Deal Breaker

“Used to call him Dr. Hook,” he continued.

“What?”

“Dr. Hook. That’s what we all called him.”

“Isn’t that a singer?” she asked.

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

They drove another mile away from civilization. “That’s the house,” Tom said. “Up there behind the trees.”

It was a small wooden cabin with a big front porch.

“Rustic, ain’t it?”

Decrepit would have been a better adjective. Jessica checked the porch, but there were no toothless hillbillies playing dueling banjos.

“Did my father say why he wanted to rent this cabin?”

“Just said he needed someplace to get away from it all in these woods.”

It still made no sense. Dad was going to be gone at a medical examiners’ conference for a week out of the month, anyway. And Adam Culver was not the get-away-from-it-all type. He dealt with the dead. On vacations he wanted to be in Vegas or Atlantic City or someplace with lots of people and action. Now he was renting the Waltons’ cabin.

Tom used the key to unlock the door. He pushed it open and said, “After you.”

Jessica stepped into the living room. And stopped short.

Tom came in behind her. His voice was a whisper. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

Chapter 33

Dean Gordon’s office was in Compton Hall. The building was only three stories high but wide. Greek columns out front screamed House of Learning. Brick exterior. White double doors. Directly inside was a bulletin board filled with old notices. Meetings of the usual campus groups: the African American Change Committee, the Gay-Lesbian Alliance, the Liberators of Palestine, the Coalition to Stop the Domination of Womyn (never spelled women, for the sexism the name implies), the South African Freedom Fighters-all taking the summer off. College fun days.

There was no one inside the huge lobby. The motif was marble. Marble floors, banisters, columns. The walls were covered with huge portraits of men in graduation robes, most of whom would flip if they could read the bulletin board. All the lights were on. Myron’s footsteps clacked and reverberated in the still room. He wanted to shout “Echo,” but was far too adult.

The dean of students’ office suite was at the end of the left corridor. The door was locked. Myron knocked hard. “Dean Gordon?”

Shuffling behind the dark-paneled doors. Several seconds later, the door opened. Dean Gordon was wearing tortoiseshell glasses. He had wispy hair, conservatively cut, a handsome face with clear brown eyes. His features were gentle, as though the facial bones had been rounded off to soften his appearance. He looked kind, trustworthy. Myron hated that.

“I’m sorry,” the dean said. “The office is closed until tomorrow morning.”

“We need to talk.”

Confusion crossed his face. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not a student here.”

“Hardly.”

“May I ask who you are?”

Myron looked at him steadily. “You know who I am. And you know what I want to talk about.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea to what you are referring, but I am really quite busy-”

“Read any good magazines lately?”

Dean Gordon’s whole body twitched. “What did you say?”

“I guess I could come back when the office was crowded. Maybe bring some reading material for the school’s trustees, though I understand they only read the articles.”

No response.

Myron smiled-knowingly. At least, he hoped that was how it looked. Myron had no idea what part the dean played in this little mystery. He had to step tentatively here.

The dean coughed into his fist. Not a real cough or throat-clear. Just something to stall, give him a chance to think. Finally he said, “Please come in.”

He disappeared back into his office. No sucking vacuum this time, but Myron still followed. They passed a few chairs in the waiting room, a secretary’s desk. The typewriter was hidden by a khaki-colored dust cover. Camouflaged in the event of war.

Dean Gordon’s office was cookie-cut university executive. Lots of wood. Diplomas. Old sketches of the Reston University chapel. Lucite blocks with clippings or awards on the desk. Bookshelves with all nonfiction titles. The books hadn’t been touched. They were props, creating the mood of tradition, professionalism, competence. The prerequisite picture of the family. Madelaine and a girl who looked about twelve or thirteen years old. Myron picked up the photograph.

“Nice family,” he said. Nice wife.

“Thank you. Please have a seat.”

Myron sat. “Say, where did Kathy work?”

The dean stopped in midseat. “Pardon me?”

“Where was her desk?”

“Whose?”

“Kathy Culver’s.”

Dean Gordon lowered himself the rest of the way, slowly, as into a hot tub of water. “She shared a desk with another student in the room next door.”

Myron said, “Convenient.”

Dean Gordon’s eyebrows frowned. “I’m sorry. I missed your name.”

“Deluise. Dom Deluise.”

The dean allowed himself a small brittle smile. He looked tight enough to pop a wine cork with his butt. No doubt being sent the magazine had put the screws in. No doubt Jake’s visit yesterday had tightened them a little. “What, Mr. Deluise, can I do for you?”

“I think you know.” Again the knowing smile. Combined with the honest blue eyes. If Dean Gordon were female, he’d be naked by now.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea,” the dean said.

Myron continued the knowing smile. He felt like an idiot or a morning network weatherman, if there was a difference. This was an old trick he was trying. Pretend you know more than you do. Get him talking. Play it by ear. Impromptu.

The dean folded his hands and put them on his desk. Trying to look as if he were in control. “This whole conversation is very strange. Perhaps you could explain why you’re here.”

“I thought we should chat.”

“About?”

“Your English department, for starters. Do you still make students read Beowulf?”

“Please, whatever your name is, I don’t have time for games.”

“Neither do I.” Myron took out his copy of Nips and tossed it on the desk. The magazine was starting to look creased and worn from all the handling, as if it belonged to a hormonal adolescent.