Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [71]
“I wouldn’t know,” Butts replied acidly. “So how long were you wandering around campus?”
“Oh, for at least an hour. I am allowed to do that, you know—it’s a free country, or at least until our Republican administration has its way. Then, look out—pretty soon civil liberties will be just a fond memory. Sort of like my career, actually,” he added thoughtfully.
Lee wasn’t sure how much of what Favreau was saying was an act—he seemed to be playing with them, enjoying the self-pitying ruminations and wisecracks. He liked having an audience. That wasn’t surprising—good teachers were part actor, part scholar. According to his file, Favreau’s reputation as a professor before his fall from grace had been very good—he was popular among both students and faculty. He had a dry way of saying things that made you wonder how sincere he was.
Lee was beginning to change his mind about Favreau. He no longer seemed so pathetic or downtrodden. In fact, he was downright self-possessed, even arrogant, in his professorial way. Arrogant—maybe the contrition routine had been for the benefit of his parole officer, or maybe it too was just an act. He decided to tell Chuck later that they should watch this guy.
In the end, nothing constructive came of the interview. Favreau claimed to have been at the movies, but couldn’t produce anyone who had actually seen him there. It also struck all three of them that there was something a little tidy about his alibi—he happened to be at a movie during the time frame in which the murder was committed, but if he was setting up a fake alibi, why not do a better job? But then, with an IQ of 165, he may have already anticipated all of these questions, and, if he was the killer, be several steps ahead of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Caleb pushed back the French lace curtains and looked out the window. Soon twilight would come, and he would venture out. He loved the city at night. When the sun went down, he owned the streets. He loved to roam around when he knew everyone else was asleep. His favorite time of night was 3 A.M.—the Witching Hour, or, as his Gran had called it, Dead Time. The time when the bridge between the living and the dead is thinnest, when spirits can be seen by those who have the Gift.
He had the Gift—he’d known it since earliest childhood. He saw his first spirit at the age of five, only he didn’t know it was a spirit. He just thought it was the old man who lived across the bridge in the woods. But when his father mentioned the brutal murder that had taken place there many years ago, he knew—knew that the old man was dead and had been for many years before Caleb saw him.
He didn’t tell anyone except his Gran, and only then on her deathbed. He touched the cream-colored lace curtains fondly. She had made them, years ago, and he had taken them with him when he left. He missed his Gran. She alone understood him. She alone had kindness in her heart for him, and when she was gone, terrible things began to happen—terrible, unspeakable things. He covered his eyes with his hands to make the images go away, but that only made them burn brighter in his head. They came to him at night. But if he stayed up all night, catching catnaps during the day, that would sometimes keep the memories from swirling through his dreams, shadowy visitors looming over him as he slept.
Now he saw spirits all the time—especially the ones he killed. They came to him at night, reaching toward him with their dead, white fingers, their faces strewn with seaweed and water lilies and other flora of the rivers and streams. They looked so wistful, so lost, and sometimes they seemed puzzled, as if they couldn’t understand why they no longer walked the earth among the living. He tried to explain to them, tried to tell them why he had to do it, but the words never came. He was as mute as the lovely mermaids whose murky faces haunted his dreams.
Slowly, he let fall the