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J
ack Neville walked down the hallway to his office, glad that Sally hadn't asked him how he knew so much about what the Garden Gnome had been thinking.
The truth was that Curtin, for reasons that Jack couldn't fathom, had gotten the idea that Jack was his friend. Maybe it was because they'd taught in the same department for years, often in adjoining classrooms, though they'd hardly ever spoken more than a couple of words to each other.
But since the tech stock debacle, Curtin had called Jack every now and then to tell him the latest chapter of his sad story or to complain about how badly HCC in generalâand Sally Good in particularâhad treated him.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Jack had always listened patiently. He told himself that it was doing Curtin good to get the bile out of his system, and it was better for him to be taking it out on Jack than on someone else. Sally, for example.
Besides, Jack was interested when Curtin started telling him about his plans to run for the college board. Jack didn't think the man had a chance of winning, but if he did, things would certainly be different. The current board was composed entirely of people who had the school's best interests in mind. Curtin would be a loose cannon, and he could cause a lot of trouble.
When Jack had received the e-mail about Sally's being a witch,
his first thought was that Curtin had sent it. And maybe he had. Jack didn't know when he had died. He could have sent the e-mail first. The e-mail had come from some Web address of convenience, and it could have been sent by anyone.
At any rate, Jack didn't want to think about it. He had other things on his mind, like his new computer game addiction. It seemed that every time he managed to conquer one addiction, a new one took its place. So, he thought, he probably didn't really conquer anything. He just replaced one addiction with another. This time, while kicking the Free Cell habit, he had become addicted to Spider Solitaire. He was just advancing to the second level, and he was eager to try his hand at a few games before his next class. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. He had half an hour.
Except that he had company. Like Sally, and most of the other faculty members, Jack rarely locked his office, and he often left the door open all day, even while teaching or visiting someone else's office. Students at HCC were honest. Either that, or they didn't want anything he owned. He'd never had anything stolen.
But now and then unexpected guests turned up. Sometimes the guests were a pleasant surprise. Sometimes they weren't. In this case, Eric Desmond, chief of the HCC police, and Detective Weems of the local police force were waiting for him.
Jack felt an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. It hadn't been so very long ago that he'd been accused of murder, hauled off to the police station, and given the third degree.
“Not again,” he said, looking at the two men who were making themselves at home in his office.
“Don't worry, Neville,” Desmond said. “This isn't about you. Nothing to get excited about.”
Desmond was nearly sixty, but he was fit and trim and looked like a much younger man. And he dressed like one, too. It was hard for Jack to think of a policeman as being dapper, but if there was ever a dapper cop, Desmond was the one.
“I'm not excited,” Jack said. “Just scared of getting the third degree again.”
“We didn't give you the third degree,” Weems said. “If we had, your kneecaps wouldn't have healed by now.”
Weems wasn't dapper. He was, in fact, a little bit sloppy. He was tall, with a big stomach. Jack thought he could have used some diet and fitness advice from Desmond.
“You're joking, right?” Jack said.
Weems gave him a flat stare. “You don't want to know.”
He was right, even if he was only kidding, so Jack just nodded.
“What's all this?” Weems asked, indicating a stack of books on Jack's desk beside his computer. “I thought you'd be reading Hemingway or somebody like that.”
The books were all histories of rock ân' roll, as that was one of Jack's interests. Community college instructors weren't required to publish, but if they did, the publications didn't affect their pay or their status. Jack liked to write, and the school's attitude gave him the freedom to write about whatever he enjoyed. At the moment, he was working on an article about independent recording labels in Texas in the late 1950s, like the “D” label on which the Big Bopper had originally recorded “Chantilly Lace” in 1958.
Jack liked the fifties. He'd seen
Rebel without a Cause
on television at an impressionable age and loved everything about it: the cars, the clothes, the actors, the attitudes. Since that time he'd studied the era, especially its music, with something bordering on obsession. But he never let his infatuation with the past interfere with his life in the present.
“I'm interested in history,” Jack said in answer to Weems's question. “You haven't said why you're here.”
“Because a friend of yours died,” Weems said. “Harold Curtin.”
The building was air-conditioned, but Jack started to sweat a little. He didn't like the way the conversation was going.
“I heard about that. But Harold wasn't my friend.”
