She hesitated for a moment. Then: “Yes.”
“Do you still have that pepper spray I gave you?”
She nodded.
“Keep it with you every second of the day.”
“I will.”
“Where is it now?”
Sheridan cocked her head in a way that indicated Somewhere in my room.
“Find it and keep it with you. And if you need to call me and I don’t answer that second, leave a message.”
She said, “What can you do if you’re hundreds of miles away?”
Joe said, “You’d be surprised how fast I can get here.”
After a beat, Sheridan said, “Now I feel kind of stupid. I didn’t mean to get you worked up based on, you know, my feelings.”
Joe reached out and grasped his oldest daughter’s hand. “I’ll do some background checking on this guy. I may involve the university folks if I learn anything. I’ll try not to bring your name into it unless I have to. But in the meanwhile, don’t feel guilty for telling me. You’ve done the right thing.”
“Dad…” she said, and for a moment he could see in her face the little girl he remembered. “Thank you. I feel a little better.”
“That’s my job,” he said.
“Please don’t tell Mom. You know how she worries.”
“I can’t promise that. We don’t keep secrets,” Joe said. “But I’d suggest you let her know about our talk before I get home.”
“She’ll want to move in with me,” Sheridan laughed, breaking the tension. “Then who would keep an eye on April and Dallas Cates?”
Joe groaned.
Sheridan said she had to go to class, and Joe accompanied her as far as the outside doors. She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and as she left and joined the river of students headed toward the classroom buildings, he thought, I won’t let anything happen to you.
Instead of walking to the U.S. government Crown Vic he’d borrowed, Joe joined the flow of students on an inner walkway toward the dormitories and, beyond that, the classroom buildings. He ignored a couple of young yahoos who said, “Hey, Game Warden, want to see my fishing license?” He kept his anger at bay as he walked, and he spotted Erik Young a hundred yards ahead on the walkway. The boy stood out in his all-black clothing and by the way other students gave him space as he walked. Joe noted that: students who likely didn’t know Young or had likely never seen him before instinctively stepped aside to let him pass. The boy had an aura about him.
And, Joe thought, there was nothing anyone could — or should — do about it. Yet.
Rather than continue on across the street toward the classroom buildings, Young branched off the sidewalk across the dying lawn toward White Hall. Keeping his distance, Joe followed.
Two girls were inside the vestibule of the building, passing their student IDs through a card reader to unlock the front doors. He pressed close enough to them so he could enter the building due to their access. When one of them glanced over her shoulder at him, the look of worry on her face vanished as soon as she made him: a lost parent. He knew he looked the part.
Young wasn’t inside the lobby or near the dorm administration desk. Joe turned toward the double elevators to see one of them was occupied, and the lights indicated whoever was on it had taken it to the fourth floor. Sheridan’s floor.
When the next elevator doors opened and three freshman boys stepped out, Joe went in. He instinctively rested his right hand on the butt of his .40 Glock as the doors closed and the car rose.
The fourth floor was quiet and empty. As the doors whooshed closed behind him, Joe cautiously walked down the hallway. Sheridan’s room was at the end of the hall, emblazoned with a red RESIDENT ASSISTANT sign as well as a collage of photos and notices. He paused at her door. There was a photo of the Pickett family from the summer before in front of their house. He looked taciturn, Marybeth looked lovely, and the personalities of all three girls showed clearly in the shot: Sheridan attractive and self-assured; April smirking with the devil in her eyes; Lucy beaming as if she were in a pool of her own personal sunshine.
He turned and slowly walked down the hallway. The personalities and quirks of the freshmen were also displayed outside of their doors: photos, clippings, sports logos, quotes running from childish to profound. Except for one door halfway down. On that door there was a single white sticker with a name in a tiny font. He bent to read it. Erik “fuck” You
As he bent toward the door, he heard the sounds from inside that Sheridan had described: single gunshots, automatic fire, cries of pain, the roar of engines and helicopters.
He knocked on the door. No response. Then he rapped sharply, so there was no way the boy inside couldn’t hear.
Joe wasn’t sure what he was prepared to do or say. He settled on his standard opening when he visited a potential suspect, one that had elicited both immediate confessions and surprising information. He’d say, “I guess you know why I’m here.”
But instead of answering, the game was reduced in volume. Erik Young refused to respond or open the door.
Joe left after five minutes.
Both the head of campus security and the vice president of student affairs confirmed Joe’s worst fears: nothing could be done until Young actually did something. So far, he’d broken no rules or procedures. The fact that he dressed oddly and kept to himself violated no policies. While they could keep an eye on Young and he was now officially on their radar, they had to stay on the proper side of the line and not cross over into anything that would be perceived as harassment or discrimination. Joe left Laramie sympathetic but frustrated, and with a shadow of foreboding hanging over his head.
On the drive back to Cheyenne, again sandwiched between eighteen-wheelers, Joe called Coon’s private cell number, and the call went immediately to voicemail.
“This is Joe Pickett,” he said. “I’ll leave your car at the airport with the keys at the counter. Thanks for lending it to me. So far, I haven’t caused any damage, but I still have an hour.
“And I need you to run a name for me. Erik Young. Los Angeles, California. I’ll spell that…”
6
That night, Joe stood near the stove in his kitchen and idly watched a musical performance taking place in the living room. He ate a grilled cheese sandwich Marybeth had whipped up and drank a Shiner Bock beer. He’d missed dinner — again — because of the flight from Cheyenne.
The living room furniture had been pushed back against the walls to create enough floor space for the show. Lucy had the lead. She had an earthy, lovely tone to her voice. Harmonizing — and interjecting clever scripted phrases — were fellow students LeeAnne Dow and Hannah Roberson, Lucy’s best friend. They had all landed parts in a high school musical and had gotten together to practice their numbers. Marybeth told him LeeAnne and Hannah had made arrangements to spend the night as well.