Читать книгу Lost Souls - Lisa Jackson - Страница 13

So this is what everyone was talking about, Kristi thought as she took a seat in the packed classroom on the first day of the term. It was the Monday after New Year’s at eight in the morning. Most of the students looked as if they’d just rolled out of bed.

Chairs scraped against the floor, shoes shuffled, voices buzzed with conversation, and in the background the soft strains of Renaissance music drifted from speakers mounted high on the walls of the large, auditoriumlike room. Rows of seats were situated on tiers that funneled down to a barren center stage that held a battered table, podium, and microphone. A stack of books and an open three-leaf binder were situated near a laptop computer on the table.

A man in his mid-to-late thirties, presumably Dr. Victor Emmerson, was already standing behind the table, one jean-clad hip thrown out as he leaned over his notes, his scruffy black leather jacket tossed over a white T-shirt, a pair of reflective sunglasses folded and tucked into the shirt’s crew neck. His hair was shaggy, dark brown, and appeared not to have been combed since the day before. About three days’ worth of beard-shadow covered a strong jaw. He looked as if he took road trips on a Harley-Davidson. Everything about him oozed “cool, moody biker.” A far cry from the stuffy teachers she remembered from a few years earlier.

Maybe the class would be as interesting as she’d heard. She’d signed up because it was required for an undergraduate English degree and it sounded interesting. Even more so now.

Emmerson scratched at the stubble on his chin as he read his notes, flipping through pages, scowling at his own scribbles, only looking up when the door to the room opened and yet another student walked in and searched for a vacant desk.

The remaining spots to sit in were few and far between.

This class on Shakespeare was surprisingly popular and Kristi figured the fascination with the class had more to do with the sexy, unlikely professor than the Bard or his works. She slid her computer onto the desk to take notes and checked out the other students, several of whom looked familiar. Mai Kwan, her neighbor, was seated near the front of the room, several rows below Kristi, and a couple of girls who had been with Lucretia the day she’d come into the diner were huddled together near the windows. But the kicker was that just before class was to start, who should stroll in but Hiram Calloway, Kristi’s would-be apartment manager. She turned away quickly, hoping that he didn’t notice one of the few vacant seats was next to Kristi. Fortunately, he found another desk, near the back of the room.

Good.

The door slammed shut behind Hiram, and Emmerson checked the clock on the wall, then hit a button behind the podium, killing the music. Straightening, taking the entire class in with one broad look, he said, “Okay, I’m Professor Emmerson, this is Shakespeare two-o-one and if this isn’t the class you signed up for, leave now and make room for someone who intended to enroll. For those of you who have heard that this is an easy class, a guaranteed A, you, too, are welcome to exit.”

No one moved. The class was silent except for the ticking of the clock.

A cell phone chirped loudly and Emmerson looked directly at the kid in a baseball cap who was fumbling in his pocket.

“That’s the next thing. No phones in class, and not just ringing. If I sense one is vibrating, or if anyone looks at his or hers to read a text or even to check the time, you’re history. Automatic F. If you don’t like the rules, then drop the class and take it up with the administration. I don’t care. This classroom is not a democracy. I’m the king, okay? Just like the ones we’ll study, only, I hope, not quite as self-serving.

“While you’re in here”—he held up two hands to indicate the entire classroom—“with me, we’ll be studying good old Willie Boy like you’ve never studied him before. We’re not just going to read his plays and his poems. We’re going to learn them. Inside and out. We’ll read them as they are meant to be read, the way Mr. Shakespeare—or depending upon your viewpoint, whoever wrote them—meant them to be read. For the purposes of this class, we’ll assume they belong to William Shakespeare. If you’re one of those Francis Bacon freaks who thinks he did it, even though he wouldn’t have had a lot of time, or Edward de Vere enthusiasts, or for those of you who think Christopher Marlowe, even though he supposedly died in 1593, took up the quill in his dead hand under Shakespeare’s name, or, for that matter anyone else, again”—he pointed toward the back of the room—“there’s the door. I know there’s a movement to prove that poor, illiterate William couldn’t possibly have written anything so sophisticated or knowledgeable about the upper class and Italy and all that rot. I also know some of academia think that his works were really written by a group of people. We’re going to have a lot of lively discussions about Shakespeare’s work, don’t get me wrong, but the whole ‘did he or did he not write them’ subject is taboo. I don’t care who wrote them, okay? That’s for another class. I’m only interested in what you think of the work.” He walked around to the front of his desk and rested his jean-clad hips against the edge. “I assume you all received a syllabus via e-mail for this class. If you haven’t, double check your inbox or spam folder and only if you really didn’t receive one, call my office and I’ll shoot another your way. Most of your assignments will come through the Internet and that’s why you all have an address ending with allsaints.edu. If you don’t have one, or think you don’t, check with the registrar or admissions. It’s not my problem.

