Sketchy (22 page)

The snow is now accumulating on the pavement as I drive her car to campus. Willa finishes off the bottle of vodka. She is silent, her eyes set on the road ahead of us.

I stop on Bonisteel Boulevard, turn my blinker on, and we wait. The rhythmic clicking fills the car.

“He’s a photography professor. Teaches a class in a studio basement near the Art and Architecture Building—over there.” I point.

Willa instinctively ducks down. I toss her my backpack.

“What’s this for?” she asks.

“Open it up. There’s a hat in there. Put it on.”

Willa pulls out a floppy, chocolate brown, boho-style hat.

She makes a face. “This?”

“Yes, that. Tuck your hair up in it. There are sunglasses in the side pocket—put those on, too.”

Willa digs around and finds a pair of oversized, round Dior shades. “They’re huge!” she complains.

“Are you kidding me?”

She puts the sunglasses on and pulls the floppy hat down, covering her hair. I drive into an alley behind the building and park. “He won’t even see you. We’ll be in and out before you know it.”

Willa stares ahead.

“Look at me, Willa.”

She does.

“Everything is going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, do you understand? I won’t let him hurt you.”

She nods.

I fasten my hair with a couple of pens and pull up the hood of my parka. “Okay, let’s go.”

Willa steps out of the car like a zombie and follows me into the building, to the back stairway—the dark metal stairway to the art supply room.

I look at the time. “His first class of the day is almost over. There’s a window you can look through. You don’t have to go in. Trust me, this will be fast.” She takes my hand and follows me down the metal stairs. The high heels of my boots click on the steps, so I tiptoe. One stair at a time. One breath at a time.

We reach the bottom, and I sift through the dozens of
keys on the ring. “Shit. Which one is it?” Using the utility knife as a starting point, I try key after key. Seconds tick by.
Damn. I didn’t plan on this glitch.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to do this anymore,” Willa whimpers.

Finally, a key fits in the lock, I turn it, and the door opens. “Aha!” I drop the ring in my bag, and we enter the room.

I walk over to the window and look through the scratched glass. Class is still in progress, and Professor Woolf is at the front of the room. He’s wearing that woolen cap again and, coupled with his beard, it makes me worry that Willa won’t be able to identify him. He leans down, helping out a student, a pretty girl, and smiles his creepy smile at her.

“Willa, take a quick peek. Don’t make a sound, just nod if it’s him and we’re out of here—up the stairs, and we’ll let the police handle it. Okay? You got that?”

Willa takes a deep breath and looks through the window, in and around the studio.

“Well?” I whisper.

“I can’t tell yet.” She lowers the sunglasses down her nose.

I join her at the window.

Class is over. Students gather their backpacks, their coats. Woolf nods good-bye. He takes off his cap, scratches his head, and looks up at the clock. His thick, black hair falls down in his face.

Willa sucks in an obscene amount of air, jerks back, and screams, “OH MY GOD IT’S HIM!”

Hyperventilating, her chest heaves up and down as she runs out of the supply room, slams the door shut, and flies up the stairs.

I rush to the closed door.
Shit
. The doorknob doesn’t turn. I push on it with all my weight. It won’t budge; it’s locked. I shove my hand into my backpack, searching for the key ring, and pull out the keys to Willa’s car. “Damn!”

The door to the studio creaks open. Professor Woolf pokes his head in. “May I help you?”

I feign innocence, thinking fast, trying to stay calm. “I was just looking for some, um… art supplies… because I’m an artist and am getting some stuff for my professor. Professor Wright, you know him?”

“Of course I know him. So you’re a student of his?” He stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and leans against the door.

I nod. “Yeah, I am… life drawing. The door closed behind me. No big deal. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“I heard a scream. Are you okay?” He takes a step closer to me.

“Oh, that… I stubbed my foot on the shelf.” I rub my left boot. “Ouch. I’m so sorry if I disturbed your class.”

“No worries. I just dismissed them. They’re leaving now.”

“Oh, okay. I guess I’ll take these.” I grab a couple of random charcoal pencils and pens. “Yeah, I think this is what I need. And if it’s okay, I’ll just leave through your studio, with the other students.”

The professor reaches out and lowers the hood of my parka. “You seem to have a few pens stuck in your hair.” He smiles. “You sure you need more?” He touches my hair. “You have wonderful hair, you know that?”

