by Meg Cabot
“Like you didn’t shoot Owen through his office window yesterday morning,” I say, “to keep him from ratting you out to your supervisor and the board of trustees.”
Mark blinks some more.
“What? What are you—”
“Come on, Mark,” I say. “Everyone knows you did it. Jamie knows. I know. The cops know. You might as well give yourself up. You can plant guns on innocent people all you want, but the truth is, you’re going to get caught eventually. It’s just a matter of time.”
Mark does something extraordinary then.
He bursts out laughing. Then he lets go of me.
“Is that what this is about?” he asks, walking to the opposite end of the stairwell, dragging a hand through his thick dark hair. “You think…My God. You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I assure you,” I say, keeping an eye on the door. Any second now, I’m sure, Cooper is going to burst through it. I’d make a run for it, but I’m certain Halstead will stop me before I get even one step toward it. Stop me, then toss me over the railing and to my death. “I’m serious as a heart attack.”
“How could I have killed your boss?” Mark demands. “They already caught the guy who did it!”
“You shot him,” I say, “and planted the gun on Sebastian.”
“Oh, right,” Mark says, very sarcastically…I mean, for a preacher. “And what time was your boss shot again?”
“Between eight and eight-thirty yesterday morning,” I say.
“Right,” Mark says. “You mean while I was holding daily morning prayer service, which I do every day between seven-thirty and eight-thirty, in front of no fewer than twenty to thirty students? Would you like to explain how I snuck out in front of all of them, shot your boss, snuck back, and continued prayer service without any of them noticing I was gone?”
I swallow. No wonder Detective Canavan had been in no hurry to rush out and arrest the reverend. It hadn’t been because he already had a suspect in custody.
It had been because Reverend Mark had a rock-solid alibi.
“Oh,” I say.
Dang. And I’d really wanted him to turn out to be the killer, too.
“You know,” Mark says in an irritated voice, “I am getting so tired of people assuming that, just because there’ve been a few religious leaders who’ve turned out to be less than honest, all men of the cloth must be inherently dishonest. Apparently we’re all either child molesters, adulterers, or cold-blooded killers.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m sorry. But you did just admit that you hit on homely and overweight girls to improve their self-esteem. That’s totally skeevy, especially considering you’re in a position of power over them, and they’re probably too intimidated to tell you to cut it out if they don’t like it.”
Mark makes a bleating noise of protest. “It’s not skeevy!” he says. “It’s actually very—”
But he doesn’t get a chance to explain to me what it’s actually very. Because at that moment, the stairwell door explodes open, and a dark-haired blur bursts through it.
“Heather,” Cooper demands, seeing me with my back still up against the cinder block. His eyes are wide with emotion. I can’t exactly pinpoint which one. But something tells me it might actually be…fear. At the very least, it’s anxiety. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, a little crankily. I still can’t believe I was wrong about Reverend Mark.
“I told you to stay where I could see you,” he snaps.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, Reverend Hot Pants over here had other ideas.”
This is the wrong thing to say. Because the next thing I know, Cooper’s crossed the few feet that separates him from Mark Halstead in a single leap, seeming unaware of the look of panic that spreads across the reverend’s face as he does so. A second later, Cooper’s heaved himself, left shoulder first, into Halstead’s stomach.
Then the two of them go tumbling down the stairwell.
20
* * *
Monday’s guy is full of himself
Tuesday’s guy drinks only scotch, top shelf
Wednesday’s guy is a commitment phobe
Thursday’s guy will never phone
“Guys of the Week”
Written by Heather Wells
* * *
It takes the combined efforts of Tom, Steve, Gavin, myself, and Jamie (“Dressage,” she informs me, when I comment on her surprising amount of upper-body strength) to pull Cooper and the Reverend Mark apart. When we do, we discover we’re too late to have prevented any major damage. The paramedics later diagnose a broken nose and bruised ribs (Reverend Mark) and dislocated finger along with possible concussion (Cooper). It’s impossible to confirm Cooper’s concussion, however, because he refuses to go to the hospital.
