In mid-June, he and Claire made love on a sleeping bag in the cement-block basement. The first night went so well, despite the hard surface, that he took to carrying a sleeping bag and backpack in his car, of filling the backpack with a bottle of wine and an assortment of midnight snacks. By late August, he and Claire were spending most of their nights together beneath an open window on the second floor. Back at college in the fall, he quickly familiarized himself with every building in town under construction, places much more private than the frat house, much less expensive than a motel. Places where their only real concern was how far through the night Claire’s cries and moans might carry.
Now he faced the corner of the closet and smelled the fresh wood, the scent of open air. He pulled his knees to his chest, squeezed himself into a ball, but he could not squeeze out the ache, the heavy, hollow anguish.
The chambray shirt and quilted jacket seemed to have no effect against the chill night air. He convulsed with sobs and he shivered with cold. After a half hour of lying huddled against the wall, his body stiff with the tension of violent shivering, he climbed to his feet and made his way back to the basement. He carried a roll of the Tyvek up to the second floor, unrolled it and buried himself beneath the foil liner. He pulled the bags of groceries close and held them tucked against his stomach, something to wrap himself around.
Somewhere before dawn, he awoke enshrouded in gray. He awoke thinking he still held the knife in his hand, and he recoiled from it and flung the knife away, rolled away from it and felt the strangely soft obstacle at his back, batted and kicked at the Tyvek and sent the bags of food scattering, kicked and flailed to get clear of the insulation until he had rolled hard against the opposite wall. There he lay blinking, breathing hard. His eyes felt scratched and sore, his throat scraped raw, body chilled to the bone.
Gradually, the previous night came back to him, bits and pieces coalescing. He was in the president’s new mansion. It was morning, maybe six, six thirty. Construction workers would be showing up soon. Traffic on the streets. Too many eyes.
Quickly, he gathered up and bagged the food and made his way down to the basement. He peeked out the rear entrance. The world outside was deep in gray. But he knew these fogs, had moved through them most of his life. In an hour, the world would be clear again. He had to get back to the woods. Plan his next move. Today is Wednesday, he told himself. Tomorrow night I can see Annabel.
He pulled the ball cap down low on his forehead. Checked the pocket of the chambray shirt to make sure the mirrored sunglasses were still there. Patted his wallet. Then he picked up the grocery bags and stepped outside, moved stiffly but quickly down the gentle slope of the long backyard. Before long, he broke into a trot, a shadow through the fog. I need to start making my way to Annabel, he told himself. There’s a long way to go yet. Miles to go. Miles and miles before I sleep.
Twenty-Three
For the second time in the past four minutes, DeMarco knocked on the door of Professor Conescu’s office in Campbell Hall. The first time, three minutes earlier, there had been no reply, so DeMarco went to the English Department office and asked the secretary when might be the best time to catch the professor in.
“Any time between eight and six,” she said. “Maybe even later, for all I know. I leave at six and he’s always still here.”
“What days?”
“Any day. I’m here five days a week and he’s always here. He teaches Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at ten, eleven, two, and three, but the rest of the time he’s in his office. All day on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
DeMarco looked at his wristwatch: 1:17.
“I knocked but he didn’t answer.”
“Oh, he’s in there,” the secretary said. “Trust me. He’s always in there.”
So this time DeMarco knocked and knocked again. Every fifteen seconds he knocked three quick raps against the door, each series louder than the last. And finally a growling voice from behind the door demanded, “Who?”
“Sergeant Ryan DeMarco of the Pennsylvania State Police.”
Silence for another ten seconds. Then, just as DeMarco was about to rap on the door again, the dead bolt clicked. He waited for the door to be pulled open, but the metal knob did not turn. He reached for it, gave it a twist, and threw the door open.
Conescu had organized his office so that the only part visible from the doorway was a narrow corridor leading to the window six feet away. To the left of the door stood a wall of metal bookcases. The books were crammed in vertically and horizontally, books on top of books. To the right, two metal filing cabinets, each five feet tall and with more books piled atop them, blocked the view into the office.
DeMarco stepped forward to the edge of the cabinets, turned to his right in the narrow opening between the front of the cabinets and the forced-air heating unit beneath the window, and there, crammed into the corner with his desk facing the wall, sat Conescu, big and slouching and messy haired. He sat with his head cocked toward a filing cabinet, his gaze locked onto the gray metal. The knuckles of both hands rested against the edge of his computer keyboard. On the screen was a text document crammed with words from margin to margin.
“I apologize for the interruption,” DeMarco said. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”