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Wolf tailed Riley to campus, keeping the front grill of his Wrangler a mere car length off her bumper. Absent clues on the motorcycle attack and home invasion, he cast his suspicion net broadly, checking out any drivers who crowded their two-car caravan.
They reached the campus entrance, a protective arch of aged stone and ivy that looked as if it belonged to a fairytale castle. The sun rode low on the horizon, spearing the entry flowerbed with slanted shafts of gold. A uniformed officer, his face stern and sidearm prominent, stepped out of the doll-sized gatehouse that ordinarily sat vacant. Riley powered down her window.
Worry gnawed at him although she was safer on campus. Her bedroom scene seemed contrived. A red herring to shift the security director’s attention away from Onward?
His gut said Riley’s tormentor knew her. But perhaps his jealousy conjured straw villains. Maybe a weirdo stranger stalked her. Some nut who’d concocted a full-fledged fantasy relationship. It happened.
Her claim of two ex-lovers baffled him. Wolf knew first-hand how much she enjoyed sex, and she’d been single for two years. Hard to imagine she’d remained celibate since their Hilton Head fling. Did that mean she and John Hunter had never made love, or—dammit, was she playing with semantics—maybe he wasn’t a “former” lover?
Though Riley ridiculed the idea, Wolf refused to cross her former husband off his suspect list. FBI honchos knew how to bypass alarms, and the man’s parking lot demeanor suggested strong emotions. Gary would be roaming campus tonight. He’d keep an eye peeled for him as well as the Onward thugs. While he doubted John Hunter would show, he’d keep that bastard on his radar, too.
He pulled forward as Riley’s car shot ahead. After glancing at his windshield parking decal and checking his ID, the guard waved him on. When he reached the parking lot, Riley was pulling Lucy’s pet carrier from her car. She made a beeline for the closest uniform.
He flexed his hands, cramped from gripping the steering wheel like a bull whip. He was on Riley’s turf now. He watched a female officer take Lucy’s carrier and head toward the office.
Riley’s matter-of-fact manner impressed him. Her house had been invaded, her bedroom ransacked, and her bruised body must ache like the dickens. One resilient lady.
He opened his glove compartment and extracted the binoculars he kept handy for mountain hikes. He’d have an hour to scan the faces of Reverend Jimmy’s congregants before twilight shut down his surveillance. Like the preacher’s disciples, Wolf wanted prayers answered quickly. He longed to spot Smitty or one of the other Onward miscreants he’d seen toting guns.
He walked briskly toward a knot of spectators.
“Dr. Valdes, surprised to see you here.”
Wolf smiled at his department secretary. “Mrs. Lee, I could say the same about you. Didn’t think an upstanding Catholic lady like yourself would associate with Reverend Jimmy.”
Mrs. Lee, a pudgy, sixty-year-old, chuckled. “I’m writing a report for our parish priest on how to raise money and crowds.”
Wolf and Mrs. Lee razzed each other regularly on a variety of subjects.
“I wanted to ask you something.” Wolf’s eyebrows knitted. “Now what was it?”
“Hey, you’re not allowed to use that forgetful ploy. That’s a privilege of the over-sixty crowd.”
“I remember. Some gossip about the Hunter family. I can’t recall what you told me. I ran into John Hunter the other day, and—”
“You don’t want to mess with that one,” Mrs. Lee interrupted. “Oh, dear, he’s not a friend, is he?”
Wolf shook his head. “Decidedly not.” Okay, what the hell do I tell her? “A friend mentioned Hunter was dating his sister. Asked if I knew anything about him, given that the Hunter name is plastered on several BRU buildings.”
Mrs. Lee looked left and right. “Tell your friend his sister should stay clear of that man. I knew his father, Lewis Hunter, a gentleman. He’s the one who paid for BRU’s auditorium when he was rolling in it. Old money. Then he lost it all.”
“He did? I thought John Hunter was rich.”
“If you’ll quit interrupting, I’ll finish. Lewis Hunter invested in some Ponzi scheme at his wife’s insistence. A scammer hoodwinked her with fake credentials. She bought into the con artist’s hint that the investment would up her social standing beyond the Upstate’s compact circle. She skedaddled as soon as the money disappeared. Left Lewis and her son. Think John was seventeen. Anyway, Lewis took a gun, sat on the steps of Hunter Auditorium, and tried to blow his brains out. Failed. He’s paralyzed now and missing too many marbles to play in any game.”
Wolf shook his head. “I’m not following. Why does Lewis Hunter’s attempted suicide make his son someone to steer clear of?”
