15
I stepped out of the train station behind Jennifer, dragging our two carry-ons behind me. She pointed to the street and said, “Guess I was right about the rental car.”
In front of me was a sea of bicycles, all chained and stacked haphazardly as if the Tour de France had decided to stop for a train ride. Well, that is if the Tour de France was run with rusted beachcombers and ancient ten-speeds. It looked like a bicycle graveyard. Which did nothing to help my mood.
My entire plan of attack had started to disintegrate over the Atlantic Ocean, ten minutes out from the British Isles. Knuckles had gotten a redirect. Apparently, the vice president’s son’s car had been found out in the English countryside, and it had been clean with the exception of one clue: a ferry receipt for Tangier, Morocco. It had necked down the potential kidnappers significantly, pointing to three or four different Islamic groups. As hunting terrorists was more of the Taskforce forte, he was given a mission change to explore the connection, leaving the English criminal investigation with the FBI, which meant we were dumped as soon as possible at Heathrow in London, nowhere near Cambridge.
Poking out of the hatch of the Gulfstream, he’d said, “Sorry to do this to you, but orders are orders.” Then he’d smiled and waved before closing the door and leaving us on the tarmac holding our bags. I knew he thought it was incredibly funny, and I felt like a hitchhiker that had been tricked and taken to the wrong destination.
I’d wanted to get a rental car and drive to Cambridge, but Jennifer said that taking a train would be much easier. I’d argued that we needed the flexibility, and she’d stated that she’d done the research on Cambridge University and the surrounding town and that having a car would be more of a hindrance than a help. I’d acquiesced, mainly because I’m the one who had tasked her with the research, so I had to live with the results. But I was sure I’d prove her wrong when we arrived.
That certainty faded in view of the bicycle graveyard, sending a little stab of aggravation through me. Jennifer said, “Want to rent some bikes? The hotel I booked is right around the corner.”
I said, “And what? Strap these bags to the seat like a Vietcong on the Ho Chi Minh Trail?”
I saw a tiny grin slip out and realized she was screwing with me. Knowing that I had been all set on a big ol’ I told you so, she was returning the favor.
I shook my head, unable to stop my own smile. I tried to maintain my annoyance, but it was impossible with her. I said, “Can we get a cab instead?”
Three minutes later and we were headed to our hotel in downtown Cambridge. It turned out that the university didn’t have a single campus but instead spanned the entire town. Composed of over thirty colleges, each with its own separate green, the school was impossible to separate from the town. And the town was old. I mean, really old, having been founded in 1209. Charleston, South Carolina, prided itself on its history, but it had nothing on this village, something that Jennifer loved.
Getting the history lesson on the cab drive over, I began to regret giving her the research task. Right up until she corrected the cabdriver on his knowledge of the town, which was funny as hell.
We dumped our bags at the hotel and asked directions to Queens’ College, the campus where Kylie was conducting her exchange. A third-year student studying English literature, she should have been finishing up her first semester here. Instead, she’d disappeared, and I dearly hoped to find out it was just a college prank.
Kurt had already smoothed the way with the administration, and they were expecting us, so I didn’t think we’d have any trouble with the school. Her roommate might be a different story.
I tried to get a cab, but Jennifer insisted on renting some bikes from the hotel, and we set out, pedaling through history, the stone buildings and alleys projecting a stoic reticence at our very presence. Allowing us to view them, but knowing we would never appreciate the history they embodied. Well, that’s what I thought, anyway. For her part, Jennifer kept exclaiming one thing after another from her research, making me wish we could explore and let her run around like a puppy in a field. Making me wish we had some time before we began to dig into what had happened to Kylie. Something I was dreading.
After a short ride, we chained the bikes outside of Queens’ College and entered through the arch to the administration building, stepping back in time in more ways than one. The first person who met us was an ancient dragon lady with a dour expression soaking through her wrinkles. Apparently, one of the first to graduate from Queens’ College in the fifteenth century, she was convinced we were a couple of slimy Yank tourists out to deface her beloved grounds. We spent about twenty minutes trying to break through her prejudice, with me growing more and more aggravated.
Jennifer saw me getting pissed and knew my nascent social skills were at the breaking point. I was on the verge of simply walking into the courtyard, ignoring the old prune’s protests. Jennifer glared at me, giving me her disappointed-teacher stare, and I hissed, “Well, you take over then. Before I crack that bitch in the head.”
I saw her face flush at my cursing, her expression looking like she was trying to contain a volcanic eruption. I immediately regretted my choice of words. She clenched her teeth and bored into me with her eyes. I did what every man on earth had done since leaving the cave. I cowered.
She said, “Don’t utter another word,” then turned to the battle-axe, all sweetness and sunshine. After a bit of back and forth, the biddy was on the phone, calling down Kylie’s roommate and giving me the stink-eye. Reminding me yet again how much fun Knuckles must be having chasing bloodthirsty terrorists.
Five minutes later a slight girl with long black hair, glasses, and bushy eyebrows entered the office. She had a piercing next to her right eye, and my first thought was English lit major, but I knew better than to allow that to escape out of my mouth. Jennifer would probably punch me. I decided to let the females handle the introductions.
She shook our hands, then, speaking with a Scottish accent, said, “I’m Blair, Kylie’s roommate, and I’ll help you any way I can. I’m worried about her.”
Which popped any ideas I had about a bender in London and ramped up my concern. I said, “So you haven’t heard from her? At all?”
“No. I haven’t heard from her since she went out the other night. She never came home, and that’s not like her.”
Jennifer said, “Can we see her room? Her stuff?”
Blair looked at the battle-axe, who nodded, squinting at me as she did so. I almost said, “I won’t shit on the floor, I promise,” but bit my tongue. We left the dragon lady behind, walking to the dorm.