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  Fear of whatever phenomenon was causing the frizzy, flyaway hairs to clump together, sticking to the back of his Grateful Dead T-shirt (why was that bear goose-stepping, anyway?), as well as the sudden realization that in about a minute, Chuck was going to ask me what I was doing there, were instrumental in this decision. Instead I smiled wanly and feigned compliance, while my mind raced to come up with an acceptable explanation for my presence here. Chuck smiled back benignly, taking deep, bobbing breaths along with me.

  After a bit more of the pantomime, I took a final—cleansing! Chuck would have said—breath, and started again. “I’m so sorry!” I said. “I was just trying to figure out how I could get some student application files that Dr. Markham said I needed to look at for tomorrow, and I completely forgot. It being Friday and all.”

  “Total flakage,” Chuck sympathized, clearly relating to the experience.

  “And you know that sometimes he can be a bit demanding—” I attempted to include Chuck in my personal conspiracy.

  He cut me off gently, with raised hands. “Ease off those negative vibes again. The good doctor can be a harsh for structure, but, y’know, that’s his road. No need for you to follow.” He waited until he felt I had rid myself of the bad thoughts, and then gestured elaborately for me to continue.

  “Well, yes, of course.” I tried again. “Anyway, I wanted to see if I could get them before tomorrow. And here we are.” I shrugged and attempted to laugh it off.

  “That’s just sooo incredible,” Chuck shook his head in disbelief. It took me a cold sweaty half second to realize that he wasn’t professing doubt of my story, but wondering at the multifarious ways of the universe. “Here you are, with a scene, and here I am, with the means. Now, see? I just happened to be walking by, saw the light in your office, and decided to check to make sure everything was okay up here: It’s all to an end, never doubt it.”

  “Karmic.” I probably was a trifle sarcastic as I tried to rub the bruise out of my shoulder, but Chuck wouldn’t have noticed in any case.

  He beamed at our apparent connection and rummaged around in the pocket of his long, baggy shorts to come up with a gargantuan bunch of keys. “Gnarly. I’m in a position of trust, and in a way to help you,” he said, pleased with himself, me, and everything else. His key ring, I noticed, was a clanking chatelaine that was positively medieval in its size and aspect.

  Again, trust was the word. It wasn’t that Chuck was stupid, it was just that he radiated faith in the universe, in his fellow human beings, in the conviction that everything really would turn out all right. From the soles of his Birkenstocks to the planes of his granny glasses just over five feet higher, his honest, hobbit cheeks, his busy little fingers, and every other part of him seemed to emit alpha waves of credence. I wasn’t certain I would have chosen that outlook for myself, but it was refreshing to see it embodied in Chuck.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Chuck had been more concerned with my upset than with the fact that I had shoved him over. His kindness made me feel like a complete schmuck for my violent outburst, my antisocial whimsies, and, finally, my lies to him. But that didn’t stop me from following him into Tony’s office.

  Chapter 20

  IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN BECAUSE I WAS RIDICULOUSLY DISTRACTED or it might have been because, once again, I had gotten very little sleep, but for whatever reason, my lecture Monday morning was augering in. A distinct bomb. The lights were off and there was no note left for the milkman.

  To be fair, I had had a lot to think about since my unprofessional raid on Tony’s office the night before. And it was an awkward time in the semester, close enough to the beginning so that the pressures of midterm did not yet inspire attentiveness, and far enough along so that the initial novelty of the class had worn off. I faced rank after rank of glazed-over undergraduate faces and wondered briefly what I could do to make them love it like I did, but AN 103, Introduction to Anthropology, lumbered into the tar pit and died unresisting, in spite of my best efforts to drag the beast out and resuscitate it.

  The weather was still warm, the kind of early fall day that was immortalized on the cover of the Caldwell application packets, that hinted at collegiality and football games and gave no indication of the hellish winter that was coming. The quad beckoned those trapped within the confines of Arts and Sciences 412, including me. Finally, to everyone’s relief, the clock dragged its big hand down to the six and I wrapped it up.

