Buried Dreams (34 page)

"You know, the surprise on your face is wonderful to see," Hendricks said.

"I thought most college professors were against firearms in the home," I said in reply.

She managed a thin smile at that. "You thought correctly. I'm just a minority, that's all. In fact... that's what I've been, right from the start. A minority. You read about the enlightment of the college campuses, how wonderful and equal it all was, and that's so much nonsense, Mr. Cole. And you want to know something? Want to know when I first started carrying firearms? When I was a grad student, that's when. When I came back from Tunisia."

Hendricks took a deep, shuddering breath, and I thought she was going to cry or collapse, but she said, "You see, in Tunisia, I was doing fieldwork. All part of getting that anthropology crown. You have to go out and prove something, write something, do some original research. Which is what I did. I went into a remote mountain village, on the counsel of my advisor, who had worked there before. I was doing a piece on marriage rituals. Pretty funny, correct? And while wandering around one night, I ran into three men. Three men who wanted to pass on their own rituals, with what they do with a college-educated American woman whom they find out alone at night, unarmed, defenseless."

Another deep breath. "My advisor was no help. The school was no help. They didn't want a scandal, they didn't want to impact the school's relationship with certain government officials in Tunisia. So my thesis was approved, I got my doctorate, and here I am. And ever since then, I've never depended on anyone else --- especially men --- to provide me with safety and security. Never."

I looked down at the coffee table and said, "Your book. Am I right?"

She smiled, but her eyes were still like ice. "Oh, yes, the blessed book. You know, you tell someone of the hours and days and weeks and months and years that go into writing a book, and they nod at you politely and they change the subject. They don't realize the time, the slow moving time, that goes into visiting libraries and historical societies and people's living rooms, begging and scratching for that one piece of information, the one scrap that will connect to another. No realization at all. And then you get all that information together, and you try to write your tale. Try to make sense of something, try to interpret it differently from other historians, and my God, you have to be careful, because every nut or grad student with a grudge out there is ready to pounce on you for plagiarism. Oh, yes, ready to jump on you in an instant. And then you try to write, all the while teaching blockheads and football players, going to faculty sessions, trying to kiss the right bottom, and finding minutes and hours, here and there, to get some writing in."

There was a soft
thunk
, as a piece of log fell in the fireplace, releasing a shower of sparks. Near the fireplace was a poker set, with a nice, long, heavy poker. I was gauging the distance between me and the fireplace as Professor Hendricks went on. "And then, after the writing, comes the rewrite. And then the rewrite again. All the while organizing your notes, your footnotes, your source materials. And when the book is sent out, the waiting begins. Days to weeks to months. Waiting to see if your years of labor are worthy of the time of some editor in New York, who is working for a corporate master that doesn't give a hoot about good history, only about making quarterly profits. And then... Mr. Cole, the lightning strikes. Not only will your book be published, it's going to be a big deal. A very big deal. Oh, we're not talking interviews on
Good Morning America
or
Today
, but we are talking about a good print run, good national reviews, a way to finally make my name. All coming together... the galleys are out, the publicity plan is devised, your future as a serious historian is secure... and then... "

I said, "A barefoot doctor, an amateur historian, comes forward and ruins everything."

Her eyes flashed at me. "Exactly! Vikings! My God, Vikings, on my shore, with my Indians, ruining everything! Can you imagine what I felt like, when that bumpkin idiot called me up from a pay phone? He said he had the proof, the proof he had been looking for, all these years, and he laughed at me. Actually laughed at me. You see, the meeting we had in my office wasn't that polite, and I practically had to throw him out. And now that he claimed he had the artifacts, he tossed it back in my face. Said something about, who was the real scientist now, hunh? Who was going to change history now, hunh?"

"So you killed him," I said.

"Oh, very good, Mr. Cole. Of course I did. I went over to his house and tried to be polite, tried to be interested, tried to get him to tell me where the artifacts were. We started out in his living room, then went into his office, all the while he was laughing and laughing at me. Finally I couldn't take it any longer, and I took care of him in his office."

"But the artifacts weren't there."

She still seemed angry. "You're so right they weren't there. I figured a clown like him would have them right at his fingertips, right there in his office. But they weren't. I searched his place, his garage, even his dirty car, and then I left, before some other local idiot showed up. But I remembered something he had told me, about his brother the antique dealer. So I went up there, figuring that part of his family might have the artifacts. No such luck."

I kept quiet, which she picked up on rather quickly. "It was you, wasn't it. You and some friend of yours, who jumped me at the antique store. Am I right?"

I nodded slowly. "I'm afraid so."

"Thought I'd recognize your voice, the minute you called me to make the appointment to see me at school. What? You think I'm a moron?"

Something came back to me and I said, "How in the hell did you get my Explorer wrecked, while I was there talking to you?"

She wiggled the pistol a bit in my direction. "Nothing finer in the world than a dumb male who needs something, Mr. Cole. This particular dumb male was a football student on a scholarship who needed a good grade. It didn't take much on my part to convince him to play with your tire. A prank, I told him, on an old school chum. I think the fool actually believed it. And I knew all about you, before you showed up. That barefoot doctor, when he called me, said that you'd be doing a story about his discovery, no doubt about it."

"You wanted me hurt, in the hospital, so you could search my house."

"Of course. But you see, it all now comes back to you, yet again. Mr. Cole, the artifacts. Are they in your car?"

"No."

“Are they in your possession?"

"No."

"But you know where they are, don't you?"

I kept silent. The cat was now stretched on its side, apparently purring.

