could even be professors. God knows the one I had some recent dealings with, Reynold Sterne, was a diabolical, self-absorbed eccentric. And he might be one of the milder cases. Academia was a haven for crazies.
The graph was back on the computer. It was strange to think how different things had been the last time I saw that screen. We were about twenty feet from the trees, and Banko cupped his hands around the sides of the computer as he had done before. He was obviously concentrating, so I didn’t ask what I was looking at. There were two lines, which were us. They were pretty straight, apparently reflecting our repose. Apparently, there were no lingering energies here. Not even from the tennis courts. I gave myself a mental kick in the tuchas for imagining that there could be anything to this.
“Look,” Banko said quietly.
A third line had come on as a short spike. I looked ahead, didn’t see anyone. I snaked from under the shelter and looked back. I didn’t see anyone there either. I glanced back at the computer. A fourth and fifth line had appeared.
“Too bad there isn’t a compass on this thing,” I muttered.
Banko shifted his hands so they were both angled to the left at about forty-five degrees. The spikes softened. He moved his hands back to where they had been, fingertips toward the university. The spikes sharpened again.
“Oh,” I said.
The energy was coming from the university. Now I saw three people gather under an eave across the street, all of them smoking cigarettes. This was insane. The gadget actually worked.
I turned my eyes back to the trio as I saw the cigarettes get tossed aside. The figures were still there, a silhouette against the lighter darkness of the building behind them. After a moment, one of them came toward us. Banko was busy watching the lines and focusing his hands or whatever he did. I was starting to think it was a good time to get back to the car. I was about to tug on Banko’s arm when the computer pinged.
“There’s a match,” he said. “One of these lines was at your deli that morning.”
It wasn’t unusual for students to come to Murray’s. We had discount cards for students.
There was a sixth line now and a smaller seventh: someone was out walking their little wiener dog to our left.
“This is amazing,” I said. The dog walker’s lines strengthened, while two of the other three held steady. The third was jaggedly bolder. I looked through the filmy drizzle. The figures from the campus had stopped under a tree on the other side of Merritt. The dog walker’s gaze lingered on us, probably trying to figure out what the hell we were doing out on a wet night with electronics. He continued to the east under his umbrella.
It was rain now, no longer drizzle, and water was starting to run around the overhead lip of the shower curtain.
“We should probably go,” Banko said.
I was about to insist on the same thing, albeit for a different reason. Banko was so into his ethericism he forgot we came here to find bad guys. These men were not just lines on a graph; they were people, and they were near. We stood, Banko wrapping his computer in the plastic shroud, just as the men from the campus decided to cross the street. They weren’t walking, they were running. I had to know why.
I decided suddenly, impulsively—as I do most things—to stand my ground. I had come here to find out about a killer. The dog walker was still within earshot; there was still occasional vehicular traffic. If this man and his friends were bent on mischief, they wouldn’t do anything here—I hoped.
One would think, with all the knives I own, that I would have thought to bring one. Or a handgun. My uncle had owned a .38. It was in the safe in my office. I had not bothered to obtain a license, had never fired it, had never even held it except to check that it wasn’t loaded. So that wasn’t in my pocket either. All I had in the windbreaker were my hand and my cell phone. I took it
The graph was back on the computer. It was strange to think how different things had been the last time I saw that screen. We were about twenty feet from the trees, and Banko cupped his hands around the sides of the computer as he had done before. He was obviously concentrating, so I didn’t ask what I was looking at. There were two lines, which were us. They were pretty straight, apparently reflecting our repose. Apparently, there were no lingering energies here. Not even from the tennis courts. I gave myself a mental kick in the tuchas for imagining that there could be anything to this.
“Look,” Banko said quietly.
A third line had come on as a short spike. I looked ahead, didn’t see anyone. I snaked from under the shelter and looked back. I didn’t see anyone there either. I glanced back at the computer. A fourth and fifth line had appeared.
“Too bad there isn’t a compass on this thing,” I muttered.
Banko shifted his hands so they were both angled to the left at about forty-five degrees. The spikes softened. He moved his hands back to where they had been, fingertips toward the university. The spikes sharpened again.
“Oh,” I said.
The energy was coming from the university. Now I saw three people gather under an eave across the street, all of them smoking cigarettes. This was insane. The gadget actually worked.
I turned my eyes back to the trio as I saw the cigarettes get tossed aside. The figures were still there, a silhouette against the lighter darkness of the building behind them. After a moment, one of them came toward us. Banko was busy watching the lines and focusing his hands or whatever he did. I was starting to think it was a good time to get back to the car. I was about to tug on Banko’s arm when the computer pinged.
“There’s a match,” he said. “One of these lines was at your deli that morning.”
It wasn’t unusual for students to come to Murray’s. We had discount cards for students.
There was a sixth line now and a smaller seventh: someone was out walking their little wiener dog to our left.
“This is amazing,” I said. The dog walker’s lines strengthened, while two of the other three held steady. The third was jaggedly bolder. I looked through the filmy drizzle. The figures from the campus had stopped under a tree on the other side of Merritt. The dog walker’s gaze lingered on us, probably trying to figure out what the hell we were doing out on a wet night with electronics. He continued to the east under his umbrella.
It was rain now, no longer drizzle, and water was starting to run around the overhead lip of the shower curtain.
“We should probably go,” Banko said.
I was about to insist on the same thing, albeit for a different reason. Banko was so into his ethericism he forgot we came here to find bad guys. These men were not just lines on a graph; they were people, and they were near. We stood, Banko wrapping his computer in the plastic shroud, just as the men from the campus decided to cross the street. They weren’t walking, they were running. I had to know why.
I decided suddenly, impulsively—as I do most things—to stand my ground. I had come here to find out about a killer. The dog walker was still within earshot; there was still occasional vehicular traffic. If this man and his friends were bent on mischief, they wouldn’t do anything here—I hoped.
One would think, with all the knives I own, that I would have thought to bring one. Or a handgun. My uncle had owned a .38. It was in the safe in my office. I had not bothered to obtain a license, had never fired it, had never even held it except to check that it wasn’t loaded. So that wasn’t in my pocket either. All I had in the windbreaker were my hand and my cell phone. I took it
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