Laughing, the revelers stood aside; some, catching the spirit, moved the couches to clear a space in the living room. What Rusty proclaimed as “Team Betts” deposited Joe’s Miata with great ceremony, as though unfurling the flag at Iwo Jima or toppling the statue of a dictator. “Aren’t we going to the library?” Mark asked.
“Got to clear the road.” Rusty reached into the Miata, producing Joe’s car keys. “It’s your day, Mark. You get to drive.”
Rusty was not usually a leader—it struck Mark that, for him, inspiring this teamwork meant more than the perpetration of a prank. “Whatever you say, Captain. From this night on your name will forever live in legend.”
With pleased solemnity, Rusty issued directions. As Tim and Skip pulled the library table to one corner, Rusty handed Mark the keys.
Sitting inside, Mark turned the ignition far enough to put Joe’s top down, then started the motor. To cheers and applause, Mark slowly drove the Miata through the open double doors, into the library.
He killed the engine, then sat there, mildly astounded. Rusty handed him a cup of whiskey on ice. “Why don’t you try out the sound system,” he suggested.
Mark took a deep, harsh swallow of whiskey, then reached into the glove compartment for a tape. It was Bon Jovi, a favorite. Surrounded by friends, Mark leaned his head back, listening to the music as he slowly closed his eyes.
WHEN MARK AWAKENED, the library was dark.
He felt sick. His head pounded, and his mind filled with rueful self-recrimination. The illuminated clock in Joe’s Miata read 3:04.
He needed to get back to his room. But he lived in the bowels of the stadium, a good three-quarters of a mile away. Too far to walk at night—too far, period.
Still drunk, he reached for Joe’s car phone.
Steve owed him, he reasoned—Mark had saved him from certain death at the hands of Joe Betts. Early-morning taxi service was not too much to ask.
With a trembling hand, he punched in the number to Steve’s room.
The phone rang once, then twice. At fourteen rings Mark hung up. “Wake up, you sonofobitch,” he murmured.
Nothing.
Mark dialed again, counting to fifteen rings.
Slowly, he replaced the phone. Never again, he promised himself. Then he shut his eyes once more.
4
W
HEN MARK AWOKE AGAIN, HIS SKULL THROBBED AND HIS mouth tasted sour. The stale air smelled of beer and whiskey and cigarette smoke, the faint pungent whiff of marijuana. Adjusting to the dark, his eyes were slits. He could not remember feeling so stupid.
The clock in Joe’s car read 5:43. Soon dawn would break, providing enough light for him to stagger home. He craved fresh air and his own bed.
Slowly, Mark extracted himself from the Miata.
The living room was empty except for a body sprawled on the couch. Rusty Clark. Passing through, Mark cautiously opened the side door, as though expecting to find himself in a foreign country. He took one deep breath of chill morning air and started on his way.
The first thick ribbon of orange-gray dawn appeared above the trees outlined in the semidark. In the distance, Mark discerned the steeple atop the Spire.
He headed there. Between the fraternities and campus, a gently sloping walkway flanked by trees and gardens passed modern buildings constructed of red brick—the library, the student theater, the alumni center, and, newest and most impressive, the architecturally striking student union, a steel-and-glass marvel that was the pride of Caldwell. But as with most other paths at the college, this one led to the Spire, towering above all else. As the sky lightened, the steeple emerged more clearly, creating the illusion that it was moving toward him from above the trees. There was a dusting of frost on the ground.
At the foot of the pathway, a black metal clock, eight feet high, told Mark that it was now 6:07. Passing it, Mark entered the main campus, demarked by a sandstone gateway. For the next few minutes he wended his way through the buildings, varied in size and style, that housed his classes in English, history, philosophy, and science. At midday, he promised himself, he would go for a very long run and afterward, head cleared, resume his pursuit of a place at Yale Law School. Then he reached the lawn surrounding the Spire.
