17

She tilted the mug back, letting her fingers arch out, letting the initial mouthful linger in her mouth. She eventually swallowed; without haste, without barbarity. "This is good."

I stared at my mug. The pitch liquid stared back, strands of steam lapping against my chin. Too hot to drink, I assumed. "I'll try some in a second."

"It's complex." Linda adjusted in her booth, curled her legs up under her. "Nutty, slight hints of citrus."

"Oh, cool." The surface of the liquid shimmered as a newcomer shut the coffee shop's door. "I don't know that much about the stuff."

She took another sip, with more gusto. "That's fine. Most don't, I'm realizing. And much to my chagrin."

I bounced a leg against the ground, nervously. Less steam pour from my mug, so I took it up in both hands and had a sip. It tasted like coffee. "Huh."

Linda continued. "When you enjoy something this much, when you're passionate--" her fingers hooked through the mug handle and slowly pulling in like a scorpion's stinger, the hard consonant sound at the end of her last word thudding across the table into my lap "--about something, especially something most people take for granted, they called you a snob and elitist."

I saw my CD tower spinning. "I think I can relate."

"Because if you end up chatting with people about something you're passionate about, they start to assume you're trying to warp their way of thinking, like, like their actions or perspectives aren't good enough."

"Like they're getting defensive."

"Exactly." She looked down into the cup, as if she'd find her answers there. "Sometimes I keep a low profile, because."

"Because?" My leg slowed down, cut the beats-per-minute to a slight thump.

"Because when I start getting involved in things, I start caring. A lot. And that just results in ostracization for piercing peoples' comfort zones, or whatever."

"Can you give me an example?"

"Well." She looked up, at me, eyes on eyes. "We'll use coffee as an example. I started drinking coffee when I was younger. Nine, I think." I raised my eyebrows. Her eyes did not move. "My parents drank stuff from the grocer's, the stuff in the can. You know. They'd always let me try it. So I got hooked. I never thought twice about it until high school. One of my friends, she was really into coffee. Would go out of her way to buy coffee for herself, get little bags of un-ground beans from a co-op nearby. I thought she was crazy."

"Huh."

"Well, she was. But that's not the point--she'd store a small grinder, this little burr grinder with its own cleaning brush, in her locker, take it out during a study hall and actually make coffee in the art room. No one was there during that period. She got me hooked. I could actually taste the difference, so it wasn't some sort of caffeinated brainwash session. But she explained a lot about the beans, where they came from, the different nuances you'd usually find from the various origins. And the more I drank the good stuff," she circled the rim of her mug with a fingertip, "the more I distanced myself from what my folks drank."

"I take it your parents didn't take too kindly to that."

"I don't think they cared. But after a while, they did notice that I was drinking something different. And I explained what it was, they got defensive."

"Agitated."

"Right. They made these comments, ones that were laced with criticism, like I was too good or high-brow for their coffee. Like that."

"Yuck." I took a sip from the coffee; it had cooled considerably, and was pretty good. My palette grasped for the nuances Linda spoke of, though, only letting them slip through the metaphorical fingers. I tried to generate adjectives, but none that could be applicable--'swarthy,' for instance.

She shrugged. "So now I just avoided showing how much I care about certain things."

The coffee felted thicker going down. "Student activities isn't exactly the best place for keeping a low profile."

"No, it's not. But I feel like I'm able to do what I need to do--call shots, even--without really letting people know about, you know..." She drifted off as she refilled her cup, tipping the cylindrical press pot like so.

"Without letting them think you're so into it that you're part of the elite."

"Yeah."

My leg had stopped drumming. "Should we get another?" I pointed to the press pot.

Linda sipped and looked up, to the wall-mounted clock near the espresso machine. "No. I need to be back soon." She brushed a bang back, around the curve of ear. "I'm thinking about round two."

"Oh."

"You can do better than that."

"Huh. Well," my mind flipped through an appointment book, "are you doing anything Friday night?"

Linda swung her legs from under her, brushed past my pant legs. Tactile exclamations ran marathons up and down my shins. She cocked a ghost of a grin. "Why, no, I'm not. Besides meeting you again, I mean."

16

The next few days were intangible, a sticky morass of emotions tangled amidst interspersed events. I finished a test on auto-pilot, chewed and swallowed without realizing what food was in my mouth, and came and went from my dorm in a sort of seamless haze that did not actually involve entering or leaving the dorm.

I called to add the last bit--presumably the most important--to the band profile in the SA office, foregoing the trip with a cocktail of cowardice and uncertainty. Having relayed the change to one of the male activities staff, I found Linda's apartment number in the student directory, called it, and left asked her to call me back sometime that night, all underscored by a voice taut with immature, fragmented desire.

I disconnected the call, let the receiver dangle from slack fingers. After several minutes I set the phone back in the cradle and geared up.

Across campus, the band competition posters really started to draw some attention. It seemed like the murder was fading further and further into the rearview, and the campus could put both hands on the wheel and steer through the rest of the semester. I hadn't paid much attention to them either, honestly; but seeing a gaggle of undergrads shuffling around the poster piqued my interest some.

'Garish' was probably the best word to use; the sign sagged under the oversized fonts and screeching colors, a text bubble with "ROCK AND ROLL" in it blimping above the rest of the poster and crowding out any breathing room for the poor letters and clip art at the bottom. The date and time--less than two weeks--were staggered across the bottom, all underneath a strip that read: "BATTLE OF THE BAND'S COMPETITION--THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE WITH PRIZES" 'Horrible,' as a descriptor, could probably have worked as well.

I tried not to snicker, letting out something that I managed to cover up with a cough. The students looked at me, then back to the sign. "This is so going to rock," one announced, almost to reassure herself that it was, perhaps, going to rock.

"I hope Wes's band wins," said another. Wes's band was terrible.

"Yeah, 'there can only be one.'" The two girls nodded to their male companion.

I spoke up. "Or is it, 'there can only be one with prizes'?" They looked at me like I'd just urinated on their thrift-store loafers. "Which seems kind of redundant. I mean, usually the prize goes to the winner. Unless there are lots of prizes. Or if prizes go to someone who isn't the winner."

The pack of students scampered away. I hadn't even gotten to my question about how complex the battle between competitions could get. Grabbing a to-go sandwich from the Snack Shack, I went back to my dorm room with hopes of getting some studying in; finals for the semester were the same week as the competition, with the actual concert acting as a send-off for the students until January.

As I unlocked my door, the phone began to ring. I set my sandwich down on the desk and answered.

"Why, hello," was the response. "You wouldn't happen to be busy tonight, would you?" It was Linda.

15

I didn't tell the guys about Linda, nor the coffee rendezvous; I was still in a state of shock, not sure how to ship it to them in a way that wouldn't immediately be scuttled. I did relate the rest of the student activities trip, though.