“I think the whole event did permanent psychological damage. BRU offered John a needs scholarship but the boy turned it down. Said he wouldn’t need a scholarship if his father hadn’t been hoodwinked into giving money for a damn auditorium. The boy went to Clemson, a state school, instead.”
Wolf almost felt sorry for John Hunter. Must have been a bitch for a teenager to instantly go from rich to poor and from two parents to none. “Surprised he came back to this area.”
“Everyone was,” Mrs. Lee added. “Joined Whitten Industries, owned by a friend of his dad’s. He bought back the Hunter estate where he grew up. Married the boss’s daughter. A lovely lady. I watched John at her funeral. I swear he could barely contain his glee. He gives me the willies. I heard she ‘fell down’ a lot before her death.”
He swallowed. Would Hunter harm Riley? No. The kind of man who enjoyed battering females wouldn’t pick on one who packed a gun. Why was he seeing her?
“Yoo hoo,” Mrs. Lee waved at a friend. “See you tomorrow, Wolf. Have to run. I told Mabel I’d meet her here.”
Wolf had taken less than ten steps when Deborah Holt, better known as Dab, practically bowled him over. Her ample chest bumped against him like a shock-absorbing fender. She giggled.
“Didn’t mean to knock you down.” She tossed her long blonde hair as she tugged playfully on his jacket lapels. “You all by your lonesome? I’ll keep you company.”
“Uh, I sort of told friends I’d meet them.”
She didn’t take the hint. Dab was a human Post-It. While you could peel her off, she reattached unless a replacement anchor happened by. Her glue only bonded to males.
She locked onto his elbow with her Western tennis grip. “Great, let’s find your friends.”
The first time Dab targeted him he’d been flattered. The tennis coach was easy on the retinas. Athletic and built, the bubbly twenty-five-year-old Amazon sent out sexual pulses that scrambled male neurons. Yet once Dab started jabbering about sports and celebrities, Wolf wished he had a remote to mute the audio.
The sexy coach fingered the strap on his binoculars. “What’s with these?”
Wolf paused to dream up a fib. “Helping a colleague with research. She wants to document who attends events like this. I’ll be working. Won’t be good company.”
He pried her fingers from his arm. “Look, Dr. Davis is all alone. Bet he’d love your company.”
“Okay. Catch you later!” Using his binocular strap as a makeshift lariat, Dab roped him for a goodbye kiss.
Straightening, he saw Riley looking at him. Not with adoring eyes. Oh, good. This’ll convince her I’m not a lecherous reprobate.
Riley practically sprinted away. She appeared to have a destination—or quarry—in mind? That silver-haired man on the sidelines? Hunter? The hairs on Wolf’s neck stood at attention. He replayed the nurse’s suspicions about the battered girl Hunter escorted to the ER and his secretary’s story about his dead wife.
He focused his binoculars. Good, it wasn’t Hunter. Tonight, he’d coax Riley into spilling more information about their relationship.
His instant distrust of Gary made him question his objectivity. Yet he remained convinced Mr. FBI’s dog-in-the-manger signals meant he didn’t like new males prowling un-relinquished territory.
Chastising himself for woolgathering, he climbed a knoll midway between the perimeter road and the grassy center stage where Reverend Jimmy would preside. As the trickle of arrivals became a steady drip, he searched for Smitty’s runty body and skanky hair. One hundred people? A last-minute swell might double the audience by show time.
Only a sprinkling of young men looked like Onward candidates. While he didn’t want violence, he felt disappointed. He’d hoped to ID someone from the Onward camp.
With exams over, many students had already left campus for home. They made up less than half the assembly. Wolf couldn’t pin a label on the rest of the milling crowd—well-dressed elders, farmers, blue-collar workers, soccer parents, a few faculty members. The non-student population appeared to have only one common denominator: winter white faces, a sea of cauliflower.
A tug on his sleeve startled him. He turned to see Stan Vidler and his girlfriend, Chantelle. Rosie and Tom were close friends with the bi-racial couple.
“Professor Valdes. Did you hear about Rosie?” Stan asked.
“Yes. I’m looking for any putz in an orange hat. For Rosie’s sake, I’d love to run into one of those morons.”
“We just left the hospital,” Chantelle said. “She’s critical but stable.” The coed gnawed on her lip. “Tom’s disappeared. We’re really worried.”
“So am I,” Wolf said.
Stan’s chin jutted forward. “Bet he’s gone after the creeps who attacked Rosie. He’s got street smarts, but he shouldn’t fly solo.”
Chantelle squeezed her boyfriend’s arm. “Those guys are bad news.”