He paused there, recalling the tumult he had inspired hours before, the primal roar of the crowd as he’d brandished the bronze axe. Now the site of the Spire was so quiet and empty that it evoked a vanished civilization. Gazing up at the steeple, he remembered the harsh severity of the bell tower, his brief attack of vertigo. With a sense of awe, he again approached the tower.
He stopped abruptly.
A dark form lay on the grass. Completely still, it was too long and angular to be anything but a person. He stepped forward, wondering if someone had passed out here, deeply afraid that this was something worse.
It was a woman. Arms outflung, her body faced the sky. A terrible sense of familiarity hit him as he moved closer.
He stopped abruptly, sickened.
Angela Hall lay at the foot of the Spire like a sacrifice on an altar. She stared up at him, her eyes too fixed to be alive. Her lips were parted in an expression of pain or anger, exposing her white teeth.
A cry of animal anguish issued from Mark’s throat. He forced himself to kneel, touching her wrist. It was not as cold as he had imagined or as warm as he had hoped. Feeling this contact like an electric shock, he fought back the reflex to vomit.
Mark stood. There was no telephone, he realized, no way of calling for help. Instinctively he began running across the lawn, heading for the one house he knew near campus, Lionel Farr’s.
AGAIN AND AGAIN he rang the doorbell, jabbing the button as though willing Farr to answer. At last, minutes later, someone jerked open the door.
It was Farr, his strong face lined with sleep, his eyes keen with a displeasure that changed to surprise. He was still adjusting his sweater, and his gray-blond hair was mussed. “For God’s sake, Mark. What is it?”
Mark’s throat was parched. “Angela Hall. I found her near the Spire.” Voice catching, he finished: “I think she’s dead.”
For an instant, Farr’s eyes froze. Then he snapped, “Wait here.”
Mark stood on the porch, shaken yet relieved. Farr hurried through the door. “I’ve called the police,” he said. “We’ll meet them there.”
Together they rushed down the street toward the Spire. Between breaths, Mark said, “I saw her last night.”
Loping beside him, Farr asked sharply, “Where?”
“The DBE house.”
“Tell me.”
As they entered the campus, Mark began a hasty outline of the party.
“She left with Steve?” Farr interrupted.
“Yes.”
They reached the grass, Mark hoping against hope that this was a dream. The landscape was empty but for Angela.
Slowing, Farr approached her. His military posture vanished. Kneeling beside the body, he looked into her face, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny until, briefly, they shut. “She’s been strangled.”
“Strangled?” Mark repeated.
“Look at her eyes,” Farr responded softly.
Mark forced himself to do that. There were red pinpoints in the whites of her sightless eyes. In a monotone, he said, “I should have taken her home.”
Farr turned. Following his gaze, Mark saw two uniformed policemen running toward the Spire. “Whatever happened,” Farr said with quiet urgency, “tell them everything . . .”
“What about Steve?”
“Everything, dammit. You can’t know who it helps or hurts. But concealment helps no one—especially you.”
One of the policemen was George Garrison—his high school teammate and Angela’s friend. Staring at Angela, George slumped. “Sweet Lord,” he said to the body. “What happened to you, baby?” It was not the voice of a cop.
When Mark looked up at him, George was staring back. The other cop, white and older, put his hand on George’s
shoulder. Then he spoke to Mark and Farr. “The detectives are coming,” he told them. “I want you over on that bench.”
The next several minutes were a blur. Seated at the edge of the grass, Mark and Lionel Farr watched the police tape off the grass around the Spire. A photographer and videocam operator focused on Angela; a youngish blond woman carefully examined her body; two plainclothes detectives took notes. Mark tried to remember whether he had seen, or only now imagined, a bruise on Angela’s face.
At length the two detectives walked toward the bench. “Tell them everything,” Farr repeated. “Leave nothing out.”
The older, red-headed detective identified himself as Fred Bender; the bulky man with a worn, sad face was Jack Muhlberg. Standing over them, Muhlberg said evenly, “So what happened here?”
