Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Troy had decided to apply pressure early and hard. Seeing the physical manifestations of fear confirmed his instinct.

  “I have reason to believe King was blackmailing you, Mr. Coleman. And you had reason to pay him—until you could think of another way to get him off your back.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Coleman shoved his chair back and lumbered to his feet. “Why would I pay him a penny?”

  “Because you believed his threat. If you hadn’t paid him, you would have lost your job and you knew it. What’s more, it would have been hard to get hired anywhere else, wouldn’t it, Mr. Coleman?”

  “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of....”

  “Colleges take it quite seriously when professors abuse a position of power to have sexual relations with their students.” Troy kept his voice hard and didn’t try to hide his contempt. “I have spoken with two of those students, Sally Yee and Margaret Berlongieri. Both were frank about their relationships with you.”

  Sweat trickled down Coleman’s face. It must have burned his eyes, because he swiped his forearm across his forehead. “You’re crazy.”

  “No. And I’ll tell you why I’m here, Mr. Coleman. I came all this way so that you could tell me what you were burning in your backyard the morning after Mitch King was bludgeoned to death. So brutally his killer must have been splashed with blood. And let’s not forget about the ledger he carried everywhere. That was probably soaked in blood, but the writing still would have been legible. I think police would have been able to read the names of his victims, don’t you?”

  “Jesus, Jesus.” Coleman stumbled backward, striking a shoulder against a bookcase, staggering so that he had to reach out to steady himself.

  Troy took a couple of steps around the desk, just enough to be intimidating. “I suspect the killer’s shoes were splattered with blood, too.” He gave that a minute to sink in. “I believe Ms. Berlongieri described them as ‘rusty splotches.’”

  The big man had begun to shake. He backed toward the window. “She didn’t see anything. She was a stupid little bitch who imagined she was in love with me. I was burning trash, that’s all. Trash!” he howled.

  The door opened behind Troy. “Mr. Coleman?”

  Troy half turned, not taking his eyes off Coleman, who was big enough to be dangerous if he went on the offensive.

  “This is a private meeting,” he said coolly.

  “Oh,” the timid voice said. “I’m sorry, I, well, I thought...” The door clicked shut. Footsteps rapidly receded.

  “Trash,” Troy said softly to the bastard who’d murdered Mitchell King to hide his own unforgivable transgressions. “Trash that smelled really bad when it was burning. Bad enough to make that young woman gag. Acrid, maybe, the way bloody clothing would smell when it was on fire.”

  “Her word doesn’t mean anything.” The defiance in his voice was a spark, nothing more. Easily stamped out.

  Or drowned. Troy had never seen anyone sweat that much. Coleman’s beefy face was shining with it. He’d need a towel to mop it up.

  “Oh, it’s plenty adequate to justify a warrant. She recalls exactly where that fire burned in your backyard, Mr. Coleman. We’ll have our own little archaeological dig. Any scraps of the clothing—assuming it was cotton—will probably have decomposed, but leather endures surprisingly well. The soles of those athletic shoes will definitely have survived.” He shook his head. “The metal rings holding the pages of the ledger together. I think it’s real likely we’ll find all kinds of bits and pieces once we start digging. You really should have burned that bloody clothing somewhere else, Mr. Coleman.”

  He turned and punched the wall, once, twice, three times. Going right through the wallboard, slamming knuckles against a stud, seemingly unaware of the pain. And then he swung around, fixing eyes that burned with soul-deep despair and fury on Troy.

  The next second, Coleman charged, those raw knuckles flying. He was howling again, this time wordlessly.

  Even though Troy dodged, a fist struck his shoulder and he lurched into the wall. Coleman had crashed into the door, turning with shocking speed to come at Troy again.

  Troy leaped behind the desk. “Goddamn it, think! I’m a police officer!”

  The desk shuddered and the huge man came around it. I’m going to get the shit beaten out of me, Troy thought incredulously. The quarters were too close for him to risk pulling his gun.

  Troy spun away, knocking the chair to one side, then went on the offensive. Using his shoulder to slam into his oncoming opponent came naturally, even though he hadn’t played football in years.

  The force of his hit made Coleman expel all his air in a long “oof.” He was still on his feet, though, coming at Troy again. This time Troy deliberately let one of those fists connect so he could get his own forearm up and into the other man’s throat. Hard. He slammed Coleman backward into the wall. Books fell from shelves and a picture frame shattered on the floor. Troy stared into the beet-red face now wet with tears and snot as well as the copiously running sweat.

  “You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer, Mr. Coleman. Not smart. Not smart at all.”

  Stephen Coleman folded in on himself. That was the only way to describe it. One minute he was staring, vibrating with fury and fear, the next bewilderment overtook him. His legs gave way. Troy had to step back and let him fall. He landed heavily on his knees.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered.

  Troy used his forearm to wipe blood off his face. “What don’t I understand?”

  “He wanted more money. He laughed at me and said, ‘You’ll give me whatever I want, won’t you, Stephen?’” Even now, the mimicry of the way Mitch King had said his name was stunningly nasty. It said, I’ve got you, a high-and-mighty professor, right in my hand, and I can squeeze if I want.

