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being called more than darling. But now was not the time to explain her sentiments. She bit her lip and held back.

'The cottage's away from it all,' Tom continued. 'Way away, if you know what I mean. A little hunting, a little fishing, but mostly just peace and quiet.' He picked up a key chain as heavy as a barbell. I'll drive you.'

'Thank you.'

He drove a Toyota LandCruiser and chatted the whole way, as though she were a client. 'Here's our local grocery store.'

It was an enormous A amp;P Superstore.

She was surprised when he turned onto an unpaved road. They were heading straight into the woods.

'Nice, ain't it? Real pretty.'

'Uh-huh.'

Green foliage surrounded them. Jessica was not much of the outdoor sort. To her› the great outdoors meant bugs and humidity and dirt and no running water and no bathroom. Man had evolved for millions of years to escape the woods. Why rush back? But more important, her father had felt the same. He hated the woods.

Why would he rent a cabin out here?

Tom pointed to a gully up ahead. 'Two years ago, guy got killed by a hunter over there. Accident. The hunter thought he was a deer, shot him in the head.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Couple of dead bodies been found in the woods. Three in the past two years, I think. Found one girl just a couple months back. Runaway, they guessed. Hard to tell 'cause she was all decayed and stuff.'

'You're a hell of a salesman, Tom.'

He laughed. 'Yeah, well, I can tell when someone ain't a buyer.'

Jessica, of course, knew all about the bodies. The police hadn't caught the killer, but the general consensus was that the psychopath had gotten hold of one more young girl, one that had not yet been found:

Kathy Culver.

Could Kathy's fate have been that simple and that horrible? Had she been another victim of a random psychopath, just as everyone thought?

No, Jessica told herself. Too many holes.

'When I was a kid growing up around here,' Tom said, 'these woods were| filled with legends. Guy with a hook hand lived in here, the old-timers saic used to kidnap bad little boys and gut them with his hook.'

'Charming.'

'Sometimes I wonder if he moved on to young ladies.'

Jessica said nothing.

'Used to call him Dr Hook,' he continued.

'What?'

'Dr Hook. That's what we all called him.'

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'Isn't that a singer?' she asked.

'A what?'

'Never mind.'

They drove another mile away from civilization. That's the house,' Tom said. 'Up there behind the trees.'

It was a small wooden cabin with a big front porch.

'Rustic, ain't it?'

Decrepit would have been a better adjective. Jessica checked the porch, but there were no toothless hillbillies playing dueling banjos.

'Did my father say why he wanted to rent this cabin?'

'Just said he needed someplace to get away from it all in these woods.'

It still made no sense. Dad was going to be gone at a medical examiners' conference for a week out of the month, anyway. And Adam Culver was not the get-away-from-it-all type. He dealt with the dead. On vacations he wanted to be in Vegas or Atlantic City or someplace with lots of people and action. Now he was renting the Waltons' cabin.

Tom used the key to unlock the door. He pushed it open and said, 'After you.'

Jessica stepped into the living room. And stopped short.

Tom came in behind her. His voice was a whisper. 'What the hell is this?' he asked.

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33

Dean Gordon's office was in Compton Hall. The building was only three stories high but wide. Greek columns out front screamed House of Learning. Brick exterior. White double doors. Directly inside was a bulletin board filled with old notices. Meetings of the usual campus groups: the African American Change Committee, the Gay-Lesbian Alliance, the Liberators of Palestine, the Coalition to Stop the Domination of Womyn (never spell woman, for the sexism the name implies), the South African Freedom Fighters - all taking the summer off. College fun days.

There was no one inside the huge lobby. The motif was marble. Marble floors, banisters, columns. The walls were covered with huge portraits of men in graduation robes, most of whom would flip if they could read the bulletin board. All the lights were on. Myron's footsteps clacked and reverberated in the still room. He wanted to shout 'Echo,' but was far too adult.

The dean of students' office suite was at the end of the left corridor. The door was locked. Myron knocked hard. 'Dean Gordon?'

Shuffling behind the dark-paneled doors. Several seconds later, the door opened. Dean Gordon was wearing tortoiseshell glasses. He had wispy hair, conservatively cut, a handsome face with clear brown eyes. His features were gentle, as though the facial bones had been rounded off to soften his appearance. He looked kind, trustworthy. Myron hated that.

I'm sorry,' the dean said. 'The office is closed until tomorrow morning.'

'We need to talk.'

Confusion crossed his face. 'Do I know you?'

I don't think so.'

'You're not a student here.'

'Hardly.'

'May I ask who you are?'

Myron looked at him steadily. 'You know who I am. And you know what I want to talk about.'

'I don't have the slightest idea to what you are referring, but I am really quite busy-'

'Read any good magazines lately?'

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Dean Gordon's whole body twitched. 'What did you say?'

'I guess I could come back when the office was crowded. Maybe bring some reading material for the school's trustees, though I understand they only read the articles.'

No response.

Myron smiled - knowingly. At least, he hoped that was how it looked.

Myron had no idea what part the dean played in this little mystery. He had to step tentatively here.

The dean coughed into his fist. Not a real cough or throat-clear. Just something to stall, give him a chance to think. Finally he said, 'Please come in.'

He disappeared back into his office. No sucking vacuum this time, but Myron still followed. They passed a few chairs in the waiting room, a secretary's desk. The typewriter was hidden by a khaki-colored dust cover.

Camouflaged in the event of war.

Dean Gordon's office was cookie-cut university executive. Lots of wood.

Diplomas. Old sketches of the Reston University chapel. Lucite blocks with clippings or awards on the desk. Bookshelves with all nonfiction titles. The books hadn't been touched. They were props, creating the mood of tradition, professionalism, competence. The prerequisite picture of the family. Madelaine and a girl who looked about twelve or thirteen years old.

Myron picked up the photograph.

'Nice family,' he said. Nice wife.

'Thank you. Please have a seat.'

Myron sat. 'Say, where did Kathy work?'

The dean stopped in midseat. 'Pardon me?'

'Where was her desk?'

'Whose?'

'Kathy Culver's.'

Dean Gordon lowered himself the rest of the way, slowly, as into a hot tub of water. 'She shared a desk with another student in the room next door.'

Myron said, 'Convenient.'

Dean Gordon's eyebrows frowned. I'm sorry. I missed your name.'

'Deluise. Dom Deluise.'

The dean allowed himself a small brittle smile. He looked tight enough to pop a wine cork with his butt. No doubt being sent the magazine had put the screws in. No doubt Jake's visit yesterday had tightened them a little.