"What is it?"
"I'd rather wait."
"All right."
They finished their drinks, and he paid. They departed, his feelings of apprehension subsiding as they moved into the light he filtered.
They climbed the stairs and entered her third-floor apartment. Just over the threshold. she halted and made a small noise in the back of her throat.
He pushed past her, moving quickly to the left. Then he halted.
"What is it?" he asked, searching the room with his eyes.
"I'm sure I didn't leave the place like this. Those papers on the floor... I don't think that chair was over there. Or that drawer opened. Or the closet door..."
He moved back to her side, studied the lock for scratches, found none. He crossed the room then, and she heard a sound that could only be the clicking of a knife blade as he entered the bedroom.
After a moment he emerged, vanished into the other room, passed from there into the bathroom. When he reappeared, he asked her, "Was that window by the table opened the way it is now?"
"I think so," she said. "Yes, I guess it was."
He sighed. He examined the windowsill, then said, "A gust of wind probably blew your papers. As for the drawer and the closet, I'd bet you left them open yourself this morning. And you've probably forgotten about moving the chair."
"I'm a very orderly person," she said, closing the door to the landing; and when she turned she said, "But I guess you're right."
"Why are you nervous?"
She moved about the apartment, picking up papers.
"Where did you get that knife?" she asked him.
"What knife?"
She slammed the closet door, turned and glared at him.
"The one you had in your hand a minute ago!"
He extended his hands, palms forward.
"I have no knife. You may search me if you wish. You will not find a weapon."
She moved to the chest of drawers, closed the one which had been opened. Stooping, she opened a lower one and removed a newsprint-wrapped parcel.
"This is a part of it," she said. "Why am I nervous? This is why!"
She placed the parcel on the table and undid the strings which held it.
He moved to her side and watched as she unwrapped the papers. Inside were three very old books.
"I thought you'd taken those back already!"
"I intended to-"
"That was the agreement."
"I want to know where you obtained them and how."
He shook his head.
"We also agreed that if I were to recover them, you would not ask me those questions."
She placed the books side by side, then pointed at the spine of one and the cover of another.
"I am certain those were not there before," she said. "They are bloodstains, aren't they?"
"I don't know."
"I tried to wipe some of the smaller ones off with a damp tissue. What came off certainly looked like dried blood."
He shrugged.
"When I told you these books had been stolen from their cases in the Rare Books Room and you offered to recover them, I said, 'Okay'." She continued, "I agreed that if you could get them back. I'd see that it was an anonymous return. No questions. But I never thought this meant bloodshed. The stains alone would not have made me think that that is what happened. But then I began considering you and realized how little I actually know. That's when I began noticing things like your eyes and the quiet way that you move. I had heard that you were friendly with criminals-but then you had written some articles on criminology and were teaching a course on the subject. So it seemed in order at the time I heard it. Now I see you move through my rooms with a knife in your hand, presumably ready to kill an intruder. No book is worth a human life. Our agreement is off. Tell me what you did to get them."
"No," he said.
"I must know."
"You staged that scene when we walked in here just to see what I'd do, didn't you?"
She blushed.
Now I suppose she'll try to blackmail me into marrying her, he thought, if she thinks she can make this thing big enough.
"All right," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets and turning to stare out the window. "I found out who did it and had a talk with him. During the misunderstanding that followed, his nose got broken. He had the poor grace to bleed on the books. I couldn't get it all off."
"Oh," he heard her say; and then he turned and studied her face.
"That's all," he said.
He stepped forward then and kissed her. After a moment, she relaxed against him. For a time he massaged her back and shoulders, moved his hands to her buttocks.
Distraction complete, he decided, moving up along her rib cage and inward, slowly, toward the buttons of her blouse.
"I'm sorry." She sighed.
"That's all right," he said, unfastening them. "That's all right."
Later, while staring at a pillow through the curtain of her hair and analyzing his reactions to earlier events, he felt once again the nearing presence, this time so close that it almost seemed as if he were being watched. He glanced quickly about the room but saw nothing.
Listening to the sounds of traffic on the street below, he determined to be about his business soon, say in the space of a cigarette.
There came a sonic boom from overhead that rattled the window like a sudden hand.
Clouds, slowly gathering, obscured the sun somewhat. Knowing he was early, he parked his vehicle in the faculty lot and removed his heavy briefcase from the rear. The trunk of the car contained three heavy traveling bags.
He turned and began walking toward the far end of the campus. He felt a need to keep moving, to be ready to run if necessary. He thought of Morningstar at that moment, watching rocks and clouds and birds, feeling winds, rains, lightnings, and he wondered whether that one was instantly aware of every move he was making. He felt this to be so, and he wished that his friend were at hand to counsel him now. Did he know-or had he known for a long while- the outcome of what he was about to attempt?
The leaves and grasses had taken on that faint incandescence which sometimes precedes a storm. It was still quite warm, but now the heat was tempered by a light breeze from the north. The campus was almost deserted. He passed a group of students seated about the base of a fountain, comparing notes on an examination they had just taken. He thought he recognized two of them from his Introduction to Cultural Anthropology of several semesters back, but they did not look up as he went by.
As he passed Drake Hall, he heard his name called out.
"John! Doctor Shade!"
Halting, he saw the short, heavy figure of the young instructor Poindexter emerge from the doorway. The man's first name was also John, but since he had been a newcomer to their card group they had come to refer to him by his last name rather than confuse conversation.
Jack made himself smile as the man approached and nodded a greeting.
"Hi, Poindexter. I thought you'd be off recuperating by now."
"I still have some damn lab exams to grade," he said, breathing heavily. "I decided I wanted a cup of something hot, and the minute I closed the door to my office I knew what I'd done. The keys are on my desk and the door locks when it closes. There's nobody else in the building and the front office is shut down, too. I was standing there waiting for a guard to come by. I thought they might have access to a master key. Have you seen any guards?"
He shook his head.
"No, I just arrived a few moments ago. But I know the guards don't have access to masters.- Your office is on the far side of the building, isn't it?"