Текст книги "Fair Game "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

He could hear the harsh hwronk-hwronking of the geese down in the cove—a lonely sound—as he reread Tucker’s report on Terry Baker’s actions on the night of his disappearance. Nothing flagged. If the kid had voluntarily walked away from his life, logically he shouldn’t have spent the evening studying in the library for exams he would never take or papers he would never write. He should have been busy packing. And he should have taken his car. Granted, people did occasionally walk away from their lives with only the clothes on their back, but it usually followed some kind of severe emotional shock. There were warning signals, even if they only became clear after the fact. If Terry Baker had suffered some brutal epiphany, no one seemed to be aware of it.

Barring a psychotic break, it took a certain kind of personality to drop out of sight like that, knowing what the people in your life were going to suffer. At the least it required a lack of imagination—and empathy.

The same arguments held for suicide, although to a lesser extent. Besides, it was hard to picture someone planning to off himself by spending the night reading Renaissance philosophy in the school library. And, if it had been suicide, where was the body? Not many people tried to hide the fact that they’d killed themselves. Elliot couldn’t think of a single instance in his years at the Bureau.

But if Baker hadn’t voluntarily walked and he hadn’t killed himself…what had happened to him? Tucker was right about the unlikelihood of being snatched off a college campus.

As often as not, the key to any violent crime lay within the character of the victim. So who was Terry Baker?

Before he’d left the Baker house, Elliot had asked Pauline to let him take a look at Terry’s bedroom, but the bedroom had been turned into a guest room after Terry’s departure for college. Anything Terry had needed, he’d taken with him. The souvenirs and mementos of his childhood had either been tossed or packed away. In Elliot’s personal and professional experience, that was unusual. His own parents had kept his bedroom ready and waiting for him right up through graduate school. His years in law enforcement had more often than not confirmed his own experience.

But if you knew how to read between the lines, you could glean quite a bit from the bare facts. Going by GPA and an impressive course load, Elliot deduced the kid was a high achiever who was charting his future based on what his parents—his father in particular—planned for him. But Baker had also taken classes in architecture every semester since starting PSU. Not your normal pre-law elective. Architectonics and Architectural Theory were not your normal electives, period. On top of that, Architecture was a competitive major. Not easy to get into these classes. Either Baker had been exceptionally gifted or someone had pulled strings on his behalf. Maybe both.

Another telling thing was the lack of interviews with close friends. Baker didn’t seem to have any. Certainly no one close enough to know he’d been seeing someone. But if he’d had the guts to tell his parents, knowing his father’s feelings on his being gay, the relationship had meant something to him. Not necessarily love. The boyfriend, Jim Feder, might have served to establish precedent. It was hard to say without talking to one of the two men involved.

Elliot set the files on the nightstand and snapped out the yellow ginger jar lamp. The sharp silhouette of the pine trees fell across the floor boards. Through the bank of windows he saw the new moon, large and luminous, like the old man in the moon peering into his window. An old man with a face like green cheese. So close he could almost make out every pockmark crater and scar.

Sliding down into the flannel sheets and down-filled pillows, Elliot closed his eyes. He’d skipped his nightly stretches and his knee was aching, but it was a distant echo of pain, nothing unusual. Something he was learning to live with. He could hear the sigh of the pines outside, hear the gentle creak of the cabin. It reminded him of something…something pleasant. The lap of water against the side of a boat…the occasional plop of a fish…warm arms around him as the ocean rocked them to sleep…

Chapter Five

“Good morning, Professor Mills!”

At the chirpy greeting, Elliot glanced up from Steven Hyslop’s Eyewitness to the Civil War. Mrachek, Leslie hovered in his office doorway.

“Morning, Leslie.” He set the book and his lecture notes aside, nodded in invitation and she left the safety of the doorway in one long, leggy step and dropped gracefully into the chair in front of his desk. She pulled a notebook from her backpack and offered him a couple of neatly typed pages.

“My essay on John Ford’s West.” She smiled hopefully into his eyes.

That’s right. He was supposed to take an unofficial look at her work before she committed to handing it in for a grade. Elliot glanced at the neat sheets in the clear plastic binder. John Ford’s West, read the title. His gaze dropped to the first paragraph.

When film critic André Bazin described John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) as “the ideal example of the maturity of a style brought to classic perfection,” he employed a brilliant metaphor, that of a “wheel so perfectly made that it retains its equilibrium on any axis in any position.”

