Wayward
Page 20
“Is everything, okay, Dr. Pilcher?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“And you’ll be right back? They’re already lining up at your signing table. I have a book for you to sign too.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
David pushed through the double doors and stepped out into the alley.
The darkness and the quiet and the cold so welcome.
The nearby Dumpsters reeked and he could hear the central heating units on top of the auditorium rumbling away.
It was that period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the fall semester drawing to a close, the smell of dead leaves in the air, and the quiet that befalls a campus in advance of exam week.
His ride—a black Suburban—was parked in the alley.
Arnold Pope, bundled up in a North Face jacket, sat on the hood, reading a book in the light of a streetlamp.
David walked over.
“How’d it go?” Arnold asked.
“It’s over, this tour’s over, and that’s a good thing.”
“You’re already done signing?”
“I’m skipping out. Small present to myself.”
“Congratulations. Let’s get you back downtown.” Arnold closed the paperback.
“Not just yet. I want to take a little walk across campus first. If they come asking for me…”
“Never saw you.”
“Good man.”
David patted his arm and headed off down the alleyway. Pope had been with him now for four years, initially on the payroll as a driver, but with his law enforcement background David had let him branch out into PI work.
The man was talented, capable, and scary.
David had come to value not only Pope’s investigative acumen, but also his counsel. Pope was fast becoming his right-hand man.
Crossing Sheridan, he soon found himself walking into an open field.
Despite the late hour, the stained-glass windows of the library glowed.
The sky was clear, the moon climbing over the spires of a large, Gothic hall in the distance.
He’d left his coat in the Suburban, and the cold wind cut through his wool jacket, coming off the lake that was less than a quarter of a mile away.
But it felt good.
He felt good.
Alive.
Halfway across Deering Meadow, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke riding on the breeze.
Two steps later, he nearly tripped over her.
Caught himself, staggered back.
Saw the tobacco ember first, and then, as his eyes adjusted in the growing moonlight, the girl behind it.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”
She looked up at him, her knees drawn into her chest.
Dragging deeply on the cigarette, the ember flaring and fading, flaring and fading.
Even in the poor light, he could see she wasn’t a student here.
David knelt down.
She cut her eyes up at him.
She was shivering.
The backpack in the grass beside her was packed to the gills.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“How the f**k is that any of your business?” She smoked. “Are you like a professor here?”
“No.”
“Well, what are you doing out here in the dark and the cold?”
“I don’t know. Just needed to get away from people for a minute. Clear my head.”
“I know the feeling,” she said.
As the moon cleared the spires of the hall behind them, its light brightened the girl’s face.
Her left eye was black, swollen, half-closed.
“Someone hit you,” he said. He looked at her backpack again. “You on your own?”
“Of course not.”
“I won’t turn you in.”
She’d smoked her cigarette down to her fingers. Flicking it into the grass, she pulled another one out of her pocket, fired it up.
“That’s really bad for you, you know,” David said.
She shrugged. “What’s the worst that’ll happen?”
“You could die.”
“Yeah, that’d be so tragic.”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-seven.”
David reached into his pocket, found his wallet, took out all the cash he had.
“This is a little over two hundred dollars—”
“I’m not going to blow you.”
“No, I’m not… I just want you to have this.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
Her hands were shaking with cold as she took the wad of cash.
“You’ll get yourself a warm bed tonight?” David asked.
“Yeah, because hotels rent out rooms to fourteen-year-olds all the damn time.”
“It’s freezing out here.”
She smirked, a glint of spirit in her eyes. “I have my methods. I won’t die tonight, don’t worry. But I will get a hot meal. Thank you.”
David stood.
“How long have you been on your own?” he asked.
“Four months.”
“Winter’s coming.”
“I would rather freeze to death than go back to another foster home. You wouldn’t understand—”
“I grew up in this beautiful neighborhood in Greenwich, Connecticut. Cute little town just a forty-minute train ride from Grand Central Station. Picket fences. Kids playing in the streets. It was the 1950s. You probably don’t know who Norman Rockwell is, but it’s the kind of place he would’ve painted. When I was seven years old, my parents left me with the sitter one Friday evening. They were going to drive into the city to have dinner and see a show. They never came back.”
“They left you?”
“They were killed in a car wreck.”
“Oh.”
“Never assume you know where someone else is coming from.”
He walked away, pant legs swishing through the grass.
She called out after him, “I’ll be gone by the time you tell the cops you saw me.”
“I’m not telling the cops,” David said.
After ten more steps, he stopped.
He glanced back.
Then he walked back.
Knelt down in front of her again.
“I knew you were a f**king pervert,” she said.
