The Volcano That Changed The World (27 page)

Carter’s
answer lacked his normal enthusiasm. “Yes, but it’s rapidly turning into what we call a ‘cold case.’ If Bolton’s alibi can be substantiated, then I currently have no other leads.”

They continued walking
until reaching the baggage claim area. Mark retrieved his luggage and the two walked to Carter’s car.

Carter as
ked, “Okay, how do we get to your place from here?”

“D
o you mind if I stop by my office first? I just want to drop some things off and quickly grab my mail.” The workaholic in him couldn’t resist a stop at the office to catch up.

“Not a problem.
There shouldn’t be much traffic around campus at this time of night.” Carter thought that he and Mark had much in common, at least in the way they worked.

They made it to the
Carraway Building in less than twenty minutes. Carter parked out front. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here while you go in.”

“That’s fine. I shouldn’t be too long.”
Mark slammed the car door and headed off with his backpack.

Inside
the building it was mostly dark. Overhead lights were turned off, but low light from built-in display cabinets along the walls prevented total darkness. Housed in the lit cabinets were fossil and rock samples covered with a thick layer of dust from years of neglect.

Mark
headed quickly toward the stairs that led up to his office. He suddenly stopped, no longer in a hurry to reach his office. There was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. That was one insect he had not missed during the summer. He felt it land on his neck and swatted it with his hand. Looking at his palm, he could barely make out a black splotch, the remains of the pest. Smiling, he said aloud, “That was worth a slight delay.” He then continued toward the stairwell.

***

Bolton
stood in a dark corner waiting and watching. Finally, he saw a figure approaching Mark’s office from the stairwell. Bolton quickly and silently stepped forward.

In the dim light cast by the display cabinets
, the man stood with his back to Bolton as he unlocked Mark’s office door, bending over to insert the key. Bolton continued to move forward. When only about ten yards separated them, Bolton yelled, “Malloy!”

As the man
turned, Bolton raised the Glock up to shoulder level and began firing. As the bullets hit their target, the body fell backwards into the closed door. As the body slumped to the floor, Bolton continued firing. He had lost count but had pulled the trigger at least ten times. The noise in the empty hallway was deafening. Only when the body was sprawled motionless on the floor did he stop shooting.

Then he
put the hot barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger one last time. Blood, skull, and brain matter exploded out the back of Bolton’s head. It flew through the air, landing on a cabinet that displayed a miniature model of the hydrologic cycle. Bolton fell backward, hitting the floor. A blood pool spread outward from his fragmented head as his open eyes looked toward the ceiling and saw nothing.

***

When Carter heard the shots
, he jumped from his car and ran quickly toward the Carraway Building. Once inside, he saw no one on the first floor. He thought the gunshots he heard had come from above so he found the stairs and took them two at a time. Looking up the dark stairwell landing, he could swear he saw a shadowy figure crouching. His weapon already drawn, he yelled, “Stop right there!”

S
everal steps below, all Carter could determine was that the person was a man. His back was toward him. “Put your hands where I can see them and turn around!”

The person slowly raised his arms and turned while speaking. “Carter, it’s me, Mark.”

Recognizing his voice, Carter lowered his weapon. “Mark, what’s going on?”

Rapidly, Mark said,
“I don’t know. I was in the stairwell when I heard gunshots. I was hiding here when you came running up.”

“Stay here and let me check
the hallway.”

With his gun ready to
use, Carter slowly entered the hallway. Immediately, the smell of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils. Looking around, he saw two bodies on the floor. One body was bathed in the dim fluorescent light from a nearby blood-splattered panel exhibit; the other body lay in dark shadows near a closed office door. No one else seemed to be there.

He
cautiously walked over and bent down to check out each body.

Both were dead. One unidentified body
near the door lay face down. The other body was Bolton, lying on his back in a pool of blood. A gun lay next to him. As soon as he saw Bolton, Carter thought that his attempted-murder case might remain unsolved. It’s hard to get a confession out of a dead man, but Carter suspected the murderer had just been eliminated by his own hand. Thoughts of Priscilla penetrated his consciousness.

