The Professor (27 page)

“Hello, Meg.”

She jerked, nearly tossing her book into the air, and practically fell off the washing machine.

“Mr. Bradley? What are you doing here?”

Marking her place in her book with a finger, Meg jumped off the machine. The damp warmth of the laundry room, redolent with the odor of Bounce, added to the incongruity of the man’s out-of-context appearance. Between Mick and the mean Clinton cop, Detective Martin, she’d gone way beyond paranoid. Whenever anyone startled her, she half-expected to see some degenerate wearing a blinking
I’m a killer
sign.

“The girl at the front desk said you were down here. I was at the
house, going over some papers with my TA. I thought I’d take the opportunity to stop in and review your paper with you.”

“My paper?”
Now?
That was the last thing she expected him to say.

Mr. Bradley removed a folder from his briefcase and placed it on the central laundry folding table. “I wanted to talk to you about your analysis of Aztec tribal trading patterns. I don’t know if you’re aware that’s my specialty.”

This is so weird
. “I knew you were interested in the Aztecs—all the artifacts in your office.” She checked the page number, closed her book and leaned against the washing machine.

“A lifetime collection.” He gestured at the folder. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am with your paper. It lines up exactly with research I’m preparing for the symposium in New Mexico.”

She moved to the table. “Dr. Faraday’s at New Mexico State. I read some of his papers as background.”

“Dan Faraday.” Mr. Bradley nodded. “I’ve collaborated with him several times. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—working together. I assume you plan to continue your graduate studies, pursuing an academic career or a curator position with one of the major museums, but when we see this kind of promising research…” He lifted his hands in an expansive gesture. “Well, I’d be remiss if I didn’t make the offer.”

Meg searched his face. What was he saying? She knew the paper was good, but he thought she had academic potential? In
history
? It sounded like maybe he planned to show her research to Dr. Faraday. “I’m a little confused.”

“Forgive me.” His hand rose and fell. “I guess I got carried away. As I said, there’s a symposium in December, right after exams, at New Mexico State. I’ve been invited to present, discussing the impact of ritualized warfare on the dissemination of the cultural influence of the Tenochcas.”

“My paper covered that.” A finger of excitement cut through her. Did he want to include
her
work in his speech?

“Exactly. If you’re interested, I’d like you to co-author the monograph that will accompany my presentation. Now—” he held up a hand, “—it’ll be a lot of work. Research, document preparation. And, of course, my name gets listed first.” He chuckled.

“Would I get to go…?”
New Mexico. Meeting Dr. Faraday. That would be so cool. And my name would be included in the credits. The finance head keeps saying I need to
publish more. It’s a history paper, but it deals with trade patterns.

“Absolutely. I’ll deliver the address, but I’ll introduce you to all the people you should meet. Like I said, Meg, this is really good work.” He tapped the folder.

She nearly did a happy two-step right there in the laundry room. Her hard work was paying off in all sorts of ways. Wait until she told Lisa. Financial reality smacked her in the face. Her excitement deflated like a busted inner tube. “Thank you, but I can’t go.”

Surprise registered in his raised eyebrows. “Why not?”

She sighed, feeling warmth climb her cheeks. “My finances are pretty tight. Airfare, a hotel…” Her voice trailed off as her blush deepened.

Mr. Bradley was shaking his head. “The symposium covers the expenses of the speakers—and their assistants. I’m so used to it, I didn’t think to mention it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, you’ll earn an additional stipend while you’re acting as my research assistant.”

A stipend?
With more money coming in, she could cut back her hours at the restaurant.

“Now, the section on the expansion of Tenochtitlan by Mocteuzma, is especially good.” He opened the folder and extracted her paper. “I’d like you to take a look at this circled section, and see if you can expand it, pull in more of the warfare significance.”

Meg took the paper, leaned against the table and started reading. Mr. Bradley crossed to the drink machine and fed in quarters. Vaguely, she heard cans thud into the tray and a pop-top hiss. He returned and placed a Diet Coke at her elbow.

“Thanks,” she said, absently taking a sip. “Were you thinking more about the exchange of prisoners for tribute or the impact of road preparation for the armies?”