“No, I’m a scientist. Listen, I could give you real work. A warm place to stay. Safety from the streets, the cops, your parents, child services, whatever it is you’re running from.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll be right back? They’re already lining up at your signing table. I have a book for you to sign too.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
David pushed through the double doors and stepped out into the alley.
The darkness and the quiet and the cold so welcome.
The nearby Dumpsters reeked and he could hear the central heating units on top of the auditorium rumbling away.
It was that period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the fall semester drawing to a close, the smell of dead leaves in the air, and the quiet that befalls a campus in advance of exam week.
His ride—a black Suburban—was parked in the alley.
Arnold Pope, bundled up in a North Face jacket, sat on the hood, reading a book in the light of a streetlamp.
David walked over.
“How’d it go?” Arnold asked.
“It’s over, this tour’s over, and that’s a good thing.”
“You’re already done signing?”
“I’m skipping out. Small present to myself.”
“Congratulations. Let’s get you back downtown.” Arnold closed the paperback.
“Not just yet. I want to take a little walk across campus first. If they come asking for me…”
“Never saw you.”
“Good man.”
David patted his arm and headed off down the alleyway. Pope had been with him now for four years, initially on the payroll as a driver, but with his law enforcement background David had let him branch out into PI work.
The man was talented, capable, and scary.
David had come to value not only Pope’s investigative acumen, but also his counsel. Pope was fast becoming his right-hand man.
Crossing Sheridan, he soon found himself walking into an open field.
Despite the late hour, the stained-glass windows of the library glowed.
The sky was clear, the moon climbing over the spires of a large, Gothic hall in the distance.
He’d left his coat in the Suburban, and the cold wind cut through his wool jacket, coming off the lake that was less than a quarter of a mile away.
But it felt good.
He felt good.
Alive.
Halfway across Deering Meadow, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke riding on the breeze.
Two steps later, he nearly tripped over her.
Caught himself, staggered back.
Saw the tobacco ember first, and then, as his eyes adjusted in the growing moonlight, the girl behind it.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”
She looked up at him, her knees drawn into her chest.
Dragging deeply on the cigarette, the ember flaring and fading, flaring and fading.
Even in the poor light, he could see she wasn’t a student here.
David knelt down.
She cut her eyes up at him.
She was shivering.
The backpack in the grass beside her was packed to the gills.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“How the f**k is that any of your business?” She smoked. “Are you like a professor here?”
“No.”
“Well, what are you doing out here in the dark and the cold?”
“I don’t know. Just needed to get away from people for a minute. Clear my head.”
“I know the feeling,” she said.
As the moon cleared the spires of the hall behind them, its light brightened the girl’s face.
Her left eye was black, swollen, half-closed.
“Someone hit you,” he said. He looked at her backpack again. “You on your own?”
“Of course not.”
“I won’t turn you in.”
She’d smoked her cigarette down to her fingers. Flicking it into the grass, she pulled another one out of her pocket, fired it up.
“That’s really bad for you, you know,” David said.
She shrugged. “What’s the worst that’ll happen?”
“You could die.”
“Yeah, that’d be so tragic.”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-seven.”
David reached into his pocket, found his wallet, took out all the cash he had.
“This is a little over two hundred dollars—”
“I’m not going to blow you.”
“No, I’m not… I just want you to have this.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
Her hands were shaking with cold as she took the wad of cash.
“You’ll get yourself a warm bed tonight?” David asked.
“Yeah, because hotels rent out rooms to fourteen-year-olds all the damn time.”
“It’s freezing out here.”
She smirked, a glint of spirit in her eyes. “I have my methods. I won’t die tonight, don’t worry. But I will get a hot meal. Thank you.”
David stood.
“How long have you been on your own?” he asked.
“Four months.”
“Winter’s coming.”
“I would rather freeze to death than go back to another foster home. You wouldn’t understand—”
“I grew up in this beautiful neighborhood in Greenwich, Connecticut. Cute little town just a forty-minute train ride from Grand Central Station. Picket fences. Kids playing in the streets. It was the 1950s. You probably don’t know who Norman Rockwell is, but it’s the kind of place he would’ve painted. When I was seven years old, my parents left me with the sitter one Friday evening. They were going to drive into the city to have dinner and see a show. They never came back.”
“They left you?”
“They were killed in a car wreck.”
“Oh.”
“Never assume you know where someone else is coming from.”
He walked away, pant legs swishing through the grass.
She called out after him, “I’ll be gone by the time you tell the cops you saw me.”
“I’m not telling the cops,” David said.
After ten more steps, he stopped.
He glanced back.
Then he walked back.
Knelt down in front of her again.
“I knew you were a f**king pervert,” she said.
“No, I’m a scientist. Listen, I could give you real work. A warm place to stay. Safety from the streets, the cops, your parents, child services, whatever it is you’re running from.”
