“I failed again, didn’t I?”
“Three out of four parts.”
“Your questions, too?” Long was no longer smiling, but still oblivious to what was about to happen.
“Mine, too. I’m sorry.” This was not the first time Carlyle had washed someone out of the program. A few students, unwilling to let two or three years of tuition and sweat go down the toilet, pleaded for a second chance. Most left silently, however, dragging behind them bitterness that they would never wash from their souls.
“Where do I go from here?” Long said.
“I don’t follow you.”
“How do I prepare now? Make sure I don’t fail again.”
“Adrian, this isn’t like the state police. Even if you pass next time, you’ll still have to do a year’s worth of calculus and statistics, then take a twelve-hour written exam and a two-hour oral.”
“I’ll bust my butt, you know that.”
“Do you really want to spend the rest of your life writing academic articles and teaching indifferent undergraduates?”
Despite his request that students turn off their cell phones, stop text messaging, and keep the whispering down to a dull roar, Carlyle could no longer control his two-hundred-seat undergrad lecture class. One student, a tall blond woman, came late to class every morning, never took notes, and didn’t hide her boredom. A mediocre student, she seemed to take pleasure in her ability to distract Carlyle by picking at the tangled strands of her long hair.
“I’d really like another chance,” Long said.
“The Committee won’t go for it.”
“What are my options, then?”
Carlyle stared at the late winter clouds massing in the distance. “You haven’t read the graduate student guidelines, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“A student has only two chances to take the qualifying exams.”
“Who do I write, then?”
“Write?”
“To petition for another opportunity.”
“We almost never grant waivers.”
“That’s it? I’m out?” Long looked incredulous.
“You may have a better shot with another department. Sociology might really want someone with your background.” No other unit would take Long once he’d failed his exams twice. He would probably end up with the state police again or as a military recruiter. Even though he’d put three years into the program, his academic career was probably over.
Carlyle heard a door open and close down the hall and hoped that someone headed to his office would interrupt this conversation.
“You’re really telling me I’m finished?”
“Adrian, maybe this career wasn’t a good fit. You’re a talented guy. There must be plenty of jobs you qualify for now that you’ve got additional training.”
Long picked up his briefcase. “The state police do this differently. They don’t just wash you out. Everybody leaves the barracks proud.”
“Adrian, stay in touch. I’d like to hear how things turn out.” Embarrassed that he had to force a deserving student from the program, Carlyle secretly hoped he’d never have to face Long again.
“Stay in touch. Sure. Let’s do that.” Long got up, stared at his professor for a moment, then walked out into the hallway.
Anxious to drive the discussion with Long out of his mind, Carlyle began to read an essay claiming that while the country was at war, evidence gathered from torture would be upheld by the Supreme Court. He then sent an email to the Dean of the College saying that although he had been forced to terminate Adrian Long’s graduate scholarship, “Something tells me he is one of those students who will not go quietly.”
At 6:00 p.m., Carlyle called his wife. He told her he was stuck in his office but promised to be home in an hour.
To prepare for the investigation that would take place tomorrow in Warrensburg, he retrieved several books from the bookshelves lining the walls of his office, brought them to his desk, and began poring through them.
At 7:30 p.m., he walked down a dimly lit hallway and out into what he hoped was the last winter storm of the year.
His wife, Beth, was waiting for him when he got home thirty minutes later. She’d heard about the deaths of the two guides who worked for Marshall. Carlyle now told her he was almost certain they’d been murdered.
She picked up one of the books he’d brought home with him, a study of psychopaths. “Does this mean you’ve got a madman on the loose up there?”
“Too early to say. But possibly.”
“He must be insane.
“Psychopaths are impulsive. They commit crimes because it gives them pleasure and they don’t care about the impact on other people.”
“My god. So he is a psychopath.”
“Not necessarily. The person we’re after, from what I’ve seen so far, is disciplined and deliberate. Maybe he just has a grievance against Ryan.”
Beth picked up the other book Carlyle had brought home. “What’s this got to do with the investigation?”
Carlyle said, “It’s about the fanatic who detonated a bomb in downtown Atlanta during the Summer Olympics in 1996. He spent five years on the run in the mountains of western North Carolina before finally being captured. Our guy’s a lot like him. He hits us when we’re vulnerable and then, using techniques they teach in the military, disappears into the wilderness surrounding the gorge.”
Beth stared at her husband. “Are you telling me you’re going to be involved in a manhunt for a maniac?”
“The police might ask me for some help. It should be over in a week. Two at most.”
“What about your job?”
“I have a hunch the university’s going to love the fact that one of their faculty is helping the cops chase down a killer. It can’t hurt my tenure chances.”
Six
The parking lot of the lodge was nearly deserted when Carlyle drove in at eight thirty on Sunday morning. He shut off the engine, finished his coffee, and cracked the window. The sun wouldn’t appear over the ridge to his left for another hour. He could hear the Hudson tearing at the ice down the slope in the valley. In a week, the thermometer would top fifty degrees, the spring rafting season would begin in earnest and the area would be filled with people anxious to challenge the river.
Carlyle turned off