I sidestep around him.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like your hair? Or people touching it? Or just me touching it.”

I put the pens back on the shelf. “You know, you’re right, I don’t need these. I have enough. I think I’ll go now.”

He gestures with his arm, welcoming me into the classroom.

Willa was right. He’s repulsively charming.

I walk into the studio. The students are gone; the room is empty. I cross in a hurry toward the stairs to the Arts Quad at the far side of the room.

“Why are you in such a rush?” he asks, following me.

“I’m late for class.”

Professor Woolf hustles ahead of me and blocks the stairs. “Why don’t you stay a little longer? My next class isn’t until noon. You say you’re an artist? I would love to see your work.”

“Maybe another time… I’m really late.”

He gives me a look, the steely-eyed look that Willa described—the look that I saw in my head, the look that I drew on the page. “I think this is the perfect time.”

I back up, turn, and run to the supply room, throwing my total body weight into the steel portal. Nothing—it won’t
open. I dump the contents of my backpack on the ground, bend down, and take hold of the key ring.

Professor Woolf picks up the flyer that fell out of my bag—the flyer I drew of him, the WANTED poster. “Interesting rendering. Looks just like me, don’t you think? I mean minus the facial hair. Thank god I grew this beard and covered the cleft.”

I face the door. My hands shake as I fumble with the keys.

“Thankfully the flyers weren’t up for long. Nice of the police to help me out like that.” He quickly reaches around me, grabs the ring out of my hand, and throws it across the room. It jangles to the floor. And then he leans in, his body pressing into my back, and whispers in my ear, “We had a smoke together. Homecoming. It was nice.”

The creepy police officer in the tunnel… oh shit!

“That was the first time I saw you—selling popcorn at the game—this girl with amazing, wild, sexy hair. Isn’t it odd how things work out? I went there to finish off that bitch, and then I saw you—your hair. I had to get to you somehow. I followed you home, remember?” He pets my hair.

I flinch, pulling away from his hand.

“And there you were at that bar. Your hair caught on my jacket as you tacked up this poster. I pulled it right down. It was so nice of you to give me your number.” He laughs. “Did you get my text? ‘Check out Woolf on campus’?”

I turn and face him, try to swallow dry spit. “That was you? You texted me?”

“I did. I wanted to see you again. It worked, right? You
came to me. Yesterday in the commons and now today.” He takes my arm, squeezing it hard, and pulls me toward a door next to the paint shelves. “I’d like to show you some of my work. I think you’ll appreciate it—being a fellow artist and all.”

He unlocks the door and pushes me in, pulls a cord, and a safelight dangles above us, illuminating a photography darkroom.

My eyes take a minute to adjust—and I wish they hadn’t.

Papering the walls are Polaroid snapshots—dozens of photos depicting gruesome, awful images. A collage of women’s body parts—legs, arms, breasts, heads. The images shoot through me like an automatic firearm.

I throw my head over a plastic sink and vomit. Woolf takes my hair out of its high-knotted bun, allowing the nested pens to fall, pinging, down onto the concrete floor, and holds my hair back from my face.

“Well, well. I didn’t expect that reaction—I think the photos are rather playful. I gather you don’t?”

“You’re an animal!” I spit the words into the sink with my vomit.

“But a talented one, you have to admit.” He roughly pulls my hair…
just like that asshole did in the Caribbean! Fuck this!!!

I swing my right elbow fast, sharp, into his ribs. He hunches over. I uppercut his jaw and quickly rush out of the darkroom.

“God damn you! Why can’t you behave?” He tackles me
from behind and swings me around, shoving me into a metal shelving unit. The cans of spray paint fall over—some tumble to the ground. He closes in on me, grinding his body up against mine, caressing my hair with his right hand, cupping my neck with his left, pulling my face an inch from his.

“I’ve been waiting for hair like yours—your magical, fabulous hair—to top the piece off.” He laughs at his sick joke.

I spit an acid spray of bile in his face. He slaps me hard and wipes the nasty spittle from his cheeks. “She fought me like this, the last one. It’s why I had to kill her before the photo. I wanted her eyes alive—alive in fear. But all I need is your hair, you bitch. Your life means nothing to me. I can kill you now, and it won’t matter.” He locks both of his hands around my neck, choking me.

