  Her smile broadened. “I took care of that while you got breakfast.”

  The clock said nine thirty. I turned back to the window, despondent again. I had no plan at all, not the least glimmer of one. Mara was still buoyant from her glorious reconversion last night, but I hadn’t even been able to pray coherently, much less make contact. The judgment hour was closing in, and I had never felt more helpless.

  Bitterly, I chided the irrelevance of my musical hallucination, which now rollicked through Haydn’s “Gypsy Rondo.” But even as I rebuked it, the music slowed and changed key. Without warning, it swept into that wonderful Victor Young cinema score, Faith’s favorite, the one that had distracted me weeks before during the faculty meeting. The Susan Hayward theme of doomed romance swelled up to its climax of passionate longing, receded into hope for assurance, then swept upward again to end in yearning for a fulfillment unattainable on this earth.

  Under its spell, I stood again in that faculty meeting, disoriented, half of me entranced by a world of musical illusion, the other half grounded in banal reality. And in that world I again heard Gifford Jessel’s voic
e saying, “. . . bet my laptop no student will sign it.”

  Laptop!

  The word exploded in my mind. Cymbals clashed and the cannons of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture bellowed.

  Richmond Seagrave believed someone with a laptop had exploited the campus computer network for corrupt purposes, and all of our suspects had denied owning anything other than desktop computers. Yet, now that music had triggered my memory, I realized that Gifford Jessel had said he owned a laptop.

  Was that only a figure of speech? Or did he actually own one? If so, where did he keep it? Mara hadn’t found it when she searched his office. And it hadn’t turned up in police searches of his office and his home. So where—?

  “Our car is here.”

  Mara’s words jolted me out of speculation. I glanced out into the parking lot and saw two late-model Corollas idling while the driver of one walked into the motel with papers in his hand. Two cars? Good. He had his own return ride, so we wouldn’t have to waste time with that.

  We took the elevator down and met the driver in the lobby. A few minutes later I drove our rental car out of the parking lot, thankful for the car itself, but even more thankful for a heater that worked. The day stood clear and very cold, with a gusty wind that sliced at our ears and swept the fallen snow around in random patterns.

  “You’ve thought of something,” Mara said. “Don’t keep it a secret.”

  I explained about Gifford Jessel and the laptop. “It’s a very long shot,” I said. “He may not have one. And if he does, that still doesn’t prove anything. We’re still just guessing that Marcus Fischbach got killed because he snooped into the computer network. The only solid fact connecting the two murders is the attempt to implicate us—especially you.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a lot of assumption. And we still don’t know why Staggart ordered our arrest again.”

  I eased the car around a corner. “If we find the laptop, we’ll tell Seagrave and let him bring the police in on it. They won’t listen to us.”