“Professor Morgan?”

Morgan froze. The voice was male and deep, came from the front porch.

“Hello? Professor Morgan?”

Morgan made himself calm down. A killer wouldn’t call out. He’d just barge in. Still…

“It’s Sergeant Hightower from the police, Professor Morgan.”

Morgan realized he was holding his breath. He let it out. He walked slowly into the living room, clutching the gym bag to his chest. “Yes?”

Sergeant Hightower wore his straw hat back on his head. Big country-boy smile. Heavy brown jacket over a khaki uniform. Gun slung low. “Morgan, right?”

“Yes.”

Hightower still stood on the porch, leaned into the living room without actually stepping over the threshold. “I just came from the hospital.”

“Yes?”

Hightower pulled a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket. He flipped open the notepad. “I just need to ask a few questions.” He gestured into the house. “Uh… you mind?”

“Please come in.” Go away.

Hightower eased into the living room. He looked infuriatingly comfortable with himself. He looked the place over, took off his hat, and dropped it on the sofa. His pen hovered over the notepad. “How do you know Miss Conrad, sir?”

“She’s a student.”

He nodded. “So you have her in a class then.”

“No. She is a student in the department, but not actually in one of my classes.”

Hightower raised an eyebrow. “Oh.” He wrote in his little notebook.

What are you writing? Stop that.

“Were you tutoring her?” asked Hightower.

“No.”

Hightower smiled again, wide and self-satisfied. “This isn’t like Twenty Questions, Professor Morgan. You’re allowed to volunteer anything that might speed this along.”

“We were friends. She was interested in writing.”

“Uh-huh.” He scribbled in the notebook again.

Son of a bitch.

Hightower scratched his chin with his thumb, squinted at Morgan. “Taking a trip, Professor?”

“No.” He looked down at the gym bag. “I mean yes. But not until tomorrow. I was just packing.”

“Where you going?”

Good question. “I’m going to Houston. There’s a conference. I’m attending with another professor.”

“Right.” The information went into Hightower’s notebook. “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Miss Conrad?”

“Of course not.”

“Anyone gunning for you?” Hightower asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Hightower shrugged. “Something don’t jibe. Nothing stolen, not a burglary. If it’s a rapist, he didn’t rape.”

“I talked to Ginny,” Morgan said. “She told me she kicked him in the balls and locked herself in the bathroom.”

“Maybe. But she don’t live here. You do.”

“So the rapist happened to see her come in. Then he saw me leave and figured… hell, I don’t know.”

“Sure, sure.” Hightower nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Professor.” That goddamn smug grin again. “Us country cops are slow, but once we get our teeth into something we don’t let go. This don’t seem like a normal rape attempt, but we’ll figure it.”

“And what is it exactly you figure?”

A shrug. Morgan couldn’t quite understand the cop. It was almost like he was lazily working the Sunday crossword puzzle rather than trying to solve a violent crime. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Maybe you’d better talk to Ginny,” Morgan said. Anything to get the cop on his way. Morgan couldn’t stand talking to him much longer.

“Yeah, well, I talked to her already.” He shook his head, tsked. “Her story’s about like yours. Too many gaps. But I figure she’s maybe still in shock. I’ll talk to her again when she comes around.”

Morgan cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?”

Hightower shook his head. “Nope.” He flipped his notebook closed, shoved it back into his jacket. “When you coming back from Houston?”

“Monday.”

“Right.” He put his hat back on and gave Morgan a two-fingered salute. “We’ll be in touch.”

Five seconds after Hightower left, Morgan collapsed onto his sofa. His sweaty shirt clung to him. His hands shook, knees like water. Had the cop seen how nervous he was? God, I need a drink.

Not yet.

He locked up, got in his car, and drove to Professor Reams’s house.

Morgan woke up late the next morning on Reams’s couch. He felt sore, unhappy, desperate. His life was out of control, and the only solution he could come up with was to run away and hide in Houston for the weekend. At least it would give him time to think.

Reams had been childishly overjoyed that Morgan had decided to make the conference. All Morgan had wanted to do was escape into sleep, but in his dreams, he saw Ginny’s battered face. It became Annie’s, all the guilt and bad decisions mixed up together. He’d woken in the middle of the night, his pillow damp with sweat, a feeling of deep anxiety over him like a heavy blanket. He’d finally drifted off again about 4 A.M.

Morgan heaved himself off the sofa, rubbed his back. He called out to Reams but didn’t get an answer. He found a note near the coffeepot. Reams had gone out to gas up the car.

Morgan showered, dressed.

He drank coffee and stared a long time at the phone. He wanted to call Ginny. But not to check on her, and that made him feel guilty. He wanted to get his story straight with her, didn’t want Hightower to find little details to pick at. Morgan was already a wreck. He couldn’t take another go around with the hick cop.

Okay, forget it. He drank coffee. Ginny was smart. She wouldn’t get him or herself into trouble. All Morgan needed to do was lie low for a day or two while he figured things out. And he’d been laying off the booze, trying to get healthy. The first thing Morgan wanted to do in Houston was hop off the wagon long enough for a stiff drink.

A car horn blared outside. Five seconds later, Reams stuck his head in the door. “Let’s go, buddy. Train’s leaving the station.” His finger was still wrapped, but he wasn’t sickly anymore. Reams had the energy of a kid on his way to summer camp.

“Okay.” Morgan dumped his coffee in the sink, grabbed his gym bag.

On the way out to the car, Reams said, “I had to put the Volvo in the shop. Transmission trouble. But I got us this for the drive.”

Morgan stopped on the passenger side of the brand-new Mercedes. It looked nice, long and black, tinted windows. Expensive.

He opened the back door, and the sharp stench of bourbon slapped him in the face. Dirk Jakes stuck his head out. “Hey there, Morgo-man. Ready for a road trip?”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “What the hell’s he doing here?”

“It’s his car,” Reams said.

Jakes held up a hip flask, swirled it around. “How about a little eye-opener, Morgan?”

It was actually tempting. “No thanks.” He tossed his gym bag into the backseat next to Jakes. Jakes opened his yap to say something, but Morgan shut the door on him. To Reams he said, “You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“Oh, take it easy.”

Morgan shook his head. Reams’s steadfast enthusiasm for the trip was not contagious. Morgan second-guessed his own decision to hide out in Houston at the academic conference.

Morgan climbed into the front passenger seat and Reams got behind the wheel. Reams went through a complex series of checks: headlights, windshield wipers, turn signals. He turned on the heat and set the thermostat. He was especially concerned with getting the volume exactly right on the radio.

“For Christ’s sake,” Jakes yelled from the backseat. “It ain’t the goddamn space shuttle. Just start driving.”

Morgan fastened his seat belt.

“Wagons ho, gentlemen.” Reams put the Mercedes into gear and headed for the highway.

Jakes leaned forward between Morgan and Reams. “Remember, guys. What happens on the road stays on the road.”

“Exactly,” Reams said. “Just a trio of stout lads out for a good time.”