Matt set his novel down, squaring it with the edge of the table. "We need a name. Pronto."

"I was thinking the same thing," Steve said.

"Stat!"

"Right." This would be tough--we decided earlier that we needed something that we not only liked, but wasn't in use. We'd all seen short-lived bands unknowingly use monikers all ready in use by indie bands, and attempts to let someone know were always derailed by the student bands folding after one (usually disastrous) gig. We didn't want to repeat this ourselves. Matt acted as some sort of fact-checker, since he stored an unparalleled amount of music trivia in his noggin.

"We can always use 'Supreme Catholic Finger.'"

"Hell no."

"We don't want to sound too smart."

"'Supreme Catholic Finger' does not run the risk of sounding too smart."

"I wasn't necessarily talking about that, I mean--"

"How about 'the Beetles,' like with an 'e' in pl--"

"How about no."

"How about you j--"

"How about 'Karate'?"

"That's taken."

"Then 'Judo CHOP,' with more emphasis on the chopping."

"Or 'Fecal Tower.'"

"I would quit the band."

"'Jackie Gleeson's Understudy'?"

"'Death Pinwheel.'"

"We would draw lots of metal heads, for sure. And make lots of enemies."

"I'm thinking 'Swiss Water Process.'"

"We can go the one-word route--'Pain.'"

"Yow. Some names just beg, beg for insults."

"'Dump.'"

"'Stained Mattress.'"

"Wow, we are definitely vomiting out the worst ideas ever."

"'The Happiness Band'?"

"'Give Us Money.'"

"'Palpable Darkness.'"

"Again, metal fans..."

"'Film Noir.'"

"'A John Ford Western.'"

"'The Constipation Band.' No, 'the Constipation Diary.'"

"Steve, there's a theme in all of y--"

"'The Robber Barons.'"

"Taken, but that's a good one."

"'Captains of Industry.'"

"Taken as well."

"'Captain of Industry'?"

"Ditto."

"Dammit!

"'Supreme Catholi--'"

"Time to stop it, Steve."

"'Boredom.'"

"Sounds too much like the Boredoms."

"'Unquestionable Lovechild.'"

A group of sophomores walked by our table, goggling and squinting and puckering lips.

"That might mean no."

"Why are all of the good names taken?"

"'Favoritism.'"

"Good, we need more abstract ideas coalesced into band names."

"OK. 'Politics.'"

"'College.'"

"Huh. 'Job Description.'"

"'Favoritism in Politics.'"

"'Flaming Shit Bag.'"

"'Hulkamania.'"

"'Face vs. Heel.'"

"'Rage Virus.'"

"'Airborne Sickness.'"

"'Widescreen.'"

"Hmm. That's getting better. But people will think we're fat."

"'Candygram.'"

"Getting colder..."

"'Epicenter.'"

"Warmer..."

"'Twilight Eyes.'"

"Frigid. Is that a Blue Oyster Cult song?"

"'Fell On Hard Times.'"

"Oh, we're singin da blues!"

"'Rationale.'"

"Whoa, I'm a fan."

I drummed my pencil. "Keep going, though. This is fun."

"OK. 'Wickett.'"

"Bzzt. Next."

"'The Retarded Men.'"

Matt and I pretended we didn't hear anything. "'The Royalists.'"

"That's a good stand-by, at least."

"'Beastmaster.'"

"'Stabbity Stab.'"

"'Altered Beast.'"

"'Ticket Taker.'"

"'The Bottle Rockets.'"

"That's taken. And they're good, too."

"OK. 'The Bottle Rockets UK.'"

"You're kidding."

"Hey, it's worked before."

"This is starting to become decidedly not fun."

"'Old Boys Club.'"

"That's another good one. Keep it on deck."

I held up my pencil, like a flagpole quaking under duress. Steve and Matt stopped mid sentence and looked at me. "Let's just go with the Rationale, OK? I have a feeling we're going run into a brick wall, like, really soon if we keep this up."

Matt nodded, slowly at first. "I can live with that. It has class."

"And style."

"And it appeals to the intellectuals, but rolls off of the tongue in a delightful manner so that the commonfolk can feel at home. 'Hey honey, fix me up some er them flapjacks. Ima puttin on the Rationale.'"

"It sounds like a cologne in that context."

"At least no one will confuse us for angry white kid music."

"Excellent," Matt said. He batted his novel between his hands, a real-time reenactment of Pong. "I'll call student activit--"

"I can do it," I said. I tightened my grip on the pencil.

Matt narrowed his eyes. "OK."

And they did not see my hand, under the table, shaking.

14

"Oh."

"Linda."

She wore a vermillion cardigan, the sleeves rolled back. The cinnabar lip gloss embraced light, offset by the gentle curve of teeth. Her hair bobbed in a pony tail.

I didn't know what to say.

She blocked the exit. "You're keeping well?"

I nodded, the specter of a question taking shape somewhere in my brainpan. I knew I wanted to ask her something, but...

She locked her eyes on mine, the tips of her mouth arcing wide. My mouth was a desert.

"Dobbs," I blurted. That was it, springing out like a copperhead. I couldn't believe that I didn't make the connection sooner.

Linda pursed her lips. "It's the same as the fellow that was murdered, right?" She lent a pause. "No relation." A loose end, tied up just like that.

The doorway was still plugged, but I couldn't move. Nor did I want to. "I, hmm."

I shifted; she stood monolithic. "You're going to buy me coffee some night, aren't you?"

"OK."

"We can talk. Learn some things."

"Yes." I clung to my book bag straps like a paratrooper. "Yes. OK."

The overhead light peered through her hair, light through sandstone crevices in a canyon. She started moving, leaving the doorway, and we circled in an awkward roundabout, me with shuffled loafers and her with precise heel clicks.

She halted, her back toward the activities office. "Is your band ready?"

"We're working on it."

"Please do." Vermillion sashayed. "There will be rewards."

13

Weeks passed. Matt, Steve and I tightened as a trio; my rust flaked away, Matt learned to adjust his playing with the loss of the second guitar, and Steve started branching out quickly with the bass. We practice more often, covered more hours. We worked on a few new songs, too--the kinks weren't worked out of them yet, but they were great as far as first runs go.

The murder investigation seemed to reach an end, but we barely noticed. A suspect had been apprehended, as promised: a vagrant spotted prowling the campus that night. The prints on the pipe were too smudged to fly through any sort of reconstructive software, but as far as time and place went, they had him.

I'd also forgotten about Linda, possibly out of necessity. Something bothered me, though; something I missed, a point I didn't absorb when I first met her. I never saw her, either. Not in any of my classes, in the cafeteria or Snack Shack, nor in the library or fieldhouse or faculty offices. The day after the murder was the first and last time I'd seen her at the college. A shade in maroon, tethered to darkened corners and eclipsed offices.

