Coven

anal retentive walking lard barrel.

Then Wade did a double take, took a closer look.

No fucking way! he thought.

This woman appeared to be Mrs. Winnifred Saltenstall, who was not only beautiful but also the wife of the dean.

Wade eyeballed after the De Ville until it was long gone. It can’t be, he mused. Winnifred was centerfold material; Besser was a fat dolt. No known logic could explain an affair between the two of them.

The student shop sat at the far end of campus. It existed solely as an ill conceived courtesy; not many rich kids tuned their cars up themselves, but there were a few diehard hot rodders on campus, and Tom McGuire was one of them. He owned a flawless white 1968 Camaro in showroom condition. The “Eat Dust” vanity plates said it all—this was the fastest vehicle on campus.

“Well, shit my drawers,” Tom yelled, looking up from the custom rebuilt 350 smallblock. Some old Deep Purple song boomed through the bays. “Since when does Wade St. John go to school during the summer?”

“Since Wade St. John’s father lowered the boom.”

“Bummer.” Tom wiped sweat off his brow. He tossed Wade a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. Tom was beefy, broad shouldered, with forearms thick as softball bats. His hair was dark and short, as conservative as his political views. Straight leg jeans and a white T shirt gave him the appearance of a sixties motorhead. He had a fondness for old music, German lager, and bad jokes. “Classes start in a week,” he pointed out. “We’ve got some serious partying to do in the meantime.” Then he paused, a force of habit. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Did you hear Nixon, Hart, and Kennedy started their own law firm?”

Tom’s notorious jokes were indeed old. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Prickem, Dickem, and Dunkem.”

Tom roared laughter. Wade shook his head.

“But seriously,” Tom went on. “It’s good you stopped by. I need to tell you about—”

“Jervis,” Wade finished.

“Yeah. You been up to the dorm already?”

“I just came from there. Jerv wrecked his entire room.”

Tom gave a grim nod. “I heard him trashing the place this morning, and throwing up. I tried to calm him down but the lunatic started throwing bottles at me. I guess he just flipped when it happened.”

“What?” Wade asked. “When what happened?”

Stone faced, Tom said, “Sarah dumped him.”

Wade slumped in place at the revelation.

“She dumped him right after the spring semester.”

Now Jervis’ destitution made sense, Jervis was far more impressionable than most; he was nuts about Sarah Black, head over heels in love. His whole life revolved around her; she was his life. “But I thought they were getting married,” Wade said.

“She’s getting married, all right. But not to Jerv. It’s some German guy she dumped him for.”

“A German guy?”

“Some kraut developer’s son, richer than shit. That’s all Jerv knows. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah,” Wade verified. “That he might go right over the deep end, try to kill himself or something. Could he be capable of that?”

Tom’s laugh was stout and hearty. “Capable? You know how much he loves that smug bitch. This is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him. Right now he’s probably capable of just about anything.”

“Yeah, but suicide?”

Tom shrugged. “He’s got a gun.”

“What!” Wade exclaimed.

“Sure. He keeps it under his bed, some big old British revolver his grandpop gave him. I took the bullets out of it this morning when he was throwing up, and I swiped the rest of the ammo box.”

“Yeah, but he can always buy more. What are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna have to pull him out of this ourselves.”

“You’re right,” Wade said. “He’s got no one else.”

“I’ll meet you back at the dorm later,” Tom said. “We’ll clean him up and drag his ass down to the inn, get some food in him. He’s probably been living on Kirins since this whole thing went down.”

“Kirins and Carltons,” Wade added. “See you tonight.”

Wade took off in the Vette, cranking up an old Manzanera song called “Mummy Was an Asteroid, Daddy Was a Small Nonstick Kitchen Utensil.” Thank God for alternative radio; where would he be trapped in a world of bad rap and Madonna? He checked the rearview, then pitched his empty Spaten bottle into the Circle. With the campus this empty, at least he didn’t have to worry about getting pulled over.

Halfway through the Circle, he got pulled over.

That’s just fucking grand, he thought. But where had the cop been? They must have cloaking devices on their cruisers. Get ready, he primed himself. Wade wasn’t much of a student, but when it came to sweet talking police, he made straight A’s. He put on his innocent-face as the cop walked up, boot heels clicking.

“Good afternoon, Mr. St. John. My name is Officer Prentiss. I’d like to see your registration and operator’s permit.”

Astonished, Wade looked up. The cop was a woman. Girlfuzz, he thought. A dickless Tracy. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I just told you. I’m Officer Prentiss and I’d like to see your—”

“I know, my registration and operator’s permit.” Lenient cops asked for your license; but only hard asses called it an operator’s permit. This might take some work. “How come you know my name before seeing my li—I mean my operator’s permit?”

“I know all about you, Mr. St. John,” the cop said. “Chief White has properly familiarized me with all of the campus troublemakers.”

Wade laughed a chumly laugh. “Good old Chief White, always joking around. If you want to know the truth, my—”

“Your police file is the most extensive in the history of this campus.”

Wade paused. It was probably true. “Sure, Officer, I’ve had a ticket or two, but I’m no troublemaker, I assure you. And my father happens to be a significant contributor to the Exham Office of Donations, and is a close personal friend of the dean’s.”

“Which is the only reason you haven’t been kicked out.”

Wade paused again. This girl must work part time on a rock pile, he considered, and she’s using my balls for the rocks. Disgusted, he gave her the cards. He examined her as she began filling out his tickets. She stood well postured and medium-tall, very storm trooperish in her black boots and tailored tan uniform. Bright, straight blond hair was tied in back in a short tail, like a whip, and her eyes were a cold mystery behind mirrored shades. Wade supposed she would be cute if not for the inhuman police traffic stop set of her mouth. Her prettiness and her cop aura were a marriage of opposites: she invited to be looked at, yet revealed nothing to anyone who looked.

But there was something. Just…something.

“I’m citing you for doing thirty four miles an hour in a fifteen zone,” she told him.

“What, the Circle?”

“Yes, the Circle. And you get another one for depositing hazardous material on campus common ground.”

“What hazardous material!”

“The beer bottle you just threw.”

“Oh, you mean that Coke bottle?”

“It was a beer bottle, Mr. St. John, but of course you’re welcome to testify in court under oath that it was not. And since possessing an opened alcoholic beverage container in a moving vehicle is also against the law, you