The Spire (7 page)

Coming from behind him, Carl Hall's voice was etched with anger. 'Guess your buddy wins the prize. Maybe you two can share her.'

Mark turned and stared at Carl. 'Too bad she's not an only child, Carl. Just the only one smart enough to leave.'

Without awaiting an answer, Mark brushed past him. Rusty was standing in the doorway. 'Night like this,' he said, 'no one should be driving.' His face clouded. 'Never seen Joe
that
bad before.'

Mark thought of Laurie Shilts. 'Maybe we haven't been looking.'

They went back to the living room. Already the couples remaining, dulled by drink, seemed to have forgotten the incident. His face brightening, Rusty saw Tim Fedak and Skip Ellis, coinventors of the DBE catapult.

Turning to Mark, Rusty announced, 'I've got a plan. Hang here.'

Rusty hurried over to Tim and Skip. As their heads came together, Tim's eyes widened with delight, and Skip began laughing and nodding. 'You got to hear this,' Rusty called to Mark.

When Mark came over, Rusty convened them in a mock huddle, their faces nearly touching. 'Here's the play,' Rusty said. 'Joe's car is still here. He shouldn't touch the wheel tonight, okay' So we go to the parking lot, lift his Miata, and carry it back up here. He's way too drunk to drive back down the steps.'

'You're putting it where'' Mark asked.

Rusty pointed toward the library. 'There.'

Mark felt the beginning of awe, the germination of another piece of DBE lore. 'You're serious.'

'We
all
are,' Tim replied. 'You the quarterback, or not''

Mark laughed. 'For one last play.'

With purposeful strides, the four friends went outside, threw open the double doors leading to the living room, and took the steps down to the parking lot. Joe's Miata awaited them, conveniently parked at the foot of the steps.

The cool night air brushed Mark's face. 'Think we can carry it'' Skip asked.

Rusty smiled. 'C'mon, man. It's fucking tinfoil.'

The strongest of the quartet, Mark and Tim took the front bumper, preparing to back up the steps. Knees bent, Skip and Rusty put their hands beneath the rear. As if calling signals, Mark barked, 'Hut one . . . hut two . . . hut three.'

Muscles straining, the brothers slowly lifted the car. Elated, they started up the steps, their effort punctuated by grunts and muttered encouragement. As they reached the porch, onlookers gathered in the doorway. 'Make way,' Rusty called out in martial tones. 'We bring you the spoils of victory.'

Laughing, the revelers stood aside; some, catching the spirit, moved the couches to clear a space in the living room. What Rusty proclaimed as 'Team Betts' deposited Joe's Miata with great ceremony, as though unfurling the flag at Iwo Jima or toppling the statue of a dictator. 'Aren't we going to the library'' Mark asked.

'Got to clear the road.' Rusty reached into the Miata, producing Joe's car keys. 'It's your day, Mark. You get to drive.'

Rusty was not usually a leader'it struck Mark that, for him, inspiring this teamwork meant more than the perpetration of a prank. 'Whatever you say, Captain. From this night on your name will forever live in legend.'

With pleased solemnity, Rusty issued directions. As Tim and Skip pulled the library table to one corner, Rusty handed Mark the keys.

Sitting inside, Mark turned the ignition far enough to put Joe's top down, then started the motor. To cheers and applause, Mark slowly drove the Miata through the open double doors, into the library.

He killed the engine, then sat there, mildly astounded. Rusty handed him a cup of whiskey on ice. 'Why don't you try out the sound system,' he suggested.

Mark took a deep, harsh swallow of whiskey, then reached into the glove compartment for a tape. It was Bon Jovi, a favorite. Surrounded by friends, Mark leaned his head back, listening to the music as he slowly closed his eyes.

WHEN M ARK AWAKENED, the library was dark.

He felt sick. His head pounded, and his mind filled with rueful self-recrimination. The illuminated clock in Joe's Miata read 3:04.

He needed to get back to his room. But he lived in the bowels of the stadium, a good three-quarters of a mile away. Too far to walk at night'too far, period.

Still drunk, he reached for Joe's car phone.

Steve owed him, he reasoned'Mark had saved him from certain death at the hands of Joe Betts. Early-morning taxi service was not too much to ask.

With a trembling hand, he punched in the number to Steve's room.

The phone rang once, then twice. At fourteen rings Mark hung up. 'Wake up, you sonofobitch,' he murmured.