But the office was lit. The boxes were gone from the floor, the sprawl of debris reined within the confines of each desk. Three seats were occupied, three heads looked at me as I poked my head in the door.

"Hey," one of the staffers tossed at me. It was a trapdoor sort of comment; offhand, sure, but it would either elicit an explanation for my presence or make me feel really, really awkward.

I nodded, offered small half-waves to everyone in the office. "Yeah, hi. Um, I'm here to finish filling in the rest of the, uh, the form for my band for--for the band competition."

The staff guy furthers from me dug through a manilla folder, looked up at me. "What's your band's name?"

"We don't, uh, have one."

The staffer immediately looked back down and pulled out the papers I'd worked on a few weeks ago. Handing them to me, he asked whether it was the correct one. I told him it was, and he tossed me a pencil.

"Feel free to take a seat, if you want."

Having gathered the info I needed off of the other two guys--both at class--I plugged the empty gaps. Except for one--band name.

I stood and handed the sheet back to the staffer, who flipped through it. "Looks good. Huh." He flipped back to the first page and paused. "Band name?"

"Still don't have one."

The staffer tossed the form pack back into the folder. "Well. You're gonna need to eventually."

"I reckon I knew that."

"At least before the concerts." He chewed on his snack mix.

"Yeah. Got it." I hung in the doorway, a clothesline teetering with the weight bowing it. "Is there anything else I need to do?"

More snack mix tossed into the maw. "Nope. We'll probably contact the band members later on and let them know what you need to do by next month." His enameled cheer was mostly gone. "And come up with a damn name, capisce?"

"Right."

I swayed a moment more and turned to leave, walked the short hall that led to the meaty body of the student center, and ran headlong into Linda.

12

The rapid succession in which everything happened still seems incredibly, in hindsight: the power returning; the news report; Matt letting it go; Guy quitting; my assumption that Steve would take over bass duties. And, to add to it, the three of us ceremoniously storming out of the Shack to practice in a gym that we were probably going to be barred from, only to find the entire murder scene wrapped out, shipped out and carted away.

We said nothing, continued to stomp toward the gym, past the gawkers that replaced the police at the murder spot, into the gym through unlocked doors. Steve hit the breaker box and shunted the lights on, the halogen humming to life in unison. He went to set up amps, I started assembling Guy's drum kit--what was he going to do to stop us?--and Matt turned on his heel and left, presumably to get the bass I left in the music building the previous day.

Centering the kick drum on a rug, I asked, "Are you comfortable playing bass?"

"I've got two hands, don't I?"

"It's a lot different from guitar, I mean."

"Yeah, I can--"

"--not saying that you can't handle it or any--"

"--I think I can hack it."

Matt returned, set the three guitar cases down, and moved to help Steve. It took us a bit longer than we were used to, but we got set up. Matt strummed his Telecaster and adjusted knobs on his effect pedals while Steve worked his way around the bass fretboard. "Would you suggest I use a pick, or what?"

"I'd say try using your fingers--go with the pick if that doesn't work."

Matt stood and looked at us. "Let's try 'Respite.'" I got sat on the drum stool, completely forgetting how Guy played when we practiced. They looked at me to click out a tempo on the drum sticks so, without thinking about it too much, started with a count of four and began a steady, simple drum beat.

The other two guys started playing, but almost immediately Matt let go of his guitar, the body swaying from the strap, and shouted, "Whoa, whoa, wait--that's too fast!"

I kept going, as did Steve. He was plucking the strings with apprehension, but he seemed to have the knack. He grinned. I continued to lay down the beat, adopting a swinging ride cymbal scheme as Matt frowned and gripped the neck of his guitar. He started playing again, notching his part up to tempo.

It'd been a few years since I seriously played the drums. My brother got me listening to Coltrane and Monk when I was a freshman in high school, lending me cassettes he made for his drives to and from grad school. I loved the music, but was hypnotized by the drumming. Elvin Jones and Max Roach got me on my brother's spartan drum kit, which had collected dust while he was at school; those guys steered me away, at least partially, from the bad radio pop I'd waterlogged my mind with. I couldn't get the exact groove down--I had trouble using my left foot and right hand separately from each other--but I was enamored with the minimalist jazz approach. Screw the fills, love the silence.

We wrapped "Respite" up, and as soon as I set the stick down, Steve cheered. "That was great!" He rattled his right hand a bit and we both turned to Matt.

"I don't know. I still think it's too fast." He took his guitar off, turned the volume down, and set it on his stand. But he was wrong; in fact, this was the turning point we experienced as a band.

11

Steve noticed it first. The city maintenance vehicle was gone, the monolithic cherry-picker with it. On the hill, the traffic lights blinked steadily. But they were blinking. Which meant....

"Look." Matt directed our attention to the one of the lamps outside of the Snack Shack. It was lit.

We scrambled inside, past lockers and student mailboxes, into the Shack. Several food service staff were already prepping machines that had jolted back to life. The few students inside looked bewildered, like they'd never seen artificial light before. Steve pulled out a chair and sat as I switched through the channels on the large TV set in the front of the Shack. Matt stood next to him, keeping oddly still and stiff.

I found the local news on one of the network stations. They were winding up the news blurbs they would cover in the 5 o'clock block, cameras switching to give a puppet-show effect of the three anchors poised symmetrically.

The top story was the murder. "Police in New Dordrecht continue to investigate yesterday's murder on the Oakholm campus," the male anchor dictated. "Though no suspects have been produced, hopes are high." The screen cut to a rain-backed shot of a balding man, mugging the camera. "We're making, uh, some swift progress here." A twitch in the camera brought a few campus buildings into background. "We have some good leads. Good leads, and, uh, some--and we hope to have a suspect in custody before the week's end."

The newsroom facade returned to the screen. "New Dordrecht was among several other towns affected by last night's power-outage, but thankfully students are taking it well." Another shot of a student."

"Guy?" Matt nearly doubled over.

Guy stared at the microphone in front of him while speaking. "Classes were canceled, but it seems like, you know, spirits are high." A quick cut bypassed the next question and made it look like Guy was a twitching hologram. "I'm sure the police will solve it soon; it shouldn't affect life on campus. I mean, why try to play detective when someone is getting paid for it?"

Steve made a moaning noise, and Matt looked at me. "What was...? I mean, what? He just--"

One of the female anchors took over, talking more about the damage caused by the power outage. I turned the volume down significantly. "What do you think?"

"Other than 'Guy is a traitor'?"

"Yeah."

Matt straightened himself out again, reaching out to shut off the television. "I don't know." He looked over toward the big windows.

"Do you believe the cops?"

