The Lesson of Her Death

sir.”
    “And you tell them that it’s
my
daughter he’s got.”
    “Yessir.”
    “If he hostages her
I’m
doing the negotiating, got it? Tell that to Slocum and Ellison and if they have any trouble with that they’re to call me. And I want somebody to keep an eye on Wynton Kresge’s house. Watch his wife and all the kids.”
    Where is she? Where is my daughter?
…
    The deputy asked, “You gonna stay here, sir? Or you want a couple men on the house?”
    “Oh, Bill,” Diane whispered. “Please God—”
    “All units in the vicinity
…”
    From outside over the PA system of both squad cars, as if in stereo, came the radio broadcast.
    “All units in the vicinity. Ten-thirty-three in progress. School of Education Building, Auden University. Assault. Man with a knife or razor in late-model sedan. No plates
…”
    Corde and Diane looked at each other.
    “Further to that ten-thirty-three. Ambulance is en route. And we have unconfirmed report that a juvenile is involved.… Make that a female juvenile about ten years of age. Repeat. Ten-thirty-three in progress
.…”
    It looked like an auto accident—the driver’s door open, the figure lying bloody and still beside the car, one foot up on the driver’s seat. Revolving red lights, men and women in uniform.
    Diane screamed and flung open the door before Corde had brought his cruiser to a stop in the school parking lot. She sprinted over the cracked asphalt to where the ambulance crew, a cluster of white-coated attendants,was huddled, working feverishly. With her hands over her mouth, Diane looked down, then closed her eyes, muttering indistinct words over and over.
    Corde trotted to the car and looked down at the bloody mass at his feet. He took a deep breath and peered over the head of an attendant.
    It was not Sarah.
    Lying on his back Ben Breck opened his eyes. He squinted and spit blood. He whispered halting yet astonished words: “Leon Gilchrist! … Following us.…” He held up his arm to examine deep slashes in the palm of his hand with serene curiosity. “I don’t feel any pain.” He looked back at Diane. “We were in the car … he just appeared. Just like that. Had a razor …”
    “Where’s Sarah?” Diane cried.
    Corde said to a county deputy, “Do you know who this man is?”
    Diane shouted at her husband, “It’s Ben Breck!”
    “She’s right, Detective.” The deputy offered Corde a bloody wallet. He opened it. Inside there was an Illinois driver’s license with Breck’s picture, a University of Chicago faculty picture ID, and an Auden ID, which identified him as a visiting professor.
    Visiting
professor. So, a temporary address and no directory assistance listing.
    Corde crouched. “Where’s Sarah?”
    “She ran. I think he’s got her,” Breck gasped. “I don’t know what happened. He was …” The words dissolved into bloody coughing. “We’d stopped and he came … up behind the car. He was … just there. Cutting me, slashing. Grabbing for Sarah.…”
    “Did he hurt her?” Diane asked, choking on tears.
    “I don’t … I couldn’t … see.”
    An attendant finished applying a tourniquet and started bandaging a deep cut.
    Corde asked Breck, “Where did they go? Did you see—”
    “There. There.” Breck reached up a bloody hand. At first Corde thought he was pointing out a direction. Butno. He saw in the front seat of the car two typed pages. Corde said, “Those sheets?”
    Breck nodded. “Take them. Read … I’m getting very dizzy. My mouth is dry.…” He closed his eyes.
    Corde picked up the sheets. He started to read. His attention flagged and he looked down. Diane took Breck’s face in both of her slick, red hands and shouted to him, “You’re going to be all right! You’re going to be fine! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?”
    She looked up at her husband. Corde put his hand on her shoulder. She picked it up and flung it off then lowered her head to Breck’s chest and began to cry.
    It wasn’t until the ambulance left a minute later, kicking up dust and siren howling, that Corde walked abruptly back to his car and sat in the driver’s seat. Finally he began to read.
    They stepped over a tangle of brush, between two beech trees that pretty much marked the start of Corde’s backyard and entered the forest at the exact spot he had seen, or imagined, the moonlit face staring at the house a month before. They walked on a carpet of spring-dried leaves and low raspy grass, yellow and