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“Do what you have to do,” Jake said quietly, then turned to leave Pelletier’s office. He didn’t ask if Pelletier was through with him.

  He was through with Pelletier.

  He did pause in the doorway, though, to look back at the red-faced older man and said, “When you talk to my faculty advisor, say hello to Dr. Mtumbo for me.”

  “Get out,” Pelletier snarled.

  On his way out of the office, Jake told the secretary, “Sorry. He’s gonna be a bear the rest of the day.”

  She just pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything. Her expression was a mask, and Jake couldn’t tell if she sympathized with him or shared her boss’s dislike of him.

  All he really cared about at the moment was that the meeting was over, it was only nine-thirty, and he still had some time to spend with Natalie before he had to get to class.

  He wasn’t really sure where things stood with Natalie. He knew he liked her, and he believed she liked him. But getting involved in a romance with a professor wasn’t something he had even thought about when he came to Kelton College. If anyone had asked him about the possibility, he would have said that it was pretty damned unlikely, given that Kelton was mostly a liberal arts school, and he was about as far from the liberal arts type as anybody could get.

  But he couldn’t deny the fact that he was drawn to her. She had to have some political beliefs, probably even some strong ones, given that she taught criminal justice and was bound to have been exposed to a lot of what Jake considered sociological claptrap. She didn’t put politics front and center of everything else in her life, though, as so many of the students, faculty, and administration at Kelton seemed to. Jake had heard many times that politics had replaced religion for the left, and he firmly believed that was true. Most of the progressives he had encountered were as fervent, fanatical, and evangelical in their politics as Bible-thumping holy rollers were in their spiritual beliefs.

  The problem with trying to develop a real relationship with Natalie was that Jake didn’t know how long he would be around here. His days on campus might well be numbered, and if he wasn’t enrolled at Kelton anymore, no way was he going to hang around Greenleaf. Maybe he would see if he could get some contact info for that guy Rivera, the one he had seen out at the gun range, and let him know that if he had any intriguing and exciting assignments in the works, Jake would be interested in signing on. The idea of potential danger didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  With all those thoughts running through his mind, it wasn’t difficult to ignore the students he passed or met on the sidewalk. Many of them knew who he was—he was big enough that it was hard to mistake him for anyone else—and he was vaguely aware of the hostile stares they directed at him. But the unfriendly looks just bounced off him. He didn’t give a damn what any of those snowflakes thought about him.

  As he reached the library steps and was about to start up them, he recognized a balding, gangling figure coming the other way on the sidewalk, seemingly bent on the same destination. Jake smiled and said, “Morning, Dr. Mtumbo.”

  Montambault frowned slightly, as if wondering whether Jake was making fun of him . . . which, of course, he sort of was. But the biology professor nodded and said, “Good morning, Mr. Rivers.”

  Jake leaned his head toward the big, imposing building and asked, “Headed to the library?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Me, too.” Still smiling, Jake turned to walk up the steps. Montambault hesitated, but only for a second, and then fell in step beside him.

  Jake went on, “You’re probably surprised to see that I’m still here.”

  “Why would I be surprised? As your faculty advisor, I get email updates on your grades. You appear to be doing excellent work in all your classes, including mine.”

  “Thanks. But nobody can say the same about how I fit in, in any other way.”

  “That’s true. You’ve acquired a certain, ah, reputation as . . . as . . .”

  “A troublemaker?”

  “You said that, Mr. Rivers, not me,” Montambault responded. “I don’t wish bad luck on any student.”

  “You haven’t been cheerleading with President Pelletier to boot me out of here?”

  “I most certainly have not.” Montambault sounded almost offended that Jake would suggest such a thing. Jake didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but the professor seemed sincere.

  “All right. I’m glad to hear it. I don’t guess I could go so far as to say that you’re on my side—”

  “You could not,” Montambault said stiffly.

  “But I’ll take just not working against me. That puts you ahead of just about everybody else on campus.”

  They had gone through the entrance doors and were inside the library’s cavernous first floor. Montambault paused and asked, “Was there anything you needed to talk to me about?”

  “Nope,” Jake said with a shake of his head. “Running into you this morning was just an accident.”

  “I’ll get on about my business, then,” Montambault said. “Good day.”

  Jake nodded and turned in the opposite direction from the professor. Natalie was supposed to meet him downstairs, so he headed for the escalators.

  On the way, he passed a couple of guys who were decked out in the green coveralls of the college’s groundskeeping crew and wondered idly what they were doing in the library. It wasn’t unusual to see members of the maintenance crew around, anywhere on campus, but the groundskeepers did all their work outside.

  Then he forgot all about it as he stepped on the escalator and started down, because Natalie happened to be passing by at the bottom and stopped to smile up at him as he descended.

  CHAPTER 22

  Frank McRainey was still angry as he walked back toward the campus police station. Seething, in fact, and he didn’t like that. Getting so upset wasn’t good for his health, and he knew it. The last time he’d been in for a checkup, the doc had given him the usual “lose weight and exercise more” spiel, but he had also mentioned that it would be a good idea for Frank to manage his stress better and try to stay on an even keel emotionally.