  “—and if you haven’t signed up for a discussion section yet, I suggest you do so immediately. Ms. Meg Garrity, our TA here, eats live, mewling kittens, so don’t give her a reason to remember you unfavorably at exam time. And, don’t forget, Dr. Chapman will guest lecture Wednesday, so be sure to finish the chapter in the text on Sapir and Whorf by then.” My voice increased proportionally in volume with the scuffling stampede of students leaving.

  “God,” I said, after the last one had filed out, “I thought I was going to have to resort to electroshock there.”

  Meg shrugged, her rows of earrings tinkling like wind chimes. “It’s the nice weather,” she said with unconvincing charity.

  “Well, given my druthers, I wouldn’t be stuck in here either. You’re right though, things will perk up when we move out of all this preliminary stuff.”

  But in spite of my rotten lecture, I felt unaccountably cheery. It was more than the fact that I knew that I would wow the little darlings next time: I always did. I felt positively galvanized, for the first time since I left Penitence Point. Considering the rocket-sled to disaster my life, professional and emotional, had been on, I couldn’t account for the feeling. Perhaps things weren’t really so bad, after all; perhaps it was the freedom of having committed to my own particular brand of insanity.

  I packed up my belongings, jamming notes and texts into my briefcase in no particular order. “You want to make some money this weekend?” I asked my teaching assistant. “I’ve got to go out to the site and run a few errands in the next week or so before the big closedown at the end of the month. We can also poke through some of the back dirt that Tichnor left to see if he missed anything.”

  Meg hesitated, and I interpreted her pause to indicate her concern about running into more trouble out at the site.

  “I really don’t think that there’s anything to worry about,” I said.

  Meg looked up, apparently astonished that I had read her mind.

  “Tichnor’s gone, and even if he wasn’t the only culprit, I doubt that we’ll be bothered. You don’t need to be uncomfortable about it, we had a bad time out there. Say the word and I’ll talk to Rob or Neal…”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Meg cut in brusquely. “I was just trying to figure out if I’ll have the time. Shouldn’t be any problem, so long as we’re back by seven. When?”

  “No problem. I’ll pick you up, Saturday morning, not too early, well, yes, damn, I guess it had better be. About nine-thirty?”

  Meg nodded.

  I smiled. “Good, I’m glad you’re coming.”

  I returned to my office to ponder the results of last night’s adventure, and consider my next step. Obviously with Chuck in attendance, I couldn’t toss Tony’s office the way I wanted, but on the other hand, I probably didn’t leave any trace of my search either, as I might have done if I’d rooted around to my heart’s content. I’d made quite a show of checking the desk and other obvious surfaces for the nonexistent files, but came up with nothing.

  Except for one small scrap of paper that was barely visible, stuck as it was under the leather corner of the blotter. I’d palmed it when Chuck paused to comment on the number of arcane-looking books that filled the room.

  When I managed to get back to my office, having secured Chuck’s promise to forget our meeting and actions (“No problema, babe, I mean, Dr. Fielding. Pinkie promise. Catch you later”), I was shocked to see that the number on the scrap was Pauline’s telephone number.

  But of course it wasn’t. The area code was the same for th
e whole state, but the exchange was one digit off, and then the three and the six were reversed. The paper was much worn, and the numbers were faded, suggesting some age. And despite my fear that the number would be meaningless, I was convinced that it was no coincidence that Markham had a number for a telephone in Bakersfield, the town immediately to the north of Penitence Point.

  I had tried the number first thing this morning, but it was busy. I kept trying, and finally, just before my lecture started, I was startled to hear it ring on the other end. I didn’t have long to wait; the answer came before the first ring had finished.

  “Ny’ello, Bakersfield Dive Shop,” a brusque male voice answered, booming across the line.

  “Uh, hello. I was wondering what your hours were,” I stammered, trying to make sense of this. A dive shop? Though what I had been expecting, I could not have said.

