The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (5 page)

“What are you thinking?” Stephanie asked.

“I am thinking I have become the beast of a thousand nightmares. I live if you die, that is my curse.” He worked an arm under her body and lifted her head onto his lap. “I can never love, not as a man is meant to love, but realize this, in the still chambers of my heart, I have love for you. The way a father feels love for his daughter, yes, this is what I feel for you. I have caused such heartache. Your parents will never stop grieving your loss.” He brought her against his chest and leaned down to rest his cheek against the top of her head.

“I don’t want to stay here by myself.”

He took in the radiance of her spirit and sighed. “I will keep my vow and tell the police how to find you. But first, I must return you to the earth and this takes time. When all that remains are bones to mark your passing, I will lead them to you.”

He wrested her body from the bag and gently laid it inside the hole. He whispered a prayer as if God might actually take an interest in what he had to say. Leaning into the shallow hole, he softly kissed her on the forehead. “Good-bye, dear Stephanie. Rest in peace, child. I beg you.”

She floated past him and eased into the grave. “Do not forget me.”

“I could not forget you even if I wanted to.”

Her eyes closed as she disappeared inside her body. To the west, lightning flashed over the distant mountains. He grabbed the shovel and, with trembling hands, went to work.

Evening arrived with the rumble of thunder. Fat, gray clouds blew over the mountains and broke open. Rain and hail hammered the roof of the house. Mr. Howard checked the clock on the wall.

Damn it.

He would need to leave within fifteen minutes in order to make it to class on time.

The hail stopped before he climbed into his Mercedes, but rain continued to fall in wind-driven sheets. The pattering rain and squeaking windshield wipers performed a seasonal melody. There was one blessing in the rain—no crazy bicyclists to dodge. They invaded the town like parasites, weaving in and out of traffic and popping up in blind spots. A year before, he hit a bicyclist named Harvey Langford. Poor Harvey, he would have ridden away with a few bruises if he hadn’t threatened to file a lawsuit. Good thing the accident took place with no one around to witness it.

Mr. Howard often recalled Harvey as he drove past his unmarked grave in the foothills. “How is that lawsuit coming, Harvey?” he would shout out the window and smile. But in the end, Harvey had the last laugh. His spirit appeared inside Mr. Howard’s house, tearing through the rooms on his phantom bicycle. “I’m still going to sue your ass,” he’d shout. Someday, he would need to find a way to return Harvey’s bones to his family out in California.

The rain ended by the time he arrived on campus. He parked and set off toward Van Adams Hall. Lamplight reflected in puddles on the sidewalks. Raindrops glistened on blades of grass. Brian Spriggs ran past, carrying the sweet fragrance of cannabis. “You’re gonna be late, Professor.”

And you are going to dead in five years.
Mr. Howard waved. “Keep running, Brian, but you will never catch up to your dreams.”

“Mr. Howard, Mr. Howard,” a voice called behind him. He cringed and turned around. Van Adams jogged in his direction. Pudgy and balding, dark eyes hidden behind thick black spectacles, he projected neither confidence nor authority. To Mr. Howard, Van Adams was the kind of man you’d like to kick in the nuts, if for no other reason than to wipe the stupid grin off his face. He was a clown in need of a circus, a monkey in need of a hurdy gurdy man. Despite his Harvard education, he only landed his job at the university because his wealthy grandfather donated vast sums of money to construct monuments to himself such as Van Adams Hall. Van Adams passed himself off as a righteous man. He dragged his millstone to church every Sunday morning, gaining forgiveness before the ink dried on his check. But he was no saint, as evidenced by his licentious behavior at the last faculty Christmas party. Mr. Howard made it a point to gather information on anyone he considered a threat. He had enough dirt on Van Adams to bury him.

“Luther, you are out of breath. Have you been chasing sorority girls again?”

Van Adams grimaced. His attraction to female students was a poorly kept secret, not that it bothered Mr. Howard. A rumor whispered amongst professors told of a naked coed who ran bleeding from Van Adams’s home. It took a million persuasions to ensure her silence. Mr. Howard didn’t give a damn what inspired the bumbling academic as long as he stayed out of his business.