“For those of you who did check your syllabus, you’ll see that we’re going to begin with Macbeth. Why?” His smile was a little wicked. “Because what better way to start off the year than with witches, prophesies, blood, ghosts, guilt, and murder?”

He had everyone’s attention now and he knew it. Glancing over the captivated students, his gaze moving from one rapt face to the next, he nodded slowly. His eyes found Kristi’s and held for a split second. Was it her imagination or did he linger just a little longer on her than the others?

No way.

It was just a trick of light.

Had to be.

And yet, his grin seemed to shift a little before he looked away, as if he knew a deep secret. An intimate secret.

What the hell was wrong with her? Just because he was good-looking she was thinking all kinds of ridiculous things.

“Besides,” he said in his deep voice, “in this classroom, I get to decide what we do. I like Macbeth. So—” He clapped his hands together and half the class jumped. Again the knowing smile. “Let’s get started….”

“Kristi!” As she was walking briskly past the steps of the library, she heard her name and her stomach nose-dived. She recognized the voice. Turning, Kristi spied her old-roommate-cum-assistant professor, Lucretia, black overcoat billowing, umbrella held in one fist, hurrying toward her. The skies were threatening a downpour, the wind was kicking up, and the last thing Kristi wanted to do was have a chat with Lucretia Stevens in the middle of the quad. “Hey, wait up!”

There was no escape.

She paused and Lucretia, breathless, half ran to catch up with her. “I need to talk to you,” she said without preamble.

“Really.”

Lucretia ignored Kristi’s irony. “Do you have a minute?” Other students, heads bent against the wind, hurried along the concrete and brick paths intersecting the lawn in the middle of campus. Some were on bikes, some walking, and one zipped by on a skateboard. “We could go into the student union and get a cup of coffee or tea or something.” She seemed earnest. Worried.

“I have a class at eleven and it’s across campus.” She glanced at her watch. Ten thirty-six. Not much time.

“It won’t take long,” Lucretia insisted, grabbing hold of Kristi’s arm and trying to shepherd her toward the brick building that housed the student union, café, and on the other side, the registrar’s office. Kristi pulled her arm back, but walked with Lucretia into the cafeteria-style restaurant, where they headed to the coffee counter and waited behind three girls ordering coffee drinks. Kristi perused a display of scones, muffins, and bagels, then ordered a black coffee while Lucretia asked for a caramel latte with extra foam. Kristi tried not to notice the minutes ticking by as they waited for their drinks, but it ate at her that she’d be late for her next class, The Influence of Vampyrism on Modern Culture, taught by Dr. Grotto.

Once they were served, she followed Lucretia through scattered tables where students were clustered, talking, studying or listening to their iPods. She noticed a couple of Lucretia’s friends, Grace and Trudie, locked in a deep conversation at a table near the back door, but Lucretia, as if to avoid them, headed for a corner booth that hadn’t been cleaned in a while. She took a seat with her back to her friends.

Kristi settled in to her side of the booth and realized she now only had twenty minutes to get to class. She was doomed to be late. “Better make it quick. I don’t have a lot of time,” Kristi warned as she blew across her steaming cup.

Lucretia let out her breath, then glanced over her shoulder as if she expected someone to be watching them. Satisfied that they weren’t being observed or overheard, she leaned over the table and whispered, “You’ve heard that some of the students—girls—have gone missing from campus.”