“She’s right,” Wolf agreed. “I’ve talked to the authorities—”
“Yeah, like they care,” Stan snapped.
“Some do,” he countered. “Some do.”
“Guess that’s why BRU gave this hate-monger a stage.” Rage tinged Chantelle’s tone. “I can predict his spiel: Blue Ridge students—sinners all—have brought down God’s wrath.”
Wolf nodded. “He’ll include faculty in the blame game. While the man’s repugnant, BRU champions free speech. Standing here, I’ve listened to opponents and proponents of intelligent design, gay rights—”
“Free speech?” Chantelle pounced. “This joker doesn’t need free speech. His church owns a TV studio. If the courts let that Hillman broad hand over her granddad’s fortune, he’ll own a television network.”
Wolf’s free speech rhetoric tasted like ashes on his tongue. Chantelle was right. The televangelist used his fundamentalist college—unaccredited—to legitimize his hateful dogma. Tonight he’d coattail on the terrorist threat for the benefit of TV, radio and newspaper reporters.
“Geez, take a look at that monstrosity.” Stan pointed at the preacher’s media van with its larger-than-life mural of Reverend Jimmy blessing his flock.
Wolf barked a laugh. The countenance of Jesus—midget-sized compared to Jimmy’s puss—was relegated to the van’s back doors. The holy face split in two when the doors swung open.
“Looks like the reverend gives Christ second billing. You’d think that would make him worry about his own heavenly prospects.”
A crew positioned oversized speakers and snaked wires to a portable generator. The heavy lifters wore uniforms with “Jimmy’s God Squad” embroidered on their backs. A silver Rolls Royce delivered the reverend.
Wolf focused his binoculars. Like a moth drawn to bright light, the preacher flitted from one spotlight to another. Though his capped teeth gleamed like Chiclets, crow’s feet creased the skin around his eyes.
While changing TV channels late one night, Wolf had caught Jimmy in top revival form. Definite stage presence. A Nordic Elvis with swaying hips that suggested something different from his sanitized lyrics. He’d grown flabby. Any ecclesiastic gyrations would now create Jell-O-esque ripples.
Wolf lowered his binoculars. As dusk settled, the reverend’s minions fanned out, dispensing votive candles. The man understood TV. His tailored suit, powder blue shirt and red silk tie would look spiffy on the tube.
He worked the crowd. Grinning, pumping hands, grasping men’s shoulders to encourage them to stand tall for Jesus. The preacher had a thing for young girls. Older ladies and plain Janes got arm pats. Every buxom lass got a kiss.
You horny old buzzard.
Wolf caught sight of a trailing Doris Hillman, looking daggers at any sweet young thing who captured Jimmy’s eye. Here was one disciple who didn’t believe in sharing.
“Time to move closer,” Stan said. “My tomatoes might miss from here.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Wolf had visions of FBI agents wrestling Stan to the ground. “Throw anything, and an officer might think it’s a bomb or grenade. This is no time for pranks.”
“Don’t have a stroke, Doc. I’m speaking metaphorically.”
They’d shouldered their way to the second row when Chantelle groaned. “Oh, no. It’s Professor Marick.”
The stocky man appeared hard on Jimmy’s heels. Wolf swore under his breath as his gaze swept Marick’s sallow face. The man was a buffoon, an intellectual disgrace. He was also a history professor and tenured colleague.
For years, Marick contented himself with lame lectures on ancient civilizations. Then six months ago, he published an article in a no-name magazine that claimed dark-skinned people were incapable of self-government, though he “graciously” added his research didn’t necessarily suggest lower IQ—simply a genetic propensity toward anti-social behavior and an inability to cooperate for the greater good.
The article outraged the BRU faculty, and the administration canceled his classes. Now Marick was a voiceless, well-paid ghost, who occasionally haunted campus.
“All we need now are the Rockettes and Mickey Mouse,” Chantelle quipped.
Wolf prayed Marick had a nonspeaking role.
The crowd had swollen to two hundred or more. The preacher helped Doris settle. Then Jimmy tested the microphone.
Near the stage a human hulk chatted with Riley. She looked like Goldilocks standing in papa bear’s shadow. Her hands fluttered as she spoke. Wolf smiled. Would handcuffs render her speechless? Hmm, might try that sometime.
Stan slid a protective arm around Chantelle. Wolf wished he could do the same with Riley. He’d wanted to shadow her tonight. She’d warned him off with a give-me-a-break look and a throw-away line— “No offense but, if I need backup, thirty guys with guns will come running to help if I whistle. It’s my job.”
If their relationship had any chance, he had to respect her professional boundaries. Backing away wasn’t easy.