  “Summer hours are still on, ten to seven, Monday through Saturday, noon to five on Sundays,” the voice responded, automatically rattling off the information. Though the voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a rain barrel, and it had the alarmed quality of the bell on a buoy. Persistent, urgent, annoyed.

  “What are the directions from Route 95?”

  “Exit 22, east to Point Road, up through three lights, left on the last. Corner of Tucker and Main. You can’t miss us.” Rain Barrel was clearly impatient to get back to the salacious talk show that was on the television blaring next to the phone.

  “One more question. What do you, er, specialize in?” I asked, trying to get a handle on what Tony could want at such a place.

  “Sister, it’s all in the name. We’re a dive store. Scuba gear, lessons, and rentals. What are you looking for?” Rain Barrel demanded, impressive over the din of the television.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Thanks.” The unbusinesslike demeanor of the voice’s owner squelched any other questions I might have had, and I returned the receiver to its cradle. It was just as well; I didn’t know what to do with the information anyway. Further speculation was postponed by the realization that I had a class to teach, and I’d scurried off.

  Then after my less-than-inspiring lecture, I called the Fordham County Sheriff’s Department, and after assuring the operator that my call was not an emergency, was forced to wait through what seemed like an hour of muzak and the recorded assurances that my call was important and would be taken as soon as possible. It was really only ten minutes later that a familiar voice replaced the tape.

  “Fordham County Sheriff’s Department. Deputy Sheehan speaking.”

  “Deputy Sheehan, it’s Emma Fielding here,” I said, wondering if he’d remember me. “The er, archaeologist, ah, out at the Point. Any chance I could speak with Sheriff Stannard?”

  “Oh, hi, Miss Fielding, how’re you? I’m sorry, the sheriff is awful busy right now. We had a lot of excitement last night, and he’s been tied up all day. Is it real urgent? Anything I can help you with?”

  “Nooo, it’s not very urgent, but I do need to speak to him in person pretty quick. It’s to do with Pauline Westlake. What happened last night? Can you can tell me?”

  “Oh sure. We got a hot tip about a dealer who’s been very visible in the county lately, and by the time we got the court order to search the property, we found a whole lot more than we bargained for. Weapons, lots of cash, and about $200,000 worth of cocaine.”

  The awe in the deputy’s voice indicated that it was a very big deal, particularly for a small coastal community largely surviving on the proceeds of a few months’ tourist trade. “I know that Fordham County has its share of problems, but I never think of drugs as being one of them,” I commented idly.

  “Well, now, most people wouldn’t, but seems to get worse all the time. But look,” Deputy Sheehan said reluctantly, “I can get the boss if you want. If it’s really important.” He sounded as if it would be a big favor, and not one that the sheriff would appreciate him doing for me.

  I debated a moment and decided not to start using up goodwill now; my suspicions about Tony were still wonderfully unfounded as yet. “No, I’ll tell you what. I’ve got to come out to the Point on Saturday. Will the sheriff be around then?”

  “He sure will, it’s his turn for a weekend shift,” Denny said with audible relief. “That would be a big help, Miss Fielding. We really are very busy just now. I’ll let him know that you called.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I rang off. Depressed, I stared at the phone, willing inspiration to come to me. The telephone number clue was likely to be meaningless, or at very best, meaningless without further investigation. With all of the real evidence carefully cleaned away, I felt as though I was back where I began, save for my increasing certainty that Tony was involved.

  The only thing I could do now was to stop by the shop on Saturday, maybe find out some more, but until then, there was nothing to do but keep my eyes and ears open.

  An increasingly insistent gnawing in my stomach reminded me that my meager, hurried lunch had been several hours and a lot of cogitation ago. I was just spinning my wheels sitting here, something I could do just as easily while hunting down a righteous cup of Guatemalan and a corn muffin.

  I collected some change from the bottom of my briefcase, picked the lint out of my hoard of coins, and made sure I locked the door behind me.