  That was easier said than done, especially when you had guys like Cal Granderson working for you. Granderson was particularly frustrating, because he wasn’t always an aggressive, over-eager idiot. Sometimes he actually listened to what Frank had to say and had the makings of a good cop. Frank could tell that he wanted to be a good cop. Problem was, you never could tell when the idiot side of him would crop up with no warning, like it had this morning with that deliveryman in front of the Language Arts Building.

  McRainey had witnessed that confrontation, although from a distance at first. But even though his ticker might be getting suspect, there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he had seen that the man hadn’t done anything to cause Granderson to threaten him and practically foam at the mouth that way. McRainey didn’t know what had set Granderson off. It was entirely possible that Granderson himself didn’t know.

  But rather than speculate on that and maybe get even more upset, it might be a good idea not to go back to the station after all, McRainey decided. He would go over to the groundskeepers’ shed and have a cup of coffee with his friend Charlie Hodges instead. For some reason, the brew from the coffeemaker in Charlie’s office always tasted better than the coffee various members of the force, McRainey included, made at the station.

  He knew the most efficient way to get anywhere on campus, so it didn’t take him long to reach the shed. The big door was down, and no light showed through the office’s single window. Indeed, the place looked dark and deserted, which was unusual for this time of day. Like McRainey, Charlie Hodges wasn’t as young as he used to be and tended to hang around the shed most of the day, sending the younger guys on the crew out to do whatever was necessary. That was why McRainey usually dropped by here at least once a day to shoot the breeze and bum a cup of that coffee.

  McRainey tried the door. Locked. Again, unusual. The crew was wo
rking today, McRainey knew that. He had seen several of them while he was on his way over here. They had been digging holes near one of the buildings, although he couldn’t recall which. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, either. Maybe planting some new shrubs.

  After rapping his knuckles on the door a few times without getting any response, McRainey went over to the window. He leaned close to it and cupped his hands around his eyes to shut out the light while he peered through the glass. He didn’t believe anybody was in there. Otherwise, there would have been a light on, the door would have been unlocked, or at the very least somebody would have answered his knock. But his curiosity was great enough to make him take a look.

  The office was empty, all right. McRainey could see that much even though the room was gloomy with shadows. He started to straighten up, thinking that he ought to call Charlie’s cell phone and find out what was going on. Maybe the head groundskeeper was sick.

  Then, abruptly, McRainey stared through the window again. He had spotted something on the floor behind the desk, right at the back corner. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it looked like . . . the heel of a shoe . . .

  McRainey jerked upright and two fast steps carried him to the door. He grasped the knob tightly, lifted on it, and rammed his shoulder against the door. That hurt like hell. McRainey knew there was a good chance his bursitis would flare up because of it.

  He couldn’t worry about that now. As far as he knew, Charlie Hodges wasn’t having any major health issues, but he was at the age when an unexpected heart attack or stroke couldn’t be ruled out.

  When the door gave a little but didn’t open, McRainey hit it again. This time it flew inward with a sound of splintering wood as the jamb gave way. McRainey stumbled a little as his balance tried to desert him. He was a couple of steps inside the room before he caught himself.

  That brought him far enough so he could see part of the area behind the desk. A coverall-clad figure was lying there, curled up in an awkward ball. The heel of one work boot was the only thing sticking out far enough to be seen from outside, and most people never would have noticed it or realized what it was.

  McRainey turned and reached out to flip on the light. It seemed harsher than usual as it spilled down over the room and reached behind the desk to illuminate the contorted face of Charlie Hodges. Charlie’s eyes were open but staring sightlessly. McRainey moaned, “Oh, hell,” as he stood there motionless and looked at his friend’s body.

  It must have been a heart attack or stroke, he thought again. His cop’s mind put the sequence of events together. Charlie had been about to leave the shed. He had locked the office door and turned off the light because he was planning to open the big roll-up door and go out that way, probably on one of the mowers. Then whatever it was had hit him and he had staggered back over to the desk. Maybe he had been thinking that he would call for help. But it was too late. He’d collapsed and died there on the floor.

  This wasn’t the first time Frank McRainey had seen sudden, unexpected death. Actually, during his career in law enforcement he had seen lots of things worse than this. Hodges hadn’t died peacefully, the expression on his face was proof of that, but in all likelihood, he hadn’t suffered for long.

  McRainey started to go to his friend so he could move Charlie out of there and then call for EMTs and an ambulance. He was certain that Charlie was dead, but like everything else in life, there were protocols to be followed . . .

  He stopped short before he reached the body. Then a frown appeared on his face as he leaned forward and studied the scene more closely.

  Every cop’s instinct in his body had started clamoring that something was wrong.

  For one thing, it was unlikely that somebody dying from a stroke would wind up in such a tight, drawn-up ball. Possible, of course, but McRainey just didn’t think it would happen that way. There was a better chance someone suffering a heart attack would curl up around their pain like that. Even that didn’t sound right to McRainey.

  Then there was the matter of how Charlie Hodges’ head was lying at an unnatural angle to his shoulders. McRainey’s eyes widened and his own heart began to slug heavily in his chest as he realized that his old friend’s neck was broken.

