Good Lord, Deliver Us (3 page)

Turning left, Z followed the trail of
doors, each with a title trumpeted in shiny brass. President. ....
Dean of Continuing Education. ..... Dean of Business. ..... Dean of
Arts and Sciences. .... Academic Dean.

To the last door labeled: Vice
Chancellor. In smaller letters underneath: Of Incremental
Augmentation Services.

What to do now?

Of course.

Consult the secretary in the station
directly across the hall's width. The secretary of the "new"
man.

Pivoting left, the tension of the
moment absorbing any knee pain Z might have otherwise felt, he
stepped across to lean into the secretary's office, finding a
pretty, bobbed-hair blonde inside, the girl -- packaged in a pale
blue dress -- perched delicately on her small swivel chair behind a
well-kept desk. Certainly not one of the superior looking
help-mates of the high and mighty, frumped down as they were, in
isolated splendor.

The cutie looked up.

Was shocked -- big and
ugly stunning
most
people.

"Bob Zapolska," Z said in his rattling
whisper. (Another couple of hits on the pipes would have Z using
sign-language.)

"Oh," the young woman said, fighting
to recover. "Oh, yes. You're to see Doctor Ashlock." Z noted that
the girl was already comfortable enough with her job to call her
powerful boss "Doctor" instead of Vice Chancellor. Speculated that,
in another year, she'd call him "Ashlock" ... at least to her
friends. Pretty as she was, the Vice Chancellor might even invite
her to call him "Cecil." .... And after that ... what?

Honey?

Sweet Cheeks?

Meanwhile, the girl had looked down at
an LCD display on her phone. Looked up again. "Dr. Ashlock is on
the telephone at the moment." She gave Z an apologetic, wet-lipped
smile. "Please be seated."

Which Z did. In the
uncomfortably-modern corner chair the girl indicated.

No magazines. Even high-brow
ones.

With time on his hands, Z tried to
think of something pleasurable, hitting on his annual trip to the
scraggly town of Riverside to buy fireworks -- Riverside, another
Kansas City suburb, but in the opposite direction from Gladstone,
where Z lived.

Thinking about Riverside always
brought to mind Z's two best friends from high school: Ted Newbold
and Johnny Dosso: the three of them calling themselves, the
Musketeers. Riverside, after all, was where the three of them had
done what only dumb high school kids would consider funny: staged a
fake murder in front of an unsuspecting family.

Lacking the proper "murder
weapon" should have derailed
that
stunt -- and
would
have if it hadn't been for
Johnny Dosso. As it was, it had taken no more than a couple of
minutes for Johnny to disappear into his lavish home on North
Enrico (a house Teddy and Z would
never
be invited into) and return
with a small automatic equipped with what would tip off any adult
to the special nature of Johnny's "family" -- a
silencer.

So, they'd pulled off their completely
stupid prank!

Odd, how differently the Musketeers
had turned out. Z -- the knee injury ruining any hope of a college
football scholarship -- after a number of joint-straining jobs --
now a Private Eye.

Teddy Newbold, the "corpse," revived
to become a Gladstone cop.

And finally, like so many young men in
those distant days, Johnny Dosso going into the family business --
his contingent of the family calling itself International Imports.
(Z could only hope Johnny's duties as a part of "International
Imports" was nothing more than what he claimed: gambling and
prostitution.)

"Sir!" It was the young secretary.
Trying to get Z's attention.

Z grinned sheepishly.
Nodded.

"You can go in now."

Trying a smile, Z pushed himself up
and out of the chair. "Just knock on the door."

Z nodded.

Turned.

Crossed the carpeted, extra-wide
hall.

This was ridiculous! As a
P.I., Z had fought criminals! Had survived assassination attempts!
Had lived -- though just barely -- after taking a slug in the lung.
Given the
real
dangers he'd faced, it was crazy to be afraid of people
simply because they were better educated!

Maybe Susan was right; Z should try
college. One course. Just to see if he could cut it.

What Z had discovered in
the last year was that
Susan
was college material. She'd taken an American
history course at Maple Woods College last winter and made an A.
But then, he'd known all along that Susan was as smart as she was
beautiful.

Making up his mind that the best way
to proceed was to pretend he was as good as anyone, Z rapped on the
door. Once. His touch, feather-light.

"Enter," came the muffled
reply.

The invitation really a command, Z
opened the door. Stuck his head in. "Bob Zapolska."

"Come in. Come in," bubbled the man
behind an absurdly large desk. A little man with a booming voice.
Younger than Z. Blow-dried, black hair. Large brown eyes in a small
face. Prominent Adam's apple. Absolutely even teeth. (Z had always
found it difficult to trust people with perfectly straightened
teeth.)

Dressed for success, the dark suit of
Dr. "Sweet-Cheeks" was a perfect contrast to Z's off-the-rack duds
-- the vice chancellor's clothing expensively molded to his small
body, the administrator's tie tastefully striped. "I've been
expecting you. Punctuality. I appreciate that. Shows you're my kind
of person."

Motioning Z in, the vice chancellor
stood, leaned over the out-sized, extra-shiny, desk and brushed Z's
hand.

Settling back, he directed Z to an
overstuffed, brown leather chair across from the desk.

Between them on the administrator's
hand-rubbed writing table was ... nothing ... except a mobile
phone. And a single piece of paper of what looked like typed phone
listings. Unlike the enslaved females "out there" in their
clickety-clack world, this man's job was brain work.

"I've been checking on you, you know,"
the Vice Chancellor said, shaking a delicate finger at Z as if Z
were a naughty, but always to be forgiven, child.

"Calder."