"Mr. Cole," she said in her best professor voice. "I'm talking to you."

"Yes, you are."

"Where are the Viking artifacts?"

"I can't tell you," I said.

"You can't," she said slowly, "or you won't?"

I kept silent again. Waiting for God knows what.

She sighed. "Mr. Cole, I'm going to give you five seconds to tell me where those artifacts are. Right now."

"All right," I said.  “I’ll tell you."

"That's better."

"They're in a safety deposit box. In Tyler. Rented by Jon. And I've got the key."

"Where's the key?" she asked.

"In Tyler," I said. "At my home.”

She smiled, nodded at me. "That's a very good answer." And then she held the pistol with two hands.

"But," she said, "I'm afraid that's the wrong one."

And then she shot me.

Chapter Twenty

My good friend Felix had been shot once, years ago, when he was much younger, and he told me of the surprise and the fear and the shock to the system, but he never told me about how damn cold he got, which happened to me after the pistol went off.

I found myself on the floor, both hands clasped tight against my lower left shin. Something wet was oozing between my fingers. There was a smell of burnt gunpowder in the air. My ears rang a bit from the sound of the gunshot. My view was of the rug and the fireplace and the legs of the coffee table. I'm sure I made some sort of noise. A groan, a whimper, something. I don't know. All I did know is that I had been shot. Something had torn at my flesh, had violated me, had caused me to bleed. Even though my fingers were warm with whatever was sliding through them, I started shivering from the cold.

The coffee table moved. Somebody knelt down next to me. "Don't worry for now," came the soothing voice of Professor Hendricks. "That was a Ruger twenty-two I used on you. Not the nine millimeter I used on your friend. So the damage shouldn't be that bad. I'm quite a good shot. Every week at the range, either outdoors or indoors. And the thing is, I was planning to replace the couch and the rug anyway. This will just give me more incentive. Still, I didn't like scaring the cat like that. Poor Oreo won't talk to me for a month."

My voice was weak. "Why?"

"Why? A number of ways of interpreting that question, I suppose. Why are you here? Why am I armed? Why did the fates conspire so that when I finally get my moment in the sun, some retired accountant with dirt under his fingernails and in his shoes decides it's his right to crowd me out? But I guess you want to know why I shot you. Correct?"

"Yes." I was surprised that the only thing that hurt was my shoulder, when I hit the floor. It must have hit first, though I didn't remember ending up on the floor from the couch.

Professor Hendricks came into view, staring down at me. "First, because you stabbed me, back in Porter. I figured I owed you one. But I could have overlooked that if you had brought the artifacts with you, but you didn't. So I shot you. Because you told me a damn clumsy lie, that's why. And I will not tolerate that."

Still no pain in my leg, though the shivering continued. Hendricks said, 'When you first called, to ask if you could see me, you said that you were going to show me the Viking artifacts tonight. My dear boy, it's well after six p.m. Is there any bank in this entire state that is open at that hour? Is there?"

"I guess not," I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.

"True," she said. "So you started off by telling me a damn clumsy lie, and I wanted to show you that there was going to be a consequence to that lie. I will not tolerate fabrications, Mr. Cole, not at all."

She moved around and something started poking at my other leg. She said, "So this is going to be the arrangement. In the next few seconds, you're going to tell me where those artifacts are. And if I think you're lying, I'm going to shoot you in your right knee. That will shatter your kneecap, crippling you permanently. So keep that right in front of your mind as we proceed. Mr. Cole, where are the Viking artifacts?"

I tried to keep my voice even, without quivering or shaking.

"You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you. So why should I tell you?"

"Tsk, tsk, that decision lies in the future. You need to focus on the present, Mr. Cole. And the present will shortly involve some additional agonizing pain for you. So."

There was a poking sensation against my right knee. "Tell me where the artifacts are or you lose your right knee. Forever."

I closed my eyes and just gave up. "Tyler. They're in Tyler."

Hendricks actually laughed. 'Well, with more than a hundred communities in New Hampshire, that certainly narrows it down, doesn't it? But I'm going to need better information than that, Mr. Cole. So where in the name of God are they in Tyler?"

I kept my eyes closed. My fingers were still tight against my lower shin. My shoulder still hurt and the shivering was increasing.

"At the Tyler Town Museum."

I felt something, as the pistol barrel raised itself up from my knee. "Have you seen them?"

"No."

The pistol barrel was back on my knee again. "Then how do you know that they are there?"

Eyes stayed closed. "Because... because the day Jon found them, he found them at a family farm in Tyler. Said he was going to put them someplace safe. Not in his house. Not in his garage. Not with his brother. Seems like the only reasonable place left ... "

"Damn," she said, admiration in her voice. "I do believe you might be right. Tell me, Cole, where is this museum?"

"It's in Tyler ... I don't know the name of the street... "

Something grabbed at my throat and I opened my eyes. Her strong left hand was grasping me. I looked up into Hendricks's face. "The address, Cole. Where the is the museum?"

"It's ... it's near the Meetinghouse Green ... I don't know what the street is called ... "

Hendricks seemed to ponder that. I looked at her, pistol in her other hand. I suppose if I had been Felix, I would have done something strong, something magnificent. I would have kneed her with my good leg, snapped the pistol out of her hand, and called the police. Or something. But I was afraid to move my now-wet hands. Afraid that if I moved my hands, the bleeding would get worse. And that the real pain would soon begin.

She shook her head. "Damn it, I haven't been to Tyler since I was a student. Hated the damn place. Too much sand, too much sun. Damn."