The Darkness - Jason Pinter [32]
somewhere. She just didn't know where yet.
She arrived at Smith College at just past noon, the
entire hundred-and-sixty-mile-plus drive taking just over
two and a half hours. Luckily there wasn't much traffic
leaving Manhattan that early in the morning. Lots of
people lived outside the city and commuted in. Not a
whole lot did the opposite. No sense paying New York
living prices and make a non-NYC wage.
Finally Paulina found herself on College Lane, which
was bracketed on the north by Elm Street. Figured, she
thought, that this pagan sanctuary of a university would
have an Elm Street.
The office of admissions was a three-level white-92
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thatched cottage with a second-level deck that hung over
the entryway. The front door had several sun chairs on the
porch, though Paulina couldn't for the life of her figure
out who exactly would choose to spend a beautiful day
sitting in front of the admissions office.
Paulina parked the rental on the lawn directly outside
of the admissions office, purposefully ignoring the yellow
sign that clearly stated VEHICLES WITHOUT PARKING PERMITS WILL BE TOWED. Paulina knew this
game. In order for her car to be towed, the admissions
office would have to call the college's office of public
safety. The public safety office would have to dispatch an
officer to survey the vehicle. If the vehicle was, in fact,
parked without a permit, the public safety officer would
then have the go-ahead to call the local police department,
who would then dispatch a tow truck to remove the offending vehicle. The entire process, beginning to end,
would take about forty-five minutes.
Paulina didn't plan to be there more than five.
She walked into the admissions office, trying to avoid
eye contact with the students huddled in the foyer reading
the campus paper and checking their cell phones for text
messages. She went right up to the registrar and planted
her hands on the counter in front of the ruddy-faced man
who looked at her like she was some vicious bear come
in from the wilderness.
"Hi," Paulina said with the conviction of a woman
who knew she'd get whatever information she wanted and
might just tear out your spleen to get it. "I'm looking for
my daughter. I was wondering if you could let me know
what dorm room she's in."
"Your...daughter?" the man said, surprised. Paulina
could tell from the man's demeanor that he was probably
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not considered any sort of threat to the student body of
this all-girl school.
"Yes. My daughter. Abigail Cole." The man sat there
unmoving. "Is there a problem?"
"Well no," he replied. "It's just that, well, most parents
have their children's phone numbers and dorm rooms
etched into their brains. You know, one of those 'always
know where to reach your loved ones' deals."
"Yeah, well I'm not one of those parents," Paulina said.
"No, you don't seem to be." He picked up the phone.
"Would you like me to call her for you?"
"No," she said. "I'd prefer if you just told me where
she lives. I'd like it to be a surprise."
"Surprise. Sure. Can I just see some ID?"
Paulina handed it over. The man took it gently between
his thumb and index finger like one might handle a piece
of forensic evidence. He looked at it, typed a few keys
into his computer, then slid it back to her.
"Thanks, Ms. Cole. Abigal lives in room three-ohthree of the Friedman apartments."
"Where can I find that?"
"It's the housing complex at the corner of Elm and
Prospect streets. But you'll need somebody to let you
in--like Abigail. The doors are locked 24/7, and campus
security is always on the lookout for people who don't
necessarily look like they know what they're looking
for."
"Thanks for the tip," she said, and left.
She drove over to the apartment complex and found a
spot in the student lot in between a Volvo that looked
sturdy enough to withstand tank fire and a Prius with a
Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker lovingly forgotten on the
rear bumper.
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She walked across the lawn toward the middle of