mottled shadows on concrete walkways.
Only a few students were around this early, most of them wearing jeans, backpacks slung over one shoulder. They hurried to classes or lounged on wooden benches. Couples held hands and leaned their heads together. A few people clutched paper to-go coffee cups as if they held the elixir of life itself.
Ray guessed that whenever he got around to retiring, the campus might, in his memory, be his favorite workplace. The crime lab was endlessly fascinating, with new challenges every day and interesting people to work with. At the hospital, he had felt fulfilled by the prospect of saving lives and helping the sick and distraught at every patient he lost. But as a university professor, he had the satisfaction of helping to mold young minds, to instill in people an early love of learning that they would carry with them the rest of their lives. Students loved to challenge their professors, to test their intellectual wings, to throw off the tethers of old ideas, so he was constantly being confronted, and the intellectual stimulation that provided kept him forever engaged and excited. In the campus environment, he could count on each day bringing at least one student who was convinced that Ray knew nothing of the world, and that kind of adventure was worth its weight in dead bodies and ninhydrin.
But his new life, his new career, came with a certain amount of adventure of its own. On campus, he didn't usually have guns pointed at him or have the opportunity to put murderers in prison. The guns he could do without, but the knowledge that every shift he worked left the world a little safer was hard to beat.
Still, walking across campus sent a blade of nostalgia right through his heart, and it brought with it an undeniable longing for times gone by. He couldn't split himself in three, though: one to work at the hospital, one to teach, and one to perform crime-scene investigation. Failing that, he had to take one job at a time, and for now, he was a CSI.
Ray went into the history department's building, stepping into the cool hush of an air-conditioned hallway, and headed toward an office he had visited many times. He was looking for Keith Hyatt, who taught American history with an emphasis on the Western United States and Native American issues, and whose wife Ysabel was Grey Rock Paiute. Not only did he hope for some explanation of what 'Quantum' might mean in relation to the late Chairman Domingo, but he also hoped that Keith could offer some insight into any other tribal issues that might have led to murder. Domingo's slaying wasn't necessarily connected to his role as chairman – it might have been a simple break-in gone bad – but the possibility couldn't be discounted.
Ray couldn't remember Keith's office hours, but the door was open, so he tapped twice and went in. Keith's side of the office was as neat as ever. Keith, he had often thought, was not really cut out to be a university professor, because Ray had never seen another one who kept his office so tidy, every book in its place in the bookcase, student papers in crisp manila folders, pens and pencils contained in a made-in-China 'Indian' vase a student had given him once as a gag. He had never looked inside Keith's filing cabinet, but he suspected it would be every bit as orderly.
That side of the office was as shipshape as always, but Keith himself wasn't there. On the office's sloppy side – Keith and his office mate, Brandon Romero, were sometimes called the Odd Couple of WLVU – Brandon sat, engrossed in a paper, red pencil in his right hand. From the amount of red Ray could see, the paper's author would not be getting a very good grade. 'If you're looking for Keith, he's not here,' Brandon said without looking up.
'Well, I was, in fact,' Ray said. 'But how are you, Brandon?'
At that, Brandon lowered the paper and raised his head. 'Ray! It's good to see you.'
'You, too. Everything going okay?'
'For me, yeah. I mean, you know, students being what they are and everything.' He rattled the paper in his hand. There was a pile of similar papers on his desk, along with several books, other sheets of paper, pens and pencils, a computer, a paintbrush, a rubber monkey's head in a net bag, what appeared to be six marbles, and a telephone only partially visible beneath it all. 'What do you do when someone tries to argue that rural electrification was a cause of the Civil War?'
'Send them back to high school?' Ray offered. 'Or junior high?'
'Would if I could.'
'On the other hand, sometimes students with outlandish ideas also come up with some of the best insights.'
Ray was thinking specifically of a student's essay Keith had told them both about, which had prompted a lively lunch-hour debate about whether or not the surrender of Geronimo to the United States Army had been a net positive or negative for native peoples. The student had argued that if he had remained free, Geronimo might have been able to lead a revolution that could have resulted in a separate native home land within what was now the U.S.-Mexico border region. The three professors had discounted that idea but taken different sides on the overall question. Ray had believed that since the white population wasn't going anywhere and the reservation system was already established, achieving a lasting peace was a necessary step toward some workable reconciliation. Keith had argued that Geronimo was most valuable as a symbol of freedom and that he should have tried to remain free no matter what. Brandon 's theory had been closest to that of the student: that Geronimo should have kept up his raiding, trying to achieve concessions that would have bettered the lives of the reservation Indians as long as he could. They had achieved no certain outcome, but the conversation had been loud and lively.
'That's true,' Brandon said. 'And it's always fun to be surprised.' He put the paper down on the stack of similar ones. 'Like I said, Keith's not here. You know about Ysabel, right?'
'Is there something new?'
Brandon turned the red pencil in his hands. 'She's taken a turn for the worse. Keith's at home with her. He's still hoping she'll pull out, but…' He shrugged.
'I'm sorry to hear that.' Ysabel Hyatt had been fighting lung cancer, and the last Ray heard, she had been doing well. He felt sorry for Keith and Ysabel, and the knowledge that his new responsibilities at the crime lab had kept him out of the loop where old friends were concerned gave him a searing ache high up in his chest.
'Is there anything I can help you with. Ray?'
Ray considered the question, but the things he needed enlightenment on were really in Keith's area of expertise, not Brandon 's. 'No, that's all right.'
'I'm sure Keith and Ysabel would love to see you. They're up and about. I've already talked to Keith twice today.'
'Maybe I'll drop by,' Ray said.
'You should. It'd do her a world of good.'
'Thanks, Brandon. I hope you don't have to flunk too many students today.'
Brandon picked up the paper again, his gaze already landing where he had left off. 'Someone's got to. Someone should have done it a long time ago.'
Keith and Ysabel Hyatt lived in a comfortable house in a long-established neighborhood, with tall palms offering some shade against the desert sun, actual grass lawns around some of the houses – although the city was working to phase those out – and neighbors who knew one another. The house had two stories, real wood siding painted a soothing periwinkle, a pitched slate roof, and contrasting dark red shutters. It reminded Ray of an East Coast beach house. He had always liked coming there, and the Hyatts had loved entertaining, holding regular barbecues, faculty mixers, and dinner parties featuring fascinating conversation and great food.
Ray parked on the brick-paved driveway, and by the time he reached the door, Keith was there opening it for him. He greeted Ray with a broad smile and a firm hug. 'Come on in, man,' Keith said when he finally released Ray. 'Ysabel will be so happy to see you.'
'How is she, Keith?'
'She's good.' Keith glanced away, and Ray thought he saw moisture glint in his old friend's eyes. 'You know, not
'She's a strong lady,' Ray said. 'Always has been.'
'Stronger than me, that's for sure.' Keith dabbed at his eyes. 'I would have given up years ago.'
'I don't know about that.'
Keith opened the front door and led Ray inside. 'Ysabel, we've got company!' he called. Ray understood that he was giving his wife fair warning. The life of a cancer patient was not easy, and if Brandon Romero's report had
