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“Just trash the Christians, Professor, and Newhouse loves it. He hates ’em. He’s a zealot.”

  “Or he was,” the professor said.

  “Yes, he was.” Eddie seemed to be drifting on the memory of some ancient pain, rehearsing the wrongs done against him.

  “Do you hate Christians, too, Eddie?”

  Eddie’s response came from a feral place in his mind, but his voice held no emotion. It carried no empathy. No humanity. He might have been dreaming of slaughtered puppies, or of flowers—it was all the same to him. It signified nothing. “It’s your turn, now, Professor. Then your wife’s.”

  He rose slowly from the recliner and pushed the barrel of his gun under his belt. He lifted his knife and advanced.

  And stopped.

  Caroline was standing in the doorway with a double-fisted grip on a black revolver, her feet planted wide.

  Eddie took a quick glance at the professor and saw a grim, knowing intensity in his eyes. He looked back to Caroline while raising his pistol from his belt, and Caroline shot him three times in the chest.

  39

  Thursday, May 17 1:30 P.M.

  THEY TOOK Eddie out in a black rubber body bag, while Caroline and the professor waited on the back porch. Pat Lance directed the forensic team collecting evidence, while Bruce Robertson stood back and let her work.

  Missy Taggert came out to the porch, took one look at Caroline, and returned a moment later with her medical bag. Taking out a pair of scissors, she stood behind Caroline’s wicker chair and cut the duct tape out of her hair. The professor watched in a sluggish state of shock, and the women talked softly about Caroline’s ordeal.

  When Robertson waved for him, Branden stepped through the family room and kitchen, down the hall to the front door, and out to the ambulance where Cal lay on a gurney. The professor climbed into the back of the ambulance and sat next to Troyer. Cal struggled past his concussion to ask, “Caroline?”

  “Going to be fine, Cal,” Branden said.

  “Who knew she could shoot?” Cal asked.

  “I counted on that,” the professor said.

  “When did she learn?”

  “She’s been training at the gun club, Cal, times being what they are.”

  Cal closed his eyes and drifted for several seconds. When he opened his eyes, he said, “I called Rachel Ramsayer, Mike.”

  Branden smiled. “That’s good, Cal. That’s a good move.”

  “No DNA tests yet,” Cal said. “But I figure it doesn’t matter.”

  When Missy had the tape out of Caroline’s hair, she left Caroline with the professor and went looking for her husband. Branden sat holding Caroline’s hand, hoping that she would talk. Wondering what to say. Wondering if she had been pushed too far.

  “Why did he cut me loose, Michael?” she asked in time.

  “He didn’t see you as a threat.”

  “He should have.”

  “Caroline, he used women as playthings. Why would he credit you with courage?”

  Tears started spilling out of her eyes, and the professor knelt in front of her and pulled her forward on her chair and into his arms. Softly, he said, “This is good.”

  After the ambulance had taken Cal to the hospital, Branden and Robertson stood outside on the cul-de-sac. Pat Lance was satisfied with the evidence she had collected. Missy Taggert was sitting with Caroline in the living room. The men had little to say to one another. They were just shaking themselves free of the adrenalin. Dumping the anxiety. Freeing themselves of Eddie Hunt-Myers.

  While they stood there, Willa Banks drove up in a battered green truck coughing blue-gray smoke. She rolled her window down next to the professor and called out over the loud engine, “I heard you got him.”

  Branden started, “My wife . . .”

  “Shot him, I know,” Willa finished. “The whole town knows.”

  Branden found himself smiling, thinking that Willa herself probably had something to do with that.

  Coarsely, Willa barked, “You know that Rat Puke Miller is gonna take Hershberger back?”

  “I heard.”

  “Funny bunch,” Willa said. “I may have underestimated them.”

  “Probably you have,” Branden replied.

  Late that night, Arne Laughton knocked on the Brandens’ door. Then he rang the bell.

  In the bedroom, Branden said, “Should I get that?”