Unfortunately, this was not the case. Three years prior, when Van Adams name came up for the position of assistant dean, Mr. Howard protested the promotion most vigorously. “There are candidates who are better qualified,” he told anyone who would listen. His advice went unheeded and Van Adams got the job. Now he made it his mission to get Mr. Howard’s position eliminated. Twice, he proposed letting him go due to budget constraints. Twice, Leslie had saved his job. Who would save him after she left?

“Mr. Howard, you are a pompous ass.”

“Come, Luther, you did not run after me just to tell me that.”

Van Adams gestured toward the building. “We’ll talk on your way to class.”

He grunted under his breath and fell in alongside Van Adams. “So, what are we to talk about?”

“By now you are aware of Dean Harris’s retirement.”

“Yes, most unfortunate. Are you planning to retire as well?”

Van Adams eyebrows pulled down. “Of course not.”

“Also most unfortunate,” Mr. Howard said.

Van Adams held the door open for him. “There will be changes at the University with a new Dean.”

“You are referring to budget cuts.”

“I’ll discuss your position with Dean Tolliver.”

Mr. Howard stopped outside his classroom. “Luther, let us be frank. You do not like me. I do not like you. That is the way of things. You will try to convince Dean Tolliver that my position is expendable. She will discover after spending five minutes in your company that you are an asshole. Let us hope she has the good sense not to be swayed by your lineage.”

Van Adams pulled back, chin toward his chest, lips quivering. “What are you suggesting?”

“We understand each other too well to dance around the truth, yes? Either I stay on in my current position, or I leave. Is that not how it goes?” He opened the classroom door but paused. “Tell me, Luther, considering your education and family background, why do you think the Board of Trustees decided not to promote you? Perhaps they too share my doubts regarding your capabilities? I will leave you to ponder that question. Good evening.” He stepped into the room and closed the door before Van Adams had an opportunity to reply.

Mr. Howard smirked as he walked to the desk. The students stopped talking and followed his movement. They never felt totally comfortable in his presence and how could they considering his appearance? Skin the hue of a snow-covered field. Wavy silver hair that hung to his shoulders. Grey eyes capable of such intensity; the bravest soul withered under their glare. To compensate, he did his best to make the class enjoyable. He employed the motto of “no one left behind” long before the idiots in Washington stole it. Open book tests and grading on a curve ensured all of his students passed the course, which in turn made him one of the most popular professors at the college, another sore subject with Van Adams.

He sat at his desk and sorted through paperwork. Karen fidgeted in her seat on the front row. She wore a black mini skirt that left little to the imagination, not that he needed to use his after her previous peep show. She held a paperback on her lap. He smiled at the title. “I see you are reading about vampires, Miss Webster.”

She stopped fidgeting. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Perfect sparkly vampires.”

“Yeah.” She shifted in the seat. “Edward is sexy.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “And what makes him sexy? Because the author tells you he is?”

“He sounds sexy.”

Soft laughter filled the classroom. She stared at her lap and flushed.

“Do not listen to them. Vampires are sexy creatures, yes? Even old ones, I do believe.”

She looked up at him and flashed dazzling white teeth.

“Would you not think me sexy if I were a vampire?”

She continued to smile. “Very sexy.”

One day he might have to find out if she was serious. He pulled a textbook from his attaché, stood, and strolled to the podium. “As I recall,” he said, putting on his glasses, “you were to read the chapter on Slavic mythology.”

A groan went up.

“Now, children, why do you complain if you fail to do your assignment? Could it be you were too busy making mischief of some sort? Were you using drugs? Binge drinking? Or perhaps your libidos ran wild.” He shook his head. “Very well.” Moving out from the podium, he walked straight to Karen. “May I see your book?”

She held up her textbook.

“No, the other one.”

She looked to her left and right before sheepishly pulling the novel from her backpack. “Do you want to read it?”

