Pulse

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The second set of French doors was unlocked. Its hinges squealed slightly as Quinn pushed one of the heavy doors open.

He led the way inside.

The air was cooler and the room was darker than outside. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out a sofa and chairs, a credenza or desk on one wall, framed paintings suspended on thin cord or wire that was hooked on crown molding, so the walls needn’t bear scars from nails or screws. This would be the living room, more formal than the book-lined den where Schueller and Sarah Benham were meeting.

Quinn could hear their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He led the way silently across plush carpet toward tall louvered doors that were standing open, folded against the living room walls. Light spilled from the doorway, and Quinn knew it must lead directly to the den.

He edged closer, holding the tiny microphone before him so it would pick up voices. He knew it was sensitive-he hoped sensitive enough.

Pearl and Fedderman hung back silently as Quinn moved to within inches of the doorway to the den.

“… had to be done,” Sarah Benham was saying. “But what about the others, who served a recreational purpose? Or the appeasement of a hunger?”

“The first one, Collins, was absolutely necessary. She learned too much,” the chancellor said. He drew his briar pipe from a pocket of his blazer.

“And she talked in her sleep,” Sarah Benham said. “I can attest to that.”

“I’ll bet.” Schueller got a leather tobacco pouch with a drawstring from another pocket and began filling the briar’s bowl.

Suddenly Quinn realized where he’d seen such a pouch before. One had been sent to him as a gift. He stared at it, and at Schueller’s leather elbow patches.

He felt his stomach churn.

Schueller replaced the soft leather pouch in his pocket and made no move to light the pipe. “You want a glass of wine? Red, like blood.”

The bastard! Quinn actually felt a chill and had to fight against yelling, Got you! If Jody was picking this up back in the garden, tonight was working out beyond anything he’d expected.

“Why not?” Sarah said.

“I’ll have a glass, too,” a male voice said. Quinn stole a glance and saw that a tall, lean man with alert gray eyes had entered the room. Tangler, the literature professor.

“There was seldom anyone there to listen to Macy,” Sarah said. “Thanks.”

The “thanks” must have been for the glass of wine. Quinn had to restrain himself from peeking into the room again and watching Sarah Benham take a sip.

“Um,” she said. “Good.”

After a pause, she spoke again: “The problem turned out to be that one of our prize students, Macy Collins, was too smart. She figured out what was going on.”

“The police should have concluded that at its worst, our alibi about Macy was a simple and harmless lie,” the chancellor said. “Or was intended as such at the time.”

“Possibly they weren’t smart enough to grasp the nuances and go for the feint.”

“They were soon on top of it,” Tangler, said. “They suspected the lie concealed a larger lie.”

“Maybe you can’t lie about murder,” Sarah Benham said.

“The police would agree with that,” Schueller said. “Fortunately all they seem to be investigating now is murder, and not our exercise in extreme capitalism.”

“Selling stock that doesn’t exist,” Tangler said, “is that wrong?”

“To the uninitiated,” Sarah said.

“And unlucky.”

A moment passed as they all toasted their good fortune.

Schueller’s voice: “The irony is that everything might have come tumbling down with those two ancient murders discovered in Wisconsin.”

“You think Daniel Danielle committed them?” Tangler asked.

“That’s for the police to find out.”

“The police are incompetent,” Sarah said. “It’s good that we found it out sooner rather than later. This wine French?”

“California.”

“Amazing. You wouldn’t think the soil-”

Sarah was suddenly silent. Quinn felt his heart pick up a beat. Had they been heard? Seen?

Schueller’s voice: “Somebody’s at the front door. It’s Elaine. She has a key, and she’ll find her own way back here.”

Silence now, while the missing piece to the puzzle made her way through the dimly lit house. Quinn’s phone call had worked perfectly, creating enough anxiety to cause concern and prompt a meeting, but not so much that any of the prey would bolt.

The front of the house was to the left of where they stood. Quinn knew it was unlikely that “Elaine”-undoubtedly Elaine Pratt-would pass through the darkened living room. And he was sure that Sarah, Tangler, and Schueller would be waiting, standing holding their wineglasses and looking away from him and his detectives, toward the opposite door into the den.

Quinn moved silently forward and craned his neck.

There were Sarah and Schueller, just as he’d imagined. Only Schueller wasn’t holding a wineglass. Both were facing away from Quinn, waiting for the visitor to appear. Tangler was off to the side, his thumbs hitched in his belt, also focused on Elaine’s entrance. Quinn could hear Pearl breathing close behind him. She’d moved closer. He didn’t know where Fedderman was. Watching their tails, he hoped.

Quinn moved nothing other than his right hand, sliding his police special revolver out of its belt holster.

A figure appeared in the doorway.

Elaine Pratt.

The vipers were all in the pit. Now the conversation could get even more interesting, And incriminating.

The problem was that everyone in the room was facing away from Quinn other than Elaine Pratt. He shifted position only slightly, and she did a double take and stared directly at him.

Quinn drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.

Chancellor Schueller and the others were momentarily frozen by surprise. They were in that slight lurch of time that provided opportunity.

Quinn knew this had to be fast.

It was something everyone knew.

There was a rush toward the door. The flustered academicians bumped into each other. In the confusion, from somewhere near his desk Schueller produced a sawed-off shotgun.

He swung the shotgun around and fired it before it had completed its arc.

Leading the charge into the den, Quinn was aware of Fedderman making a grunting sound behind him.

Quinn had only a few seconds. He took a shot at Rory Schueller, grazing his leg, as Schueller slipped through the French doors out into the night. Behind him there were blood spatters on the threshold, and on the paving bricks beyond the door.

Yelling for Pearl and Fedderman to stay in the house and secure the others, Quinn stepped out onto the veranda and followed the blood of the thing Daniel Danielle had spawned.

The monster wouldn’t escape this time.

The tornado moving in the night was Quinn.