  Caroline said, exhausted, “Maybe you’d better, Michael.” She was finally starting to relax. Starting to think normally. Starting to hear better, after the violence the gunshots had done to her ears.

  In less than a minute, the professor returned to the bedroom. “It was Arne Laughton.”

  “He left?”

  “I never opened the door.”

  “What are you going to tell him, Michael?”

  “Nothing, Caroline. I’ve got nothing to say to the president.”

  40

  Monday, May 21 10:45 A.M.

  THE BLUE-BOOK exams, which the professor had read only once, finally claimed his attention. He sat in his office and listened to Lawrence Mallory’s coffeepot chatter. He had been at it for two hours, and he had written a grade, this time in pen, on the front of each exam.

  From his doorway came a high, reedy voice. “Your wife said I’d find you here, Professor.”

  Enos Erb stood in front of the taller Mallory. Lawrence wore a bemused smile as he held two mugs of coffee.

  Branden got out of his chair, came around to the front of his desk, and shook the dwarf’s hand. He pulled a chair over for him, and Lawrence handed Enos a mug of coffee after the dwarf had climbed up onto the seat.

  Enos said, “Thanks,” to Mallory and added, “It puts a bounce in my step.”

  Erb sipped at his coffee and seemed reluctant to speak. The professor waited. This would be one of those long English-Amish give-and-take conversations. It’d no doubt take time. The Amish kind of time.

  Eventually, Enos said, “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “I know, Enos,” Branden said.

  “The thing is,” Enos said, “we owe you thanks.”

  “You don’t really, Enos. No thanks needed.”

  Enos acknowledged the irony of his situation with a fatalist’s shrug of his shoulders. We live; we die. It is in God’s hands.

  “The thing is, Professor, I came to you for English justice.”

  “I know, Enos. I think you got it.”

  “I got all I need, Professor. I got all of that I’ll ever need.”

  Branden asked, “How are the children?”

  “It’s slow. They’re slow to mend. We take Mattie across the street to see Albert, but it’s so slow. We sit them down together, and they talk to each other. They won’t talk to anyone else.”

  “And Albert’s hair?”

  “Coming along.”

  “His eyes?”

  “Sometimes, Professor, . . .” Enos choked. He cleared his throat and began to cry softly. Branden took his coffee mug from him, and Enos fished his handkerchief out of his side pocket to dry his eyes. The little man took the coffee back and finished, “Sometimes, Professor, I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes,” Branden said, “I don’t either.”

  After transmitting grades to Laura Pope, the professor walked toward home. He was in a Montana State T-shirt, an old pair of jeans, and leather sandals. It was a warm afternoon, with the rumble of low thunder sounding off to the west.

  As Branden reached the edge of campus, Arne Laughton drove up, parked at the curb, and got out. Branden stood on the sidewalk and waited for the president to come around the front of his car. He waited for Laughton to speak.

  “You’ve left quite a mess, here, Professor. I don’t see how we’ll ever get over this.”

  Branden remained silent.

  Laughton thought he had a sympathetic ear, and he confided in Branden, “I’m going to fire Ben Capper. Letting a murder take place on our campus—what incompetence!”

  Stil
l Branden held silence. The president could well be talking about either Cathy Billett or Aidan Newhouse, and likely knew too little of the real facts in either case to form a legitimate opinion.

  Laughton said, “I’ve got to figure out a way to talk to the Hunt-Myerses. If we can only get them to see this our way, Mike.”

  Slowly, Branden set his briefcase on the sidewalk and turned back to the president. “Arne,” he said, “I’m at a place where I’d hand you my resignation for the simple pleasure of watching you try to replace me. But I won’t. I’ve got a few things to do yet before I retire.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like read the thesis of each of Nate Wells’s students who’s died. Cathy Billett’s sophomore essay, too.”

  “OK, well, great. I’m still going to fire Ben Capper.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to fire Ben Capper.”

  “And why is that, Branden?”

  “First, because he doesn’t deserve it. At least not from the likes of you.”