Kristi pretended only mild interest. She nodded. “Four, right?”

“Yes.” Lucretia bit at the corner of her lip. “So far they’re just missing….”

“But…you think…something else?”

Lucretia didn’t touch her coffee, just let it sit on the chipped Formica table near some used packets of hot sauce and mustard that someone hadn’t bothered to throw away. “Well, I just think something’s going on. Something weird.” She lowered her voice even further. “I knew Rylee.”

“Knew. As in past tense?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, I know her, but no one and I mean no one has seen her since before Christmas. I think maybe…oh, God, this is just so weird.”

“What is?”

“I think she might have been a part of some cult.”

“Cult?”

She was nodding, rotating her small cup and watching the foam slowly melt into her untouched coffee.

“You mean like a religious cult?”

“I don’t know exactly what kind…. There are rumors about all kinds of weird things going on. The big thing seems to be some interest in vampires.”

“Like in Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Dracula or—?”

“I mean in real live vampires.”

Kristi gave her a look. “Vampire bats…or the Count Dracula kind? Oh, wait, I get it. You’re putting me on.”

But Lucretia was serious. “This isn’t a joke! Some of the kids run around with fangs and vials of blood hanging from their necks, and they are so into Dr. Grotto’s class that it’s almost like an obsession. Totally out of line.”

“But they don’t really believe there are vampires who sleep in coffins during the day and run around and drink human blood at night. The kind that are only killed by wooden stakes or silver bullets and can’t look into mirrors.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“What way?” Kristi asked.

“So…harsh. And I don’t know what they believe.” Almost guiltily, Lucretia played with a gold chain encircling her neck. Between her fingers a small diamond-encrusted cross dangled.

“So, Rylee was into this vampire thing,” Kristi said skeptically.

“Yes. Oh, yeah…” The diamond cross glittered under the huge suspended lights of the dining hall.

“What do they do? This vampire cult?”

“I don’t know. Rylee was…secretive.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call her the most stable girl on the planet,” Lucretia admitted. “She had quit college once before, maybe in winter or spring term of last year.” She cleared her throat. Looked away. The cross winked.

“And—” Kristi prodded, sensing there was more.

“And, well…she was…is a bit of a drama queen. Well, not just a bit, I would say. She did try to commit suicide once.”

“Suicide?”

“Shh!” Lucretia lowered her voice and quit playing with her necklace. “I know, that’s a cry for help and I’m not sure she ever got it. Her mother spent so much time worrying that Rylee would get pregnant, she never saw how much pain Rylee was in.”

“Her mother ignored her suicide attempt?” Krista asked incredulously.

“The way Rylee told it, she gave her mom a lot of trouble as a teenager—staying out late, partying, the wrong crowd, drugs, boys, you name it. So she washed her hands of her, turned her back on her own kid. How about that?” Lucretia said the last phrase bitterly and Kristi was reminded of Lucretia’s own disengaged parents. At least disengaged emotionally.

Lucretia cleared her throat. “Anyway, from what I understand, her mother thinks Rylee’s disappearance is just one more of her ‘stunts,’ a clamor for attention.”

“But you think it’s this…cult.”

“Yes.”

“And that she got mixed up with something or someone evil within the cult.”

Lucretia swallowed hard. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“You think she took this vampirism thing too far, really believed it, and got in over her head.”

Lucretia was obviously turning it over in her mind. “Yes…yes…I think it’s possible.”

There was something off about the conversation, something Lucretia wasn’t saying, something worrisome. Here they were in the middle of the damned cafeteria of the student union, surrounded by kids and adults, talking, laughing, joking, or studying, some listening to iPods, some eating or drinking coffee or sipping on sodas, and she and Lucretia were actually talking about vampires and cults. Something soulfully evil? She eyed her ex-roommate and wondered what had happened to her over the past few years. “What about you, Lucretia?” she asked, watching for the tiniest reaction. “Where are you on the whole vampirism thing?”

Lucretia glanced at the window to the gloomy day beyond. “Sometimes I don’t really know what’s real and what’s not.”

A shiver of apprehension slid down Kristi’s spine. “Seriously?”