  But even as I turned for the elevator, I was diverted from my errand. Alan Crabtree was waiting for me outside my office. “Got a minute, Professor Fielding?” he asked.

  It was “Professor Fielding” now. It had been “Emma” in the field all summer.

  “How about we walk and talk?” I asked, hoping the growling in my stomach wasn’t too loud.

  Alan shifted uncomfortably. “It’s, ah, kinda personal.”

  I sighed. “Let’s go in, then.”

  I shut the door behind us and sat behind my desk. Alan sat nervously in one of the chairs opposite. Watching him fidget, I was suddenly struck by a thought. “Actually, before you start, I’ve wanted to ask you. Did you use any of the maps in the storeroom this weekend?”

  Alan shook his head, puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “I haven’t got a key to the room anyway—” he said, his eyes darting away from mine.

  No, but your father does, I thought.

  “—and if that’s all, I’ve really got to take care of this.”

  I stretched and set my hands on my desk. So much for brainstorms. “Shoot. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got to drop your historic documents course,” he blurted after a couple of seconds.

  I looked up, surprised. Alan’s face was paler and more pinched than usual. I recalled my earlier suspicions that he might be anorexic or have some other sort of eating disorder.

  “My schedule is really crazed and I have to drop something. That’s it, I guess,” he finished hurriedly, not meeting my gaze.

  “But Alan, maybe there’s a way we can sort this out,” I offered. “If you drop this course, you’ll be down to part-time, which may affect your funding. If you take another course, you’re no better off than sticking with me. What if we reschedule the project due dates—”

  “Look, I’m just going to drop it, okay?” he said irritably. “If you could sign this…?”

  “Alan, something’s obviously wrong,” I insisted. “If you tell me what it is, maybe I can help you sort it out.” As much as I disliked getting overly involved in my students’ private lives, it was clear he needed some kind of friend right now.

  For a second I thought he was going to tell me, but then he thrust the drop form in front of me.

  “Are you going to sign it or not?” he asked, his voice rising like he was going to cry.

  I looked at him and then hastily scribbled my signature at the bottom. “I think you’re making a big mistake,” I said.

  “I gotta go.” He shrugged miserably and left my office.

  I sighed and reconciled myself to not saving him this time. I
reminded myself that I couldn’t save anyone on a growling tummy either, and started out for Joey’s Sandwich Shop.

  As I wandered past the main office, I paused to check my mailbox. A box, too large to fit into the pigeonholes where the rest of the mail was sorted, was sitting on the counter next to the outgoing mail bin. I paused to examine it, and was surprised to see that it was from Spain, an assortment of brightly colored stamps taking up most of the upper right-hand quarter of the package. The label was poorly manufactured, and the ink used to mark it had bled into the surrounding paper.

  All of a sudden, there were lots of items with a Spanish connection around here. First the map, now this.

  “Who’s getting fancy packages from abroad?” I asked, but I was already glancing at the label.

  Chuck, who was sitting at his desk, halfheartedly engaged in constructing the world’s longest paper clip chain, answered halfheartedly.

  “Oh, that one belongs to—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his statement, as the door to the office slammed open and Tony Markham stormed in. What’s eating him? I wondered.

  “It belongs to me. I’ll take that, thanks,” he said abruptly, all but snatching the paper-wrapped parcel away. He turned to leave, but a flash of inspiration came to me.

  “I guess all sorts of neat things come from Spain,” I remarked in a clear, neutral tone.

  Chapter 21

  HE STOPPED DEAD IN HIS TRACKS AND SLOWLY TURNED to face me. A shade, no more, briefly troubled his features, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have noticed it. Dr. Tony Markham casually searched my face, his dark blue eyes revealing nothing but attentive interest.

  “You’re so right, Emma. A nice observation.”

  “Well, when the mood takes me. These little things seem to leap out at you sometimes. Occupational hazard, I guess.” What the hell was I doing? What did I think was going to happen?