Nothing.

Mark dialed again, counting to fifteen rings.

Slowly, he replaced the phone. Never again, he promised himself. Then he shut his eyes once more.

W

HEN M ARK AWOKE AGAIN, HIS SKULL THROBBED AND HIS mouth tasted sour. The stale air smelled of beer and whiskey and cigarette smoke, the faint pungent whiff of marijuana. Adjusting to the dark, his eyes were slits. He could not remember feeling so stupid.

The clock in Joe's car read 5:43. Soon dawn would break, providing enough light for him to stagger home. He craved fresh air and his own bed.

Slowly, Mark extracted himself from the Miata.

The living room was empty except for a body sprawled on the couch. Rusty Clark. Passing through, Mark cautiously opened the side door, as though expecting to find himself in a foreign country. He took one deep breath of chill morning air and started on his way.

The first thick ribbon of orange-gray dawn appeared above the trees outlined in the semidark. In the distance, Mark discerned the steeple atop the Spire.

He headed there. Between the fraternities and campus, a gently sloping walkway flanked by trees and gardens passed modern buildings constructed of red brick'the library, the student theater, the alumni center, and, newest and most impressive, the architecturally striking student union, a steel-and-glass marvel that was the pride of Caldwell. But as with most other paths at the college, this one led to the Spire, towering above all else. As the sky lightened, the steeple emerged more clearly, creating the illusion that it was moving toward him from above the trees. There was a dusting of frost on the ground.

At the foot of the pathway, a black metal clock, eight feet high, told Mark that it was now 6:07. Passing it, Mark entered the main campus, demarked by a sandstone gateway. For the next few minutes he wended his way through the buildings, varied in size and style, that housed his classes in English, history, philosophy, and science. At midday, he promised himself, he would go for a very long run and afterward, head cleared, resume his pursuit of a place at Yale Law School. Then he reached the lawn surrounding the Spire.

He paused there, recalling the tumult he had inspired hours before, the primal roar of the crowd as he'd brandished the bronze axe. Now the site of the Spire was so quiet and empty that it evoked a vanished civilization. Gazing up at the steeple, he remembered the harsh severity of the bell tower, his brief attack of vertigo. With a sense of awe, he again approached the tower.

He stopped abruptly.

A dark form lay on the grass. Completely still, it was too long and angular to be anything but a person. He stepped forward, wondering if someone had passed out here, deeply afraid that this was something worse.

It was a woman. Arms outflung, her body faced the sky. A terrible sense of familiarity hit him as he moved closer.

He stopped abruptly, sickened.

Angela Hall lay at the foot of the Spire like a sacrifice on an altar. She stared up at him, her eyes too fixed to be alive. Her lips were parted in an expression of pain or anger, exposing her white teeth.

A cry of animal anguish issued from Mark's throat. He forced himself to kneel, touching her wrist. It was not as cold as he had imagined or as warm as he had hoped. Feeling this contact like an electric shock, he fought back the reflex to vomit.

Mark stood. There was no telephone, he realized, no way of calling for help. Instinctively he began running across the lawn, heading for the one house he knew near campus, Lionel Farr's.

AGAIN AND AGAIN he rang the doorbell, jabbing the button as though willing Farr to answer. At last, minutes later, someone jerked open the door.

It was Farr, his strong face lined with sleep, his eyes keen with a displeasure that changed to surprise. He was still adjusting his sweater, and his gray-blond hair was mussed. 'For God's sake, Mark. What is it''

Mark's throat was parched. 'Angela Hall. I found her near the Spire.' Voice catching, he finished: 'I think she's dead.'

For an instant, Farr's eyes froze. Then he snapped, 'Wait here.'

Mark stood on the porch, shaken yet relieved. Farr hurried through the door. 'I've called the police,' he said. 'We'll meet them there.'

Together they rushed down the street toward the Spire. Between breaths, Mark said, 'I saw her last night.'

Loping beside him, Farr asked sharply, 'Where''

'The DBE house.'

'Tell me.'

As they entered the campus, Mark began a hasty outline of the party.

'She left with Steve'' Farr interrupted.

'Yes.'

They reached the grass, Mark hoping against hope that this was a dream. The landscape was empty but for Angela.

Slowing, Farr approached her. His military posture vanished. Kneeling beside the body, he looked into her face, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny until, briefly, they shut. 'She's been strangled.'

'Strangled'' Mark repeated.