“He had your telephone number written in a notebook by his phone. He must have talked to you recently.”
“He called now and then. Not recently. Why do you care?”
“Did you hear how he died?”
“Some kind of hemorrhage,” Jack said. “Why would that interest the police?”
“We're always interested when someone dies under odd circumstances.”
Jack wondered what the odd circumstances could be. He'd heard about Curtin's death from Troy Beauchamp, who was always the first with the news about anything and everything. Troy had been on his way to class when he'd told Jack, and he hadn't mentioned any odd circumstances. He'd made Jack promise not to tell Sally. Troy wanted to tell her himself, but he didn't have time before class. Jack had promised, but he'd kept his fingers crossed.
“I didn't hear anything about the circumstances,” Jack said. “Just that he died of a hemorrhage.”
“You know anything about an e-mail that was sent out about your department head?” Weems asked.
“If you mean the one about her being a witch, I got a copy. So did a lot of other people, or so I've heard. What does that have to do with Curtin?”
“Maybe nothing. What did he call you about?”
“Just to complain about life in general. We taught in the same department for a long time so we knew each other. I think he needed to vent now and then, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one he called.”
“Did he ever mention being cursed?”
Jack almost laughed, but Weems wasn't the kind of guy you laughed at. Jack stopped himself just in time and said, “No, I don't think he ever said anything about being cursed. Was he?”
“I don't believe in things like that,” Weems said. “But Curtin might have. Do you know much about the Bible?”
Jack looked at Desmond, who hadn't said a word since Weems had begun talking. Desmond just shrugged. Jack turned back to Weems and said, “I took some courses in biblical history in college. I'm far from an expert. What does the Bible have to do with anything?”
“There's a verse in the book of Revelations,” Weems said.
“Revelation,” Jack said, remembering that Sally had told him once that Roy Don Talon, one of the school's board members, had
made the same mistake. “There's no
s
on it. It's âthe Revelation of St. John the Divine.'”
It was Weems's turn to look at Desmond, who shrugged again.
“You learn something every day,” Weems said. “Anyway, there's a verse in the book of Revela
tion
that says, âFor men have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink. It is their due.'”
“I'll take your word for it,” Jack said. “I don't remember that verse. And I'm not quite sure what point you're trying to make.”
Weems didn't look up from his notebook, and he didn't respond to Jack's comment. He said, “And then there's something from somewhere else. âGod will give you blood to drink.'” He looked up at Jack. “Ever hear that one?”
“I've seen it in a couple of places,” Jack said.
“What places?”
“It's in a book by Nathaniel Hawthorne,
The House of the Seven Gables
, and it's in the records of the Salem witchcraft trials.”
“You know who said it at those trials?”
Jack knew. He'd studied the trials in graduate school, and the e-mail about Sally had brought the name back to mind.
“A woman named Sarah Good,” he said.
Weems looked at his notebook, nodded, and flipped the notebook closed. He stuck the notebook back in his pocket.
“I guess that's it, then.”
He stood up, and Desmond opened the office door. The two cops went out. Desmond nodded at Jack as he left, but Weems ignored him. However, before they'd gone more than a couple of steps, Weems turned back to Jack.
“I just thought of another question,” Weems said.
Jack wondered if Weems had been watching
Columbo
reruns.
“What?” he said.
“Did Dr. Good and Curtin have any problems?”
Jack hoped that Weems couldn't tell how much he was sweating now. He said, “There was an incident once. Chief Desmond can tell you more about that than I could.”
“I wasn't talking about the past. I was talking about lately.”
“Not that I know about,” Jack said.
“No conflict about the current interests of the college?”
Jack could have said, “That makes two questions,” but he didn't think Weems would appreciate the humor. So instead he said, “I don't have any idea about that.”
“How about the bond election?”
That's three, Jack thought. He said, “They were on opposite sides.”
“That's what I thought,” Weems said.
He seemed about to say more, but the bell rang and students flooded into the hallway chattering away to each other and into their cell phones. Weems gave Jack a little wave and turned to join Desmond, who was waiting for him. Jack watched them go. He was sure they were headed for Sally's office, but he didn't follow them. He knew they wouldn't like that one bit, and he had a class in a few minutes. He turned to his desk and started getting his things together.