Authors: Judith E French
“Where could he be?” Sydney said as she dumped an armload of papers into the trash. “Nancy’s face is screwed up like a shriveled prune, and it’d cost your life to say ‘good morning’ to her.”
“Cameron’s desk is bare,” Liz said. “I’d check the drawers, but that would be stooping to his level.”
“I haven’t heard a word,” Amelia said. “My sources are as much a blank as we are.”
“You’d think that Dean Pollett would say something to me if he’s been dismissed,” Liz said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I doubt it,” Sydney said. “It might mean apologizing to you. I’d hold off on finding an attorney, if I were you. Why spend the money if the little rat has already gotten his just deserts?” She picked up her briefcase. “Sorry, you two. I’d love to stay, but Bob and I are driving to Connecticut first thing in the morning, and I’m not packed. Bob’s nephew is graduating from a prep school. Surprised me. I never thought he’d make it. It goes to show that if the tuition is high enough, anyone can succeed.”
“Me too,” Amelia said. “Have to run. I have an appointment with the unhappy parent of a freshman who didn’t succeed, and then I’m meeting Thomas. We’re going to Christiana Mall to pick up something for his Aunt Charlotte’s birthday, and then on to an early dinner with her and her two sons and their wives. Thomas is driving back to Norfolk in the morning, and I’m following tomorrow evening. I’ve got one more class tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re shutting the house and staying for the summer?” Sydney asked.
“I am. You know how nervous I’ve been the past week. I am ready for vacation. Sun, sand, and catching up on my reading.”
“Amen to that,” Liz agreed.
“Anything I can help you ladies with?” Ernie Baker asked.
Liz turned to see the security guard standing just inside Sydney’s office. She wondered how long he’d been there and how much of their conversation he’d overheard.
“No, thank you,” Sydney said. “I’m just about to lock up. You have a good summer, Ernie.”
“Glad to carry anything to the car for you,” he said, not budging.
“We’ve got it covered,” Liz said.
Ernie flushed. “Just call if you need help.”
“Good-bye, Ernie,” Amelia said. And, after the door closed behind him, she grimaced and whispered, “He really does give me the creeps.”
Sydney laughed. “He admires your boobs.” She glanced down at her own fashionably flat chest and narrow hips. “Me? I’m not even in the running.”
Liz smiled. “The gospel according to Ms. Size Two. I’d give anything to have your figure.”
“But would you give up Ernie?” Sydney teased. “You know, it wasn’t my books he wanted to carry. It was a chance to leer at two size 36C’s in the same room.”
“If he wanted to see flesh, he’d be smarter to stay in the halls,” Amelia said. “I thought one of the girls in my last class had walked out of her dorm in her thong panties, but they were just short shorts. Very short.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sydney said. “And you didn’t wear them like that yourself in college?”
“Not me,” Liz replied. “I was the girl in the back row in her Sesame Street pj’s and yellow fuzzy slippers.”
“Or me,” Amelia said. “That was my serious period—wire-rim glasses, black skirts, white blouses starched and pressed, sensible shoes. The intellectual black girl with strong opinions and a chip on her shoulder.”
“As opposed to?” Sydney chuckled. “The marshmallow we know and love today?”
Amelia laughed with them. “You’ve been talking to Thomas. He swears I should have studied law. I believe he’s insinuating that I’m opinionated.”
“Amen to that,” Liz agreed. She glanced at her watch. “Got to go. I’ve got an appointment to see a breeder about a puppy.”
“You’re getting a dog?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, I am,” Liz admitted. “A Newfoundland, if you can believe it. Having Michael’s German shepherd around was good, until . . .” She left the rest of the sentence unfinished, but both of her friends knew what had happened to Heidi. “Anyway . . .” She sighed. “I’m getting the biggest dog I can fit in my car. I’ve been reading up on Newfs, and they’re supposed to be sweet-natured.”
“What will they do, lick a burglar to death?” Sydney asked.
“Maybe,” Liz said. “But just the same, after everything, I think I’ll sleep better with a very large friend beside my bed.”
“What about in it?” Amelia asked. “I know a certain retired policeman who’d be quite happy to fill that empty spot in your bed.”
“Are we talking about Michael?” Sydney chimed in.