'Look at her eyes,' Farr responded softly.

Mark forced himself to do that. There were red pinpoints in the whites of her sightless eyes. In a monotone, he said, 'I should have taken her home.'

Farr turned. Following his gaze, Mark saw two uniformed policemen running toward the Spire. 'Whatever happened,' Farr said with quiet urgency, 'tell them everything . . .'

'What about Steve''

'Everything, dammit. You can't know who it helps or hurts. But concealment helps no one'especially you.'

One of the policemen was George Garrison'his high school teammate and Angela's friend. Staring at Angela, George slumped. 'Sweet Lord,' he said to the body. 'What happened to you, baby'' It was not the voice of a cop.

When Mark looked up at him, George was staring back. The other cop, white and older, put his hand on George's shoulder. Then he spoke to Mark and Farr. 'The detectives are coming,' he told them. 'I want you over on that bench.'

The next several minutes were a blur. Seated at the edge of the grass, Mark and Lionel Farr watched the police tape off the grass around the Spire. A photographer and videocam operator focused on Angela; a youngish blond woman carefully examined her body; two plainclothes detectives took notes. Mark tried to remember whether he had seen, or only now imagined, a bruise on Angela's face.

At length the two detectives walked toward the bench. 'Tell them everything,' Farr repeated. 'Leave nothing out.'

The older, red-headed detective identified himself as Fred Bender; the bulky man with a worn, sad face was Jack Muhlberg. Standing over them, Muhlberg said evenly, 'So what happened here''

With quiet efficiency, Farr traced their movements from Mark's arrival at his door. The detective pointed to a nearby garden. 'Let's talk over here,' he told Farr.

They left Mark alone. Disbelieving, he watched men in white jackets examine the ground near Angela's body. The morning sun, he noticed, was turning the frost to dew.

If only.

If only Steve had not invited her. If only she had left before. If only Steve had not left with her. Mark could not decipher cause and effect, only its rudiments. He kept seeing Joe's glazed eyes, Steve's taillights swerving into the night, Angela's wistful smile. Somewhere between that moment and dawn, tragedy had waited for her.

The two detectives returned with Farr. 'Okay, Mark,' Muhlberg said. 'We'll need to go over just what happened.' Turning to Farr, he added, 'You can leave now, Professor.'

'I'd like to stay.'

Bender shook his head. 'That's not how we do things.'

'Is Mark in custody''

Glancing at Muhlberg, Bender said, 'Of course not.'

Farr crossed his arms. 'Then you should understand that he's much more than a student to me. It comes down to this: either I stay, or I'm hiring him a lawyer. Your choice.'

Muhlberg looked nettled. 'How do you feel, Mark''

Mark sorted out his thoughts. 'Professor Farr said to tell you everything. I'd like him here with me.'

When Bender turned to him, Muhlberg shrugged in resignation. Silent, Mark saw George Garrison watching over his murdered friend. He stood so still he could have been in a trance.

'Okay, Mark,' Bender said briskly, and the questioning began.

THE TWO DETECTIVES were dogged and thorough. Reluctantly, Mark described the night: drinking with Steve, encountering Angela, confronting Carl, breaking up the fight between Steve and Joe. Under persistent questioning, Mark explained his relationship to each. 'Before you found her,' Muhlberg asked again, 'when did you last see Angela alive''

It dawned on Mark that he was a suspect. 'When she left with Steve,' he answered tiredly. 'Just like I told you before.'

'Where does Steve live''

'Where I do. We both have rooms in the football stadium.'

The two detectives glanced at each other. 'Can you tell us anything else'' Muhlberg asked.

For an instant, Mark hesitated. 'Yeah. You should talk to Laurie Shilts, Joe's girlfriend. She was at the party, too.'

Muhlberg sat beside him. 'I thought Joe went after Angela.'

'They'd broken up, Laurie told me.'

'Did she say why''

'You'd have to ask her.' Mark stared straight ahead. 'All I know for sure is they'd had a fight.'

Bender wrote this down. Moving forward, Farr asked, 'Can Mark go now''

Nodding, Muhlberg gazed at Mark. 'Do us a favor,' he said, 'and also yourself. Don't talk about this to anyone. I know these kids are your friends. But we need to get their independent memories.'

Silent, Mark nodded. To his surprise, Muhlberg put a hand on his shoulder. 'You were a great quarterback, Mark. I always liked watching you play.'