  “Well, he’s gone, so get used to it.”

  “Here’s the thing, Arne. Are you listening? Try to keep up. I’ve got time to say this only once. Aidan Newhouse hadn’t carefully read a single whole thesis in the last five years, maybe ten. Now, trace that out to the logical conclusion, if you can.”

  Laughton showed puzzlement, either at Branden’s tone or at his challenge. The professor did not care which.

  Branden continued, “I can prove Eddie Hunt-Myers’s thesis is fraudulent. I’m going to have Laura Pope revoke his degree.”

  “Like that’s going to matter now, Branden,” Laughton said, mind ranging over a dozen distressing eventualities.

  “You still don’t get it, Arne. I’m going to form a committee to read every senior thesis Aidan approved in the last ten years. Nearly three dozen of them. We can revoke those degrees, too.”

  Now, Laughton understood. “You wouldn’t!”

  “You can imagine the chaos, Arne, if even half of those theses were successfully challenged.”

  Laughton’s face wrinkled into a frown as deep as his fear. He thought about the consequences, and his face pulled tight. But as he contemplated Branden’s warning, recognition of the hard reality settled into his features.

  “You wouldn’t,” Laughton whispered.

  “You sign a letter to the Board of Trustees stating that Ben Capper has your full and lasting confidence, and have a copy faxed to every professor on campus. Have it done by tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Send the original to me.”

  “You can’t be serious, Branden.”

  “If you don’t do that, Arne, I suggest you take a ‘long jump off a short pier,’ as a student recently put it, because I swear I’ll put an end to your miserable career—if you don’t back off Capper.”

  “What makes you think you can make good on that threat, Branden?”

  “I’ll tell you, Mr. President, just exactly how I can do that.”

  Laughton stared at the professor as if he’d been speaking a lost dialect. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Your key to the bell tower, Arne. I’ve got it, and I’ll use it to end your career if you go against Ben Capper.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you have it.”

  “You need to, Arne. You need to believe me. I took it out of Eddie’s pocket after Caroline shot him.”

  41

  Wednesday, May 30 2:45 P.M.

  WHEN RACHEL RAMSAYER’S plane landed at Cleveland Hopkins Airport, Cal Troyer and the Brandens were waiting beside the baggage claim conveyors. The professor watched the monitors to confirm when the plane had arrived, and then he took a seat along the far wall, letting Cal and Caroline wait at the bottom of the down escalator. As he sat there, Branden took out the folded note Aidan Newhouse had written. Reading it again, he struggled with emotions so surreal that he wondered if he’d wake up from some kind of weird, sadistic nightmare. But the page in his hands was real, and he had memorized the words Newhouse had written.

  Mike, you’re the only one who will understand this. And I am sorry for putting this on you. It’s the integrity question. That’s it, really. I always figured I had the kind of integrity that would make my politics legitimate. But I don’t. I’ve lost it somewhere. I surrendered it to Eddie Hunt-Myers. Most of the clowns at this college wouldn’t understand this if you wrote it out for them, but I thank you for your willingness to confront me. Thank you for your willingness to hold me to my own standards. I take it as a compliment. But now, I see myself all too clearly, and I cannot live with the person I’ve become. I can’t stand to think of seeing you on campus, watching for that look in your eyes. That knowing look that you won’t be able to hide. I could take it from just about anyone but you. So, well, that’s it, really. Tell my son I forgive him. Tell Arne Laughton to go pound salt. OK. Anyway, thanks.

  When Branden looked up from Newhouse’s note, Cal was standing in front of him, a small suitcase in his hand. With a bemused smile, Cal said, “They’re waiting for one more bag, Mike,” and nodded toward the luggage conveyor.

  Branden looked over and saw Caroline standing next to an improbably short young woman dressed in blue jeans and an Emory University sweatshirt. She was a dwarf.

  Branden looked questioningly up at Cal.

  Cal shrugged and said, “Her great-grandfather—my grandfather—was Amish, Mike. I suppose there’s always been a chance that someone among his descendants would be short.”