Ah. There it was. The first paragraph of Thomas Flanagan’s review for The New York Review of Books. Almost word perfect. What a pity Elliot didn’t have a dollar for every time this damn review popped up in student essays; he’d have a cushy retirement fund by now. He reached for his coffee and sipped it as he considered the best way to approach this with her.

Leslie, filling in the silence, said, “If you could just let me know if you think I’m on the right track…”

Andrew Corian’s voice echoed from down the hall. Elliot could pick out about one word in three. “Automatism…cretins…instinct…freshness…”

“Well, Flanagan is certainly a useful source.” The phone on his desk rang and he cravenly went with the diversion—Leslie looked like a crier to him.

“Mills.”

Too brusque as usual. Damn. He heard the disconcerted hesitation on the other end before a female voice said, “Professor Mills. This is Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant. The president would like to speak to you. Please hold.”

The president. Sandie sounded like she thought she was putting through the president rather than the top administrator of a university. Elliot shook his head and realized Leslie was watching him attentively.

“Elliot,” Charlotte Oppenheimer’s cool New England tones greeted him a few moments later. “How are you, my dear? We missed you at Monday’s fundraiser.”

Uh oh. Elliot didn’t do fundraisers. He didn’t do sports events. He didn’t do anything resembling a social affair if he could help it. He’d gotten out of the habit, which was probably just as well for everyone else. When you were in law enforcement your circle of acquaintanceship tended to narrow to other law enforcement.

“I was sorry to miss it,” he lied, as though he hadn’t entirely forgotten about it. “How did it go?”

“It went well. Very well. Your department raised fifteen hundred dollars to expand the celebration of Black History Month.”

“Terrific.” The month before that it had been the celebration of Women’s Studies and the month before that the celebration of Asian Studies. He was glad there was so much to celebrate. He was. But there were limits to his patience and nervous energy. Standing around chitchatting with parents pretty much exceeded them.

“It was. We’re all delighted. However, I was calling for another reason. I wondered if you were free for coffee?”

“Now?”

“I realize these are your office hours, but something has come up that’s rather urgent.”

Elliot’s eyes met Leslie’s shining, expectant ones. He said, “Yeah. Of course. No problem.”

“Wonderful. We’ll see you in, shall we say, fifteen minutes? I’m working at home rather than my office this morning.”

Elliot agreed, dropped the phone in its cradle. He ignored Leslie’s obvious disappointment, saying, “I apologize. Something’s come up.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll read this over the weekend and mark down my thoughts. I should have it for you Monday. How’s that?”

“I… Sure. Thank you, Professor.” A polite kid, she managed to summon a smile, though dimmer than her usually brilliant one.

Elliot ushered her out, locked his office and headed across the crowded campus. He overtook and passed Ray’s large, gray-uniformed figure pushing his eternal utility cart, brooms, mops and buckets rattling, as the small rubber wheels jounced over the rough cement walkway.

“Morning, Ray.”

Ray threw him a suspicious sideways look and grunted something that could have been anything from “morning” to “fuck you.”

Elliot’s inner ex-law enforcement officer wondered briefly what the story was with the maintenance man. Granted some people just had an aversion to cops and ex-cops, but Ray seemed to treat everyone to that same sparkling personality. Maybe he just hated his job. Mopping up other people’s shit was no picnic—as Elliot could testify.

The president’s house was one of the oldest buildings on the PSU campus, a brick mansion in the traditional Tudor-Gothic style surrounded by coral rose bushes.

Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant, opened the door to him and led him through to a long room with beautiful windows overlooking the roses. The furniture was all white, the furnishings a clever mix of navy-and-delft-blue florals and checks. The overall effect reminded him of Blue Willow pattern china.

“Elliot.” Charlotte came to meet him, offering both hands. She looked older than her fifty-seven years, but she was still what they used to call a “handsome” woman: a little heavy, a little matronly, but elegant and beautifully groomed in a gray silk pantsuit the exact same shade of her hair.

“How are you, my dear? How are you feeling these days? We get so little opportunity to see you.”

It wasn’t exactly a criticism, or if it was, it was the gentlest kind.

“I’m settling in,” Elliot replied, which was what he always said. “Still finding my way around.” If he was still finding his way around after seventeen months, he was permanently MIA, but Charlotte probably knew it was the geography of the heart he was struggling with and not finding the science building.