“I take the Fifth,” Liz answered.
“I hear you, girl,” Amelia said. “But I, for one, won’t be surprised if I hear there are wedding bells in your future, and sooner rather than later.”
“It is a distinct possibility,” Liz said, “but a woman reserves the right to change her mind.”
“Just don’t wait too long,” Sydney advised. “And don’t let Jack Rafferty complicate your decision. He’s definitely not in your league. When it comes to a choice between Captain Hubbard and Rafferty, there’s no choice at all.”
“Maybe not,” Liz said.
“No maybes about it,” Amelia agreed. “He’s nothing but trouble, and you owe it to yourself to stay as far from him as possible. He may be good in bed, but it’s what he does the other twenty-three and a half hours in the day that matters.”
Amelia felt the tension in her neck and shoulders drain away as she followed Route 13 south through the small Virginia towns that hugged the main four-lane highway. Traffic was moderate, occasionally clogged by tractors or logging trucks crossing the intersections, but the flat rural countryside and good road made for easy, if somewhat monotonous, driving.
Not wanting to get a ticket, Amelia kept her speed to an even eight miles above the limit. The convertible top was down, the air warm and balmy. The stress of the murder at Somerville, the nasty e-mails, and the scare at the house faded. Amelia’s thoughts fixed on the coming evening with Thomas, the bottle of California merlot tucked into her large canvas bag, and sleeping late tomorrow morning to the music of waves on the beach.
The girls wouldn’t be arriving for another week, and she’d have those precious hours of sun and sand to unwind. Actually, Thomas had said that the forecast called for rain. She didn’t mind; there was nothing quite as decadent as lounging in silk pajamas with a good book and a bowl of fresh strawberries on a stormy day.
She’d begged Liz to come down this weekend, but now with the rush of preparations behind her, she was secretly glad that she and Thomas would have the privacy to really relax, perhaps even engage in a little unscheduled and uninhibited sex.
Thomas was a wonderful husband, he really was, and she’d never been unhappy in her choice of men. But now and then she enjoyed a bit more vigorous intimacy. There was nowhere that Thomas was more likely to let down his hair than at the beach. If she donned her new red Victoria’s Secret lingerie and poured her anal retentive husband a few stiff martinis, anything could happen.
Twilight was fading into purple dusk as Amelia slowed to pay the toll for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, a whopping ten dollars, one way. She glanced at her watch, barely able to make out the numerals. If there were no delays, she’d be at the house an hour before she’d told Thomas to expect her. He would have already eaten, but she knew he’d have a large shrimp cocktail and a small Caesar salad waiting in the refrigerator for her. She’d skipped lunch; too much to do. She’d had to pack, arrange for the mail to be forwarded, prepay the yard people, and close up the house. Why was it that men always managed to evade the domestic chores?
The water was relatively calm tonight, no more than a three-foot chop. Amelia had seen the waves so high here that they splashed over the roadway. Driving the bridge-tunnel was an ordeal for Thomas, but she didn’t mind. The drive could be tedious if you got behind a camper or a poky tourist, but she seemed to have hit it at exactly the right time today.
She’d not gone far when she noticed in her rearview mirror a large dark truck with a massive steel bumper and headlight guards. She was driving her normal eight miles above the posted limit, but the truck quickly ate up the distance between them. She increased speed, leaving a safety window between them. The driver took the hint and slowed until he was traveling at the same speed as she.
Amelia removed the soft-rock CD and replaced it with one of her favorite Beatles albums. She passed through the tunnel at the deepest part of the channel and found herself singing along to the classic with Ringo, John, George, and Paul. They seemed to be the only ones on this stretch of the bridge, perhaps the only people in the world.
The black truck loomed out of the darkness, suddenly only a few car lengths from her back bumper. Amelia held her speed steady, refusing to be bullied. The driver behind her accelerated, coming close enough to nudge her car.
Amelia’s heart thudded against her ribs. What was the fool trying to do? She pressed down on the gas pedal, and her red sports car leaped ahead. Amelia fumbled for her cell phone in her open purse. Road rage was a menace on the highways, but a quick call to 911 might clip his wings. To her dismay, the purse slid off the seat onto the floor. At this speed, she couldn’t reach it without taking her eyes off the road, and the guard rails were flashing by much too fast.
