“You back?” Lieutenant Long scowled.
“How’s Sullivan?”
“You worried about him?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get him out of my mind.”
“Okay, Mr. McCall, why don’t we have us a look?”
The lieutenant’s face told him nothing but bad news. McCall followed the officer with a foretaste of unpleasantness. They went downstairs to the cell blocks. It was steamy here; there was a mingled odor of urine, vomit, and disinfectant.
Long stopped before a cell.
“I’ve sent for the shrink,” he drawled. “Kind of figured he might be needed.”
The young man was crouched at the far side of the cell, on the floor, gripping his wounded ear. He was staring at something not visible to normal eyes, and muttering obscenities in a mechanical, almost a ritual, way.
“What kind of dope is he shooting, anyway?” the lieutenant chuckled.
McCall turned away.
20
McCall spotted Sam Holland the moment he turned the corner of the third floor corridor at Tisquanto Memorial Hospital. The governor was deep in conversation with Brett Thornton.
“Mike.” The governor was looking pleased. “How did you know I was here?”
“I’d heard you were on the wing, and I figured this would be your first stop.” McCall turned to Laura’s father. “How is she, Mr. Thornton?”
“In my own way,” Thornton said, “I’ve been thanking God. She’s out of the coma, McCall. She’s going to be all right.” He looked years younger.
“I’ve just heard about this student Sullivan,” Governor Holland said.
“Already?” McCall exclaimed. “It just happened. What did they tell you?”
“Only that you brought him in and told the police that he’s been responsible for the attack on Laura and the two subsequent killings. How firm is this, Mike?”
“Firm, sir. But no case. It’s going to take Miss Thornton’s testimony. You haven’t been to the campus yet?”
The governor’s face darkened. “No, I’m going over there now.”
“All hell’s broken loose, Governor—”
“Mr. Thornton?” It was a nurse, in the doorway to Laura Thornton’s room. “Dr. Madigan and Dr. Stroud say it’s all right to come in now.”
Brett Thornton ran. Governor Holland put his hand on McCall’s arm. “Give him a couple of minutes, Mike.” Two minutes later Thornton appeared in the doorway. He was wiping his eyes. “Thank you, Governor. You can see her now, McCall.”
As they came in Dr. Edgewit held up two fingers, smiling. Two minutes.
She was well swathed and almost invisible, but the eyes were alive and her bloodless hand groped for her father’s with considerable hunger.
“Laura, dear,” Governor Holland said. “I’m so glad.”
“It was Dennis Sullivan,” she whispered. “He did it to me. He tied me up—”
“You can tell us all about it when you’re a little stronger, Miss Thornton,” McCall said.
He was at peace.
Chinky-chink showed.
A few minutes later, back in the corridor, Thornton’s mouth was the old trap.
“I’m grateful for the way things have turned out, Governor,” he said. “For sending McCall here and clearing this up you’ll get nothing but praise from me. But in all fairness I have to tell you—”
“I know, Brett,” the governor said with a smile, “in all fairness you have to tell me that politically nothing’s changed. You’re still going after the gubernatorial nomination, and you’re going to fight me for it tooth and nail.”
“Right.”
“Well, at least it won’t involve a personal attack.”
“No,” Thornton said, “that I can promise you.”
“That’s all I ask. Good luck, Brett.”
“I’m not that generous in spirit, governor. But I’ll shake your hand.”
When Thornton returned to his daughter’s room, the governor and McCall went downstairs. An aide reported the situation on campus. The immediate riot was over; there had been numerous arrests, especially of the invaders who had occupied the campus building.
Listening to the reports of casualties and property damage — with some uncensored details of the filth deposited in wastebaskets and liberties taken with files of private correspondence — Governor Holland’s considerable jaw grew larger.
“It’s Columbia all over again,” he said grimly. “Well, I’m all for freedom of expression, but there’s a big difference between free speech and taking over the campus!”
“There’s a meeting called at McNiel Hall, governor,” the aide said, “by a student group. President Wade wants to ban it.”
“Which students? Are they the ones who smeared that building with filth and obscenities and broke up all that property?”
“No, sir. It’s been called by a student named Damon Wilde—”
“Then I would certainly get Wade to allow it,” McCall said. “I think you ought to hear what this boy has to say, Governor.”
Governor Holland looked at him. Then he nodded. “All right.” He turned to the aide. “I want to talk to President Wade. I’ll see you at the meeting, Mike.”
He found Kathryn Cohan in her office, nipping at a bottle Dean Vance had just passed to her as McCall barged in.
“Shut that door, for God’s sake, Mr. McCall,” the Dean said. “Katie and I are restoring ourselves. We’ve had a wild time here. Do you drink?”
“Only when I have to,” McCall grinned. “Katie. I thought I’d find you in hysterics.”
“You should have seen me three quarters of an hour ago.”
“You can kiss her,” Dean Vance said, rising. “Give me my bottle, Miss Cohan. I have to put it back under lock and key. Wait till I’m off the premises, McCall, will you?”
They waited. When she was gone, Katie clung to him. “Oh, Mike, I practically prayed you’d come! Where were you?” He told her, and her violet eyes widened. “Dennis Sullivan! He sounds as if he’s gone psycho.”
“It’s the drugs. I don’t know what he’s been on but whatever it was it fuddled his brain and shattered his value system. Look, Katie, I promised the governor I’d go to McNiel Hall — a meeting’s been called by Damon Wilde—”
Kathryn shuddered. “Not another one!”
“I think this is going to be different. You want to come along?”
“No, but I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Lead on, McCall.”
Darkness was falling as they crunched across the broken glass and discarded placards on the campus. The lawns looked like something out of a photographic history of the Civil War. Students were hurrying toward McNiel Hall. Some bore hastily lettered posters:
This last one he spotted as a lingering whiff of tear gas made his eyes water.
The stream of students thickened as they converged on the meeting hall. Many had flashlights, which they shone on their signs as they walked. It resembled a convocation of fireflies. There was impressively little noise; for the most part it was a solemn procession.
The auditorium was full. They managed to find seats in the rear, at the extreme right. McCall saw Governor Holland sitting on the platform beside President Wade.
“Look at the big bad Wolfe,” Kathryn whispered. “He’s mad as all get-out.”
“Sam Holland is a powerful persuader,” McCall said dryly.
Damon Wilde was at the lectern, gripping the microphone. His skin was pale against his black sweater. He rapped for order, and to McCall’s surprise he got it almost at once.
“It’s been a rough day,” young Wilde said suddenly.
There were cheers.
“Mute the effort,” he said, and the silence fell again. “One of our number is in the clink tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Whether he’s guilty or not will be determined in the usual manner at the appropriate time. But one thing is a fact. A conscienceless, sadistic killer was let loose on this campus in the past week. The question is: To what extent did the indiscriminate use of drugs and the general unrest at ’Squanto contribute to the climate that made the events of this week possible?