“And how’s Roland? Still working on the book?”

“That’s what I hear. I think it’s his way of getting out of helping me refinish my kitchen cabinets.” Totally bogus. Roland had done the cabinets all on his own before Elliot was even out of the hospital, but Elliot didn’t want to discuss that book, that memoir of Roland’s misspent youth as an outlaw radical. He loved his dad and admired the strength of his convictions, but his feelings were mixed about a book wherein Roland celebrated trying to bring down the institutions Elliot had sworn to protect and uphold.

“And how are you adjusting to island life?”

“I like it.” That at least was the truth. Elliot hadn’t cared for Seattle. He liked the quiet and solitude of Goose Island for all its inconveniences.

“No problem with the ferry?” She was smiling, but Elliot began to feel uneasy. Why exactly was he here? He sensed that under the gracious poise, Charlotte was worried—thus the stalling with small talk. She was not ordinarily a woman who beat around the bush. In fact, most of the time she reminded him of SAC Montgomery.

As though she read his mind, Charlotte said, “Elliot, the reason I dragged you over here this morning is we’ve had something come up and I thought perhaps I might consult you unofficially.”

“Consult me?”

Charlotte started to speak, but paused as Sandie brought coffee in on a tray. Charlotte thanked her assistant, reminded her to hold all calls, and Sandie departed. Next came the rigmarole of how much cream, how many lumps of sugar, would Elliot like a cookie, and then, finally, Charlotte seemed to steel herself.

“I don’t know if you’re aware that a few weeks ago one of our students disappeared from campus. A young man by the name of Terry Baker.”

Old habits died hard. Elliot raised his eyebrows in inquiry and waited to see where this was going before committing himself.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Terry was an excellent student and, by all accounts, very responsible, but kids are kids. It’s not that we didn’t take his departure seriously, but there was no evidence whatsoever of foul play.” She held Elliot’s gaze with what he felt was almost defiant steadiness. “However, another young man is now missing.”

Elliot set his cup down. “When you say ‘now missing’…?”

“Gordie’s aunt, with whom he lives, reported him missing to the police. Unlike the Baker boy, Gordie is the kind of young man who takes off at the drop of a hat, but his aunt seems to believe that his absence is different this time and we must respect that.”

“Gordie…?”

“Lyle. He’s a junior, but this is his first year at PSU. He transferred in from Cornish. He’d had some trouble there.”

Elliot reached for his cup again. “What kind of trouble?”

“Brawling with other students.” Charlotte hesitated. “He threatened an instructor. We haven’t had any problems with him so far, and to be honest, if his aunt hadn’t gone to the authorities, I would have preferred to let Gordie return to us in his own time.”

“Are you aware of any connection between Terry and Gordie?”

“No. It seems unlikely. They appear to be very different types of young men. They were in completely different fields of study.”

“You don’t think their disappearances are related?”

“I don’t, no. Well, to be strictly honest, I don’t know. But it could very easily be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Like you, I don’t know.” Elliot finished his coffee and put the cup on the silver tray covering half the coffee table.

“But it is possible?”

“Are you asking my professional opinion? I don’t want to offer it when I don’t know the circumstances of Lyle’s disappearance.”

Charlotte grimaced. “Since Ms. Lyle has seen fit to drag the police into this, it’s only a matter of time before the media gets wind. Once the news breaks that we’ve had two boys reported missing within a month, it’s going to be all but impossible to keep the university out of it.”

“I’m afraid you’re right about that.” Elliot recognized her position, but he couldn’t fault concerned family members for going to the police.

“Given your previous experience with the FBI, I was hoping that you might be able to…shed some insight into what we can expect.”

“Well…” Elliot’s smile was rueful. “It depends on how seriously the police take the aunt’s story. And whether the FBI concludes the cases are connected.”

Charlotte physically recoiled. “The FBI?”

It was time to come clean. “This is one of those weird coincidences you have in law enforcement,” Elliot told her. “It turns out the Bakers are friends of my dad’s. He recommended they talk to me, and the upshot is, I’ve already agreed to look into Terry’s disappearance. I haven’t done much beyond talk to the special agent in charge of their case at the Bureau, but I can put you in contact with him. In fact, I’d strongly recommend communicating this new information.”

Charlotte said urgently, “But we don’t want the FBI involved.”

“They’re already involved.”

