The dean of students’ office suite was at the end of the left corridor. The door was locked. Myron knocked hard. “Dean Gordon?”

Shuffling behind the dark-paneled doors. Several seconds later, the door opened. Dean Gordon was wearing tortoiseshell glasses. He had wispy hair, conservatively cut, a handsome face with clear brown eyes. His features were gentle, as though the facial bones had been rounded off to soften his appearance. He looked kind, trustworthy. Myron hated that.

“I’m sorry,” the dean said. “The office is closed until tomorrow morning.”

“We need to talk.”

Confusion crossed his face. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not a student here.”

“Hardly.”

“May I ask who you are?”

Myron looked at him steadily. “You know who I am. And you know what I want to talk about.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea to what you are referring, but I am really quite busy—”

“Read any good magazines lately?”

Dean Gordon’s whole body twitched. “What did you say?”

“I guess I could come back when the office was crowded. Maybe bring some reading material for the school’s trustees, though I understand they only read the articles.”

No response.

Myron smiled—knowingly. At least, he hoped that was how it looked. Myron had no idea what part the dean played in this little mystery. He had to step tentatively here.

The dean coughed into his fist. Not a real cough or throat-clear. Just something to stall, give him a chance to think. Finally he said, “Please come in.”

He disappeared back into his office. No sucking vacuum this time, but Myron still followed. They passed a few chairs in the waiting room, a secretary’s desk. The typewriter was hidden by a khaki-colored dust cover. Camouflaged in the event of war.

Dean Gordon’s office was cookie-cut university executive. Lots of wood. Diplomas. Old sketches of the Reston University chapel. Lucite blocks with clippings or awards on the desk. Bookshelves with all nonfiction titles. The books hadn’t been touched. They were props, creating the mood of tradition, professionalism, competence. The prerequisite picture of the family. Madelaine and a girl who looked about twelve or thirteen years old. Myron picked up the photograph.

“Nice family,” he said. Nice wife.

“Thank you. Please have a seat.”

Myron sat. “Say, where did Kathy work?”

The dean stopped in midseat. “Pardon me?”

“Where was her desk?”

“Whose?”

“Kathy Culver’s.”

Dean Gordon lowered himself the rest of the way, slowly, as into a hot tub of water. “She shared a desk with another student in the room next door.”

Myron said, “Convenient.”

Dean Gordon’s eyebrows frowned. “I’m sorry. I missed your name.”

“Deluise. Dom Deluise.”

The dean allowed himself a small brittle smile. He looked tight enough to pop a wine cork with his butt. No doubt being sent the magazine had put the screws in. No doubt Jake’s visit yesterday had tightened them a little. “What, Mr. Deluise, can I do for you?”

“I think you know.” Again the knowing smile. Combined with the honest blue eyes. If Dean Gordon were female, he’d be naked by now.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea,” the dean said.

Myron continued the knowing smile. He felt like an idiot or a morning network weatherman, if there was a difference. This was an old trick he was trying. Pretend you know more than you do. Get him talking. Play it by ear. Impromptu.

The dean folded his hands and put them on his desk. Trying to look as if he were in control. “This whole conversation is very strange. Perhaps you could explain why you’re here.”

“I thought we should chat.”

“About?”

“Your English department, for starters. Do you still make students read Beowulf?”

“Please, whatever your name is, I don’t have time for games.”

“Neither do I.” Myron took out his copy of Nips and tossed it on the desk. The magazine was starting to look creased and worn from all the handling, as if it belonged to a hormonal adolescent.

The dean barely glanced at it. “What is this?”

“Now who’s playing games?”

Dean Gordon leaned back, his fingers fiddling with his chin. “Who are you?” he asked. “Really.”

“It’s not important. I am merely a messenger.”

“Messenger for who?”

“For whom,” Myron corrected. “Prepositional phrase. And you a college dean.”

“I don’t need any smart talk, young man.”

Myron looked at him. “Get real.”

The dean sucked in air as if he were about to plunge underwater. “What do you want?”

“Isn’t the pleasure of your company enough?”

“This is not a joking matter.”

“No, it’s not.”

“So kindly stop playing games. What do you want with me?”

Myron tried the knowing smile again. Dean Gordon looked puzzled for a brief moment but then returned the smile. It too was knowing.

“Or should I say,” the dean added, “how much?”

He seemed more in control now. He had dealt with the blow and was carrying on. A problem had arisen. But there was a solution. There always was in his world.

Money.

He took out a checkbook from his top drawer. “Well?”

“Not that simple,” Myron said.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think someone should pay?”

He shrugged. “Let’s talk figures.”

“Don’t you think this is worth something more than just money?”

He looked bewildered, as though Myron had just denied the existence of gravity. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“What about justice?” Myron asked. “Kathy is owed. Big-time.”

“I agree. And I am willing to pay. But what good is revenge going to do her now? You are the messenger, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then go back and tell Kathy to take the money.”

Myron’s heart collapsed. This man, a man who was clearly involved in what had happened that night, believed Myron was a messenger for a living, breathing Kathy Culver. Tread gently, fair Myron. Ever gently.