was perhaps twelve miles east of the university. Over the thirty
years that Dex had been here, a dozen people had drowned there,
and three years ago the town had posted the place.
'I put you to bed,' Henry said. 'Had to carry you into your room.
You were out like a light. Scotch, sleeping powder, shock. But you
were breathing normally and well. Strong heart action. I checked
those things. Whatever else you believe, never think I had any
intention of hurting you, Dex.'
'It was fifteen minutes before Wilma's last class ended, and it
would take her another fifteen minutes to drive home and another
fifteen minutes to get over to Amberson Hall. That gave me forty-
five minutes. I got over to Amberson in ten. It was unlocked. That
was enough to settle any doubts I had left.'
'What do you mean?'
'The key ring on the janitor's belt. It went with the janitor.'
Dex shuddered.
'If the door had been locked--forgive me, Dex, but if you're going
to play for keeps, you ought to cover every base--there was still
time enough to get back home ahead of Wilma and burn that note.
'I went downstairs--and I kept as close to the wall going down
those stairs as I could, believe me...'
Henry stepped into the lab and glanced around. It was just as Dex
had left it. He slicked his tongue over his dry lips and then wiped
his face with his hand. His heart was thudding in his chest. Get
hold of yourself, man. One thing at a time. Don't look ahead.
The boards the janitor had pried off the crate were still stacked on
the lab table. One table over was the scatter of Charlie Gereson's
lab notes, never to be completed now. Henry took it all in, and then
pulled his own flashlight--the one he always kept in the glovebox
of his car for emergencies--from his back pocket. If this didn't
qualify as an emergency, nothing did.
He snapped it on and crossed the lab and went out the door. The
light bobbed uneasily in the dark for a moment, and then he trained
it on the floor. He didn't want to step on anything he shouldn't.
Moving slowly and cautiously, Henry moved around to the side of
the stairs and shone the light underneath. His breath paused, and
then resumed again, more slowly. Sudenly the tension and fear
were gone, and he only felt cold. The crate was under there, just as
Dex had said it was. And the janitor's ballpoint pen. And his shoes.
And Charlie Gereson's glasses.
Henry moved the light from one of these artifacts to the next
slowly, spotlighting each. Then he glanced at his watch, snapped
the flashlight off and jammed it back in his pocket. He had half an
hour. There was no time to waste.
In the janitor's closet upstairs he found buckets, heavy-duty
cleaner, rags... and gloves. No prints. He went back downstairs like
the sorcerer's apprentice, a heavy plastic bucket full of hot water
and foaming cleaner in each hand, rags draped over his shoulder.
His footfalls clacked hollowly in the stillness. He thought of Dex
saying, It sits squat and mute. And still he was cold.