He gave her an approving smile. “I think we should focus on the second part. You’ve already started in that direction—it’s part of what caught my eye.”

She swallowed more soda and placed the can on the table. “I have my research notes in my apartment. I can run over and get them.”

“You don’t have to do it right now.”

“I don’t mind.” She pushed away from the table. A wave of dizziness washed over her. “Whoa. Moved too fast there. I guess I’m a little excited.”

A look of concern crossed Mr. Bradley’s face. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we just talk in general terms for a few minutes and pick a time to get together later this week?”

“We can talk upstairs in the chapter room. It feels kinda warm down here.”

She took a step toward the stairs. The room spun and she grabbed the table, rattling the cans.

“Are you all right, Meg?”

She brought her hand to her head. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Maybe I’m coming down with something. I feel dizzy.” Her voice sounded strange. Her head felt inflated, like a balloon bouncing along behind her. She took another wobbly step. “Maybe I should go home.”

There was an odd expression on Mr. Bradley’s face, sort of excited, like he was pleased with something he’d done. The small hairs on the back of Meg’s head rose. Her gaze slid from Mr. Bradley to the can of soda. The Professor slipped drugs into the victim’s drink. Her gaze returned to her teacher. Several images wavered before her. All wore smug smiles.

The soda. He drugged it.

She blinked.

Time skipped ahead. Mr. Bradley’s arm was around her shoulders.
When did that happen?
She shrugged it off and stepped back. “Stay away from me,” she slurred.

“Or what?”

His eyes gleamed with a predatory glint.
How had she missed that?

“Get away.” She wasn’t sure she said the words aloud as the room spun. She raised her hands, pushing away. She couldn’t tell which of the images was Mr. Bradley.

She blinked.

The world went black.

“He registered his car in his mother’s name?” Frank asked.

“Or it’s his mother’s car,” Mick replied. “It’s the link we need to pick him up.”

“If we can find him.” Frank grabbed the phone to get the process started.

The chime of Mick’s e-mail interrupted. He glanced at the screen and gave it a double take. [email protected]. The message line was blank.

Mick clicked on the new message. Hopefully the bastard’s latest taunt would indicate where he was—or where he was headed.

There was no text, only an attachment. He tapped the mouse again to open it. The file was huge. It opened slowly. A building appeared. Mick recognized it immediately— Meg’s apartment building. He already had his cell phone out when the second photo showed a close-up of the second-floor bay window— Meg’s window.

“What’s the status of the coverage at the target’s apartment?” Meg’s curtain billowed in the breeze through the open glass. He’d told her to keep the window closed.

Dispatch came back. “We paged Detective Martin. Unit fifteen has been reassigned. Unit eleven is not responding.”

The third picture scrolled onto the screen. Meg walked across campus, a brilliant smile on her face. The sun created a halo around her hair. She wore the sweatshirt she’d had on the morning they’d had coffee.

The Professor had added text to the bottom of this photo. “Are you missing something?”

His heart stopped. “Mother of God,” he whispered.

Dispatch caught the emotion in his voice. “Do you need assistance, Officer?”

He surged to his feet. “He has her. The Professor has Meg.”

Dispatch put Mick on hold. “Frank!” he yelled as he disconnected and redialed. He pointed to the screen while the phone rang. “Get back on the phone with Clinton PD. We need to seal off the roads around campus.”

Meg’s cell phone rolled into voice mail. Mick mashed the Disconnect button and dialed another number. Meg had mentioned doing her laundry, an idea he’d firmly squelched until she’d told him she wasn’t a prisoner and she was going nuts sitting in her apartment.

The girl at the sorority house front desk answered.

“Meg Connelly, please.”

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.”

“She better be in the House.” He ground out the words between clenched teeth.

“I haven’t seen her today.”

“This is Agent O’Shaughnessy.” His blood pressure rose faster than his fear. “This is police business. Get her on the phone.
Now!
”

The phone hit the sorority house counter with a clunk. Long minutes passed as Mick paced. Every so often, his eyes strayed to the picture on his computer screen.
Are you missing something?

Where the hell is she? Where would she go besides the sorority house?
He heard Frank murmuring into his phone and glanced in that direction. Frank was scribbling something on a piece of paper.