"Do I--" he drifted his attention back to me. "Sure. Why not?"

I looked to Steve for some support; his head was still buried in his cupped hands. "Isn't that the standard line the police use?"

Matt's mouth lengthened, eyes narrowed. "We really can't much else, man. We got the 'how' portion. That's it. We don't have the resources or ability that the police have. Like, I mean--they actually have enough manpower to scour the county, dust for prints, the works. We can sneak on roofs with binoculars. Big deal."

I started saying something but stopped. I didn't know what I wanted to say. Steve kept up the palm inspection.

"I guess we did what we could," Matt said.

And Guy walked in, stopped with his mouth half-open, a sentence forming on his lips like water pooling at the drooping tip of a leaf. "Hey," he managed.

We didn't say anything, our eyes and unwilling ears readied on him.

"I'm quitting." He paused. "I'm quitting the band."

Matt responded with a succinct "OK" before letting his eyes swivel elsewhere. Guy turned on one foot and marched away, his mouth swinging back into a Nutcracker impersonation.

Steve--head still cradled--said in a soft monotone, "I'm not entirely sure what just happened."

"We need to find a new drummer."

"Who?"

"Most of the ones I know are either in a band already," Matt explained, "or just terrible."

"Or terrible and in a band."

"That too. We could--" Matt looked at his hands, his fingers, moving them slowly to see if they were actually responding.

I cleared my throat a little. "I could drum."

Matt continued flexing fingers, first his pointer, then pinky; he tried flexing them together without moving the others. It worked, but his ring finger was shaking. He looked up, like he heard someone shouting beyond a far hill. "What?"

"Me. I can drum."

"I didn't know you played drums."

"I do. I'm rusty, but...."

"We'll only have one guitar, then."

"Better than no drums, right?"

Matt conceded the point. Steve finally picked his head up, his face slightly red and his eyes out of focus after spelunking for so long. Matt looked up at the lights. "I guess we might as well take advantage of the electricity, you know?"

10

Standing a baseball throw away from the crime scene, I made no attempt to conceal myself or try to blend in. I exhaled, watched the results expand and curl and dissipate into the sky. The detective--the same one I talked to earlier in the day--looked at me curiously from a crouch in front of some evidence, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth. It floated upward, possibly joining my breath in a chemical compound waltz. He turned back to the ground, latex gloved-hand prodding something with the business end of a pen.

I looked around the campus. What was the duplicating guy doing? The list of nefarious possibilities could be inexhaustible if you had a good imagination. He had probably been running errands, though, and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Matt's explanation--pretty credible, if you asked me--assumed it was pre-meditated, which changes things a bit. Someone knew the guy would be where he was. And then...clunk.

The door of the gym caught my attention, stealing my gaze from the crime scene and my mind from Linda. The doors were pasted over with signs and posters, most of them advertising blood drives or music events with loud clip art. Music events, like the battle of the bands competition. The signs were put--

Matt called my name behind me; he was waving his notebook around, and I thought he was going to lose it as he ran toward me.

"That was quick," I admitted.

"Yeah." Matt was still sucking in oxygen, crouched over like track coaches tell you you shouldn't do.. "Yeah."

"What did you find?"

He waved the notebook around. "Dave Dobbs."

I paused for a second. "Is that the, uh, the--"

Matt waved a finger at the crime scene, like the body was still there to aid a visual presentation. "Yes. Yes. Him."

"How?"

Standing up again, Matt coughed once and flipped to a page on the notebook. "I went to the duplicating office, to find out what I could. It was easy, though--the guys there were just hanging out, with no power and all. They said, 'Dave didn't come to work yesterday, and then we found out it was him.'" He repeated their words with a mock-gruff voice.

"Did they say anything else?"

"Yes!" Matt jabbed his finger at me, drilling the point home with tactile precision. "'We think he was trying to finish a job, putting up signs or something. He was working late,'" he continued with the Papa Bear voice, cutting me off as I tried to interject something, "and 'don't tell anyone about this.'"

I was excited enough to stammer. "He, he was--" I motioned at the door by the gym. The detective noticed our wild gesturing. "--uh, putting the signs up for the band competition."

"Exactly."

"So," this was the big question, "why the hell would anyone kill a duplicating guy hanging up signs?"

Matt flipped the notebook shut and wiggled it into his inside coat pocket. "That's what I'm wondering. There isn't too much we can do now, aside from keep our ears open. Keep 'em to the ground, as they say."

"Yeah." I met eyes with the detective, blank stares running in both directions. What did they know? And when would we find out? We knew some of the important details, but one of the most vital--the 'who?'--was still a mystery. Hopefully we could find out before it was too late.

9

Matt passed the binoculars over. I wrapped the strap around my hand so I wouldn't accidentally drop it; put it to my eyes; thinned out the graininess by adjusting the focus; swung the business end across the campus until I'd centered on copse of detectives rooted into the ground, coffee cups billowing and keeping digits functional.

This was the first time I really paid attention to the scene. The caution tape was anchored by several trees and a lamp post set in front of the practice gym, the vertical braces tugging the material in a landscape-hugging cat’s cradle. The ground would be nondescript under any other circumstance, grass and shrubs crowding a solitary walkway; but now the white sheets and evidence tags lent morbid accents, shades and overtones straight from government payroll. Police vehicles had cut muddy swaths in the beyond the tape, from the access road surrounding the school. The catty-corner gym stood watch over the investigation taking place at the feet of its steps.

It looked like the murder happened close to the gym steps, judging by the positioning of the bulk of sheets and clear tarps. Matt elbowed me. “See the guy on the left?”

“With the camera?”

“Yeah. What’s he doing?”

I panned over minutely. "He's--hang on--he looks mad. No, upset, sick even."

Matt inched closer to the edge. "Where is he looking?"

"Um--" I followed his line of sight to something obscured on the ground. "Something metal."

"Ah." Matt put his hands down, like he was about to do a push-up. "A pipe."

I pulled the binocs away from my face and turned. "How...?"

Matt worked his elbows out from under him and rested on them. "I noticed the guy snapping photos earlier. Newspaper, I'm guessing--probably local. Catching up for when the, uh, the power comes back on. He was paying a lot of attention to a few particular areas, but I couldn't get a good view."

"Right. You're thinking that the rumors were true." It was a statement, not a question. "About the pipe being the murder weapon."

"Yes."

"Cathoway is still a lying shit, though."

Matt motioned for the binoculars. I handed them over as he responded. "I didn't hear that from Cathoway."

"Really."

"Someone else."

I didn't push it. Matt would avoid the question if I prodded him. He crawled forward an inch and peered down with the binoculars. "Yeah, definitely a lead pipe." He squinted into the lenses. "Definitely."

"Tell me what you think happened."

