Page 12 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Housing for girls that get knocked up.”
“Excuse me?” Beyond chilly.
“You know. They get pregnant without waiting for that ring on the finger.”
“They’re students?”
“Yeah. They’re a quiet bunch, don’t bother us much. Since I’ve been here, we’ve had only one other call from out there. Residents said they’d had a break-in. Appeared they had, so I rolled it over to you guys.”
“Did you ask the name of today’s caller?”
“No.”
“Don’t you keep a log?”
“Yes. But I got distracted because something was going on.” The kid’s brows dipped in thought. Which seemed to be a new experience for him. “Right. A moron ran his car into the gate out front. Did you see the whack in the brick?”
“What’s the story on this privy?” Slidell was out of patience.
“Beats the shit out of me.” Goofy grin. “Get it?”
“Hilarious. You know what ain’t hilarious? You wasting my time.”
The kid’s hand rose to pick at his cheek. A decidedly bad idea.
“Take us to this privy,” Slidell demanded.
“I’ll have to—”
“Now!”
The kid swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple hopping. “Do you have your own vehicle?”
“No, genius. We was beamed out here by—”
“What’s your name,” I asked, smiling kindly.
“George,” he offered, sullen now because of Slidell’s bluster. Or due to Skinny’s failure to treat him as one of his brethren in blue.
“You lead, George,” I said. “We’ll follow.”
George pulled on a battered leather jacket, then donned a hat that made me think of Barney Fife. I half expected him to say, “Let’s nip this in the bud.”
Outside, George slid behind the wheel of a golf cart displaying the school’s emblem on its front hood. We got back into Slidell’s 4Runner.
Throughout the early-morning drive west on I-85 and across Belmont-Mt. Holly Road, Skinny had remained uncharacteristically quiet. Thankful, though curious, I’d taken his cue and focused on answering and, mostly, deleting emails on my phone. I exchanged a series of texts with Katy on the joys of unpacking.
The previous night, when I’d shared with Slidell my plan to check out the GPS coordinates carved into the eye, he’d launched his usual salvo of protests. Typical Skinny performance. Then, seeing I wasn’t to be dissuaded, he’d insisted on accompanying me.
I wasn’t sure of Slidell’s motivation. Slow day in the gumshoe business? Bad feeling about the eye? Maybe Skinny’s goddam paternalism was simply surfacing again.
Full disclosure. I was glad Slidell was with me. I wasn’t sure where the coordinates would lead. Or what we’d find there. I was on the same page with Skinny. A human eyeball did not bode well.Maybehuman eyeball.
The sky was gloomy and overcast, the air late-January cold. I’d brought gloves and worn boots and a parka. Still, I hoped we wouldn’t be outside long.
I took in the view as we looped a small perimeter road. I knew little about Belmont Abbey College, the bulk of which I’d learned via the internet the previous night. Including the following:
The seven-hundred-acre campus contains a Benedictine monastery, home to about twenty-five men committed to prayer, work,and virtue. It also contains a Catholic liberal arts college, home to about seventeen hundred students presumably committed to similar pursuits. Perhaps not in the same order.
