Conescu sat motionless for a few seconds, then opened his hands, laid his fingers atop the keyboard. He typed furiously for a couple of lines, said, “Too busy right now. Come back at three o’clock maybe,” and hammered at the keys again.
“You teach at three o’clock,” DeMarco said. He came the rest of the way into the room and took up a position to Conescu’s left, sat on the edge of the metal desk, his body only inches from the professor. Conescu stiffened, which made DeMarco smile. “So now will work better.”
Conescu stopped typing. Then he scrolled down the page until only white space was visible on the screen. He leaned back in his chair, turned his head toward DeMarco, lifted his eyes, and glowered. Every movement was distinct and separate, almost detached from the one that preceded it.
Paranoid schizophrenic, DeMarco told himself. Classic.
He said, “How would you characterize your relationship with Professor Huston?”
Conescu considered his response. Finally he said, “I don’t like Nazis. Nazis don’t like me.”
“And why do you call him a Nazi?”
“What is Nazi? Full of hate. Prejudice. The desire to stifle, persecute, destroy those who threaten them.”
“Did you threaten him?”
Conescu stared at him through slitted eyes. Then he faced his monitor. “Professional disagreements.”
“He was one of the committee members who voted against tenure for you. You’ve threatened him personally and the university in general with lawsuits.”
“My reputation is at stake.”
“And what is your reputation?”
Conescu’s shoulders stiffened and rose. His neck all but disappeared. DeMarco could hear him breathing through his nose, the slow inhalations, quick bursts of expelled air.
Finally DeMarco said, “From what I’ve been able to determine, Professor, all the threats were coming from you. I have copies of the emails and the letters. So I have only one other question for you. Where were you Saturday night between ten or so and dawn the next day?”
“Where is any decent person at that time? Asleep in bed.”
“You’re not married, are you?”
“I have no time for those things.”
“Those things? You mean a wife?”
“Romance! Love affairs! I live a life of the mind.”
“So there’s no way to actually confirm that you were where you say you were?”
This time, Conescu blew a mouthful of air out through his teeth. “Check the tapes,” he growled.
“And what tapes would those be?”
“Security cameras on every floor of my building. I arrive home at seven. Stay in till four the next day. Order dinner between eight, eight thirty. Check the tapes if you want to know.”
“You had food delivered?”
“Steak stromboli and mozzarella sticks.”
“Name of the restaurant?”
Conescu glared up at him. “You think I’m a liar?”
“Just asking for the name of the restaurant is all.”
“Pizza fucking Joe.”
“Pizza Joe’s on Twelfth?”
“You want to smell the empty box in my garbage can?”
DeMarco smiled. “I’ll let you know if that will be necessary.”
Out on the street three minutes later, on his way to the parking lot, DeMarco was hit by a sudden cold shiver. “Higher education,” he said out loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Twenty-Four
By ten that morning the woods were no longer misty. From time to time, Huston emerged from the woods to check his position against an unobstructed view of the sun, but whenever possible, he remained hidden on his northward march. He had followed Sandy Creek out of Lake Wilhelm to its headwaters, a narrow stream that burbled up out of the ground. By his calculations, he had hiked ten to twelve miles since dawn. If his calculations were correct, Annabel’s place of employment was fewer than three hours away.
You should start heading west now, he told himself. No, stop for a while. Eat something. Don’t wear yourself down to nothing.
He knew that he was already nothing, that nothing remained of him save his ignorance and rage. He hoped to alleviate the ignorance by talking with Annabel, then shortly thereafter to expiate the rage. It sounded easy, but he knew it would not be. Annabel might not know anything. Even if she did, would she be likely to tell? In that case, what would he do?
He sat on the ground and ate one of his apples and a few pieces of beef jerky. He still had half the orange juice left and knew he should ration it out to last as long as possible, but the plastic jug pulled heavily on his arm when he walked. You can always find something to drink, he told himself. Every little town along the way has at least one soft drink machine outside of a community center or a playground. Drink the orange juice. Keep your strength up.
He wondered if he should contact Nathan Briessen. All morning long, Huston had been running names through his head, assaying each individual’s potential for assistance. The only name that did not get crossed off the list of candidates was Nate’s. Nate knows about Annabel, Huston told himself again. He could drive me there. Drive me away again. Bring me clothes that don’t stink, shoes that aren’t soaked through. Maybe get me a weapon.