Nightkeepers

‘‘I’m not here,’’ he said, and headed in the opposite direction for a first-aid kit.

The buzzer sounded again—three short, angry bursts. ‘‘Still not here.’’ He turned on the faucet and put his hand under the water. He hissed with pain as old blood swirled in the sink and ran down the drain, and when he used paper towels to blot the wound dry, they came away pinkish brown at first, then red.

At least whoever it was got the message and stopped buzzing, he thought, debating between going for stitches and using one of those icky wound patches that bubbled up and looked seriously gross after a few days, but worked really well.

There was a knock at the apartment door.

Lucius’s breath whistled between his teeth and his head cleared some on a burst of adrenaline. Ignore it, he told himself. They’ll go away.

‘‘Hunt?’’ a pissed-off male voice shouted full-volume. ‘‘I know you’re in there.’’

What had he done last night?

‘‘I’m not in here,’’ he said under his breath. ‘‘Go away.’’

But there was another knock. Then the voice again, quieter this time, and sounding vaguely familiar. ‘‘Hunt, please. I need to talk to her.’’

Her? Lucius took a quick look around, in case he’d missed there being someone else in the apartment, especially of the female variety. When a really, really bad thought occurred, he peeked in the other bedrooms, and let out a breath when he didn’t see anything—or anyone— out of place.

There wasn’t another knock, but he could sense the other man leaning against the door. He heard a broken sigh and a whispered name. Anna.

Oh, shit, Lucius thought when recognition jolted. It was the Dick. And he was looking for his wife. In a few seconds he was across the room and yanking open the door, his heart hammering far faster than it should’ve been. ‘‘Did something happen?’’

First he saw the Dick, followed by the Dick’s fist headed toward his face.

Then he saw stars.

The next thing he saw was the cops.

He watched in a numb blur as they confiscated the bloodstained stuff he’d slept in, photographed the shit out of the apartment, and took a couple of his steak knives into evidence, along with the dime bag they’d found in the fridge and a gun he hadn’t even known his freak-show roommate owned.

The bad news—like he needed any more of it—was that the Dick knew most of the cops who covered the campus and surrounding area, so Lucius wasn’t getting too many favors. The good news was that the one cop Lucius did know happened to be the one in charge of detention and it was a slow day, so he got a cell to himself. Small favors and all that.

He skipped his phone call. There was no way he was calling his parents until he knew the exact situation. And the person he normally would’ve called to bail him out— Anna—was apparently in the wind. His cautious optimism that she’d left her husband warred with worry. Where the hell was she?

He supposed he could call Neenie, but what was she going to do? In a few hours or whatever, everything should get straightened out. All the blood in the kitchen was his—he was sure of that much, anyway. Even better, when the cops had asked the Dick why he’d been convinced his wife would be at Lucius’s apartment, he’d gone red-faced and refused to answer.

Sure enough, a couple of hours after he’d been locked up, a skinny guy in jeans, a polo shirt, and sandals stopped outside Lucius’s cell. ‘‘Mr. Hunt?’’

‘‘You’re the public defender?’’ Lucius asked, looking him up and down and back again. ‘‘For real?’’

‘‘You want to get out of here, or would you rather wait for somebody in a suit?’’

Lucius rose from the cot. ‘‘Nothing wrong with Tevas. I take it they figured out all the blood is mine?’’

The guy gave him a look. ‘‘Please. Evidence only gets processed that quickly on TV. No, Professor Catori’s wife called him. She’s fine.’’

‘‘Thank God.’’ Lucius exhaled far too much relief, earning himself a second look. ‘‘That she’s back, I mean. She’s my thesis adviser, and I’m supposed to defend soon, and—’’ And I’m babbling. I’ll shut up now.

‘‘I said she called,’’ the PD said, leading him out to a desk and watching while he signed off on his personal effects; such as they were. ‘‘I didn’t say she was back.’’

Lucius held out until they got out onto the sidewalk before he said, ‘‘Where is she?’’

He didn’t give a shit whether the PD thought the Dick was right about them having an affair. Something wasn’t right. Anna wouldn’t just up and disappear. She just wouldn’t.

‘‘New Mexico. Something about needing some time away, staying with a friend, et cetera, et cetera.’’ The PD handed Lucius another paper to sign, then stepped back. ‘‘You’re good. Charges dropped, very sorry, blah, blah.’’

He turned and walked away, leaving Lucius with the distinct impression that the PD, too, was a friend—or more likely a former student—of the Dick’s. Anna and her hubby were both professors, yet the Dick had been ‘‘Professor Catori’’ and Anna had been ‘‘she.’’

‘‘Don’t overanalyze it,’’ he told himself aloud. ‘‘Just be glad you’re out. Go home, clean up, and get back to work.’’ Maybe with an aspirin or five added to the mix.

Heading for the bus stop, he reminded himself that Anna was an adult—a married adult—and she didn’t owe him any explanations or schedule updates. But he couldn’t shake the sense that something monumental must’ve happened to send her to New Mex when she’d never mentioned the trip before. Maybe something connected to the Dick’s utter conviction that he’d find his wife at Lucius’s apartment. Damned if he knew what it might be.