“Oh my God.” Charlotte gazed unhappily out the window at the sunlit rose garden. “I had no idea the Bakers went to the FBI. We’ve heard nothing.”

Not good. Another indication that Tucker had basically written Terry off as a runaway. Well, he always had been one for snap judgments.

Yet, ironically, he heard himself defending the lack of progress. “The Bureau is investigating, but there are contradictory indications. Terry might have left school voluntarily.”

“Of course he did. Why would anyone assume there has been a crime? There are so many other possibilities.”

Elliot recognized the inevitable signs of wanting to bargain with bad news. “It’s possible this second boy’s disappearance is a coincidence. I don’t know the circumstances obviously, but instinct tells me a second runaway in such a short time span is kind of unlikely. Still, I’ve seen weirder things. Either way, you can best control the spin by taking the initiative and going to the Bureau rather than waiting for them to come to you.”

Charlotte reached absently for a ladyfinger cookie. As she nibbled, she brooded. “Did you say you know the agent in charge of Terry Baker’s case?”

“Special Agent Lance? I’ve worked with him before.”

“And is he…discreet?”

Discreet. Not the first word that came to mind with Tucker. Not that Tucker was indiscreet. He wouldn’t have lasted long at the Bureau if that were the case. Elliot hedged, “He understands why publicity would not be in the best interests of the college and the students.”

Charlotte said quickly, “It’s not as though we were trying to cover anything up. The university policy is to disseminate information regarding security issues to students as quickly as they arise. We all understand that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Elliot nodded, recognizing an official spiel when he heard one. And, in fairness to the university, there was an excellent information network in place with security issues addressed weekly via the campus newspaper. The Safety Committee and the Director of Security met regularly, and emergency alert/warning information could be communicated campus-wide instantly via an outdoor wide-area broadcast loud speaker system, cell phones, text messaging and email notifications. Horrific things happened and sometimes it was no one’s fault.

No one but the perpetrator.

Charlotte brightened. “Perhaps you could act as a liaison between the university and the, er, Bureau?”

Elliot instantly opened his mouth to decline, but he hesitated. Really why not? He was already involved and it strengthened his position with Tucker and the Bureau just that bit more. Plus it gave him authority to question Gordie Lyle’s aunt. He said neutrally, “I can do that, if you feel it’ll help. It would probably simplify things.”

Charlotte’s relief was tempered. “Obviously we want to keep the university out of the spotlight as much as possible. We’re very proud of our safety and security initiatives at PSU. Our crime rate is historically low compared to the rest of the city.”

“Right,” Elliot soothed. “I realize that. The truth is, violence can happen anywhere.”

“Exactly!” Charlotte exclaimed. She sounded quite pleased about it.

Chapter Six

On his walk back to the Administration offices, Elliot phoned Tucker.

“Lance,” Tucker answered crisply following the second ring.

Like that, it was as though he stood in front of Elliot, all aggressive masculinity, and Elliot’s heart started to pound hard in that fight or flight reflex. It irritated the hell out of him, but there was no denying his physical response to Tucker.

“It’s Elliot.”

A pause. “Elliot.” Tucker’s tone was neutral. “What do you want?”

“I have new information for you. Another student, a kid named Gordie Lyle, has apparently disappeared.”

“Apparently?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look into it, but his aunt reported him missing to Tacoma PD.”

“What makes you think there’s a connection?”

“Gut feeling mostly. It’s one hell of a coincidence.”

Silence. Tucker said, “I don’t put a lot of stock in gut feelings.”

“Do you put a lot of stock in coincidence? Because this is a big one.”

Elliot’s daring to contradict him seemed to be the signal Tucker was waiting for. He said flatly, “Give me a break. It’s a college campus, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re doing bed checks every night. I know better.”

“The Lyle kid has been missing four days. According to his aunt, that’s not typical. And, as we both know, Terry Baker has yet to turn up after three weeks.”

“That’s it? That’s your connection? Two boys from the same college campus don’t show up to class for a few days?”

Elliot understood what Tucker was saying. And fair enough. Boys will be boys. Had Lyle been female, then sexist or not, the rules were different. Even so, given the lack of progress in the Baker case, was there a valid reason not to acknowledge a possible link?

Elliot lowered his voice to avoid the attention of students sitting nearby on the grass, engrossed in their laptops. “Are you telling me you won’t even consider a connection?”

“I didn’t say that. I said it was too soon to draw that kind of conclusion. I’ll follow it up. What’s the contact info on the Lyle kid?”

