The night class, p.18
The Night Class, page 18
She asked, “And Professor Yokver?”
“Gone to a better place.”
She was genuinely intrigued, smiling so wide that he saw the film on her tongue. “You’ve quite a murderous streak, my cherub.”
“You aren’t kidding,” he said. Jodi whimpered, and the dean slapped her hard. He could leave marks on her now.
“Don’t you want to ask about your fat friend?”
“I already know why Fruggy had to die.”
Rocky eased his gun back into the holster, knowing Cal wouldn’t run. He’d only fooled himself into thinking he’d ever had the chance to flee. The simple fact was that he didn’t want to leave. Rocky drew a finger through his crew cut. “I had to leave him in back of the radio station. He’s too goddamn heavy to move.”
Maybe Bull would find the corpse and finally act on his hunches. He’d realized Rocky was involved in something ugly but couldn’t quite figure out what. Or if he did know, he didn’t want to believe it.
Another long pause, and a charge passed between Clarissa and the dean. For the first time Caleb caught a hint of real respect between them.
“Because he was absolutely brilliant,” the lady said, no smarm in her voice. “He understood what no one else could. He knew where real power lay, and fought it with the most peaceful and passive resistance imaginable. He was too strong an adversary to leave alive.”
“He’s not gone; he’s still here. Along with Circe and my sister. You can’t get rid of any of them.”
Maybe she’d thought he’d finally cracked and paid no attention. She was wrapping up her speech, enjoying the denouement. “And this way we can dispose of them all together—in an auto accident, perhaps. The fire will do wonders to eradicate evidence, including bullet wounds. No autopsies will be necessary. All good friends, out on a winter’s night.”
“Quite nicely tied together.”
“Not perfect. But perfect enough.”
“Why tell me all this?”
“Because there’s still a chance to save you.”
That snapped up his chin. He wanted to scream and he didn’t want to scream. There was a frantic giddiness swirling around in his belly trying to get loose. If he gave in to it, he’d wind up rolling on the floor until they kicked him to death. He said, “No, there’s not. But tell me who Sylvia Campbell was, anyway.”
Clarissa uncharacteristically answered without prodding. “A prostitute.” He must’ve made a noise because she said, “You find that hard to believe?”
“Not really.”
“Our Professor Yokver was quite given to primal urges, but the ugly little man always chose to pay for such services rendered. He was full of his own neuroses.” She gestured with her fingers like moths. “Merely a tramp who wanted to get out of the gutter.” Jodi’s face grew even more ashen. “He promised her just such a chance. She was quite accustomed to paying for favors with sex, and following whatever role was assigned her.” He didn’t want to think about that. Circe in pigtails and knee socks, calling the Yok Daddy one day and dressing up like Little Bo Peep the next. “An inordinately sad girl for her age. Perhaps almost as sad as you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Once she realized that the relationship would widen and evolve she sought release from her studies. Her duties.”
“Boy, you people never get off the fucking stage, do you?”
Clarissa had tuned out his lines, as if she was trying to hit every mark, facing the all-seeing audience of the university. “Who would think that a common whore would have such integrity?” A throaty laugh filled the room.
Cal whispered to his many ghosts, “I’m proud of you.” And he was. It was they who had taught him something about life and death, the will to fight against your fragile fate, to take matters into your own bleeding hands.
“Our fair Yokver became so sentimental about her loss that he even refused to part with her belongings. That was a foul mistake.”
“Why did you put her in my room?”
A shrug that jounced her breasts flawlessly. “Consider it an experiment in behavior. I wanted to note your reaction, to see if you could be trusted to enter our circle.”
“And?”
She came over and ran her index finger over his lips, tugging at the corners of his mouth before pressing down on his tongue. She pulled out her finger and licked it like a cone. “I don’t know.”
He hoped Jodi at least still loved him a little. As if he had always expected betrayal, he looked at her with a grin and some forgiveness, as much as he could spare now. He wasn’t too surprised that his grade in the night class had yet to be given. That depended on the final exam. The dean laughed with malice, reached out with his skeletal, elongated hand and grabbed Jo by one arm, violently shoving her forward. It was important that she watch this and learn from the quiz, however it played out. She dropped to her knees again, her hands feebly reaching for Cal. The dean pulled something from the pocket of his robe. A flash of morning sunlight glinted off metal. Cal couldn’t tell if it was a knife or a gun, ruler, scissors, pen or medal. He stood and felt the crystal shards crunching under his shoes—there was an analogy to be made between their lives and the pieces of Dresden.
As the smiling dean stepped closer, a cadaver coming closer, Cal wondered if Melissa Lea would find his thesis in the bottom drawer of his desk and hunt down the truth behind the death of Circe. He hoped she still dreamed. He wished he knew what had been used to sacrifice Sylvia Campbell: a Bowie knife or a meat hook, a scalpel or an ice, pick. Their smiles took form in the dawn. Circe and the nun milled among them, frantically waving their slashed arms, trying to get his attention. Maybe there was time for one last lesson. Clarissa looked as if she might kiss him, start dancing with him, and proceed with his training. He did not know if he had passed the final. Cal could read nothing in her face. The dean kept smiling and stalking closer, perhaps to welcome him into the fold, or maybe only to get a better angle for stabbing. Outside, a green van would be parked in the street, waiting for him.
Not caring much if he survived the next moment or not, if he had joined their circle or failed the night class—as the razors of his education continued being driven into place—Caleb realized that whether this was life or death, good or evil, he had, despite all else, completed the course.
TOM PICCIRILLI
Tom Piccirilli is the author of nine novels, including A Lower Deep, Hexes, The Deceased, Grave Men and The Night Class. Tom’s poetry collection A Student of Hell won the Bram Stoker Award in 2001. His omnibus collection of 40 stories entitled Deep Into That Darkness Peering became a finalist for both the Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Awards for best collection. His short works have appeared in the anthologies Best of the American West II, Desperadoes, Guns of the West and Boot Hill. Tom lives in Estes Park, Colorado, where he’s currently working on several new novels in the horror, Western and mystery fields.
Tom Piccirilli, The Night Class
