Pulse

70

S aturday in the summer. Hot, humid, lushly green. Hardly anything or anyone was moving fast in the area of Waycliffe College. Jody figured the campus would be nearly deserted today. That was in her favor.

She parked her rental car at the far end of one of the visitor lots, out of sight from most of the campus, including the administration building. There were a few other cars on the lot, mostly students’ vehicles, using the visitors’ lot because it was closer to where they were going than student parking. There were quite a few cars in the students’ lot.

As she left the cool interior of the car, she glanced around. There were only a few people visible, well off in the distance, and they looked like denim-clad students.

Jody walked hurriedly toward the psych building, but not so fast that she might draw attention, passing only a few students. Once inside, she was pleased to find that the only class being held was on the second floor. No one seemed to be on the main floor. She made her way down the deserted hall to Professor Elaine Pratt’s office.

Someone had once advised her that if she was going to do something illegal, she should do it fast.

She approached the door to the complex of offices and tried the knob. It turned and she was inside.

She was now faced with three other doors lined up ahead of her. She chose the one that was Professor Pratt’s office and rotated the doorknob.

But only her sweating hand rotated. The door was locked.

Prepared for this, Jody reached into her purse and withdrew an expired credit card with a honed edge. This was something Quinn had told her about. She was grateful for his know-how as she slid the card between latch and doorframe, depressing the latch, and the door opened. She was feeling better now. Her nightmare had been what would happen if the card didn’t work and fell down on the other side of the door, where she couldn’t reach it.

There was no point in agonizing about something in the past; it was best to move forward. Someone, in one of her classes, had stressed that to her.

She was in. Ready to go forward.

There was enough light streaming through the window that she wouldn’t have to switch on a lamp.

She immediately bent to the task of searching through Professor Pratt’s desk, and then her file cabinets.

Do it fast…

She was surprised when an hour had passed. And disappointed that she’d been unable to break the encryption code or find any sign of correspondence about her or anything else pertaining to Enders and Coil.

She did find a stock prospectus for Meeding Holding Company, which seemed to be a parent company of Meeding Properties.

So what does this mean? That Elaine Pratt is a shareholder?

So what would that mean? If anything important.

A faint shadow crossed the desk. Someone walking past outside?

She heard a door open and close, not near. Her heart began an accelerated beat and she felt flush, nauseated.

Another door, closer. Leading to the complex of offices. Coming her way.

That was when Jody realized that when she’d entered she hadn’t relocked the door to Professor Pratt’s office. She backed toward the wall the door was on, with its frosted panes. If anyone peered in, they wouldn’t see her. If anyone entered, Jody would… what?

Brazen it through, pretend I have an appointment and I’m waiting for Elaine Pratt?

No, won’t work!

Plan ahead!

When the door opens, run out of here like a scalded rabbit, keep my face hidden, become an unknown intruder who’ll eventually be forgotten.

Like that character in Chicago. Mr. Cellophane.

A figure appeared in dim silhouette on the frosted glass.

The doorknob slowly rotated.

Jody thought she might faint.

She held her breath, listening to her frightened heart, and pressed motionless against the wall.

The knob turned all the way and the door opened about six inches. A woman’s hand explored inside the office like some curious tentacled sea creature, found the knob, and turned the raised ridge that activated the lock. Then she pulled the door closed and tested the knob to make sure it was locked.

Jody got down behind Elaine Pratt’s desk and didn’t so much as breathe out for fear she’d make some slight noise that would be noticed. Someone had checked and assumed Professor Pratt had forgotten to lock her office door, and locked it for her.

Jody made herself wait ten minutes before moving. Then, since she was behind the desk, she slowly opened and closed its drawers, checking the contents. There was something damned curious there.

In the bottom drawer was a folder with old photos and news articles about Daniel Danielle, how he’d killed a lot of people, been convicted of murder, and then died in a hurricane.

Or maybe it wasn’t so curious. After all, Daniel Danielle was a sort of iconic serial killer. And often in the news. Possibly Professor Pratt was researching sociopath behavior for one of her classes. She and her students had analyzed and discussed plenty of grisly subjects, real and fictional. They’d spent almost a week discussing Silence of the Lambs.

Jody closed the drawer, then took the time to arrange everything in the office as it was when she’d entered.

She drew a deep breath, told herself to pretend she belonged here in the building, and quickly and silently left the office and made her way back to the hall.

She was safe in the hall. She was sure no one had seen her enter or exit the suite of offices, and the odds were against her encountering someone who knew her before she left the building. She was simply another faceless visitor on campus.

She was walking toward the exit at the far end of the hall when she saw a figure stride past where another hall intersected.

It had all happened too fast and too far away to be sure, but Jody thought the figure might have been Sarah Benham.

The privacy tag still hung on the doorknob of Olivia’s room at the Hamaker Hotel. From outside came the sounds of the city, the honking horns, racing bus or truck engines, occasional muffled shouts. Far away a jackhammer began its muffled chattering.

Inside the room, the only sound was the deep and steady rhythm of Olivia’s breathing. Her breasts rose and fell. She was wearing a pink diaphanous nightgown and had one knee raised.

She straightened the knee.

Her breathing became fainter, and was underscored by a soft rattling sound. Flat on her back, her head comfortably resting on a pillow, Olivia raised her right hand and made a flitting motion with it, as if trying to shoo away something bothersome.

Then she lowered her hand and the room was silent.