"
Dr
. Calder?" Vice Chancellor Ashlock
paused as if to be certain they were speaking about the same man,
then hurried on. "To be sure. To be sure. Dr. Calder has filled my
ear with glowing reports of your competencies." Z should have used
Calder's title. Was embarrassed that he hadn't. "But others, also,
have praised your talents."

Others? Who could the vice chancellor
of Bateman College possibly know who also knew Z?

Z must have looked as perplexed as he
felt, for the administrator smiled his amusement. Then sobered.
"This business is a most delicate one." The small man leaned
forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially, his prominent Adam's
apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Most delicate. When looking for a
man of discretion, questions must be asked. Asked of the highest
authority."

God?

The man had a pipeline to
God?

Z reminded himself it was not a good
idea to get cheeky with a Vice Chancellor. It was just that
something about the man made Z uneasy. A sensation like spiders
crawling down the neck.

"So, please don't be offended that I
took the opportunity to call local law enforcement to ask about
you." Again, the smile; less "congenitally friendly" than "coldly
crocodile."

Back to the conversation. Had the man
behind the too-big desk talked to Z's cop friend, Teddy
Newbold?

"And, of course, you came through
fabulously." The vice chancellor waved both hands as if to dismiss
any other possibility. "I already knew you were a man to trust. Dr.
Calder would not have recommended anyone of less than sterling
character. In addition, you have the reputation of being a 'take
charge' kind of guy. A 'go-getter.'"

"You called Ted Newbold?"

A frown descended the man's small
face. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure ....?"

"A detective. Friend of
mind."

"Ah. I see what you mean." The showy
grin was back, white teeth pinning it from ear to ear. "No, no.
When one wants action, one goes right to the top. Talking to
intermediaries wastes precious time. No, no. I placed a call to the
Gladstone Chief of Police himself. Had met him at a business
luncheon just the other day. At a brunch to benefit the little boy
who needs the heart transplant." The vice chancellor's eyes misted
up on cue. "Pitiful case. Glad to help in that way." Again, the
sharp-toothed leer. "Presuming on our recent acquaintanceship, I
dialed the Captain."

"Scherer?" Z tried to keep shock from
his voice.

"That's the name! Captain Scherer.
Charming man. Charming!"

Scherer?

Charming?

Something was wrong here!

"Gave you the most glowing
recommendation," the Vice Chancellor was continuing. "Said you were
a man I could trust. A man in whom I could have complete
confidence."

No way that ferret-faced
bastard-of-a-Police-Captain could have recommended Z.
Scherer
hated
Z.
Ever since Z had spilled the beans on a trumped-up charge Scherer
had taken noisy credit for; the bust that Scherer thought would be
his ticket to Clay County politics.

Could the Vice Chancellor have made a
mistake about Captain Scherer's hostility toward Z? ...... Z didn't
see how. ...... Meaning that, no matter what Ashlock's title, the
little man behind the big desk ... was lying.

Z said nothing, of course.
Tried to make his
face
say nothing. For some reason, catching a liar in the act was
thought to be bad manners. ... Z wondered why.

"But down to business." Ashlock leaned
forward again, arms stretched on the desk, sphinx-like. "Dr. Calder
has explained this distressing situation about some ad hoc
citizen's committee recently formed to delay this college's
progress?" Z nodded. "Most depressing. We've a timetable for
renovation. Do it while the market's oversupplied with labor. Get
lower bids that way. Save the college money." Z nodded.

One thing Z
had
noticed about
educated people was that they
talked
more than other folks. While
often saying
less
. "The truth is," the chancellor continued, "I'm more
concerned about this ghost business than with the preservation
group. The chairman of the historical committee -- the troublemaker
-- is a woman who is reported to be
in
extremis
."

"What?"

The Vice Chancellor smiled while
condescending to explain. "In what might be commonly called, 'bad
shape.' Rearing a child alone -- that kind of thing. This fuss on
her part may be nothing but a plea for societal recognition. An
appeal for someone to come to her aid, as it were. A situation
that, should she desist, the college might undertake to alleviate."
Translation. The Vice Chancellor thought the lady could be bribed
to get off his back.

"A committee?" Z asked. Vice
Chancellor Ashlock nodded. "Perhaps you know some of the
members?"

With a fluid movement, the
administrator opened a whisper-quiet drawer and floated a piece of
paper across the desk.

Z took the list. Scanned
it.

Ms. V. I. Smith,
Chairperson

Mr. Roger Lake

Ms. Peggy Ludlow

Ms. Janice Alexander

Ms. Mary Krag

Mr. Mario Uribe

To find that none of the names were
familiar to him, Z putting the page back on the desk.

"Now to this business of
the property being haunted. Nonsense, of course, but troubling." Z
nodded. "And that's where you come in." Suddenly, the man's eyes
flashed the kind of fire the devil hurls to probe for souls.
"Captain Scherer, while not ...." Ashlock paused to think of the
weasel-words he wished to use for whatever nasty things Captain
Scherer
had
said.
"While not praising you in every particular, said something that
interested me. He said you got results for your clients without ...
how shall I put it? .... Without bothering about legal
technicalities."

"Sometimes," Z admitted.
There
had
been
occasions when, to get justice for a client, Z had interpreted the
law ... leniently. On the other hand, following the Zapolska code Z
had made up for himself, Z never
broke
the law ... unless absolutely
necessary!

"Exactly. Exactly." The man leaned
back in his large chair, fingers tented before his made-to-order
vest. "An admirable trait, determination. Most admirable. One I
have, as well. One shared by the great men of history. Napoleon.
Bismarck. Edison." Also, Z thought, by Attila the Hun, Ivan the
Terrible, and Hitler. "My role at Bateman College is to be a
'take-charge' kind of guy."