He
pushed thoughts of her aside and retrieved Mark, quickly explaining the situation. As they walked together into the hall, Mark saw Bolton a short distance down the hallway from his office, a gun lying next to him. The other body lay right in front of his office door.

As
Carter removed a small penlight from his pocket, Mark shook his head and thought, if it hadn’t been for that mosquito, I could be lying on this floor right now.

“Do you know who this is? Carter asked, shining the light on the man.

In the feeble light, Mark could see that this man had been shot multiple times; blood was oozing from several points in his back and legs, spreading across the floor.

“No, not from just seeing his back.”

They bent down and Carted turned the dead man’s head slightly so they could see the face. He shined the light directly on it.

Mark gasped.
“Oh no, it’s Dean Miller!”

Chapter Nineteen

The finest workers in stone are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle touches of air and water at their leisure with a liberal allowance of time.

—
Henry David Thoreau

Tallahassee, September 1998

A tropical storm settled over Tallahassee, with grey skies and fast-moving clouds producing multiple periods of rain, at times, torrential. In between the heavier downpours, it simply sprinkled, but the precipitation was continuous, clouds having gathered ample moisture from the Gulf of Mexico before moving inland.

Mark sat alone in his car at the cemetery, waiting for a period of
lighter drizzle before heading to the graveside ceremony for Dean Miller. He couldn’t recall one time when it had rained while he was in the Greek islands or Egypt. He pulled out the note from Alexia and read it, producing the desired result. A smile crossed his face.

He ha
d talked with Alexia about his ordeal, telling her his enemy was dead, but so, too, was his friend and defender, the dean of his department. She was a good listener and friend. Just talking with her had a much-needed calming effect on him. But their conversation did little to resolve his feelings about Sara Jo.

An unintended consequent of the
dean’s death was Mark’s interaction with Sara Jo. As a result of those interactions, he was awash in confused feelings. She seemed like the old Sara Jo, the one he fell in love with. Still suffering from the shock, he couldn’t help but wonder how she was handling her father’s death, and what he could do to comfort her. Ignoring her wasn’t an option. Given the circumstances, as a courtesy to her father, he felt compelled to help her.

Watching the rain hitting his windshield, he realized
how much he had missed a good storm, which was in many ways a soothing event. The rain certainly was appropriate for today. The raindrops became smaller and less frequent. Mark opened the car door, thrust out his umbrella, popped it open, and exited his car.

He wore a dark suit. Funerals were
one of the few times he dressed up. Having grown up on the beach and being a geologist, formal attire was something in which he had little interest. Today, out of respect for Dean Miller, he dressed appropriately.

***

Earlier
in the day, he had attended the formal memorial service at the First Methodist Church. Viewing the open casket brought back many memories of the past six years. Dean Miller had been a friend, a colleague, and a mentor and had almost become his father-in-law. They had experienced much together, and Mark’s professional success was due in large part to this man. He would be missed.

He owed
more to Dean Miller than just his career; he owed him his life. Mark was uncomfortably aware that had Miller not been there the evening of his return, this would be
his
funeral. It wasn’t a hard case for Carter to piece together: Bolton, who knew when Mark was due back in Tallahassee, anticipated that Mark, a creature of habit, would stop by the office on his way home, and had fired on him as he opened the door to his office—only it wasn’t him. Miller had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bolton, the volcano, had changed Mark’s world forever.

The hallway
that night had been dark and Bolton’s blood alcohol content was nearly three times the legal standard of zero point zero eight grams of alcohol per one hundred milliliters of blood. At the distance of the shooting and the poor lighting, Bolton could not have clearly identified who the man in front of the door was before firing. Because it was Mark’s office door, Bolton had assumed it was Mark he was shooting. Given that level of drunkenness, it was amazing that Bolton had been so accurate with his shots.

