Pulling in to the faculty lot, I felt enormous relief. Finally something recognizable. Some part of a routine preserved from the time before I entered Room 1407. I was human here, again.
I checked my rearview to make sure the news-van tails hadn’t reappeared, then parked and headed for Manzanita Hall. At the edge of the quad, a few guys sat on a bench, spitting sunflower shells, and it was only once I passed behind them unnoticed that I registered the camera straps around their necks. Like most of the other paparazzi I’d seen, they weren’t the sweaty pigs of the movies, but attractive young men in trendy shirts and slick North Face jackets, their designer gloves cupping lenses. They looked like you or me. Chagrined, I noted a few more camped out on the front steps of Manzanita, along with a news crew. My soft leather briefcase, full of student papers, felt suddenly like a prop. A few heads swiveled my way.
I hurried around behind the building, startling an Asian student, who took one look at my face and gave me a wide berth. The back door was locked. I could hear approaching footsteps from around the corner, so I banged on the window. A face appeared inside.
Diondre.
For a frozen moment, we regarded each other. His trademark do-rag was off, his hair made up in cornrows. Down the length of the building, a cluster of photographers spilled into view. One spotted me, and they surged forward. I gesticulated behind me helplessly, then at the door.
Finally Diondre got it, reached over, and pushed down the door handle.
I slid inside, yanking the door shut after me. It locked just as the paparazzi swarmed into sight. Diondre tugged down the window shade.
Though I was shaking, he gave me the carefree grin. “Guess I was wrong about Paeng Smoke-a-Bong. Couldn’t be a student stalker. No-o-o—you had to have bigger plans.”
I managed a weak smile and nodded at the door. “You just saved my ass.”
“Did you do it? Kill Conner?”
After everything, it was refreshing to have such a straightforward conversation. “No,” I said.
“I hear that.” He clasped my hand, grabbing it around the thumb, and we parted ways. That was all he needed to hear. That’s what I loved so much about students—they could distill the complexities down to simple questions. And answers.
A few steps away, Diondre paused. “I know it ain’t the most glamorous job in the world, teaching. But I’m glad you’re doing it.”
I looked down, my face warm. I couldn’t manage to get the right words together, so I said, “Thank you, Diondre. I’m glad, too.”
He half nodded and walked away.
I took the stairs up and slunk through the halls, my name audible in the whispers that followed me.
The department assistant’s hands were folded on her blank desk. “She’s waiting for you.”
When I entered, Dr. Peterson looked up from some papers. “Patrick. Please, sit down.”
I did, mustering a faint grin that felt hard and rigid on my face.
She said, “The department has been inundated with press inquiries. It’s been something of a spectacle.”
I waited, my dread mounting.
She said, “We received numerous complaints even before the unfortunate events of . . . of—”
I said, “Keith Conner’s murder.”
She flushed. “Not just about the missed classes, but I guess your grading on their scripts has been delayed?” She nodded at my briefcase, which sat on my knees, a beacon of my incompetence. “Are they done now?”
“No,” I said. “I . . . I’d like the chance to make it up to them.” She started to say something, but I held up my hand. “Please,” I said. “I’m sorry for the impact that this has had on the department, but just because I’m a suspect doesn’t mean . . . I don’t know how long the investigation will last. Months, maybe. Life has to go on, even if . . .” I was crumbling. I hated the sound of my voice, but I couldn’t stop. “Our financial situation—I really need to earn a living. I know there’s some damage control I’ll have to—”
Mercifully, she cut off my rambling. “ ‘Damage control’? I don’t believe you have any idea what kind of a disruption this represents for this college.”
“I’ll work double-time. I won’t miss another class.”
“What do you think? You can defend yourself against potential murder charges and somehow improve your attendance record?”
I didn’t know what I had thought. In light of everything I had before me, it certainly sounded stupid now. I said hopelessly, “Maybe I could take a leave of absence.”
“Funny, it seems that’s what you’ve been doing.” She rearranged the papers on her desk. She jotted a note. “Our feeling is that this isn’t a tenable situation.”
Through the gap in my briefcase, I could see those student papers staring out at me. For two weeks I’d kept those kids on hold. Some of them, like Diondre, could scarcely afford tuition, and yet I’d spent all this time scrambling to defend myself against one threat after another. I took a deep breath, tried to pull myself together.