Matt waited, his mouth slack, for half a minute--maybe a little more--before starting. "The guy is doing what he's doing. It's early in the morning, he's out on the campus--God knows why. Someone is hiding in the gym, in the entrance. Waits 'til he's close; maybe his back is turned or his peripheral vision doesn't catch someone sneaking around." He made a motion with his free hand, swinging it down. "Clunk. Probably got a pipe from the gym--it's full of them--and just left it there when done. It's quiet, effective, doesn't require permits or a lot of money."

"Yeah. I can see it."

"What I want to know is...." He let the declaration float in midair before picking up again. "What I want to know is the 'why?' bit."

I stared down at the figures on the ground, then turned to look at the jimmied trapdoor hiding a ladder. Inside was warm, and my hands were getting cold despite the gloves. Maybe if I got to know Linda better she'd warm my hands for me. "Hmm?"

"'Why?' is what I'm asking."

I gave a shrug, half-hearted, tightened the strap on a glove. "Eh."

"Someone had a reason."

"Maybe not," I suggested.

Matt set the binoculars down, put the caps on the end of the lenses. "I hope there was a reason."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Matt scooched back, down the slope of the roof behind us, and found purchase enough to skim back to the trapdoor. We'd propped it open with the same screwdriver used to pop it out of its housing, and used it again to replace the screws once we both crawled in.

With care, we descended a few ladders into a storage area on the third floor of the humanities department building. Sneaking out was easy; classes were canceled, for one, but all four of the guys in the band were fairly adept at getting in and out of places were weren't supposed to be. Came in handy when you needed to access gear or practice space that you weren't really allowed to access.
Hands in coat pockets, we sat a wooden bench outside. "I have an idea."

I hooked my heel against the curve of the bench. "Go."

"By this point, I'm guessing the faculty and staff knows who it was. I'm sure the police told them already, and I'm sure they'll tell us once the power is restored. But I don't plan on waiting that long."

"The idea."

"Right. You keep track of the albums you own, don't you?"

"I do. Where i--"

"Someone borrowed one of your CDs, but you can't remember which. How do you find out?"

I paused, bit my lip. "I'd, well--I'd probably see which ones I do have befo--ah, OK, I see what you're saying."

Matt removed a hand from his pocket, pointing toward the student center. Toward the duplicating office. "We see who is there today, mark 'em off in the directory. That'll narrow it down." Before I could ask another question, he cut me off. "And duplicating isn't that big of a department, so we can find out who is missing like this," he finished, snapping his fingers, the gloves muffling most of the sound.

I stared at the student center. "I can do that if you want."

"Why don't you let me do that. How about you..." he scanned the campus, whistling something off-key. "Try brainstorming, see if you can come up with a reason someone--someone from duplicating--was out in the wee hours."

"Sure," I accepted begrudgingly.

"We'll meet up in an hour. How does that sound?"

I looked back at the student center, then Matt, then started walking back to the crime scene, a maroon fire lapping in the back of my mind.

8

The walkways and paths through the campus were normally bustling, teeming with professors and students on the move. The same paths were now vacant, only traveled by leaves and debris shoved along by occasional gusts. I put my hood up and left the Shack, aimed straight for the library, and worked around puddles and mud slicks that were gradually turning into half-frozen sleaze.

While the campus grounds were empty, the library was not; there might not have been any electricity, but that didn’t stop some the more studious of the collegiates. There was enough natural lighting in the library that—unless you went deeper than the main stacks or went into the periodical archives—you’d be able to read and work just fine. The main reading rooms on the left and right of the entrance turned into a makeshift classroom; students and professors talked in small groups, sat in corners and journaled, or jammed onto one of the meaty couches guarding the newspaper rack.

Local newspapers were a no-go; a good portion of the county was still staggering from the storm, I assumed, so expecting the printing presses to be operational was foolish. The nationals were on the rack, draped over each wooden dowel like a drying shower towel. I grabbed one: nothing. Another: the same. The third one worked, though I had to dig through the scattered news in the fourth section.

As short as the article was, it still cleared up a few points. DEATH AT SMALL NEW YORK COLLEGE, the headline proclaimed, followed by a barrage of short, choppy Hemingway sentences reveling in their inverted pyramid glory. The article explained how the death was still under investigation by local law enforcement. They couldn’t be reached for comment. And the deceased was definitely not a student, nor—interestingly—a member of the custodial staff. Seemed it was one of the men that worked in the duplicating office. The article didn’t go into any further detail on the murder itself; I guessed that the facts would leak out in time.

I set the paper back on the rack and found a good seat in the corner of the reading room, away from most of the commotion. I needed to think, and not about Linda. Most of the intimate chatter and whispered conversation was accomplished with a secretive flair, like they were afraid someone, maybe that guy the next table over, would hear them, even though they knew that’s what every other whispered exchanged was likely to be about.

If this was the case, word was getting around. Word would spread, friends would tell friends, who would tell more friends in class or in the dining hall, and others would hear, and tell their friends. It was a college-sized game of Telephone, only with murder acting as the dial tone. The details would change, rumors would grow and mutate, with deformed strands of gossip DNA floating through the ether looking for more hosts to cling to and change. Soon, I thought, a good portion of the campus would assume the vice president of academic affairs killed himself with a tea ball.

It hadn’t taken much, but Matt had convinced me the prior day—either I was going to sit on my hands do whatever I damn well could to help figure this thing out. But there were too many variables missing, too many puzzles pieces missing from the box to get a good idea of what’s in the picture, and until we searched some more and found the pieces under the couch cushions or in the guest room, we’d be flailing blindly for answers.

How could we do this? Talking to the police directly was worth a shot, but that could flip-flop unpredictably into us just making the police mad. Asking a few questions would be a good initial step, but we had to prepare for the steps to come. We could break into the evidence room—no. We could sneak into the police station and stage an incident so one of us gets a photo of the investigation reports amidst the chaos—no no no. We could observe the scene, try to figure out what happened through context clues—possibly. We could dress up as c—can't even finish that.

I would get ahold of Matt--Steve and Guy were too excitable. We'd investigate the scene from the top of another building, maybe one of the study rooms on the fringe of the library, see what we could see. But asking the police was the first step.

Hands in my jacket pockets, hood still up, I marched from the reading room, out the massive entrance doors, down the steps, sneakers crunching hardened grass, and reaching the police tape wall to ask to the first plainclothes detective in sight: "Hey, can I find out more about what happened?"

It was one of the ones staring at me the day before. He squinted, worked the filter of the cigarette over to the other side of his mouth with a lip twitch. "Huh. Nope."

And that solved that.