“What are they going to do for a concussion?” he wants to know, after the EMT has shoved his pinky back into place. “Tell me not to take any codeine and have someone wake me up every two hours to make sure I don’t go into a coma? Sorry, I can do that at home.”
Mark is surprisingly good-natured about his nose, refusing to press charges even after he discovers his attacker is a Cartwright, of Cartwright Records.
“Maybe,” he says to me, as he’s being loaded into the ambulance (unlike Cooper, Reverend Mark is only too eager to be taken to St. Vincent’s, possibly so as to postpone uncomfortable questions he might be receiving from his superiors back at the student chapel), “this will solve my little problem, by making me less appealing to the ladies.”
“Yeah,” I say to him. “Good luck with that.”
I’m still keeping the PNG in place, even if he didn’t kill Dr. Veatch. And Jamie’s still putting through her formal complaint on him…it will be accompanied with my notes on his admissions to me, plus the fact that he was dismissed from his previous two positions for undisclosed reasons.
I mean, come on. He may not be a murderer.
But he’s still a letch.
“Well,” Sebastian says, as we all walk slowly back toward Fischer Hall after the excitement has died down. Slowly because we’re keeping pace with Cooper, who, though he denies it, appears to have suffered some contusions he didn’t mention to the paramedics that are impeding his progress somewhat. “That was…anticlimactic.”
“Yeah, well, everything would have been all right if you hadn’t shown up,” I can’t help snapping. I’m sort of hovering beside Cooper, ready to catch him if he falls over. He is not amused by this, and has already asked me to get out of his way twice. I told him I was just looking out for him, same as he was doing for me back at the sports center, but he pointed out that to his certain knowledge, no homicidal preachers are stalking him.
This is just further proof that no good deed ever goes unpunished.
“It’s all my fault,” Sarah says, as we amble slowly down Bleecker Street, past the underground comedy clubs and aboveground manicure and sushi shops. “I thought it would be a good idea if Sebastian went to the memorial to pay his respects. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Veatch would be such a psycho.”
“Well, how did you expect her to react?” Gavin wants to know. “Her ex-husband just got iced.”
“That’s exactly it,” Sarah goes on. “He’s her ex, not her current husband. Her reaction was completely unwarranted. That woman clearly has unresolved issues with Owen. That much is obvious.”
I can’t help noticing that Sarah and Sebastian are holding hands. So I guess dinner with the Blumenthals went well. As a matter of fact, Cooper and I are the only ones in the group walking back toward Fischer Hall who aren’t holding hands. Love is definitely in the air.
In fact, I’d looked around after the paramedics had left, but Tad had disappeared. So, I couldn’t help noticing, had Muffy.
I’m not saying the two of them left together or anything. I just couldn’t help noticing they were both gone.
Of course, by then everyone else was, too. It turns out having a couple of ambulances show up at a mem
orial service has a way of indicating to everyone that the party’s over. Tom and Steve had left for their own place on the opposite side of the park, which was understandable. And of course the Allingtons had left in their town car, and the Mrs. Veatches, as well.
Still. You’d have thought Tad, at least, would have stuck around, at the very least to walk me home, considering, for all he knew, someone had just tried to kill me.
But I guess once you break up with a guy, all bets are off.
“I just think,” I say to Sebastian, “if you’d wanted to introduce yourself to Owen’s ex, your timing could have been better.”
“But that’s just it,” Sebastian says. We’ve reached MacDougal, and turn onto it. Fischer Hall is just a couple of blocks away. In the distance, we can already hear the roar from the GSC’s rally in the park. The one at which I’m not singing “Sugar Rush.” “I already met Pam.”
“Um, nice try,” I say. “But that’s impossible. She only got into town today. And you just got out of jail a few hours ago, right?”