With quiet efficiency, Farr traced their movements from Mark’s arrival at his door. The detective pointed to a nearby garden. “Let’s talk over here,” he told Farr.
They left Mark alone. Disbelieving, he watched men in white jackets examine the ground near Angela’s body. The morning sun, he noticed, was turning the frost to dew.
If only.
If only Steve had not invited her. If only she had left before. If only Steve had not left with her. Mark could not decipher cause and effect, only its rudiments. He kept seeing Joe’s glazed eyes, Steve’s taillights swerving into the night, Angela’s wistful smile. Somewhere between that moment and dawn, tragedy had waited for her.
The two detectives returned with Farr. “Okay, Mark,” Muhlberg said. “We’ll need to go over just what happened.” Turning to Farr, he added, “You can leave now, Professor.”
“I’d like to stay.”
Bender shook his head. “That’s not how we do things.”
“Is Mark in custody?”
Glancing at Muhlberg, Bender said, “Of course not.”
Farr crossed his arms. “Then you should understand that he’s much more than a student to me. It comes down to this: either I stay, or I’m hiring him a lawyer. Your choice.”
Muhlberg looked nettled. “How do you feel, Mark?”
Mark sorted out his thoughts. “Professor Farr said to tell you everything. I’d like him here with me.”
When Bender turned to him, Muhlberg shrugged in resignation. Silent, Mark saw George Garrison watching over his murdered friend. He stood so still he could have been in a trance.
“Okay, Mark,” Bender said briskly, and the questioning began.
THE TWO DETECTIVES were dogged and thorough. Reluctantly, Mark described the night: drinking with Steve, encountering Angela, confronting Carl, breaking up the fight between Steve and Joe. Under persistent questioning, Mark explained his relationship to each. “Before you found her,” Muhlberg asked again, “when did you last see Angela alive?”
It dawned on Mark that he was a suspect. “When she left with Steve,” he answered tiredly. “Just like I told you before.”
“Where does Steve live?”
“Where I do. We both have rooms in the football stadium.”
The two detectives glanced at each other. “Can you tell us anything else?” Muhlberg asked.
For an instant, Mark hesitated. “Yeah. You should talk to Laurie Shilts, Joe’s girlfriend. She was at the party, too.”
Muhlberg sat beside him. “I thought Joe went after Angela.”
“They’d broken up, Laurie told me.”
“Did she say why?”
“You’d have to ask her.” Mark stared straight ahead. “All I know for sure is they’d had a fight.”
Bender wrote this down. Moving forward, Farr asked, “Can Mark go now?”
Nodding, Muhlberg gazed at Mark. “Do us a favor,” he said, “and also yourself. Don’t talk about this to anyone. I know these kids are your friends. But we need to get their independent memories.”
Silent, Mark nodded. To his surprise, Muhlberg put a hand on his shoulder. “You were a great quarterback, Mark. I always liked watching you play.”
“I always liked playing,” Mark answered.
THE TWO DETECTIVES left.
“I don’t care what they say,” Mark told Farr. “I’ve got to find Steve.”
“That would be a mistake,” Farr said firmly. “It’s also too late. I’m sure they’ve already gone to his room. All you’d do is walk in on them and make yourself look bad.”
Mark felt the enormity of events crashing down on him, the world as he knew it spinning out of control. “Then what do I do now?”
“Stay out of trouble.” Farr’s taut voice brooked no dissent. “I have to tell Clark Durbin, and you’re coming with me.”
5
T
HEY RUSHED TO DURBIN’S HOUSE ON FOOT. STILL disoriented, unsure of his role here, Mark sensed that Farr meant to keep him close, away from Steve or Joe or the police. His face careworn, Farr said little. Only when they approached the door of the president’s house did he pause, saying softly and sadly, “That beautiful girl.” Then he stood taller, fully himself, and rapped the brass door knocker.
Opening the door, Durbin looked from Farr to Darrow, his reflexive half smile at odds with his expression of puzzlement. “There’s been a terrible tragedy,” Farr said in a low voice. “Angela Hall, a black scholarship student. Mark found her at the Spire, strangled. The police are already there.”