7

The rain had cut back an hour later, after I let the warmth of the fire drive the cold and damp and--for a moment--thoughts of Linda away. I walked back to my dorm as the sun set over the hills, the wooded crests filtering the dying light over the campus in Rorschach patterns. To my right sat the murder scene, vacant save for an occupied unmarked cruiser, the window cracked open an inch to let the cigarette smoke waft out. I walked by with my eyes to the ground.

Our campus was without power when I awoke the next day. My window was encased behind a thick plate of frost, and most of the heat in my room had slipped under the cover of darkness. I had shivered in bed, rolling over and over to get into a better-but-not-good-enough position beneath my sheets; my dreams were distant reflections, faint and fading, indistinct outlines ending in maroon skirts and stockings that bled into a puddle surrounded by twittering canary tape. They lurked in the back of my mind as I dressed, danced in obscurity as I used lukewarm water to shave, and eventually left for good as I trudged to the Snack Shack over icy sheets of mud-water.

A city public works truck was parked several blocks down from the campus, its cherry picker bucket rising predominantly over the surrounding trees. I heard power tools buzzing as I read a note--a hand-written note--taped to the door of the the Shack.
CLASSES CANCELED
UNTIL POWER RESTORED
A blessing and a curse, I supposed; no classes meant more time to goof around, but most goofing around required some sort of power or heat. And no classes meant more time to think. I didn't want to think, especially with the thoughts waiting for me.

The Shack was moderately full, considering the conditions; most of the students probably did the same as I, heading to classes that weren't to happen, opting to loaf at the nearest place with seats instead of trucking back to their dorms or apartments. Matt was waiting at a circular table, his book bag's contents spilling from the opening--mostly early 20th century American lit. Matt was one of those kinds of guys. There was a to-go case resting on the edge of the table, a Styrofoam sarcophagus holding the remains of a dry, withered bagel.

"You look like hell," he said.

I pulled a chair out and sat, slumping on to the table. "I feel like it."

Matt set his book down, an O. Henry collection. "You didn't end up staying in the music building, did you?"

I shook my head. "No. No, I ran to the student center, filled out--" my mind slipped back into the darkened activities room "--a form for the band competition."

"Really? You didn't make up a name for us, did you?"

"No." This was a touchy subject; we were still without a name, and no one could reach a concensus regarding it. Matt was still thinking about a decent moniker, though Guy was convinced that "Supreme Catholic Finger" would be the best name, for any band, ever. "How about you?"

Matt turned his book over in his hands. "There were only three people in the class, so the professor just let us go."

"Not many places to go in that kind of weather." Matt just nodded in response.

I bit my lower lip, searching for words. I posed it as innocently as possible: "Do you know someone that works for the student activities department named Linda?"

Matt continued to stare at the back of his book, like my tangential comment tossed him headfirst into an internalized O. Henry discussion. "Linda Dobbs? Pretty, sort of ethereal?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Matt hummed something to himself, his smile deflating to a dull line. "I'd stay away from her, if I were you."

Not the response I expected. "I was just asking. She gave me the application. Seemed friendly."

A chuckle from Matt. "Friendly; perhaps. Still, just watch yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. Just watch out." Matt tucked the book into his backpack, pushed in the rest of the novels that crept out, and shouldered the bag as he stood.

I cradled my head in my hands. "Maybe falling for a dangerous woman will add some excitement to my life."

Matt held the bagel container in his hands, backing away from the table. He looked serious. "I don't think 'excitement' is the word you're looking for. Try 'trouble.'"

6

My cotton coat absorbed most of the rain, but the moisture still bled through and checkered my shirt. I worked the lever on the paper towel dispenser, bunching up the paper and clamping it on my head like a recycled pulp crown. I shook my head, spattering the restroom mirror with a criss-cross of wet beads that etched lurched toward the ground. A few more towels helped, but it would still take a while to dry. Maybe, I thought, the fire will help.

Upstairs, the student center was nearly vacant. The fireplace crackled--encouraged by a student steadily feeding small pieces of pine into the furnace--and caused the ceiling and window shades to dance. The student was too entranced to see me, as were the three others seated around a table in the far corner. They looked to be studying, using both the flickering fireplace and retreating natural light to see their notes and textbooks. Several hallways led off to darkened corridors, but on--set in the right side of the student center--fed into the roomy student activities office. Strains of music came from the opened door. I walked to it.

The music came from a portable stereo to my left. I guessed someone loaded in a fortune worth of batteries to power it up. The rest of the room was in quiet disarray: several cardboard boxes were stacked in the middle of the floor; two clear plastic containers, once filled with markers, were up-ended onto the carpet; and the haphazard row of desks could barely contain their papers, CD cases, computers and A/V gear.

In the back of the room, lit by a flashlight propped on its side, a pair of eyes hovered a computer monitor. They watched as I stepped into the room.

"You can turn the volume down, if you want," she said, the voice attached to the eyes.

"Hmm?"

"The stereo. Turn it down, so we can talk." I reached over to the stereo and cut the volume. I looked back to the last desk, still couldn't see anything but a shadow, wisps of hair and blinking eyes.

"Who are you?" I stayed by the stereo, hoisting my jacket over my shoulder so it wouldn't drip on as much on the floor.

"Linda. I work here."

"What are you listening to, Linda?" A breathy male voice topped a layer cake of blues guitar riffs. The song had a tinny, warbly quality; it was probably recorded on the cheap.

She stood, still behind the desk. "We get a lot of music sent by up-and-coming bands, trying to get smaller colleges to book them. It's easier than booking clubs around the country."

"Probably cheaper, too."

Her outline reached for the flashlight. "It is. Too bad most of the bands will be lucky enough to record that one album in their friends garage; then it's back to serving ice cream cones for rent money."

"Isn't that harsh?"

She and the flashlight took a few steps toward me, the disc of light flashing across the room to bob with her step. She pointed it at the ground in front of me. "It's not harsh. It's truth." Her nose and lips pushes through the inky murk, a smirk edging her cheeks up. Her face--what I could see of it--was round, not chubby, a pie with sections cut out to form her features. Brown, willowy hair cried from the apex of her head, stopping short above her shoulders. She stood like the heroine from a '40s detective serial, wielding the flashlight in a way that implied grace and violence.

Matt once told me how first impressions--while not always accurate--would often underlie any further opinions you made about a person. You could strengthen a friendship and become close to someone, but if your initial impression was that person was a liar, asshole and cheat, there would be a part of you that always thought these things. And my first impression of Linda was a mixture of longing, wariness and tentative trust.

She raised the flashlight slowly, up my legs, past my thighs and stomach, to crawl onto my neck and head. It was like getting hit in the throat with a metal rod. "Tell me," she started, "why are you here?"

I felt water dribble down my lips as I flinched in the light. "I wanted to sign my group up for the battle of the bands contest." I felt childish, in light of the comments we traded moments ago.