She continued, “We’ve kept documentation. It’s quite cut and dried. I hope you won’t consider . . .”
I could hardly muster the energy to lift my head. “What?”
“Legal . . . ?”
“No. Oh, no. Of course not. You took a gamble on me, and I blew it.” I rose to offer my hand across her desk, and she came up to a crouch above her chair, her hand cool in mine. I said, “Thank you for the opportunity.”
She did her best to disguise her relief. “I’m sorry for all your trouble, Patrick. I really am. And I’m sorry to come on like a hard-ass when you’re dealing with . . .”
I set the papers at the edge of her desk, gave them a tap with a knuckle. “Find someone good for my students.”
Walking out, I was overtaken by a profound sadness. It sank in just how much I loved my job, but that wasn’t what hit me the hardest. The grief I felt came from how infrequently I’d paused to appreciate being here, as with so many other aspects of my life I’d failed to recognize and savor.
From the outer office, I peeked out into the hall, checking that it was empty. Feeling like a fugitive, I hurried through the corridors. In the faculty lounge, Marcello reclined on the fuzzy plaid couch, pretending to grade, and Julianne was fussing irritably over the coffeemaker. Like old times.
From the doorway I said, “I’ll miss you guys.”
They both looked up, and then their expressions changed.
“Really?” Julianne rushed over and embraced me tightly.
“Yeah. I just relinquished the last of the student papers.”
“Goddamn it, Patrick. This sucks.” Her breath smelled of cinnamon gum.
Marcello offered his hand. I said, “C’mon,” and hugged him.
Julianne was hovering. “How’s Ariana? What can I do? There’s gotta be something I can do.”
“Honestly?”
“No, I was just being polite.”
“I need a couple of addresses for people. A commercial actress and one of the producers from that documentary Keith was gonna do.”
“Industry folks?” she said. “That shouldn’t be hard.”
“The cops had no luck with the former, and I’m having trouble with the latter.”
She said, “Neither of you has a degree in investigative journalism from Columbia.”
Marcello said, “Neither do you.”
Julianne shrugged. “Columbia, Chico State, whatever.”
Sitting, I jotted down, Elisabeta, aka Deborah B. Vance and Trista Koan—The Deep End.
Julianne took up the slip of paper and said, “If I can’t get a bead on them myself, I still have good contacts at the papers.”
“I should go,” I said. “I’ve got . . . you know, a lot I have to figure out. Thank you. For the whole thing. The job. Getting me back on my feet. It was a good time for me.”
Beyond the lounge, doors opened and closed, the buzz of students growing louder.
“I should go,” I said again. But I was still sitting there.
“What’s wrong?” Marcello asked.
I took a deep breath.
He followed my gaze to the door. “Scared?”
“Little bit.”
“Wanna go out like a man?”
I said, “Yeah.”
Marcello cleared his throat. “A NEW BEGINNING . . .”
I got to my feet.
“A MAN ALONE . . .”
I walked to the door.
“AND NOW HE WILL LEARN THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME.”
The hall was alive with motion and noise. When I stepped out, the nearby students froze. The reaction rippled outward, faces turning in wave after wave, hands and mouths pausing midmotion, until the corridor was so silent I could hear the squeak of a sneaker against tile, a BlackBerry chiming in someone’s pocket, a single cough. As I stepped forward, the nearest clique parted, drawing back and gaping anew.
My voice sounded gruff, preternaturally low. “ ’Scuse me . . . ’scuse me.”
The kids farthest away were up on tiptoes. A professor leaned out the door of her classroom. A few students snapped pictures of me with their cell phones.
I forged my way through. A conversation burst from the opening elevator doors, gratingly loud in the strained silence, and then two girls stepped out, took stock of the scene, and ducked giggling behind their hands. I passed them stoically, dead man walking.
The elevator had gone, leaving me to confront blank metal doors. I pushed the button, pushed it again. Glanced nervously across the sea of faces. Way down the hall, Diondre stood on a chair he’d pulled from a classroom. I raised a hand in silent farewell, and he smiled sadly and tapped his chest with a fist.
Mercifully, the elevator arrived, and I vanished into it.