“I’m hungry,” Jamie says. And no wonder. We’re passing West Third Street, and the evening breeze is blowing in just such a way that it picks up the fragrant scent from Joe’s Pizza and tosses it in our direction.
“We’ll order when we get home,” Gavin says. “Unless you want to go out.”
“Sweet,” Jamie says happily. “I like sausage and mushroom. You?”
“What do you know,” Gavin says. “I freaking love sausage and mushroom.”
“We met Pam in the chess circle yesterday,” Sarah says, as we cross West Third and head toward West Fourth. “At least, I think we did. Someone who looks just like her. Right, Sebastian?”
“Right,” Sebastian says. “She asked all about the GSC. And took some of our literature.”
“She couldn’t have,” I say. “That’s impossible. She wouldn’t have been in New York yesterday morning. She can’t have gotten here that fast. She lives in Iowa.”
“Illinois,” Cooper corrects me.
“Whatever,” I say. “She showed up at Fischer Hall this morning with her suitcase.”
Sarah looks confused. “Well, then who was that lady yesterday, Sebastian?”
“I don’t know.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m so tired. I can’t think straight anymore.”
“Poor baby.” Sarah reaches out and strokes the fuzz that’s beginning to sprout on Sebastian’s cheeks. Apparently they don’t give you razors in Rikers. “Let’s get you to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Can’t,” Sebastian says weakly. “We’ve got to get to the rally.”
“The GSC can get along without you for one night,” Sarah surprises me by saying.
“No,” Sebastian says. He sounds immeasurably weary. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve got to go.”
“Well,” Sarah says resignedly. “Let’s change first. We can’t go in these clothes.”
We’ve reached the park. The roar from the protest is much louder now. We can see the crowd over by the Washington Square Arch, where a temporary stage has been set up. Someone is on the stage, urging the crowd through a megaphone to chant, “What do we want?”
“Equal rights!”
“When do we want them?”
“Now!”
Dusk has fallen. It’s a warm evening, so the usual misfits are out and about—the skateboarders, the bongo players, the runaways with their dogs (why do they always have dogs?), the young couples in love, the drug dealers, the bickering old men in the chess circle.
And the cops, of course. The park is swarming with them, thanks to the union rally.
And there, parked in front of Owen’s building, exactly where it had been this afternoon, is the Ryder truck. Only now the doors to the back are closed. Whoever has rented it is getting ready to drive it away.
That’s good, because there’s no overnight parking this side of the park.
“If I write a guest pass for Sebastian,” Sarah is saying to me, “will you sign it, Heather?”
“Sarah,” I say, annoyed. I just want to get Cooper home and into bed. I’ll have to wake him up every two hours—neither of us is going to get much sleep tonight. But when I think how close I came to losing him entirely, I can’t help shuddering. He could have broken his spine in that stairwell. Or worse.
“I know,” Sarah says. “I know we’re supposed to hand them in twenty-four hours in advance. But how was I supposed to know he’d be out?” Her dark eyes are wide and appealing in the deepening twilight. “Please?”
I sigh. “All right,” I say. “Coop, mind if we make a pit stop?”
“Sure,” Cooper says. “You go on. I’m going home.”
“Coop.” This concussion thing hasn’t exactly done any wonders for his personality. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“And I’m a grown man,” Cooper points out. “Who can make his own way to his house around the corner from here.” Then, seeing my crestfallen expression, he reaches out to ruffle my hair—never a welcome gesture, by the way—and says, “Heather. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at home.”
The next thing I know, he’s limping away.
Sarah peers after him, chewing her lip nervously.
“I’m really sorry,” she says, when she turns to see me staring daggers at her. “This is so nice of you. Especially after everything I’ve done. I know I don’t deserve—”
“Just go inside,” I interrupt. And follow her into the building.