  Mitch King had finally miscalculated how much pressure he could apply. In his pleasure at humiliating a professor, he had underestimated the man and how much he had at stake.

  None of which justified what Coleman had done to him.

  “Were you carrying a weapon when you went to talk to him in the sauna that night?”

  Swaying, Coleman shook his head. “I brought my payment. He wouldn’t take it. That’s when he said he was doubling his charge. He was still laughing when I turned and walked out. I knew where the rack of equipment was. The student who should have been behind the counter wasn’t there. I grabbed a bat and went back. He looked so surprised when I opened the door and started swinging.”

  The last thing Troy wanted to do was interrupt this, but he felt compelled to say, “You do know you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. We can stop this conversation until you have one.”

  “What difference does it make?” he said dully. Still on his knees, he swayed as if barely able to hold himself upright. “Look what he did to my life. I was brilliant, you know. I could have been at Harvard by now, instead of this. Every single night, I dream about him. He haunts me. Forget Mitchell King?” Coleman began to laugh, and it was a long time before he began choking and quit. “I haven’t been able to forget him for a single minute. I would have kept paying him, you know.” Coleman had been brought down, shattered. His expression pleaded for understanding. “If only he hadn’t asked for more.”

  Troy shook his head and dialed 911.

  * * *

  NOT UNTIL TROY ended the Sunday morning call so abruptly did Madison realize he was upset with her. She immediately had the awful, sinking realization that he hadn’t known her father had decided to stay for the whole weekend. He must have assumed she’d ignored him since Friday because she was mad about how he’d treated Dad. And then what did she do but seem completely uninterested in him when he phoned her!

  I am an idiot, she thought, wanting only to call him back immediately. But her dad was waiting impatiently, they had reservations at the restaurant, and she needed privacy when she talked to Troy anyway.
r />   But after Dad left midafternoon and she finally had a chance to call Troy, he didn’t answer. Unlike most people, he never went anywhere without his phone. He once told her that it was the most important tool he carried for his job.

  He might be in the middle of an interview, she tried to convince herself.

  Uh-huh. On Sunday afternoon?

  Okay, maybe he was with his mother.

  The alternative was that he’d glanced at the screen, seen she was the caller and muted the ring. As in, he didn’t want to talk to her.

  No! She didn’t believe it.

  Maybe she should have left a message, but he must check to see what calls he’s missed, right? Madison hated the anxiety that gripped her as she debated calling again, leaving a message, or... Or what?

  Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer and did call again. Still no answer, but this time she waited for his prompt and started talking.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk this morning. It was sort of a strange weekend, but good. Um, I don’t think you said where you were going.” Oh, God, what did she say now? “Well, I guess I’ll wait until you call.” She winced, thinking how lame that had sounded, and hastily ended the call.

  Her phone didn’t ring all evening. Or the next day. There were calls at the office, but none on her mobile phone. She checked it half a dozen times to make sure it still had battery life.

  By evening, she was mad. Troy hadn’t said the words I love you but he’d made her think he did. And then what? Did he think she shouldn’t have let her father stay with her? She had absolutely no idea. She kept thinking back to when he said her father was always in the room with them. He couldn’t possibly resent her for spending time with Dad, could he? If so, well, then he was a jerk and she didn’t care if she ever heard from him again.

  By morning, mad segued into worried and even scared. Where had he gone? He must have found more people to talk to. About Dad? Oh, dear God, what if he’d arrested her father? No, Dad would have let her know, surely.

  What if something had happened to Troy? He was a police officer, at high risk of getting hurt or even being killed. Would anyone let her know?

  But there was no way she was embarrassing him or herself by calling the police station to check up on him. His mother? She shuddered at the thought. He hadn’t even introduced the two of them.

  I could leave another message.

  Pathetic.

  When he finally did call, wouldn’t you know she had been in the shower and didn’t hear the phone ring. Once she was dressed, she compulsively checked the screen and learned there was one new message.

  “Hey,” he said. His voice sounded a little strange. Thicker than usual. “I just got back in town. I was hoping to see you. Uh...I’m at home. Call me.”

  Not a little strange, Madison decided. A lot strange. Her eardrums seemed to shiver with the beat of her heart. It’s Dad. Troy must have found evidence that he thought proved her father’s guilt. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to talk to her, to tell her. Considering their relationship, those words would be hard for him to say.

  I’m sorry. I have to arrest your father for murder.

  She stood stock still in her kitchen, absorbing his message, then snatched up her purse and raced out of the house. She had to see him. Otherwise she had a very bad feeling Troy would distance himself to save her from... Him? Or did he assume she’d hate him?

  Oh, God. She’d given him enough reason to think she would. Be honest—she hadn’t known herself how she’d feel if it came down to it.

  Now she did.

  Maybe they shouldn’t have gotten involved. Maybe her first instinct had been right, but it was too late now. She didn’t know if she could bear it if Troy was working his way up to ending things with her for any reason.

