"Thanks. You've been very helpful, Ms. Jantzik."
"Call me Andrea," she said. "Or are you not allowed to do that?"
"I'm allowed. And call me Jonathan."
"You look more like a Jon to me."
"That works, too."
Stride hesitated and wasn't sure why. Then he realized that he felt an urge to say something else, to ask her to dinner, or to ask what her favorite color was, or to take the one strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face and gently put it right. The power of the feeling suddenly overwhelmed him. Maybe it was because he had not felt even a glimmering like that in almost a year. He had been dead inside for so long that he wasn't sure what it felt like to wake up.
"Are you okay?" Andrea asked. Her face was concerned. It was a very pretty face, he realized.
"I'm fine. Thanks again."
He left her on the steps. The moment passed. But it never really passed.
Stride found Nancy Carver's office tucked into a cubbyhole, almost invisible from the corridor. When he poked his head around the wall, Stride saw a narrow door, with Nancy Carver's name etched onto a wooden block hung from a nail. The photos and brochures plastered all over the door were guaranteed to send school board members into hysterics.
There were magazine articles about the dangers of homophobia. Other articles, with graphic illustrations neatly scissored out, decried the prevalence of pornography. She had a brochure from last year's annual meeting of the American Society of Lesbian University Women, with her name highlighted, where she had been a speaker. There were also dozens of photographs of women in camping gear in the outdoors. Stride recognized the Black Hills and some wilderness waterfalls he guessed were in Canada. The photographs were mostly of teenage girls and young college-age women. The one exception, who appeared in most of the photographs, was a tiny, sturdily built woman around forty, with cropped berry-red hair and large, thick-rimmed black glasses. In most of the photos she wore the same outfit, a green fleece sweater and stonewashed blue jeans.
Stride studied each of the girls in the photographs closely but did not recognize Rachel-or Kerry-in any of them. He was vaguely disappointed.
Stride was about to rap his knuckles on the door when he heard faint noises from inside. Changing his mind, and wondering if the door was locked, he simply twisted the doorknob and pushed. The door fell inward, then thudded against a diagonal wall, leaving only a three-foot opening through which to squeeze into the office.
Stride's eyes painted the scene before the two people in the room could react. A teenager with a plump baby face and stringy blonde hair lay, eyes closed, in a ratty blue recliner that barely fit into the office. Nancy Carver stood behind the chair. Her spread fingertips massaged the girl's cheeks and forehead. Carver's eyes, too, were closed behind her glasses. As the door banged into the wall, their eyes flew open. Carver's hands flew away from the girl's skin as if it were on fire.
The girl in the chair didn't look at Stride but instead craned her neck and looked nervously back at Carver. Carver in turn stared at Stride with barely controlled fury.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, barging in here like that?" she demanded.
Stride adopted his most pleasant, apologetic demeanor. "I'm so sorry. I needed to talk to you, and I didn't realize you had someone with you."
The girl struggled to right the recliner and then to stand up. She didn't make eye contact with Stride. "I should get to class. Thanks a lot, Nancy."
Carver replied in a softer voice. "Sure, Sarah. I'll be back on Thursday."
Sarah grabbed a stack of books from Nancy Carver's desk. She clutched them to her chest and wedged uncomfortably past Stride. The girl wasted no time disappearing down the corridor.
Stride closed the door behind him. Carver remained frozen behind the old recliner, studying him as if he were an insect. Her glasses made her fierce brown eyes look larger than life. She was even smaller than the photographs made her look, but with a muscular physique.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"My name is Jonathan Stride," he began, but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand.
"Yes, yes, I know who you are. You're with the police, and you're investigating Rachel's disappearance, and you're taking up my time." She returned to her desk and sat down in a wooden Shaker chair. "Tell me something I don't know."
Stride looked around the tiny office. Carver's desk was standard school district issue, white laminate on aluminum legs. It was piled with hardcover books, most with obscure psychological titles, and manila folders overflowing with papers. The phone was stuck all over with little reminder notes. The chair, desk, and recliner were the only pieces of furniture in the office. The one item on the wall was a cork bulletin board, as crowded as her office door, with more articles and photographs.
Stride sat leisurely in the recliner and made himself comfortable. He extracted a notebook from his inside coat pocket, searched a few other pockets for a pen, then settled against the cushy backrest with a sigh. He flipped the notebook backward a few pages, glancing at the scribblings there and making an annoying clicking noise with his tongue. Finally, he looked up at Nancy Carver, who sat in her chair with all the patience of a ticking bomb.
"My partner tells me that I should get therapy," Stride said pleasantly. "Do all patients get the little face massage thing?"
Carver's face was etched in stone. "Sarah is not a patient."
"No? Too bad. I heard you were a doctor, but maybe I was wrong. Are you a massage therapist?"
"I have both a master's and a Ph.D. in psychology, Detective. I am a tenured professor at the University of Minnesota. But here, with these girls, I'm just Nancy."
"That's nice. So what was this with Sarah-a slumber party?"
"No," she said. "Not that it is any of your business, but Sarah has trouble sleeping. I was showing her relaxation techniques. That's all."
Stride nodded. "Relaxation is good. My partner tells me I should try that, too."
"Perhaps your partner should tell you to get to the point faster, Detective. Your little game is transparent and tedious, so why not just ask your questions and let me get back to my work?" For the first time, Nancy Carver smiled, without a trace of warmth.
Stride smiled back. "Game?"
"Game. See who can outshrink the other. Remember, I make a living at it. So let's be honest, shall we, Detective? In addition to whatever investigative conclusions you've jumped to, you've also already checked me out as a piece of meat. You've concluded that I'm not attractive enough to constitute a major loss to the heterosexual community. Nonetheless, you've noted that I have an athletic body, and based on my feisty attitude, you've figured that if you ever could get me into bed, I'd probably give you a pretty good ride. All of which leads you to fantasize about me making love to other women-and to wonder whether I'm having sex with any of the teenagers here. And you're hoping if you act flip and challenge my insecurities, you'll get me to spill some deep dark secret to you."
"That's amazing," Stride said. "Now tell me who's going to win the World Series."
Carver allowed herself another tight smile. "I'm right, am I not?"
"Well, since you brought it up, are you having sex with any of the teenagers here?"
"I do not have sex with underage persons, Detective," Carver said slowly, emphasizing each word.
"That's a good answer. It's not what I asked, but a good answer. I like the photographs on your door. You seem to take students on a lot of field trips."
"I call them feminist learning retreats."
"Do underage persons attend any of these retreats?"
"Of course. With parental permission."
"I was wondering whether Rachel ever accompanied you on one of these retreats."