  This was no death from natural causes or even an accident.

  Charlie Hodges had been murdered.

  McRainey was reaching for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt to sound the alarm when he heard a sudden rush of footsteps behind him. He barely had time to turn his head before somebody tackled him and drove him into a crashing impact with the wall.

  The glimpse McRainey had gotten of his attacker showed him a tall, well-built young man with a fringe of sandy beard. Then the side of the chief’s head banged hard against the wall and he blacked out, like somebody had switched off a light.

  Only for a second, though. He was still sliding down the wall toward the floor when awareness returned to him. He blinked rapidly, saw a flash of something coming at him, and flung a hand up to stop it. He screamed as the keen edge of a knife cut deep into his palm, but he closed his hand around the blade anyway, knowing that if he didn’t, he would be dead a second later.

  Acting mostly on instinct, he kicked out and felt the bottom of his foot slam into something. The would-be killer yelled and toppled forward onto him. McRainey couldn’t hold on to the knife anymore, but as it slipped out of his blood-slick grasp, he brought his other hand up and hammered a punch at the guy’s face. It landed with a satisfying smack.

  McRainey planted his bleeding left hand against the man’s chest and shoved. That got him a little room to maneuver. He tried to squirm farther away. The knife darted at him again. McRainey caught the wrist of the hand wielding it this time and forced it to the floor. The blade scraped over the tiles but didn’t come loose from the man’s grip.

  McRainey’s left hand was a mass of pain and didn’t want to work now. He got that forearm under the guy’s bearded chin and tried to force it back. He could feel his strength deserting him, though. His age and the blood he had lost already were working against him. He knew that nine times out of ten, an older guy, no matter what shape he was in, couldn’t match up with a fit younger man. And this was not that tenth time.

  So he couldn’t win a fair fight, but maybe he could win a dirty one.

  He kept his hold on the guy’s wrist and tried to ram a knee into his groin. The man twisted aside. Their legs tangled up. McRainey got a scissors grip on one and heaved. The man yelled in pain, more than the move seemed to deserve. McRainey wondered wildly if that kick he’d landed had broken the bastard’s shin.

  They flailed and writhed together on the floor, which was smeared thickly with blood by now. This was no carefully choreographed movie fight, where the moves were all graceful and the audience could tell what was going on. If there had been an audience in this office, they would have seen a bloody, awkward, desperate mess as the two men battled with life and death as the stakes.

  McRainey hung on to his opponent’s wrist to keep the knife away from him while trying to use his other elbow to break the guy’s ribs. He lifted that arm and slammed it down into the man’s torso again and again.

  At the same time, the man punched at the chief’s head with his left fist. McRainey’s brain was already a little addled from hitting the wall and blacking out. The world spun crazily around him, as if it had tilted off its axis and gone flying off into space. He had to shrink the universe down to two primal items: keeping that knife away from him, and hitting the guy with his elbow.

  The attacker stopped pummeling him and grabbed him by the throat instead. Purely by bad luck, the move caught McRainey between breaths, so he had barely any air in his lungs. Not enough to last more than a few seconds before he stood a good chance of passing out again. He had to force his badly slashed hand to work. It flopped like a dead fish as he managed to slap it across the man’s face. He clawed at the man’s eyes.

  That made him jerk away and loosened his grip on McRainey’
s throat. McRainey heaved up and tried to knee the bastard again. This time the blow slipped between the man’s knees and crunched home.

  The guy screamed into McRainey’s mangled palm.

  McRainey hit him again, letting his own pain and desperation fuel the vicious blow as he tried to drive the guy’s balls all the way up into his throat. The man spasmed in agony. The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered about six inches along the bloody floor.

  McRainey grabbed it, brought it up and then down. The blade penetrated the man’s chest, ripping through muscle and scraping on bone and finally coming to rest with its entire length buried. The man bucked up from the floor again, then his head fell back and with a distinct rattle, air gusted from his throat through his open, gaping mouth.

  McRainey knew the man was dead.

  The chief slumped forward as the last of his strength deserted him. He kept his good hand wrapped around the knife handle, but it didn’t matter now. The fight was over.

  McRainey’s chest hurt, but not as bad as his wounded hand. His head throbbed, too. He was in bad shape, no doubt about that, but he was better off than the son of a bitch who’d jumped him, and he took a savage satisfaction in that.

  The man must have killed Charlie Hodges, McRainey thought as the primitive self-preservation instinct that had gripped him during the battle began to recede and his brain started to function better again. Then the guy had hung around somewhere nearby and kept an eye on the shed to see if his crime was going to be discovered. When McRainey broke in here and found the groundskeeper’s body, he had targeted himself for death.

  That left the question of why the man had murdered Charlie, and he was beyond answering that now. His eyes were just as sightless as Charlie’s as they stared toward the ceiling, McRainey realized as he pushed himself up off the corpse.

  He rolled to the side so that he wound up half-sitting, half-lying with his shoulder propped against the desk. Blood still welled from the deep cut on his left palm. He used his right hand to fumble out a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the injured hand, pulling it as tight as he could and then closing the fingers around it.