“Do I believe in vampires? As in the Hollywood archetype? No.” Lucretia shook her head slowly. Thoughtfully. As if she were wrestling with the idea for the first time. Almost unconsciously, she began shredding her paper napkin.

“Let’s take Hollywood out of it,” Kristi suggested. She should probably drop the entire conversation. It was too weird. Too unreal. But she couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity had been whetted with the mystery of the missing coeds and she’d already decided to look into their disappearances; maybe Lucretia could help. She certainly seemed as if she wanted to.

Lucretia thought hard, then said, “Philosophically, I believe that you can make your own truth. People who hallucinate, whether from drugs or medical conditions, see things that are very real to them. It’s their truth, their frame of reference, though it isn’t, maybe, anyone else’s. My grandmother, before she died, saw people who weren’t in the room, and she was certain she’d gone places that she couldn’t have, because she was stuck in a hospital bed in a nursing home. But she described her ‘trips’ with amazing clarity, to the point she nearly convinced us. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating?” Lucretia shrugged her shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. Her reality, her truth was that she had been there.”

“So you’re thinking that the students who are in this cult, they’ve altered their reality. Through what? Mental problems? Drugs?”

“Or maybe desire.”

Kristi felt an icy wind cut through her soul. “Desire?”

Sighing, Lucretia finally brushed the pieces of her napkin aside, piling the tiny bits with the gooey used packets of condiments. “They want to believe it so badly that it’s real. You know what I mean. Wanting something so badly in your life that you can almost taste it. Wanting something…something you would do anything to get.” Her dark eyes zeroed in on Kristi and she grabbed her hand, holding it so tight her knuckles showed white. “We all want something.”

A moment later she let go of Kristi’s hand. Kristi found that her heartbeat had accelerated. “But this particular fantasy…Why would anyone want to think that there are vampires?” Kristi asked, truly mystified.

“It’s hot. Sexy.”

“Really? Drinking blood? Living in darkness? Being undead for centuries? That’s hot? Who in their right mind would want—”

“No one said anything about them being in their right minds.” Lucretia stared at her again, then finally picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “These—believers—their lives are empty, or boring, or so goddamned awful that any kind of magic, or sorcery, or alternative existence is better than what they’re living.”

“That’s whacked. You’re saying there’s a whole cult of these people who believe in this creature of the night fantasy.”

“It’s whacked to you. But not to them. Oh, there are probably some who participate just for the thrill of it. There’s an allure to the whole vampire culture. It’s dark. It’s sexual. In some ways it’s very romantic and visceral. But to some people it’s not a fantasy. Those are the ones that really, and truly, believe it.”

“They need help,” Kristi said.

When Lucretia stared at Kristi her eyes had darkened again. With worry? Or her own Stygian dogma? How weird was this? Kristi and Lucretia had never been friends, so why had her old roommate sought her out? Why were they even having this discussion? At a nearby table two jock-type guys scraped chairs from the table and set down a tray loaded with hot dogs and fries. They were joking and talking, grabbing at the mustard and ketchup packets. It was all so normal.

Was she really having a conversation about vampires with Lucretia?

“So what about Dr. Grotto?” Kristi asked, envisioning the tall sardonic man with such dark hair and intense eyes. “Do you think he promotes it with his classes on vampirism? Is he the cult leader?”

“What? God, no!” She set down her cup so hard that some of the foam and coffee beneath sloshed over the rim.

“But he teaches the classes—”

“Not on being a vampire, for Christ’s sake, but on the influence of the whole vampire, werewolf, shape-shifter, monster myth in society. Historically, and today. He’s an intellectual, for God’s sake!”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not into the whole thing—”

“You’re missing the point. It’s not about Dominic….” Lucretia shook her head vehemently and actually paled at the thought. “He’s a wonderful man. Educated. Alive. Look, this was a mistake.” Ashen-faced, she stood, and she was actually trembling as she gathered her things. “I thought because you’d been through a lot, because your dad is such a crack detective, that you might be able to help, that you might be able to convince your father to check into what happened to Dionne, Monique, Tara, and Rylee, but forget it.”