I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I try to push him off of me, but he tightens his hold. I feel my eyes bulge with my racing pulse. My arms flail, hitting the shelf behind me, and I make contact with a can of spray paint. I get my hand around it—hit the lid against the shelf, knocking the top off, swing it around, and spray at his face, into his eyes.

He steps away from me, and we both choke on the toxic fumes. I cover my face with my hair, hold my breath, and pull can after can off the shelf, spraying an arsenal, a rainbow of paint at Woolf’s face.

He falls to his knees, coughing, grabs my leg, and drags me down to the ground. He tears off my parka, crawls on top of me, and yanks the top of my jeans, ripping open the zipper.

No, no, no!!! This can’t be happening to me!

I look around for something, anything to hit him with. My sketchbook is open, lying on the floor. I see the drawing of Chris’s hand and my hand, together as one. I reach out, scrambling, stretching out my arm, pulling it, dragging it toward me, and place my hand on top of Chris’s.

Help me, Chris! Help me, please, somehow!

Woolf slightly lifts his body, unbuckling his belt. I struggle to get my legs free, and my left foot hits something. It jingles.
The key chain. The utility knife!

He pulls at my jeans, and I look over his right shoulder and see the keys on the floor near my left foot.

I hook the heel of my boot around the ring and slowly bend my knee, dragging the keys up the left side of my body, cradling Woolf’s legs, and fake a sexy sigh.

He looks at me with his paint-stained face through swollen, crazed eyes.

I smile at him.

“That’s more like it,” he moans. “You might as well enjoy it.”

“I know. You’re right. Here, let me help you with my pants,” I whisper.

He raises his body a bit, breathing hard. I place my hands at the waist of my jeans, twisting them down my butt, until I touch the keys with the tip of my fingers on my left hand. I hook my pointer finger around the ring, feel for the utility knife, and flip it open. “Oh, hug me, please. Get closer to
me.” I wrap my right arm around Woolf’s head and pull it against my neck. His face is buried in my hair; his hand is between my legs, groping. I lift the knife, above his back, and stab down hard, into his ribs.

Woolf screams and rolls off me. I pull up my pants, jump up, and am free to run. But first I kick him hard in the groin with my “don’t fuck with me” boots and dedicate it to Willa and Veronica and Beth and all the other girls pinned on his darkroom wall. He curls up into a ball, howling in pain like a sick, lame wolf.

I pick up my sketchbook, kiss Chris’s hand, and run out of the room, through the studio, up the stairs, and out the front door.

A blast of cold air hits my face as I see a half dozen black and whites gathered in the Arts Quad, parked in front of the studio. Officers are crouched, guns pointed. Sergeant Daniels charges toward the door.

He gestures for his men to hold fire. I run to him and collapse in his arms.

“Bea! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me!”

I shake my head no, shivering, lapping up the fresh air. “I’m not hurt. He’s down there… in the basement. There’s another stairway in the back. Please, please get him. Fast!”

Daniels shouts out orders to his men. “Down the stairs now! And cover the alley!”

I sputter, “Where is she? Is she okay? Where is Veronica? I have to see her, I have to know she’s alright.”

“Veronica? What are you talking about, Bea?” Daniels asks.

“I meant Willa! Oh my god, is she okay? Tell me, please!”

“Bea… Bea, look at me. Look at me now!” I do, but my body won’t stop trembling. “Willa is fine—she called us immediately. Told us where you were. She’s safe—Detective Cole took her to the station. But why did you say Veronica?”

I burrow into his shoulder, into his jacket, staining it with my tears. “I can’t tell you. It’s horrible… just too horrible.”

He pets my head. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“I could have helped her. I… I was there. She was calling out to me.”

“Veronica? Are you talking about the girl in the Arb?”

I cling to his sleeve, burying my head deeper into his armpit, trying to hide. “I wasn’t far from her; I was near the bridge. I heard her, but I was too messed up to help.”

“Oh, Bea.” His arms wrap around me. “Is that what you believe? What you believed all this time?”

“It’s true.”

He rocks me back and forth. “No. No, it isn’t true. You couldn’t have heard Veronica. Her body was dumped there, at the Arb—she was killed somewhere else.”