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But I thought now that maybe I did. I just didn’t want to share them with Shanta or the FBI. I trusted her as far as I could trust anyone who had openly told me that her first allegiance was to law enforcement. To tell her about Fresh Start, for example, would be catastrophic. But more to the point—and this was key—Natalie had not trusted law enforcement.

Why?

It was something I had never really considered before. Natalie could have trusted the cops and testified and gone into witness protection or something like that. But she didn’t. Why? What did she know that prevented her from doing that? And if she didn’t trust the cops, why on earth should I?

Once again I took out my cell phone and tried Malcolm Hume’s number in Florida. Once again there was no answer. Enough. I hurried over to Clark House. Mrs. Dinsmore was just settling into her desk. She looked up at me over the half-moon reading glasses. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

I didn’t bother defending or cracking wise. I told her about trying to reach Malcolm Hume.

“He’s not in Vero Beach,” she said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do.”

“Could you tell me?”

She took her time shuffling papers and sliding a paperclip into place. “He’s staying at his cabin off Lake Canet.”

I had been invited once many years ago for a fishing trip, but I didn’t go. I hate fishing. I didn’t get it, but then again I was never one for ease-back, Zen-type activities. I have trouble turning myself off. I’d rather read than relax. I’d rather keep the mind engaged. But I remembered that the property had been in Mrs. Hume’s family for generations. He joked that he liked to feel like an interloper, that it made it more like a vacation spot.

Or like a spot perfect for hiding.

“I didn’t know he still owned a place up here,” I said.

“He comes up a few times a year. He enjoys the seclusion.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t tell anyone.”

“He tells you.”

“Well,” Mrs. Dinsmore said, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world. “He doesn’t like company there. He needs to be alone so he can write and fish in peace and quiet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Escape that hectic, jam-packed life at the gated community in Vero Beach.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re on paid leave,” she said. “So maybe you should, uh, leave.”

“Mrs. Dinsmore?”

She looked up at me.

“You know all of the stuff I’ve been asking about lately?”

“You mean like murdered students and missing professors?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“I need you to give me the address of the lake house. I need to talk to Professor Hume in private.”

Chapter 33

The life of a college professor, especially one who lives on a small campus, is pretty contained. You stay in the surreal world of so-called higher learning. You are comfortable there. You have very little reason to leave it. I owned a car, but probably drove it no more than once a week. I walked to all my classes. I walked into the town of Lanford to visit my favorite shops, haunts, cinema, restaurants, what have you. I worked out at the school’s state-of-the-art weight room. It was an isolated world, not just for the students but also for those who have made such places our livelihood.

You tend to live in a snow globe of liberal-arts academia.

It alters your mind frame, of course, but on a purely physical level, I had probably done more traveling in the week-plus since seeing Todd Sanderson’s obituary than I had done in the previous six years combined. That may be an exaggeration, but not much of one. The violent altercations, combined with the stiffness of sitting for hours in these car and plane rides, were sapping my energy. I’d been flying high on adrenaline, of course, but as I had learned the hard way, that resource was not unlimited.

As I turned off Route 202 and started climbing toward the rural area along the Massachusetts–New Hampshire border, my back started to seize up. I stopped at Lee’s Hot Dog Stand to stretch a bit. A sign in the front promoted their fried haddock sandwich. I went instead with a hot dog, cheese fries, and a Coke. It all tasted wonderful, and for a second, heading up to this remote cabin, I thought about the notion of a last meal. That couldn’t be a healthy mind frame. I ate ravenously, bought and downed another hot dog, and got back in the car. I felt strangely renewed.

I drove past Otter River State Forest. I was only about ten minutes from Malcolm Hume’s house. I didn’t have his cell phone number—I don’t even know if he had one—but I wouldn’t have called it anyway. I wanted to just show up and see what was what. I didn’t want to give Professor Hume time to prepare. I wanted answers, and I suspected my old mentor had them.

I didn’t really need to know it all. I knew enough. I only needed to be sure that Natalie was safe, that she understood some very bad people were back on her trail, and if possible, I wanted to see if I could run away and be with her. Yes, I had heard about Fresh Start’s rules and oaths and all that, but the heart doesn’t know from rules and oaths.

There had to be a way.