Linda arced the light to her desk, the change in brightness leaving dancing globes in my field of vision. "You're wet. Sit by the fire and warm up while I get the paper work." I started for the door. "I'll be out in a minute," she finished.

I sat by the fire. The guy feeding wood into it was gone. It was still going strong, the smoke and resin from the pine sucked out of the flue, the moisture in the pine causing pops even minute or so that shook the teepee of logs and kindling. I shucked my shoes and wet socks, hanging the latter limply over a metal bar close to the fireplace. My jacket drooped on the other side from the head of a nail that someone never hammered fully into place.

Linda glided from the office to the bench. She held a pencil and several pieces of paper stapled together, which she placed between us as she sat. Her maroon sweater caught the light from the fire and held on for life.

"You'll need to fill these out."

I looked at the form. "Maybe my clothes will dry by the time I'm done."

"It's only a few pages. Are you in a band?" I nodded at this. "Usually several band members show up, so if you don't know all of the answers you can put down what you please and fill in the rest later."

The curve of her wrist hid behind the curl of cotton. "Maybe I'll take the time."

She smirked. "Well, suit yourself. Maybe the power will come back on by that time."

Her fingers, reed-thin, rested next to the pencil. The skin on the back of her hand hid several freckles. "Maybe."

She stood up. "I need to do a few things. Hand in the application when you're finished." She floated back to the office, shifting through the door and back to the black infesting the activities center. I turned to the papers. I felt funny, working things over in my mind that I probably shouldn't have been considering to begin with.

The form had three pages. There were the standard 'name(s) of band members' type questions, but it asked for more details on the second page that I had to pass over. I filled in as much as I could, mulled over a few that I probably knew, and actively avoided two: 'name of band' and 'style of music.' I folded the last page back in place and walked over to the office, the three students by the window paying no mind.

I looked in. The CD player was turned off, and though I couldn't see far into the room, I could tell no one was there. I carefully walked around, avoid the boxes and crates. Definitely empty. I set the form on the desk next to the one I originally saw Linda at, in a plastic bin labeled "Band Competition Forms." Ours was the first in.

5

We crept down the stairs one at a time, holding our instrument cases aloft to avoid smacking them against the banister or walls. I was the last one, jamming my bass carry bag under my armpit like a majorette would a baton. The four of us then walked past the secretary's empty desk, into the foyer, posted ourselves in the four corners of the small entrance, and waited for a break in the storm.

The rain had intensified, no longer content to swirl like a shopping bag caught in an updraft. It was now intense, causing deep reverberations throughout the building, ping-pong balls against corrugated metal.

Steve slumped down to the floor, his back still against his corner. "A half an hour ago, if you were gonna ask me what could make today worse, I don't think I could dream up this answer."

Looking at his watch, Guy gasped. "Jesus. It's almost two."

"There goes class, I guess."

I shook my head. "No way the faculty would keep classes on schedule in this weather."

"You don't know some of the professors."

Matt leaned toward the window, getting a better angle to view the rest of the campus. "You know, I'm going to go out there."

The rest of us didn't answer him. He continued: "We got spooked, we came down here. OK, but--" he looked to me "--like I said before, we can't act like murders and storms are the only thing happening in the world."

"Murders in storms," I muttered.

But I thought about sticking with what I said. Why go to class? I mean, I would just wait for the storm to subside; maybe the power would come on by then. Then I could find an umbrella and stroll through what would probably be a fine drizzle, laughing at how tense we were and how serious were took all of this.

Rain continued to hurtle from the sky, continued to work over trees and shrubs, pelting roofs and sidewalks mercilessly. The wind moaned a lament over the torrents, changing pitch and tempo as it wished.

“You're going to have to run through this,” I noted. I watched as a small river formed in the center of the campus; it curved around rocks, enveloped the few hardy perennials, and joined smaller infantile streams as they raced toward a parking lot behind one of the faculty office buildings. “You could try swimming.” No one laughed.

"You?"

I looked at Steve. "I'm going to stay here."

Matt, his hand on the doorknob, glanced absently over his shoulder. "Well, your choice. Put our instruments somewhere safe, can you?" The other two guys joined him at the door and, without much fanfare, threw the door back and plunged into the vertical ocean.

I watched them run, first hopping the rail bracing the front of the music building, then veering away from each other, their clothes changing shade like a litmus test, Guy whipping the tail of his jacket over his head, the three spreading apart gradually, rain and gusts chiseling their run into a staggered sprint, and the lack of sunlight fading all of this away as the three put distance between themselves and their starting point, the still-open door swaying with each push and pull of the wind.

And in the distance, the yellow police tape still cried silent warnings and omens, broadcasting foreshadowing statements to a deaf audience.

Closing and backing away from the door, I broke my observation of the rest of the band and started moving our gear to one of the storage closets off of the secretary's office, stacking cases and bags into a peculiar lean-to. I shut the closet door, resting my back on it and gazed outside. The window didn't stop the storm from singing a song to me, calling me to do what my friends had, to brave the elements and rush headlong to who knows where. I didn't have any classes at all--Tuesday was the day I utilized my lack of classes to catch up on studying or practicing--but I still felt like I needed to go somewhere. Anywhere but here.

The student center, I decided, was the place to go. There would be people there, and I could formally register our band for the contest in a few weeks. And it was warm there, unlike the music building--I normally had to wear an extra layer when I came here for practices or classes. When the radiators were working, they trickled out heat in wheezing hisses and gasps. The student center also had a wood-burning fire place. Bingo. And I could see the student center in the distance, maybe a three-minute walk if the weather were more amiable.

The door swung shut after rebounding off of the wall, the frame rattling behind me as I vaulted over the railing. The rain was frigid, degrees from becoming a solid, a wet towel that wrapped around my chest and stole away my breath. My feet created miniature geysers along the way. Gravity pulled on my clothes, aided by the rain, swaying to their own beat as the student center bobbed up and down ahead of me. I only heard my forced inhalations alone; I was in an echo chamber that spread across the globe. A sound like hooves on cobblestone made me look down--my feet hit cement for the first time during my dash, waterlogged Sketchers flopping and stamping and flaying swollen shoe strings loosened through velocity. The doors were just there, there, ahead, closer.

The awning circling the student center cut the rain off mid-sentence, my hand freezing on the inset metal door handle. Despite the lack of power to the building, the warmth ushered me in as soon as I cracked the door, and I staggered toward the ascending steps with a liquid trail behind me.

4

We dumped our things on the floor, set our instrument cases against walls, shed jackets upon the waiting backs of chairs, and watched for Steve's return. Matt picked up the classical guitar he took from the buildings basement and held it at eye level. "We may as well get ready before he shows."

