34
Rune Alignment
Chapter 11.
"You want fries with that?" the server asked with a great smile.
"Yes, please," Bobby answered the girl. He had left the office and driven home about an hour after the other three had left, changed his clothes and headed to the university. He parked and walked around for a while, looking at faces, trying to find the student Elliott. What were the chances, he asked himself. Bobby figured the guy had to eat sometime and so did he, so Bobby picked this place. It was a typical student restaurant, family style with lots of good, cheap food; food that guaranteed the freshman fifteen and then some.
Bobby looked around. Couples on dates, buddies hanging out, girls in groups of two and three. All looking really, really young and making Bobby feel much older than his 45. I could be their father, he admitted sadly. He watched a few families, probably graduate students with kids. He was the only one sitting alone. So what else was new? He wished he had had a photo of Elliott to show. He would have to keep his eyes open and see if he and Elliott crossed paths tonight.
"Ketchup and mustard are on the table, can I get you anything else right now? More coffee, maybe?" the server, 'Kimber' according to her tag, asked with another big smile as she set his plate before him.
"No, thanks, not right now," he smiled in return. Bobby slathered his sandwich with mustard and dug into his pastrami with zeal, he hadn't eaten all day.
It was getting dark by the time he left the restaurant. He decided to walk the streets surrounding campus and check a few bars, looking for Elliott. It was a stab in the dark, since he had no idea about this guy. However, he did find two places that served his Weihenstephanuer Hefe Weiss bier. Two glasses and two cigarettes at each place and he was ready to park it somewhere.
He couldn't stop wondering, worrying about Gleason. He sensed she would be safe in her apartment. Although, if he was able to get into her building without a hitch, so could anyone. He wanted to call her new cell, hear her voice, talk with her, and see if she was all right. Hell, he didn't even know if she'd taken the cell phone from the hallway. If he called, if that cell phone rang, it would terrify her. She wouldn't answer it anyway; she hadn't answered the door and had unplugged her landline. She had isolated herself from the rest of the world; she was denying reality. Unless someone kicked in her door, she was physically safe. Emotionally was another story.
Bobby found himself heading for his car. Gleason's place was just a few blocks north of here. He could walk it, should walk it, and walk off this buzz; but he wanted to keep an eye on her place so he needed his car.
He drove the short distance to her building, passed it and turned around so he could park on the street and face her apartment side of the building. It was dark now. He sat and watched the parking lot; he could see the lobby door as well. One light showed in one of her apartment windows. The windows in the other apartments on that side were dark. He got comfortable and watched. It was like a stakeout in the old days. More was at stake this time, though. He didn't know what he thought he would see, sitting here in the dark. Several people walked by, not even noticing him. Why do I eat pastrami? he thought as his chest burned and he rifted up another cloud of toxic fumes. And drink beer with it? Four beers, Jesus. It was good, though. But worth it? Yeah, it was worth it. He opened the glove box and rummaged for an antacid. Damn, nothing. He settled back and yawned; he needed to sober up a little, too. He wished he had another cigarette.
Well, who is this? My, my, it's the good detective. He must not be planning to visit since he's parked on the street, must be on a stakeout. How exciting! Just like on the cop shows. What does he think he's going to see, someone trying to break into the fair lady's chamber? Ha! No one wants that bitch. No one thinks she smart, not any more. I wonder if he's going to try and visit her later. I certainly hope so. That would be sweet, maybe walk past him. Say 'Evening' to him. Maybe brush against him. Knowing where he was going, what he was going to try and do with her. She wouldn't let him, though. No one can touch her but me. She's mine.
Gleason looked for an aspirin. She found none. Her head continued to pound. Her midsection ached. Crying always did this to her, made her sick. She was so tired of crying. She'd done more crying in the last eight years than the rest of her life combined. Why couldn't she have a normal life, like other people? Her birth and early childhood were not like other people. Her years in child protection were not bad, but certainly not normal. The years with the Lockharts were as close to normal as she had ever been, but even those were odd.
She sat on the couch and looked around her flat. It had that refugee look: bare essentials, no personal items, no evidence of a past life. It didn't bother her that she had no effects, no photos, artwork, books, or mementos. She had never been anywhere long enough to gather such things, except maybe those with Clive.
Gleason's life seemed to progress in four to six year chapters. Her first six years were spent on the island between North Ronaldsay and Fair Isle, then four years in child protection in Glasgow, six years with the Lockharts in Luton, four years as a young student at Cambridge and four teaching at Doncaster Institute. After that, four years of field authentication work for a private collector and then five years at the University of Manchester doing graduate work and teaching.
The years at U of M were probably her happiest. She loved the area, all good people; she could have made Stockport her home. She had even dated a member of the United's football team, Gavin. He was a lot like Bobby, big, shy, kind, gentle. She would have had kids with Gavin; had a normal life, maybe. However, she followed her mentor to Edinburgh, finished her doctorate and second book and met Clive. Then she got the job at Oxford and they moved south. Here she was, thirty-nine years old, living alone in New York in a three room flat with charity shop furnishings; hiding from Clive. She sighed and pulled the throw tighter.