At the church
service, Sara Jo told Mark that with her father’s passing, she needed his support more than ever and hoped to spend more time with him, but she was in such demand shaking hands and listening to everyone’s well wishes that Mark did little more than express his condolences and move away so the next person could speak with her. Dean Miller was very popular, with close to two hundred mourners attending his service.

After the graveside ceremony, lunch would be
served at the Miller’s home for a select few, just family and close friends. Mark was one of those invited. He would speak with Sara Jo there, at the place where they had first met. The idea of spending more time with her gave him pause, but knew he would do what she requested.

Following the
church service, Shannon approached Mark and shook his hand, asking, “How are you doing, Professor?”

“I’m hanging in there. I didn’t know you knew Dean Miller.”

“I didn’t. I’m here to see you.”

Waiting a moment, Mark said, “Okay.”

“Professor Malloy, I’m sorry for what my sister put you through. For what it’s worth, I never believed you were the father. I wanted to tell you that.”

Mar
k was grateful for Shannon’s trust in him. “Thanks, Shannon.” Pausing, Mark asked, “By the way, how is Shadron?”

“She’s fine
, getting bigger by the day, like a volcano about to erupt. I suggested she name the baby ‘Thera,’ but she declined. Thanks for asking.”

“
Nice geology reference. What’s she going to do?” Mark said with a slight smile.

“For now, she’s
staying home, but she may return to FSU next year after the baby’s born. Back home, we have a large family network and everyone is supporting her. She and the baby should be fine.”

At that point,
Detective Carter appeared next to Mark, who was surprised to see the detective at the Miller’s church service.

Noticing Carter, Shannon said, “I should let you go, but I wanted to make sure you knew how I felt. I’m glad the truth is finally out.”

“I appreciate that, Shannon. It means a lot to me.”

“Good bye, P
rofessor.”

“Bye, Shannon.” The polite thing would have been to give his regards to Shadron, but Mark couldn’t. The pain she had caused him was
simply too recent.

As Shannon walked away,
Mark turned to Carter, who had a companion with him, an attractive blond who looked vaguely familiar. Carter introduced her as “Priscilla,” no last name, but now Mark recognized her. She was Priscilla Bolton, Sam’s wife. The connection reminded Mark that Bolton’s funeral service was still a few days away. He would not be attending. Seeing Carter and Priscilla together seemed odd, but uncharacteristically, he decided not to say anything. None of my business, he thought.

Following
the introduction, Carter said, “Mark, you may want to know that I returned all of Dean Miller’s personal effects to his daughter. Everything was what you would expect, a watch, wallet, and keys. But there was also a vial containing a powder. It had the label ‘student project’ on it. I assumed it had something to do with his geology lectures. Ms. Miller didn’t know what it was.”

Mark, momentarily puzzled,
finally figured out that Ms. Miller was Sara Jo.

Carter continued.
“If you speak with her, you may want to take a look at it. It’s the only item that seemed a little out of place. I still haven’t been able to figure out why Dean Miller was at your office that evening. Ms. Miller suggested he was going to write you a welcome back note. Is that likely?”

Mark had grown fond
of Detective Carter. Like Mark, his mind never shut off. Here he was at a funeral and he was still working. Whereas some might find that offensive, Mark admired it.

Mark carefully considered the question.
“Dean Miller and I were close. It’s possible that he was there to write a note or, given the timing, perhaps he hoped to welcome me back in person. I’m not sure, but I will ask Sara Jo about the vial when I see her later today.”

He thought for a moment and added, “On the other hand, today is probably not the best time to have that discussion. I need to wait until she is ready to discuss it.
That might be awhile.”

“
That’s fine, I understand. No hurry. It’s probably nothing. By the way,” Carter said, “I finally spoke with the reporter at the
Tallahassee Democrat
.”

Mark looked confused.

Carter excused himself from Priscilla and pulled Mark aside. In a low voice he explained, “The one who wrote the story about you being the father of Shadron’s child.”