  She found his block but wasn’t positive she’d have known which town house was his if his SUV hadn’t been parked in front. Madison pulled in behind it and barely remembered to turn off the engine before she hurried up the walk. Not until she was on his doorstep did she feel a thump of fear. What if she saw dismay on his face when he opened the door and saw her?

  No. Stupid. Why would he? He’d called, hadn’t he?

  She rang the bell and heard it on the other side of the door. It wasn’t more than thirty seconds before the door opened. Troy appeared with bare feet, wearing nothing but faded, clay-stained jeans that hung low on his hips. His hair was disheveled. And—oh God—he had been injured. His right cheek was red, scraped and swollen, and his mouth on that side was swollen, too, making him look askew.

  “Madison?”

  “Oh, my God!” she whispered. “What happened to you?”

  He lifted a hand self-consciously to his face. “I got punched. It’s not a big deal. I barely felt it then. I’ll look better by morning.”

  Aghast, she stared at him. “Who punched you?”

  “Ah...long story. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Aware she was still standing on his doorstep and he hadn’t invited her in, she said awkwardly, “I got your message.”

  His expression changed, became warier. Or maybe she was misreading it, given the way the swelling changed his features.

  “I...take it you have something to say.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He shook his head and stepped back. “Sorry. Come in.”

  She walked past him. “Were you working on your wheel?”

  “What?” He glanced down at himself. “Oh. No. Just showered and threw on the most comfortable jeans I could find. Let me go grab a shirt.”

  Madison wanted to say, Not on my account, but didn’t. She loved looking at his chest, but it might be easier to talk if she didn’t want so desperately to touch him.

  He left her in the living room and loped up the stairs, returning a minute later wearing a T-shirt as faded as the jeans. “Coffee? Tea?”

  She shook her head, wishing he’d take her in his arms. After a moment, she set down her purse on a side table and faced him.

  “You were mad at me on Sunday.”

  “Yeah.” A muscle on his jaw twitched. “It was dumb. I got my feelings hurt. But it doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry.”

  He said that so simply, her heart cramped.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I let myself get excited because Dad really seemed to want to spend time with me, to talk to me and to listen. I said things I should have told him years ago.” She tried for a smile. “The fact that I could is thanks to you, you know. You...made me realize I deserve better than the way he treats me sometimes. He told me what he was being blackmailed for, and it made me sick.”

  Troy took a step toward her. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “He convinced me he was perfect.” That was what she couldn’t get past. “But I’m not, so I never felt I could measure up.” She shook her head. “But you’ve heard all that, and you know what? I’m glad Dad and I talked, and that I understand him a little better, but I’m done obsessing about it. You were right. I was letting how I felt about him be a lot more important than it is anymore. I mean, I love him, but my life isn’t about him. I’m good at my job, and I like myself, and, well, I didn’t come to talk about my father.”

  Troy gave a low, rough laugh. “That isn’t quite what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?” she had the courage to ask.

  He only shook his head. “Come here.”

  She moved, he moved, and the next instant they were holding each other. The horrible tension Madison had been living with disappeared in the huge relief of being able to lean against Troy, feel the strength of his embrace, the heat of his body, his breath ruffling her hair.

  “We should sit down,” he said finally, and when she nodded he guided her to the leather sofa. He didn’t let her go, keeping her tucked under his arm. After a minute he tilted his head so he could see her face. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Can I finish first? In case...” She didn
’t want to speak those words out loud: in case you’re going to say, “I have to arrest your father.”

  Troy nodded.

  “Dad told me what happened that night, how Mitchell King was already dead and Dad saw his body.” She didn’t wait for Troy’s face to change, to become cop-guarded. Instead she hurried on. “I believe him, but I know maybe you don’t.”

  “Madison...”

  She laid her fingers across his lips. Gently, not wanting to hurt him. “Not yet. Please?”

  A smile seemed to twitch at his mouth, swollen as it was. He nodded again.

  She took a deep breath and talked really fast. “What I came to say is, whatever happens with Dad won’t change how I feel about you.”

  Troy quit moving at all. He couldn’t possibly even be breathing. All he did was stare at her, his eyes made more shockingly turbulent in contrast to his complete stillness.

  “How do you feel about me?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  Her fingernails bit into her palms. “I’m in love with you. You have to know that.”

  For a moment his lashes veiled those intense eyes. “I...wasn’t sure.”

  When he didn’t say anything else, she stiffened. “You must be tired if you just got home. I won’t stay. I only came because I didn’t want you to feel...I don’t know, worse if you still suspect my father.”

  She didn’t make it to her feet. Troy’s grip on her arm stopped her.

  “You think I’m letting you get away after that?” The vibrancy in his voice and the smile that lifted one side of his mouth—the uninjured side—healed her hurt instantly. “I love you, Madison. God, I’ve been so afraid you didn’t feel the same.” The smile was gone. He sounded shaken. “I thought, if it came down to it, you’d choose your father.”

  Suddenly tongue-tied, she shook her head.

  “Will you marry me? Whatever happens?”

  She felt as if something were breaking inside. It was as if a giant dam had cracked and then split up, and the huge flood of emotions were free to tumble out. It should have been painful, but instead the experience was glorious.