Fischer Hall has a different rhythm at night than it does during the day. About which I can only say—thank God I work days. Most of the residents are in class or still sleeping when I get in at nine, and the majority of them don’t get in—or get up—until I leave at five. When they’re home, the way they are now, the lobby is buzzing with activity, teenagers Rollerblading, signing in guests, pounding the elevator keys, complaining about the television reception in the lobby, calling upstairs to their friends, cursing at their mail, shrieking hello to one another…in other words, the place is a zoo. I don’t know how the hall directors, whose positions are live-in, stand it. Some of them, like Simon Hague, cope by turning into unctuous weasels.
Others, however, maintain their cool simply by letting it all roll off their backs, like Tom. I’ve always hoped that I’d be that kind of hall director, if by some miracle I happened to get my bachelor’s degree and then my master’s and then a director’s position (though heaven help me if this should ever occur).
Others turn into Type A bureaucrats like Owen. And I have a feeling that’s how I’d turn out. I can feel my blood pressure going up just looking at the scuff marks the wheels of those Rollerblades are making on the marble floors. Julio is going to have a coronary when he comes back to work and sees them in the morning, I just know it.
Then I remember he won’t be coming in. Because of the strike.
“Here you go, Sebastian,” I say, when I’ve filled out the guest pass and handed it to him. “Knock yourself out.”
Sebastian looks down at the pass. “Wow,” he says. For a minute, he looks a lot less like a suspected killer and the leader of a student revolution than just a scared kid who got into something that’s way over his head. “Thanks a lot, Heather. You have no idea how much this means to me. I mean, I know Sarah told you about my roommate situation, and my parents got me a hotel room, but…It’s nice for me to be able to stay with Sarah. She…she means a lot. I just didn’t realize how much until recently.”
Embarrassed, Sarah looks down at the pointed toes of her high heels, blushing prettily, seemingly unaware of Sebastian’s gaze on her. I am torn between wanting to hurl and wanting to throw my arms around them. They’re just so…cute.
And I realize I’m feeling something else, a third thing. Envy.
I want that. What they have.
I thought I had it. Sort of. But fortunately, I realized in time that I didn’t. Not that I was in any real danger of doing anything foolish about it, like getting married, or hiking
the Appalachian Trail for the summer.
Still. I’d like what the two of them have. Someday.
I settle for saying, gruffly, “Well, remember, you two—practice safe sex. And Sarah, you’re still on duty. If the RA calls, you have to respond, no matter what.”
Sarah’s blush deepens. “Heather,” she says to the floor. “Of course.”
A resident, hearing my name, inhales deeply, and rushes over.
“Oh my God, are you Heather Wells?” she cries.
I look heavenward for strength. “Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God, I know the hall office is closed, but my cousin showed up from out of nowhere, I swear, and I need a guest pass, and if you could make an exception, just this once, and sign one for me, I would be forever in your debt—”
I point at Sarah. “She’s the girl you want to see. I’m out of here.”
And I make my way out of the lobby and back out into the fresh evening air.
Standing in the blue light cast from the building’s security lamp, I look out across the park, trying to ignore the clusters of smokers whose voices drop to a whisper when they see me, recognizing me as a “narc.” The chanting over by the arch has changed to “Union contract now! Disrespect us never!” It’s a mouthful, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.
It’s a beautiful evening—too beautiful to turn in so early. On the other hand, now that my dad’s moved out, I have a dog to walk…not to mention a semiconcussed private detective to look after.
I wonder what I’d do if I were a normal single girl in the city—like Muffy. Go out for cocktails, no doubt, with my girlfriends. Of course, I don’t have any girlfriends. Well, that’s not true. But my single girlfriend is busy stalking one of our coworkers and his kids, and my married girlfriend is too hormonal to be any fun.
I can’t help looking at that Ryder truck. It’s still sitting down the street.
What’s going to happen to Muffy, I can’t help wondering, after the strike is over? I mean, it’s going to have to end eventually. The president isn’t going to settle for having a giant inflatable rat sitting outside his office for long. She won’t lose her job, of course, which should be a relief to her—she won’t have to give up her apartment, which she sold all that wedding china for. But what will she do all day?