The truck engine roared behind her. Amelia’s hands began to sweat. Her muscles tensed. She leaned forward, gaze fixed on the solid yellow line. She knew the convertible wasn’t at full speed; the little sports car could certainly outrun him. But flying down I-95 in broad daylight was one thing, and driving like this at night on a narrow bridge was another scenario altogether.
A cluster of white feathers ahead on the road surface made Amelia touch the brake. The bodies of greedy seagulls occasionally littered the bridge, and they could make the surface slippery. If she slowed, the fool would be forced to pass her in a no-passing zone or slow down as well. At fifty-five, perhaps even fifty, she could reach her purse, retrieve the cell, and have police waiting for him at the south end of the bridge.
The truck pulled left, and Amelia released her pent-up breath with a sigh. She eased off on the gas as the driver brought the truck up alongside her convertible. She glanced over, unable to make out anyone in the high cab through the tinted windows.
Incredibly, the truck drifted closer, crossing the solid line, crowding her against the rail. Amelia’s mouth went dry. Her fingers tightened on the wheel. Out of instinct, she sped up again. The truck kept pace, going faster and faster. She pushed down on the pedal, and the nose of her car inched ahead of the big vehicle. Her right front bumper came perilously close to the rail, and it scared her so badly that she applied less pressure to the gas pedal.
“Pass me! Pass me!” she cried.
When his right bumper was level with Amelia’s door, the driver veered right, smashing into her. Amelia screamed as metal shrieked against concrete. The wheel wrenched out of her hands and glass shattered. “Jesus!” she cried as pain knifed through her left arm and shoulder. The massive truck kept coming, plowing into her, sending the sports car ricocheting off a post and bouncing end over end to somersault over the guard railing into the bay.
The last sensations that Amelia felt were the icy embrace of water and blessed, blessed silence.
Smiling, the Game Master slowed, straightened the wheel, and continued on. In time, some do-gooder would notice the bits of glass and metal on the road and notify the proper authorities, but by then he would be well off the bridge and lost amid the throngs and traffic jams of Friday-night Norfolk motorists. He knew just the spot to dispose of the truck, a wooded swamp in North Carolina only two miles from a truck stop. The Game Master had already filed off the serial numbers, but he’d change the plates at least once more before he burned the truck. Details were important, and he was nothing if not efficient in his planning.
He regretted leaving the roadway in such a shambles. Littering went against his grain, and the next vehicle might well shred a tire. But tonight was an exception to a lifetime of picking up after other people. Let someone else share the burden of housekeeping this time. Doubtless, they’d have to close the lanes to clean up the shards of glass and metal.
A pity, he thought. It might be hours, days even, before the wreckage of the red convertible was pulled out of the water. And the professor’s friend might not even be in the car any longer. Had she been wise enough to wear her seat belt? So many women didn’t bother. They believed that they were invincible, immune to death.
What would the professor say when the phone call came? A tragic accident. A friend’s life cut short all too soon.
Poor, poor little professor. Bit by bit, he was stealing her life. Soon she would have nothing left to live for . . . He chuckled. This had been fun. He’d have to try it again some day, just pick a car at random and send it flying over the side of the bridge. It took skill, planning, and luck. Additional traffic wouldn’t necessarily prevent him from success; other cars could add to the thrill. He grimaced, regretting the overabundance of cell phones. Science moved too quickly. Life was better when one didn’t have to worry about every Tom, Dick, and Harry playing hero by interfering in his pleasures.
What would the professor do when she heard the news? He hoped she would be within range of one of his cameras when she took the call. It was one of those Hallmark moments that were too good to miss.
Liz was awakened just before eight on Sunday morning by the crack of a windowpane breaking. She leaped out of bed, dug the revolver out of her nightstand drawer, and ran to peer cautiously out another window.
Jack was standing on the lawn with a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said as she pushed up the window. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’ll fix it.”
“You’re damn right you’ll fix it,” she called down to him. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you!”
Heart thumping, Liz emptied the shells from the Smith & Wesson and returned both handgun and bullets to the drawer before hurrying downstairs to open the kitchen door. “You’ve got to be a madman,” she said.