  Branden looked back at Rachel and Caroline. Rachel turned toward him, smiled broadly, and waved.

  Branden waved back, turned to Cal, and asked, “You going to be OK with this, Cal?”

  A little nervously, Cal said, “She’s an Ellis-van Creveld dwarf. It’s the genetic syndrome some Amish descendants have. And my grandfather was a descendant of Samuel King, who came to eastern Pennsylvania in the mid-1700s. He’s the start of the genetics. Samuel and his wife. Thing is, Mike, we always knew this was possible. My grandfather came to Ohio from Lancaster, and that’s where the syndrome is most prevalent.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Cal. She’s your daughter, and that’s all I need to know.”

  “I know,” Cal said. “I’m a little nervous. Things have been taking me by surprise, lately. I feel like I’m always a step or two behind where I’m supposed to be, and I can’t seem to catch up with my life.”

  Branden stood up, smiled, and said, “OK, Cal. Let’s go meet your daughter.”

  42

  Friday, June 1 8:30 A.M.

  “SO, YOU’RE all packed?” Ellie asked, standing behind her counter inside the north door of the jail.

  “Packed and headed out of town,” Caroline answered. “We’ve got the top down.”

  “That’s a long way to go in a Miata,” Ellie remarked.

  The professor said, “We plan to stop a lot.”

  Ellie said, “I’ll get the sheriff,” and she reached across her desk to pound on the wall, yelling, “Hey Bruce! Company!”

  Robertson came through his door like a bowling ball knocking down pins. “Ellie, I told you . . .” and saw the Brandens.

  The sheriff rolled up to the counter and tried to glower at Ellie, but she would have none of it. “Bruce,” she sang, “you have company.”

  The professor tried to hold a serious expression but failed. All smiles, he asked, “Sheriff, can you send a car past our house once a day? Keep an eye on things?”

  Robertson started a nod, but Missy came out of his office and handed a mug of coffee to her husband before he could finish his answer, saying, “Of course we will.”

  Robertson rolled his eyes and said, “How long will you be gone?”

  “Don’t know,” Branden said. “Maybe a month, maybe the whole summer.”

  “We’ll take the two-lane roads,” Caroline said.

  “The whole summer?” Robertson asked.

  Branden shr
ugged as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about it.

  “It might be prudent for them to stay out of town until fall semester,” Ellie said.

  Robertson asked, “Why’s that?”

  The professor took a brass key out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. “Because of that,” he said.

  Bruce and Missy waited for an answer. Ellie already knew.

  Caroline said, “That’s the key to the bell tower that Eddie Hunt-Myers used for four years. He got it from Arne Laughton.”

  The sheriff frowned and asked, “Where’d you get that key, Mike?”

  “Took it out of Eddie’s pocket, after Caroline shot him.”

  “Mike, that key belongs in my evidence locker,” Robertson complained.

  The professor smile and said, “I can voucher that key right now, Bruce, if you insist. But I’m willing to bet that you’ll let me keep it. For a while, anyway.”

  Robertson remained silent and let the ire in his expression demand an answer from the professor.

  Branden said, “The key, Bruce, is not material to any criminal charges that you can press.”

  “So,” Robertson asked.

  “You can’t try Eddie for any crime, now.”

  “It’s evidence, Mike,” Robertson insisted.

  “Right. It’s evidence that can be used to best advantage in a civil suit.”

  The big sheriff’s expression softened, as if he were saying, “I’m listening.”

  “Bruce, I’m going to explain the importance of that key to Cathy Billett’s parents. In Montana. I’d like to give them the key, and let them consider how they might use it.”

  “Mike, that’s cold,” Robertson said.

  Caroline said, “That’s what I thought, at first.”

  Ellie said, “No, Bruce, it’s not like that. Eddie had that key because Arne Laughton let him have it. That’s how Eddie got Cathy Billett up to the bell tower, using that key—the one that Laughton secretly let him keep.”