“No,” he said, taking the book, “I know all I need to know about vampires.” He remembered Stephanie, alone and afraid inside his basement. If only real life could be like fiction. “This novel is about sacrifice, yes? Does not the protagonist sacrifice her life in order to be with the vampire? Maybe not in a literal way, but she is willing to change herself. Humans have sacrificed other humans since the dawn of time. The Incas favored the sacrifice of children in a practice known as Capacocha. Fattened up on a diet of llama meat and maize, they were sacrificed at high altitudes to be closer to the gods.”

Several of the students squirmed on their chairs.

“Terrible, yes?” he continued. “The Aztecs held ceremonies involving human sacrifice at least once a month. Their first recorded sacrifice was that of King Coxcox’s daughter, who they killed and skinned while creating Tenochtitlan. They believed sacrifices were necessary to pay a blood debt to the gods, who had sacrificed themselves to create the world for men.” He closed the book and brought it against his forehead. “A blood debt to the gods. What god could demand such a toll? The same one who created vampires?” He lowered the book. “It is a curse to live through the death of others, would you not agree?”

“You talk as if vampires are real,” Spriggs said.

“I am a vampire.”

“What kind of drugs are you taking?” Spriggs asked.

Mr. Howard went to Karen and held out the book. She stared up at him through half-closed eyes. Bedroom eyes. “Our friend Mr. Spriggs does not believe me a vampire. Who would like to see me kill Mr. Spriggs and drink his blood?”

Hands shot up around the room. He chuckled. “It seems, Mr. Spriggs, you are not popular with your classmates. Unfortunately, I do not consider you worthy of a sacrifice. Perhaps if I were an Aztec, I would cut out your heart and skin you.”

Spriggs slouched in his seat in an effort to become as small as possible. Mr. Howard returned to the podium. He cracked open his textbook and thumbed through the chapters until coming to Slavic mythology. He looked up from the book. “Excuse my wandering introspection. My mind is far away I fear, but I will do my best to battle through these distractions. Now for our friends, the Slavs.”

Another groan went up and he smiled. Spriggs held his book in front of him with his eyes peeking over the top.

It is right that they fear me.

When class ended, Karen was the last to leave. She stopped in front of him, the scent of musk wafting from a spot on her neck. Her jugular pulsated with the rush of blood. “I do think you’d make a sexy vampire.”

Her words played inside his head like Chausson’s
Poeme
. It took all his fortitude to keep from touching her. “Why, thank you, Karen. You have made my day.”

She held him in her gaze for several seconds before walking away. When she disappeared out the door, he took a deep breath and held a hand to his chest. “I am much too old for this.”

He returned to his desk and read the
Apology of Socrates
. He had no reason to stay, but found himself not wanting to return to an empty house. If Stephanie was there, they could talk. If Stephanie was there, tied against the wall, her life fleeting with each passing second. She had never been his friend. No. He must remember the reason she had been his guest.

Footsteps approached in the hallway outside. Two people. Heavy footfalls. Probably grown men. One carried the stench of cigarette smoke. The handle on the door rotated with a click. Killgood and Willard stepped into the room. Willard carried a box. “Good evening, Detectives. I did not expect to see you again this soon.”

They walked to the desk. Willard dropped the box with a thud. “Stephanie Coldstone’s personals.” He squinted like an Old West gunfighter.

Mr. Howard snapped his book closed and turned to Killgood whose eyes betrayed quiet desperation. “Still no word on the girl?”

“We wouldn’t be here if we knew anything,” Willard answered.

Killgood flattened his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “We may be running out of time.”

“I understand.” Mr. Howard’s attention moved to the box. “Did you ask the girl’s parents for these items, Detective Willard?”

“I did.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“More than you know.”

Mr. Howard brought the box onto his lap. “Let me see what you have brought.” He rummaged through the items. “Yes, yes, this might do.”

“What do you mean by might do?” Willard asked.

“This is not an exact science, Detective. If scientists could understand and control my abilities, then even men of your limited capacity would be able to use it.”

“You haven’t shown me anything yet.”

He smiled at the detective. “Did my previous visions turn up anything?”

“Yeah, stones covered in ice.” Willard folded his arms across his chest.

“And what of Johnny Depp and Bethord?”

“Bethord, Ohio, is Stephanie’s hometown,” Killgood said.