“I’m on the way to get it. But since you don’t think there’s anything to this, why don’t you let me talk to the aunt? It’s less likely to freak her out than a G-man showing up at the door.”

“No way. You want to play security consultant, that’s your business, but I don’t need your help and I sure as hell don’t want your interference in my case.”

“You just pointed out you don’t know if it is your case. Anyway, Charlotte Oppenheimer asked me to act as liaison between the university and the various investigative agencies, so I’m in whether you like it or not.”

Tucker gave a curt, disbelieving laugh. “Now the university president is dictating to the Bureau? I don’t think so.”

“She’s not dictating. She’s asking a favor. Of me.”

“Let me clarify a point here,” Tucker said almost pleasantly. “I don’t want you involved in my—”

“And I don’t give a flying fuck what you want.” That time Elliot hadn’t bothered to lower his voice.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut an ear on.

Unexpectedly, Tucker laughed. “Okay. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up.”

Elliot realized he was gripping his cell phone so hard his knuckles were white. Nothing like a little internalized stress. He said with an effort at evenness, “You’re not my first draft pick to work with either, okay? But I told the Bakers I’d try to help. I gave my word, so that’s what I’m going to do. If you don’t want me to share information I uncover, I won’t.”

“The expectation—”

“Montgomery’s expectation is that the exchange of information will be a two-way street. You know that as well as I do, Tucker. Why do you have to be such a prick about this?”

Elliot heard the echo of his words with something akin to astonishment. They weren’t really going to have this conversation were they? That was unbelievable enough—let alone that he would be the one to initiate it.

Tucker said cheerfully, “I guess you bring out the worst in me, Elliot.”

It was Elliot’s turn to laugh, though there wasn’t a lot of humor in it.

“Great. Well, maybe we can put aside our differences long enough to get through this case.”

There was a pause and then Tucker said, “Tell you what. You want to talk to the Lyle kid’s auntie, you go ahead. I have my doubts this is a viable lead, but hey. I’ve been wrong before. The university is making the connection, so maybe it exists. Let me know what you turn up.”

It was a race to see who could disconnect faster.

*  *  *

Armed with Charlotte Oppenheimer’s permission, Elliot had no trouble obtaining the contact information for Jim Feder and Gordie Lyle alike, as well as permission to look through Terry Baker’s dorm room.

Unlike Baker, Feder lived off campus. Elliot left a message for him on his cell phone and then headed over to Tetley Hall, one of the upperclassmen dorms. He located the resident assistant without trouble and was escorted upstairs to the suite where Terry had shared a living room, kitchen and bathroom with five other students. From behind closed doors he could hear the pound of music, TV cartoons and burbling voices. It was a wonder any of these kids ever got anything done. But it had been the same back when he was in college. Somehow it was easier to filter the background disturbance when you were a kid. Maybe because your entire life was background disturbance.

“I think Denny’s in class right now,” the RA said, tapping on the dorm door.

“That’s okay. What was he like?”

“Was? Terry?” The RA looked alarmed.

Elliot said hastily, “Is. What is Terry like?”

There was no response to his knock, and the RA unlocked the door and pushed it open. “He’s…quiet. He keeps to himself. I mean, his class load is intense. I just don’t know him that well.”

Elliot looked around the room. Two beds, one unmade; two desks, one cluttered; two closets, one standing open; and a shared bookshelf. There were the usual posters on the walls. The messy side of the room was graced by Beyoncé holding a parasol and Beyoncé wrapped in something that looked like sequined fishing nets. On the wall over the neatly made bed was an anti-motivational poster of a crowded drinks tray with the motto: Doesn’t matter if the glass is half-full or half-empty if you have a lot of glasses.

Elliot smiled faintly. “Terry’s side of the room?”

The RA nodded.

“Great. Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Dismissed, the RA reluctantly withdrew, closing the door behind him. Elliot picked up a framed photo of Pauline and Tom Baker with a young man he recognized as Terry from the pictures he’d seen at the Baker house. He was a nice looking kid. Tall and well-built. He faced the camera with an easy-going grin.

Elliot put the photo aside and performed a quick, professional search of the room. The police would have already been through Baker’s belongings, of course, but this wasn’t the kind of thing Elliot ever left to local law enforcement.