“Oh, that reporter,” Mark said, noticing that Priscilla looke
d away, being discreet and giving them privacy.

Carter continued
in a soft voice. “I explained to him that we have DNA evidence proving you are not the father, and that their star interviewee, Dr. Sam Bolton, was. Perhaps you noticed the paper’s retraction of their earlier story. It was buried in the back of the ‘Local Section’ in yesterday’s paper.” He laughed slightly.

“Thanks,” Mark said,
thinking, typical media. “I didn’t see it, but I’ll take a look.”

Carter leaned in closer and spoke even softer, “Although I
can’t prove it, I’m convinced that Bolton is the one who tried to kill you. He nearly accomplished that goal on his second attempt.”

“Only instead of me, he killed Dean Miller by mistake. In a way, I feel it should have been me
,” Mark said sadly.

Car
ter hesitated. “There’s one other thing. This is confidential and has not been made public, so don’t discuss what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Even Ms. Miller is unaware of this. I haven’t had a chance to tell her; I will let her know later.”

“Okay.”

“During the autopsy of Dean Miller, the doctor found an inoperable brain tumor. The doc estimated that had Miller not been shot, he would have died within about six months. Given the circumstances and how close you two were, I thought you should know. Dying in your place only shortened his life by a few months.”

Stunned, it took Mark a moment to respo
nd. “Thanks. I guess that should make me feel better, but somehow, it doesn’t.”

“I understand,”
responded Carter, and then shook Mark’s hand and said goodbye.

As Carter and Priscilla walked away, Mark thought back to the last time he saw Dean Miller alive. On their walk across campus, the Dean’s behavior had been erratic
—he had trouble focusing and seemed to be bothered by the sun. Could those symptoms have been an early warning of the tumor that went unrecognized?

***

Neither
Detective Carter nor Shannon came to the cemetery. Mark stood alone, holding one of the many black umbrellas that produced a cacophony of irregular patter as rain droplets tapped the tightly stretched cloth held overhead. After words were said over the grave, he watched as Sara Jo tossed dirt on the casket followed by a single red rose. As the casket was lowered, attendees began leaving and the heavy rain returned.

Mark
made a hasty retreat back to his car and followed the procession as it wound its way from the cemetery toward lunch at the Miller home.

***

Sara Jo was driving
her father’s Chevrolet, a rare event prior to his death. For sentimental reasons, she drove it to the ceremony and did so alone, declining friends’ offers to drive her. She now sat inside the Chevy, still at the cemetery, watching the other cars leave. Between the rain and her tears, her tissues and handkerchief were saturated and useless. She opened the glove compartment and began rifling through it looking for a small package of tissues, anything she could use to dry her face.

What she found at first
glance seemed normal—insurance papers, car inspection reports, the car manual, screwdriver, wire cutters, a pair of latex gloves.

But a
s she turned the latter items over in her hand, she wondered why they were there in her father’s car, especially the latex gloves. Slowly she realized that these were the very same tools used to sabotage the ice core lab door the night of Mark’s attempted murder. She shuddered. She tried to construct scenarios explaining why these items might be in her father’s car, but every time the logic failed.  Unless…

Unless, it
was her father who had tried to kill Mark. Was it possible? She tried pushing the idea away, but couldn’t. She felt sick. He always was so protective of her, not allowing any harm to come to his one and only child. After her mother’s death, he had become even more protective. She knew her father was terribly angry about the way Mark had kicked her out of his house. He had told her he didn’t understand why Mark had treated her so cold-heartedly. But she never imagined he would attempt something this extreme.

Then she recalled
something else. Shortly before the attempt on Mark’s life, her father had begun having migraines for the first time in his life. He dismissed them, saying they came with the stress of his position. He also had become much more impatient and irritable, a change in his behavior that occurred about the same time as the migraines. She wondered if there was a connection to his attempt on Mark’s life.