No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(25)

After a short ride, we chained the bikes outside of Queens’ College and entered through the arch to the administration building, stepping back in time in more ways than one. The first person who met us was an ancient dragon lady with a dour expression soaking through her wrinkles. Apparently, one of the first to graduate from Queens’ College in the fifteenth century, she was convinced we were a couple of slimy Yank tourists out to deface her beloved grounds. We spent about twenty minutes trying to break through her prejudice, with me growing more and more aggravated.

Jennifer saw me getting pissed and knew my nascent social skills were at the breaking point. I was on the verge of simply walking into the courtyard, ignoring the old prune’s protests. Jennifer glared at me, giving me her disappointed-teacher stare, and I hissed, “Well, you take over then. Before I crack that bitch in the head.”

I saw her face flush at my cursing, her expression looking like she was trying to contain a volcanic eruption. I immediately regretted my choice of words. She clenched her teeth and bored into me with her eyes. I did what every man on earth had done since leaving the cave. I cowered.

She said, “Don’t utter another word,” then turned to the battle-axe, all sweetness and sunshine. After a bit of back and forth, the biddy was on the phone, calling down Kylie’s roommate and giving me the stink-eye. Reminding me yet again how much fun Knuckles must be having chasing bloodthirsty terrorists.

Five minutes later a slight girl with long black hair, glasses, and bushy eyebrows entered the office. She had a piercing next to her right eye, and my first thought was English lit major, but I knew better than to allow that to escape out of my mouth. Jennifer would probably punch me. I decided to let the females handle the introductions.

She shook our hands, then, speaking with a Scottish accent, said, “I’m Blair, Kylie’s roommate, and I’ll help you any way I can. I’m worried about her.”

Which popped any ideas I had about a bender in London and ramped up my concern. I said, “So you haven’t heard from her? At all?”

“No. I haven’t heard from her since she went out the other night. She never came home, and that’s not like her.”

Jennifer said, “Can we see her room? Her stuff?”

Blair looked at the battle-axe, who nodded, squinting at me as she did so. I almost said, “I won’t shit on the floor, I promise,” but bit my tongue. We left the dragon lady behind, walking to the dorm.






16




Strolling across the courtyard, Blair said, “She was seeing someone, and I figured she’d gone dancing at Cindies, but when she texted to tell me where she’d left my bike, it wasn’t anywhere near there. That was the last thing I heard from her.”

I said, “Wait a minute. One step at a time. What makes you think she was seeing someone?”

“She just was. She was very secretive about it, but I could tell. She spent too much time getting ready. Too much time trying to look nice. It was for a man.”

“So she never told you who it was?”

“No. Like I said, she kept it a big secret. I mean, she wouldn’t even admit to going out with someone. I think she was afraid of being labeled a slut or something.”

Jennifer said, “What’s Cindies?”

“It’s a local dance club. It’s actually changed names from Cinderella to Ballare, but everyone still calls it Cindies. But she didn’t go there. Well, at least that wasn’t the last place she went.”

We turned the corner, walking through an arch in a building older than our entire nation. A wooden bridge spanned a canal, and Jennifer said, “Oh my God, is that the Mathematical Bridge?”

Blair nodded and started to say something about it when I interjected, “Can we stay on point here?”

Jennifer glared at me, and Blair went back and forth between us. I stepped onto the bridge and said, “How do you know where she stopped last?”

“I don’t know exactly where, but she sent me a text telling me where to get my bike—she’d broken the chain on hers and I’d loaned her mine. I needed it later in the night . . . I mean, I was going out as well . . . and she texted where she’d left it locked up. It was nowhere near Cindies, so that’s not where she went.”

We reached the dorm, which wasn’t nearly as old as the original school buildings. It was modern, maybe built in the eighteenth century as opposed to the fifteenth. She led the way up the stairs to the second floor, and I wondered how many people had trodden the same path. I found it a little creepy, with everything built in dark wood and shadowed in a gloomy light.

She unlocked the door to their small apartment and said, “Here’s home. Her stuff is through the kitchen on the left. All of it is still there; her computer is on the desk.”

I said, “Is there Internet in here, or are you guys supposed to learn like the forefathers?”

Blair laughed and said, “Yeah, there’s Wi-Fi. She should already be hooked up, but I can’t help you if she has any passwords on her stuff.”

I pulled a slip of paper out of my pocket and said, “I got that. Jennifer, see what else Blair knows. I’m going to hit the room.”

I left them in the kitchen, walking to the doorway of Kylie’s dorm. It was small, with a simple wood desk and a double-size bed, and had a faint musty smell, reminding me of old drapes left hanging way past their service life. It was clean and tidy, with only a single pair of socks on the floor. A MacBook Pro was on the desk, an open notebook next to it, as if Kylie were coming home any minute. For some reason the scene brought about a melancholy feeling, a sad reminder of how fragile life can be.