Chapter 14

  

Joe pushed his half-finished dinner away. “No clues on the man in boots yet. Also, no notes or calls to Wynan demanding a ransom. So the longer this goes on, the more I am sure she’s been taken prisoner for some reason...or…”

“Or killed.” I stared at my food and took another sip of wine.

The phone rang and both of us jumped. But it wasn’t for Joe. It was Bridget Thomas for me. No greeting, but a sense of urgency in her voice. “Red, have you looked at your email?”

“No. I just got home.”

“Well, you’d better see what our idiot chairman, Bud Chekovski, has to say in addition to tomorrow’s meeting time and place.”

“Bad?”

“Troubling. I think the provost may have gotten to him after our last meeting. He seems to want us to tread more than cautiously.”

“About assault? I’ve got a missing female student, Bridget. Cautious is not what I’m feeling right now.”

I walked over to my computer and brought up my email. There it was, just as Bridget described. “Why is he putting this in an email instead of bringing it up tomorrow at the meeting?”

“I’m not sure, Red. But my hunch is he’s been told to frame the discussion the way Ezra wants it, not the way we might want it.”

“Damn. I’m not willing to assume that a young woman would arbitrarily accuse a guy of assault. Most of the women students I know are not that vicious. The hell with McCready’s caution.”

* * *

  

That night sleep did not come easily. Joe had left after dinner to go to the police station to see if any of the checks on the man in the muddy boots had panned out. My mind went back and forth between my worries about Jamie Congers and my concerns that, in the sexual assault policy meetings, I was going to run head on into Ezra McCready’s opinions about the reliability of survivor testimony.

And I was personally conflicted. Sooner or later I would have to figure out how to contend with an ugly memory from my own college days. My roommate’s boyfriend had come into my room when I was wretchedly ill with flu, pulled off my pajamas and did what he damn pleased. I’d never told anyone.

For years, I’d suppressed the memory because it sickened me. And whom would I have told, even if I had been willing to talk? In those days, the prevailing view of some college administrators was discouraging. And even though the new provost reminded me of that time, was I really willing to do battle with the man who would have the final say on whether or not I would be appointed Dean of Journalism? No matter how the search committee voted, Ezra McCready’s view would rule.

So I knew I would be of two minds throughout the discussions of the committee. For one thing, we lacked a clear definition of sexual assault. Did it mean rape, or did it include unwanted kissing and groping? To complicate matters, legal scholars differed as much on definitions as did various college policies.

I tried to brush my concerns away but only found that, when I did, my thoughts switched back to my missing student.

  

Jamie

  

She sat on her bed, hands folded in her lap, waiting to hear his footsteps coming up the stairs to release her for her evening chores. She heard the lock click. He opened the door to her room and stared at the lock for a moment. Did he just realize he had forgotten the deadbolt? He looked up at her. He was carrying a bag and a book in his hand. He measured her with his eyes. “Have a good day?”

“Boring day,” she said, looking up at him. She knew she had thoroughly cleaned up the closet downstairs, then washed the skillet and spoon carefully so not a trace of plaster or dust remained. But she couldn’t lock the deadbolt on the door to her room without his key, and she feared he would notice.

He didn’t seem to notice. He put the book on the bed next to her. “Something new to read,” he said. A trace of a smile appeared, almost as if the book was a present he had brought for her.

The bag was labeled “Macy’s.” Odd, she thought, he didn’t look like a Macy’s customer. And there was no Macy’s in Landry. He would have had to go all the way to Reno.

“Put on these new clothes and then come down to supper.” He left and closed the door behind him. This time, he’d decided not to watch her dress.

She pulled at the tissue paper in the bag. A shirt and a pair of khaki pants came out and fell on the blanket, followed by more underwear. Two more bras, two more pair of cotton underpants. Plain cotton pants, not bikini style. At the bottom, a pair of white sneakers and two pairs of thin white socks.

Again, the bra was the right size, as was the shirt. The pants were a bit loose around the hips and waist. The sneakers fit. She wished he’d bought warmer socks.

As she gathered up the bag and tissue, she spotted the book on the blanket. It was a leather journal, small and worn. She opened to find the first page missing.

She was not to know the owner’s name.

As she flipped through the first few handwritten pages, she saw the dates had been blacked out with what seemed to be a wide felt-tipped pen. She was not to know when, only what the writer had written.

The handwriting was clear and delicate, probably feminine. It was also familiar and she knew this was the hand that had created the framed documents downstairs. Her heart sank as she read the first two sentences.

This is a happy day. This is the first day of my marriage.

  

An hour later, Jamie stood at the sink washing the supper dishes. The man was seated at the table drinking coffee, watching her. She’d resolved to say something, although she’d remained silent all through dinner. She turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She twisted the towel in her hands and stepped closer to the table. “Then why are you keeping me a prisoner here?”

He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup. “Because I don’t want you to run away. And I can’t trust you to stay. Not yet.”

“Trust me to stay for what?”

“Stay and achieve my objective.”

“And what’s your objective?” She feared the answer.

“Someday, I hope you will want to be the woman who lives in this house.”

“Your wife?” She almost screamed, but kept her voice even. This was more response to her questions than she had ever gotten out of him before.

He looked up at her. His eyes were dark and dead. “I don’t believe I said anything about marriage,” he said.

“Live in this house as what, then? Your whore?”

He pushed his chair back and stood. He came to her and took the dishtowel and ripped it out of her hands and threw it in the sink. It hit with enough force to rattle a remaining saucer.

He put his hands on her shoulders, his grip so strong she flinched with the pain. “I’ve no intention of hurting you. Nothing will happen against your will.”

She clenched her teeth and looked into his cold eyes. “I’m here in this kitchen against my will,” she said. “And you’re hurting me now.”

He released her. “Give it time. Someday you will be glad I brought you here. Now go to bed, and stop asking questions.”