“Your friends are still missing,” Kristi pointed out, as she, too, got up from the table.

“They’re not ‘my friends,’ okay? Just some girls I knew. Part of a study group.”

“They knew each other?”

“Peripherally, I guess. I’m not sure. They were English majors and all of them, I think, were kind of troubled, lonely kids, the kind who could’ve gotten caught up in the wrong thing. But I should have known you’d twist it all around.” She rolled her eyes as she tossed the wet napkin into a nearby trash can.

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“No—I—I’m an assistant professor here now, but I’m not tenured, and I don’t have access to all the records as I’m not a full professor yet and…damn, it’s complicated. I can’t go spouting off about cults on the campus, but then I ran across you and…so, I’m telling you now. Because I thought your father could look into this quietly, without getting me into any hot water. Before, I wasn’t convinced that there was anything wrong. Dionne and Monique, they were pretty wild and always talked of just hitchhiking away, but now…I don’t know. Tara was unhappy, but Rylee?” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, caught sight of the boys at the nearby table, and lowered her voice. “Maybe I’m imagining all this. You know, the whole blur between what’s real and fantasy. I don’t know why I even told you about it.”

Neither did Kristi. She’d never seen someone go from ice cold to red hot in a matter of seconds. Obviously she’d hit a nerve bringing up Professor Grotto, who just happened to be the teacher of Kristi’s next class, the one she was late for, the one on vampires. Kristi decided she’d keep that information to herself for the moment. She gulped the last of her coffee and tossed the cup away while Lucretia gave the table one last swipe.

Kristi couldn’t help but notice the ring on Lucretia’s left hand. “Are you engaged?” she asked, and remembered the conversation Lucretia was having about the guy who was absolutely “amazing.” Could she have meant Grotto?

Lucretia stopped mopping for a second, looked down at her fingers, and her white face instantly flushed scarlet. “Oh…no…” she stammered. “It’s…it’s just…nothing.” Quickly she wadded the napkins over the old packets of sauce and dropped the whole mess into the trash bin. She added quickly, “And it’s not a ‘promise ring’ or whatever you called it when you were a freshman.” A little smile crawled across her lips. “Remember?”

“Yeah.”

Lucretia was wiping her hands on a fresh napkin. “Isn’t that a hoot? To think that the guy you tossed over when you were first here is now on the staff. Talk about a twist of fate.”

Kristi stared, trying to make sense of Lucretia’s comment. “You mean Jay?”

“Yeah, Jay McKnight.”

Her stomach dropped to the floor. Whatever she and Jay had shared was long over, but that didn’t mean she wanted to bump into him. No, Lucretia had to have gotten bad information. “He works for the New Orleans PD,” Kristi argued, then started to get a really bad vibe when she saw a glint of triumph in Lucretia’s gaze as she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

“But he’s teaching a class here. A night class, I think. Filling in for a professor who had family problems and had to take a leave of absence or something.”

“Really?” Kristi couldn’t believe it, but wasn’t about to argue. Lucretia was just plain wrong or yanking on her chain just to bug her. She wasn’t about to give it any credence until she saw Jay McKnight with her own two eyes. Then she was hit by another bad feeling. “What class?”

“I don’t know…something in criminology, I think.”

Kristi’s stomach tightened. “Introduction to Forensics?”

“Could be. As I said, I’m not sure.”

Oh, God, please no. She couldn’t imagine Jay being her instructor—that would just be too much to deal with. She flashed on how she’d so callously broken up with him and cringed. Even though it had been nearly a decade, she didn’t want to think there was a chance she could run into Jay on campus. Or that he could be her teacher. That would be torture.

“See ya around.” Lucretia was already heading for the door when Kristi noticed the big clock mounted on the back wall of the building over the doors leading to the admin offices.

She noticed the time.

It was three minutes to eleven.

No way could she make it across campus. No doubt, she’d be late. But maybe it was worth it. Lucretia’s fears, her theories about a cult here on the campus, were definitely interesting. Worth checking out. But really—vampires?

“Don’t make me laugh,” she muttered to herself, then was annoyed by the involuntary shiver that slid down her spine.