Donovan squinted up into the falling snowflakes at the darkened glass of the Waverly library’s dome. “I couldn’t sleep. I figured I might as well be productive and get some work done for my job.”
“I’m sure even Orson Lockwood isn’t so tough on his employees to expect them to work in the middle of the night,” I commented, edging around Donovan so that his back was to the library. If I needed to make a quick getaway, it would be easier without having to dodge around the self-elected valedictorian of Waverly’s previous class.
Donovan shifted positions easily, tucking his hands deeply into the pockets of his coat and hunching his shoulders up to his ears. “I’m just an eager-to-please employee.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
I checked my cell phone. I had full coverage now. It took everything I had not to dial 9-1-1 right there in front of Donovan, but I managed to pocket my phone again and pretend that I had just been checking the time.
“You should head home,” said Donovan. “It’s freezing out here.”
His sudden concern for my well-being did nothing to assuage the nausea churning in my gut. He was right, though. I needed to get home to Wes. With a curt nod, I turned and walked away. Across the quad, I looked over my shoulder. Donovan Davenport had disappeared from the steps of the library, but I knew that he hadn’t gone inside to complete any kind of actual work for Lockwood INC. Without his watchful eye on my back, I turned on my heel and ran.
7
“Wes. Wes!”
He grumbled and turned over as I attempted to shake him awake. Franklin hopped up on the bed and started licking Wes’s face. Normally, I’d shove Franklin out of the way, but any help in encouraging Wes to return to the land of the living was welcome at this point.
“Wes, wake up.”
“I’m awake, I’m awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, feebly defending himself against Franklin’s wet nose. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“O’Connor is dead.”
That got Wes’s attention. He propped himself up against the headboard and took in my red, watery eyes. At some point during my return to the apartment, I’d lost control of my tear ducts again.
“What? How do you know?”
I fell back on the pillows, wiping my face on the corner of the bedsheet, and tucked myself in under the big duvet. The illusion of safety beneath its downy comfort was better than nothing. “I went to the library and—”
“You went back? Nicole, I thought I told you to wait until morning!”
“I couldn’t, Wes. I had to know.”
As I covered my face with my hands, Wes put a comforting arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “I just didn’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, rocking me gently. “Is O’Connor really dead?”
Franklin nestled in the blankets near the foot of the bed. I scooted my feet under his warm body and nodded into Wes’s chest. “I found the room. It’s under the Rapere Wing, like I guessed. They have O’Connor’s body in a freezer down there. Wes, it was awful. Will you call Daryl?”
“Of course.” He reached across me to grab his cell phone from the bedside table. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
I explained in detail how I had found the Black Raptor Society’s secret headquarters, where it was located, how to get inside, and what I had discovered within its chambers. Wes listened intently, frowning when I forwarded the specifics about O’Connor’s body. Out loud, it sounded so far-fetched, but the police needed to know exactly what was going on at Waverly University. When I had finished my tale, Wes dialed the station.
“Hey, Whitehall,” he said. “Wilson’s not there, is he?”
There was a muted response from the opposite end. Wes pressed the speakerphone button, and Whitehall’s voice emanated from the phone. “He’s supposed to be here in a few minutes. What’s up?” he said.
“He’s going to start his day off with a bang,” said Wes. “I got a 10-54 report underneath the Waverly library. Anonymous tip-off said it’s George O’Connor.”
On the other end of the line, there was an abrupt creaking noise, as though Whitehall had sat up straighter in his desk chair. “What did you say?”
“10-54,” repeated Wes, this time more slowly. It was the code Wes’s station used for a possible body. “In the basement of the Waverly library.”
“The Waverly library doesn’t have a basement,” said Whitehall. I could hear the tapping of his fingers against a keyboard as he typed at his computer.
“According to my source, it does,” Wes said. “It’s some kind of secret, underground room apparently.”
“Is your source reliable?”
Wes raised an eyebrow at me, almost in jest. I elbowed him in the ribs. “I told you,” he said. “It was an anonymous tip-off.”
“It sounds like a prank, McAllen.”
“It’s not a fucking prank, Whitehall,” Wes shot back. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “Either take this seriously or put someone on the phone who will.”
“All right, man, relax. Wilson just walked in.”
“Let me speak to him.”
There was a shuffling sound as Whitehall passed the phone over to Officer Wilson.
“This better be good, McAllen,” said Wilson in a gruff tone. “It’s not even five a.m.”
“Wilson, I got an anonymous tip that George O’Connor’s body is in the basement of the Waverly library,” said Wes once again.
Wilson huffed. “That building doesn’t have a basement, genius.”
It was stunning that Wes could report something so dreadful and get such an underwhelming response. Maybe that was what it was like to be a police officer. Maybe Office Wilson was so used to receiving soul-numbing news that he’d become impervious to the emotions that should accompany such tragedies.
“My source said that the entrance was hidden behind the bookshelves,” said Wes. There was a hard edge to his voice. He was annoyed that neither one of his coworkers was taking this seriously. “Wilson, I really
