Not yet used to the settling noises of the old house and the outside whispers of street sounds that permeated the thick old walls, she'd slept badly and awakened as the first rays of weak fall light sifted through the long, narrow windows of the second story bedroom. She'd just programmed the coffee maker when the kitchen land line rang. She couldn't think of anyone she'd given her new number to and stared stupidly at the phone for several moments before picking up the receiver. 'Hello?'
'This is Ted, Ted Burrows, in your post-grad seminar for teaching assistants.'
'Yes, Mr. Burrows. I know who you are. How did you get this number?'
'Oh, yeah, sorry.' He'd flung out the words sheepishly.
Her bull-shit detector had been honed with years of teaching and the meter jumped into the red zone, but she'd sighed into the receiver. 'What do you want, Ted?'
She remembered how he'd stumbled over the words. 'Well, uh, I talked to Dr. Randolph last night and he was pretty hot about being my doctoral advisor and me teaching one or two of his courses.'
'Good,' she'd said. 'I'll talk to you later.' She'd hung up before he could respond, thinking that was one more thing on her to-do list – get an unlisted phone number. Ted was a little twerp, going around her like that, but what did it matter? She'd already decided to assign him to Randolph.
Little harm done, she thought now, eyeing his classic good looks.
Ted grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. 'Sorry, Oliv – uh, Dr. Gant.'
'My fault, Ted. I'm late for class. Were you coming to see Dr. Randolph?' She glanced toward Howard's desk which occupied the prime spot by the window.
Ted waved the paper in his hand. 'I just finished my doctoral proposal for Randolph.'
'Already? Well, leave it on his desk, why don't you? He's not in today.'
A furrow creased the high forehead where a lock of chestnut hair fell artfully. 'Darn, he was in a hurry to get the proposal today,' he complained. 'I stayed up all night working on it.'
Olivia smiled. 'That's the life of a college professor,' she said, tossing the words over her shoulder.
Ted watched the slender legs and firm ass of Olivia Gant as she rushed out the door and headed down the corridor. As she turned the corner, he admired the light bounce of her breasts under the sweater. Wouldn't he enjoy getting a piece of that?
Entering Randolph's office, he jammed the paper into the professor's in box. Damn! He shouldn't have bothered working all night. Now the old fart wouldn't get his proposal until at least tomorrow. Fucking waste of time. He could've taken the brunette up on her invitation last night. The girl lived in the apartment over him and wore tight belly-baring skirts and low-necked tank tops.
He'd just have to make up for it tonight. The pretty blonde in Randy's Monday-Wednesday Medieval History class would do nicely. She sat on the front row and crossed and uncrossed her legs, flashing quite a view. He wondered if she knew what she was doing, but quickly amended the thought. Of course the little bitch knew. She liked playing with fire, liked seeing how close she could get without burning.
They all liked to play that game.
Chapter Seven
Keisha Johnson's cell number went directly to voice mail. Olivia had already left three messages, had tried all weekend to reach the girl with no response. Wherever the girl had gone, at this hour on a Sunday night she ought to be back. Olivia sat at her desk in the library, gnawing on the tip of her thumb and wondering what to do. Call the police immediately, or stop fretting about a normal college student who'd probably gone off for the weekend to Tahoe or Monterey?
Fingering the embossed card Jack had left during his visit, she stared at it. His name was raised in bold black letters with a phone number beneath it. That was it. No organization, no title. Very covert ops and hush-hush, and very unlike the open and light hearted boy she'd known. Her hand hovered over the phone. Then quickly, before she changed her mind, she punched in the number, relieved when it went direct to voice mail.
The message was brief to the point of rudeness. 'Leave a number.'
'Uh, Jack, this is Olivia. Call me.' She didn't leave a number. She was pretty sure he knew the details of her life. 'Please,' she added and quickly disconnected.
For her student, she told herself, for Keisha. If not for the girl's disappearance, Olivia would never have called Jack. He'd be able to find out if the girl was okay faster than the local police and without alarming her roommates or parents.
Otherwise, she'd never ask for his help in a million years.
Jack easily found a gym that suited his needs, one where he could pay a weekly fee with no registration. Fairly seedy and populated with a rough-looking bunch of men. No women allowed. With lots of punching bags and a satisfactory ring, the gym was modeled after the early Gleason's Boxing Gym in Brooklyn. The basement room was large, dank and concrete, and stank of sweat and blood.
Jack's nostrils flared at the scent as he laced up his gloves and went to work, needing to pound flesh and spill blood. He put in several hours of hard work and bloodied the nose of an asshole who'd overestimated his prowess and underestimated Jack's skill. Feeling more in control – though not necessarily better – he headed for the motel.
Twenty-five minutes later he pulled the rental car into the motel parking lot and climbed out, swinging his laptop over his shoulder. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the second-floor room at the end of the landing.
He headed straight for the bathroom for a hot shower. Draping a towel round his waist, he frowned at his reflection in the mirror above the small sink. The effect of the gym workout had abated the ragged look, but his facial hair continued to grow rapidly. His beard, heavy at normal times, was a pain in the ass during the Change.
Slowly he applied lather to his cheeks and scraped off the scraggly growth with a straight razor. He preferred the sharp edge and accuracy of the old-fashioned implement, a throw-back to his grandfather's era. Somehow it made him feel more human. Finishing up, he rinsed his face and applied after shave.
He angled his head for another look in the mirror. Still too dark, too rough, too shaggy, he thought. He sighed and checked his watch. Time to make the call.
That's when he saw Olivia's message on his phone. Not the Prima phone – that was reserved strictly for Invictus business – but on his normal cell phone. He knew instinctively she'd changed her mind. But why, he wondered? His chest constricted momentarily before he pressed mail and listened to her voice. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or apprehensive.
Collapsing on the bed, he pulled his Prima phone from his briefcase, and punched in speed dial number one, the special line that went directly to the Judge, day or night.
'Yeah?' The voice sounded wakeful even though at this hour on the east coast the Judge had to have been sleeping.
'It's me.'
No need to identify himself. Even if Warren didn't recognize his voice, the special sound recognition feature would identify him. Agent Number Thirteen on the display. And if that number wasn't a hell of a curse, Jack didn't know what was.
'Problem?'
