Chapter 18

Alison was royally irritated as she walked across the campus. Was she the only competent person on the planet? If the police had been doing their job properly, they’d have connected the dots to the girl in the meeting house long ago. Then she could have written her paper, and received the credit that was her due. Was that too much to ask?

But things weren’t going the way she expected. The police had hired that ridiculous psychic. No hope there. But at least he wasn’t a threat. No, the newspaper really was her best option. P.C. Cromwell seemed like a serious person, though she had gotten seriously off track with all that mystical garbage. If she could set it up the right way, Alison could be like Deep Throat feeding Cromwell the information she needed to blow the whole rotten scandal wide open.

To do that, she needed Professor Littlejohn’s help. She admired his ideas. Like many of her teachers, he saw events in terms of revolution. In class he was always speaking about the duty of the individual in an insane world and the need to speak truth to power.

So why was he being so evasive about talking to her? This business about context was a red flag. What difference did it make where they talked? Alison hated it when people referred to things off campus as “the real world.” If the university wasn’t real, then what was she doing wasting her time here? For all his talk, Littlejohn was acting like someone who was still part of the system. If it weren’t for the fact that he was friends with Nathalie Porthous, she probably wouldn’t trust him …

Alison was distracted from her reverie by an unexpected sight. A man was walking toward her on the pathway, gesticulating and talking to himself under his breath. There was something familiar about him. Was he one of her teachers? He was in the right age bracket. But he was dressed in dark business clothes. And his demeanor was definitely not professorial.

Alison edged to the other side of the pathway so she could watch him carefully without being too obvious as he approached. Then she realized why he looked familiar. She’d seen his photo in the paper. It was the psychic, Bruno X—speak of the devil. What was he doing on campus? Adrenaline shot through her system with the idea that he might be pursuing her. She steadied herself. She didn’t want to make eye contact, but she also didn’t want to attract attention by doing anything too obviously evasive. He had to be after her. Why else would he be here?

She summoned her courage to look at him directly as he passed. He hadn’t noticed her. His mind was elsewhere. It might have been a complete coincidence that brought him to Penn. What a joke. Her confidence surged with every step.

When she got back to her dorm room it didn’t even bother her to find Icky there. He was shooting up. It was almost a relief to not have to talk to him about Littlejohn and running into the psychic. She could tell he was too high to have a rational discussion and that left her free to mull things over. His excitement and incessant chatter seemed to fit her mood. It was like background music. It made her feel good, but she didn’t really have to listen.

“Y’ know Alison, it’s really cool here on campus. I met this guy on the train who’s really into African music and guess what, he’s studying it here for credit and everything. He says the teachers are actually musicians and they teach the class. Mostly they just jam. Last week they had a master drummer from Africa as the guest lecturer and he worked directly with everybody on their drumming. I could handle that. It’d be great to major in something like that. My father is bugging me to get my high school degree. Maybe I could do it and major in drumming. Or in Africa. Can you major in Africa?”

“Sure,” said Alison. “Why not?”

“My father’s a jerk,” Icky continued, not really changing the subject—because it was always the subject. Alison had been through it so many times, she knew exactly what he meant. Icky’s father was a jerk. Rude. Opinionated. Obsessed with money. Status. Not at all supportive. No wonder Icky was a speed freak.

“I’m meeting somebody and I have to take a shower,” she said gently, starting to undress. “Want to take one with me?”

Icky lit a cigarette. The initial rush had worn off and smoking helped him channel some of the nervous energy. “Nah. The girls in this dorm aren’t ready for the sight of the perfect male body.”

“Right.”

“Speaking of which, did I tell you?” he announced with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “DeKalb washed the school truck. And he put on new tires, snow tires. Right after the snowstorm. Kind of stupid, don’t you think? Weird, even, since it’s so late in the season.”

“No, you didn’t tell me …” Alison replied. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking ahead to the appointment with Littlejohn. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later, wrapped in a light blue bath-sized terry cloth towel. She held another, smaller towel with a gaudy pattern in her hand and was using it to chase some water out of her ear.

Icky watched, fascinated, as Alison prepared herself to go out. She released the bath towel and tossed it over the back of a chair. Completely naked, she spread her feet to shoulder width, and bent over quickly, her wet hair shooting a ribbon of water onto Icky’s shirt.

“Hey, watch that,” he protested, checking to make sure she hadn’t put out his cigarette.

Alison expertly twisted the patterned towel around her hair and stood upright, fashioning it into a turban. With every movement, her large breasts bounced and wobbled provocatively. Icky couldn’t take his eyes off them and Alison knew it. She picked up the bath towel and began rubbing underneath her arms, taking special care to dry the moisture that collected in the deep folds under each breast.

A similar performance graced each leg. Icky had to light another cigarette.

Now that she was dry, it was time for moisturizer. Alison chose a purple bottle from the top of her bureau. It was an herbal concoction, goat’s milk with lavender, which was so volatile, it almost chased Icky from the room. Alison anointed herself with loving care. Then she took Icky’s cigarette and shoved the moisturizer into his hand.

Icky knew the drill. Alison had a spreading lotus flower tattooed on her sacrum that was quite spectacular. In fact, the whole vista was quite spectacular when she turned her back to him and bent forward. Anyone but a meth addict would have been hardwired to respond. Poor Icky. All he could do was gather a handful of goo and rub it on Alison’s back. As it warmed in contact with her skin, the moisturizer threw off vapors that combined the rank aroma of fermenting cheese and an oil refinery. Icky started hacking uncontrollably. He grabbed the blue towel to wipe his hands, then retrieved his cigarette, which was dangling from Alison’s lower lip.

With a wry grin, Alison gave him a peck on the cheek as she slipped into a pair of skimpy, fawn-colored underpants and matching camisole. Icky got up to leave. “I need to check in with Julius, find out when my merchandise will be ready.”

“Hang on a sec so you can walk out with me,” said Alison. “I’m almost ready.”

She unwound her turban and let it drop to the floor. She brushed her hair vigorously, four minutes by the clock. Then she slicked in a line of mousse to give it the right amount of attitude. Sensing Icky’s impatience, she struggled valiantly to get into her jeans. She added a cashmere cardigan, leaving it unbuttoned to reveal a hint of the camisole, and plenty of cleavage.

Eyeliner. Mascara. Lipstick. Four studs in her left ear. Three in her right. A brushed silver lotus ring from India. Plenty of bangles. And she’s ready to go. She threw her overcoat over her arm but didn’t put it on, in spite of the cold.

“Hey you really look hot!” said Icky, a twinge of jealousy finally penetrating the penumbra of his high.

“I have to meet my professor.” Alison sighed.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re so well prepared.”

“Don’t be silly.” Alison laughed. “He must be, like, in his 50s or something. The other women call him Littlejohnson. I can handle him, no problem.”