Durbin stared at Mark, lips parting slightly. He had been president for three months. Yesterday at the Spire, when Mark had met him for the first time, his fleeting impression had been of a slight dark-haired man in his forties with a ready smile and warm blue eyes who gave off a jittery energy. Now his body seemed to sag; in his slack expression and softening chin, Mark saw only shock. For an instant, Mark compared his reaction to Farr’s—Durbin seemed momentarily paralyzed.
“Come in,” he said haltingly. “Please.”
Mark followed Farr inside. The one-story house was modern and light, with an open floor plan and tall windows that looked out on a patio and garden. Durbin waved them to a couch, sitting across from them with his hands clasped, his expression more focused. “A student’s lost her life,” he said. “That’s the worst thing that can hit any school. I need to hear everything you know.”
Farr took a moment to gather himself. “That’s why I’m here. Not many—if any—people know. By this afternoon everyone will. No matter the shock, you’ll have to move quickly. But it’s worth taking an hour now to design the best response.” Farr nodded toward Mark. “From what I understand, this tragedy may have started with a party at the DBE house. Mark was there. He has a story to tell you that may bear on what you should do.”
Surprised, Mark stared at Farr. “Go ahead,” Durbin urged Mark. “Please.”
Facing him, Mark outlined the events, culminating in Angela’s departure with Steve. He could not shake the sense of betraying his friend. But Durbin listened closely, his expression open and even kind. “Thank you, Mark,” he said, then turned to Farr. “Obviously, I need to address the school right away. The students will need a sense of calmness.”
“That’s only part of it,” Farr ventured. “The police know all this from Mark—no doubt they’re questioning Steve Tillman right now. Inevitably, this story will be tinged with drugs, alcohol, and overtones of racism. It heightens the risk of frightening our students and our applicants, including minorities. How you react in the next twenty-four hours, and then the next few days, will help determine how bad that gets.” Farr leaned forward, saying gently, “I’ve had a few more minutes to think about this. May I offer some suggestions?”
To Mark, Durbin appeared freshly appalled by what he faced. “Please.”
“First, call an all-school meeting for seven o’clock tonight—use the school’s voice-mail system. Between then and now, phone Angela’s mother to express our grief and ask what we can do. Call any leader of the black community you can find. Also our board chair and general counsel—you’ll need their advice, and there’ll be hell to pay if you don’t take it. Especi
ally about preventing a racial or town-gown conflict.”
Durbin held up his hand. Walking to a desk, he took out a legal pad and pen. Sitting again, he asked, “How do you see this all-school meeting?”
“The purpose—as you say—is to calm the campus. Offer the students grief counseling. Announce a memorial service for Angela, and a day of reflection in our classrooms on what this tragedy means to Caldwell. Invite student leaders in for meetings—including leaders of minority groups.”
“What about campus safety?” Durbin cut in. “I should hire more security guards.”
“Agreed,” Farr responded with quiet force. “But by itself that suggests that this place is dangerous. Have your VP for student affairs gather the statistics on previous campus crime rates—I’ve been here almost twenty years now, and I can assure you that it’s pretty low. At tonight’s meeting, tell the students that.”
Durbin shook his head. “That would sound like I’m saying there’s nothing to worry about. Plainly, there is.”
“Then why not announce a new campus safety program—tonight. A buddy system where students are encouraged to walk together. A ride system for women walking back to their dorms or sorority houses at night. Telephones every fifty yards or so, connecting students to the campus police. A new lighting system to illuminate the campus after dark.” Farr paused for emphasis. “Let them know that you won’t rest until you’re certain—and they’re certain—that this will never happen again.”
As Mark listened, it struck him that Farr’s professorial persona was falling away, exposing the military officer he once had been, quick-thinking and decisive under stress. Durbin scribbled a few more notes, then looked up at Mark. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, Mark. Still, I’d appreciate any thoughts you have.”
The Spire Page 6