It took him about half an hour. His search turned up nothing conclusive. No laptop, but Tucker had already said Terry had it with him when he disappeared. The scribbles on the national parks wall calendar were mostly illegible, but they indicated appointments and plans stretching beyond the night Baker had disappeared. True, those plans could have preceded the decision to kill himself—should he have come to such a decision. Elliot could find no indication.

Baker’s wallet, keys and student ID were missing, but he would have had them with him at the library.

Flipping through a book on architecture beside the bed, Elliot discovered a birthday card serving as a bookmark. He opened the card. The usual store-bought salutation signed xo Jim.

His cell phone went off and he answered it, managing to soften his usual bark.

“Mills here.”

“Uh, this is Jim Feder.” The voice was young and pleasant. “You called me and left a message?”

Speak of the devil. Elliot tucked the card back in the book, set the book back next to the lamp and explained who he was and what he wanted.

“I don’t know,” Feder said when he’d finished. “Who did you say you’re working for again?”

“It’s more of a personal favor to Terry’s parents. They’re pretty worried.”

“They don’t need to be.”

“Really? What do you know that no one else does?”

“Nothing. I just…” Feder’s voice died away.

“Well, let’s get together and talk about it.”

“I don’t know anything. I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

Elliot had been through this more times than he could count. He said reassuringly, “That’s okay. You probably knew Terry better than anyone. It would be helpful to talk to you.” Still trying to reel him in without jerking the line, Elliot added, “If you can find the time.”

There was a decided hesitation. Feder said at last, “You’re Professor Mills? The new one who teaches history?”

As opposed to the old Professor Mills who preached overthrow of the government? “That would be me,” Elliot concurred.

Another hesitation before Feder said, “I’m getting together with friends tonight, but I guess I could meet you for a few minutes at the Wharfside in Seattle. Do you know where it is?”

“I do.” And it was a hell of a distance out of his way, but that would likely be Feder trying to avoid this meeting. Elliot didn’t intend to let that happen. “What time?”

“I could be there around five-thirty.”

“That’ll work.”

There was a sigh. Feder was definitely not happy about this. Elliot added, “I appreciate it, Jim. This will be very helpful.”

“Helpful to who?” Feder said shortly and rang off.

Elliot put his phone away, finished his exploration of Baker’s belongings and went downstairs to let the RA know he was leaving.

He had discovered nothing conclusive, but in his opinion Terry Baker had not planned to take a hiatus from his life. Elliot had found two empty suitcases stored beneath Baker’s bed and a completed essay on Sea Tac’s environmental aspects which, according to the wall calendar, was due to be handed in the week the kid had vanished. Whatever had happened to Baker, Elliot believed it had come as much a surprise to him as to everyone else.

On his way back to Hanby Hall, he called Gordie Lyle’s aunt, but after three rings it went to message. Elliot gave the spiel about who he was and what he wanted, left his phone number, and continued on to his office. He was going to be late for his Film and History: The American West seminar, but his knee didn’t like to be rushed. Rushing left him limping and in pain, something that generally only happened these days when he was very tired or had overdone it. Nothing like excruciating pain as an incentive for taking care of yourself.

He let himself into his office, gathered his notes and headed down the empty hall to the seminar room. It was a relief to find no group of students milling in the corridor. Kyle Kanza, his TA, had let them in and was taking roll.

He smiled as Elliot entered. “Hey, Professor.”

“Hey,” Elliot responded, setting his briefcase on the desk. “Thanks for holding the fort.”

He was relieved to see Kyle had the TV and DVD player set up and ready to go at the front of the room. Kyle really was the perfect TA. Smart, helpful, able to think for himself. And, despite a really awful magenta flattop and a painful-looking lip ring, he was also a nice-looking kid. An attractive mix of delicate bones, almond eyes and honey-colored skin.

Elliot turned to his captive audience and notebooks—electronic and otherwise—opened, cell phones disappeared. “Okay, just to let you know, since we’re running late, we’ll probably have to save our history versus celluloid debate till next time.”

He picked up the remote, powered on the television and walked over to dim the lights. “Though it was a commercial success, The Searchers received scant critical acclaim at the time of its release. It received zero Oscar nominations, however the American Film Institute has since named it the number one Western of all time.” He watched them scribbling frantically in their notebooks, although none of that was crucial information to remember. “Look for themes of obsession, miscegenation and racism. I think that’s about it. Starring John Wayne, Jeffrey Hunter and Natalie Wood…The Searchers.”