Damn. Where’s the desk girl?
Mick paced some more. The phone rattled, and his knees went weak. He dropped into his chair. “Meg?”

“This is Lisa, Officer O’Shaughnessy. I’m Meg’s best friend.”

“I remember you,” he said.

She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I can’t find Meg.” Fear shaded Lisa’s voice. “Her books and stuff are in the laundry room, but she’s not there.”

He frantically tried to recall the layout of the sorority house. “Where’s the laundry room?”

“In the basement.”

He remembered the hall, the placement of the rooms and doorways. “Are the stairs to the basement by the back door?”

“Yes. Maintenance and all that stuff is down there.”

He thought about the lousy security in the sorority house, the inadequate lock, the lack of a decent alarm system. Clinton PD was supposed to compensate for that. With surveillance watching her, Meg should’ve been safe. One unit had been diverted, but why wasn’t the other unit responding? Had the second unit also been diverted, taken another call? Mostly he thought about Meg. “Where could she have gone?”

“She wouldn’t have left,” Lisa said. “She always stayed downstairs while she did her laundry. She did it every Tuesday night.”

Cold dread filled him.
Always
. Stalkers noticed patterns. He forced emotion out of his voice. “Lisa. Listen to me. There are policemen on the way. Don’t let anyone near the laundry room or the back door. Don’t touch anything. Do you understand?”

He could feel her growing terror. “What is it? What happened?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hung up the phone.
Oh, God. The Professor has Meg.

“Let’s go.” Mick spun out of his chair and grabbed his jacket.

Frank stood directly in front of him. “You’re not going.”

“Get out of my way, Meyers. He has her. I have to go.”

“That’s why you aren’t going. You’re too involved.” Concern creased Frank’s forehead. “All we know is Meg’s not answering her phone. Apparently, she went over to the sorority house, but she could be somewhere in the house besides the laundry room. You know she’s going stir-crazy. She could’ve slipped out. We don’t know anything for certain at this point. But you go running off half-cocked and you’re a liability.”

Frank’s cell phone rang. Without moving his eyes from Mick’s face, he answered.

To anyone else, Frank’s face would be a blank page. Mick knew it was bad news. “What?
What?
”

“Unit eleven, the guy outside, still isn’t answering. And before you say anything, there could be any number of reasons. Martin’s on his way over there. He’s got backup rolling. I’ll meet him there. You stay here.”

“Like hell.” He barely got the words out through his clenched teeth.

“Mick, I swear to God, you show up down there, and I’ll personally arrest you. Compton.”

Frank gestured to a tan-uniformed rookie. Andrew Compton was the designated thug—twenty-two, high school diploma, no neck and catlike reflexes. Mick didn’t stand a chance against him in a wrestling match and knew it.

“Make sure Agent O’Shaughnessy doesn’t go to Clinton.”

“Yessir.”

Mick stormed into the conference room and kicked the closest chair. It crashed
off the wall and slammed into the trash can. He swore savagely. He wanted to throw stuff, hit something. “God damn it to hell!”

He wanted to throw up.

He stalked around the room, seething. Finally, he collapsed into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.
Oh, God. The Professor has Meg.

He tried not to think, but the scenes rotated though his mind. Baldwin, Cohen, Geiger. For one horrible second, he imagined a knife tracing crimson patterns into Meg’s flesh and thought he’d explode.

He jumped out of the chair. To hell with Meyers. He couldn’t just sit there.

Compton pushed away from the wall. He hadn’t heard the rookie enter the room. “I’m sorry, sir. You need to stay here.”

He spun and stared unseeing at the maps and notes littering the conference room walls. This was worse than his nightmares. He couldn’t wake up and make it go away. He’d never felt so impotent in his life. This was worse than his father’s death. At least then, there’d been things he could do.

Emily Geiger’s mutilated body flashed before his eyes again. His stomach nearly emptied. His hand rose, covering his mouth. “No.” He rejected the vision.

Meg’s smart. She knows what the Professor can do. She’ll find a way to escape.

The others were smart too
, his inner cop voice answered.
And they were dead now.

Meg knows that
, he argued.

She’ll be terrified.

Oh, God. The Professor has Meg.