Matt tuned. I dug around in my pockets for a pick, finally finding one stuffed in my wallet between an ancient discount card and someone's phone number. Guy paced by the window, looking out at every pass.

"It's getting bad out there." He was right; the wind was causing traffic lights in the distance to run parallel to the ground, caused mounds of leaves to hover past parked cars and silent buildings,

The stairs creaked. Sounds of plastic on wood echoed through the hall, crowding behind Steve as he exited the staircase and entered the room. He set his guitar case on a desk flush with the wall.

Steve and Matt went outside briefly to make sure they were in tune with each other. I never bothered joining them, for some reason; I always thought that if my bass was out of tune, I could probably adjust easily enough. Fast enough, I mean--they have six strings, I have four. Whatever.

Guy dragged a seat to the far corner and sat. "I'll just hang out."

Steve looked around and took a seat on the floor. "What about the chairs? I mean...."

Guy shook his head. "I think I'll just hang out." Guy was an irritable sort, for the record.

We started playing as the windowpane trembled. Matt and Steve strummed their guitars with focused precision, shucking the folky acoustic trappings for an overlapping, hypnotic swirl. I drizzled my bass part on top like a trail of chocolate syrup on a banana split, my plastic pick accenting each note in the absence of an amplifier.

But something was wrong, aside from the steady thumping of debris against glass less than 10 feet away. We'd only been playing together for half a year, as Matt told people. That wasn't the case, really--we'd been playing together for half of that. Three months, give or take a few weeks, because of a summer spent in various parts of the country. We formed in theory at the end of last school year, and cemented it as an actuality at the end of the summer.

"You guys need drums," Guy hissed from his corner cave. He was right. We also needed amplifiers; we meshed well since September, but most of our impact was based on guitar sonics alone.

This led to a number of unmentioned questions and convictions. And we kept silent.

Matt stopped playing and motioned for the rest of us to cut it. "I need to write words for that one."

Steve shook out the tension in his left hand, his fretting hand. "Do you have a name for it?"

"'Respite,' I think." Matt didn't sound to sure. He stared out the window. The sun was no where in sight.

I docked my eyes outside as well. "Yeah, this is definitely the sort of weather that causes the power to go out."

An electrical hiss and snap volleyed from somewhere downstairs. The light array hanging from the ceiling shut off, casting the room to the mercy of the faint glow issuing through the window. A low hum tapered off from the bulbs, underscoring the faint drone beyond the glass.

Matt peeked out of the door, stood up, walked out in the hall and called back, "The whole building is out." Footsteps marked his progress through the floor. "Looks like most of the campus is out too."

I could barely see the traffic lights swinging in the distance. They were no longer lit. "Same goes for the town."

Guy's voice reported from the corner: "Shit." The word hung in the dark.

"Should we get back to our dorm?"

"No," I said. "Why travel through that--" I pointed to the window "--to get a building with no power? We're already in a building with no power."

Steve looked at me like I had just asked a naive, nearly-offensive question. "Because our stuff is there?"

"Oh, stuff. Right." I stood and rested the neck of my bass against the chalkboard. "I need to get to my stuff too. Like my toothpaste. See you guys around."

Matt crossed his arms and drifted over the window. "I wonder if this is messing up their work." He rocked on his toes, looked toward the old practice gym we perched in front of this morning. I realized we hadn't mentioned the death in almost an hour.

I wasn't the only one that came to that conclusion. Steve stood and paused mid-stride, like he was ready to pounce across the room and instead chose to let the energy bleed off. "Are we alone in the building?"

We were silent. Then Guy answered, tenative--"I think I saw the secretary when I came in. I mean, she's always here. Usually."

There were noises downstairs, the gentle click and rustling of inanimate objects that you only seem to notice when no one is around. "Maybe not this time."

I joined Matt at the window. A few students ran in the distance, both headed for the nearest shelter. "I think we should stay here, in the building. If we head out into that...." I didn't need to finish. There was a sound of glass spiderwebbing in the next room, like someone had cushioned a hammer blow against the window with a pillow.

Steve reached for his guitar and placed it back into the case, the velvet lining receiving it unconditionally. He was shaking.

I continued. "But we're going to stay downstairs. Wait by the door. Wait for the wind and rain to die down."

3

We set off across the campus. The 8 a.m. classes were starting to let out. Students trickled out of buildings; some lingered by the doors to stay warm, others trickled out of the same doors to head to their next class. But the electricity that normally accompanied the opening of the floodgates was absent, or at any rate subdued.

It wasn't hard to figure out why.

The Snack Shack was devoid of life, save for an employee shifting a stack of bagels and for a few students dotting the various booths and tables. The place would fill up closer to lunch, but it was surprisingly skeletal now.

Matt pointed to the far end, by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that capped the end of the Shack off. "There."

Hunkered around a table: our other guitarist and our drummer.

They saw us coming a mile off. Both had grim expressions hooked on their faces, and both whispered to each other as we neared.

"Hey guys," I offered.

The drummer--Guy--gave me the stone-face. "Why'd you split from practice?"

I felt like I'd just run half a mile to miss a train. "Didn't you see the, uh, the--"

"There were cops and dead bodies, Guy," Matt finished my thought. "That's a fairly good reason to miss practice."

Guy shrugged. "We still could've gotten in."

"Seriously"--this was our other guitarist talking, Steve--"he knows hot to jimmy the one window in the back and cra--"

Matt started laughing, but not in the 'this is funny' way. "Well, the next time an opportunity to violate a crime scene presents itself, I won't stop you."

I pulled a chair out on the other side of the round table and sat. "Whatever, guys. None of us have class now; why don't we try to get something done somewhere else? One of the practice rooms in the music building. We could go there."

Steve wagged a finger at me. "That is a great idea." He paused to think, then added, "You know, I have an acoustic guitar in my room."

I thought back to the entrance to the gym, our amps and other tech goodies sealed by a halo of fluttering yellow tape. "Yeah, we don't need amps. Or drum sets."

Guy flashed me a frown. What was with all of the frowns?

"You could use one of the classical guitars in the music building," I suggested to Matt. "And I should be able to pick the bass loud enough."

"Sounds like a plan."

Steve left, running to his dorm room to retrieve his acoustic and then meet us across campus at the music building. Matt, Guy and I left the Snack Shack, heading down a corridor that lead out to the central part of the campus..

Matt broke the layer of ice glossing the conversation with Guy. "Have you heard anything about--well, you know?"

"Someone is dead."

"Besides that, I mean."

"Eh. Not really." Guy pulled an unopened pack of chewing gum out of his coat pocket and fumbled with the wrapper. "You know." We pushed through the doors, smacking into the wind.

I could tell Matt was getting frustrated. "Actually I don't, Guy. Could you explain a bit more?"

Gum halfway in his mouth, the drummer stopped as the doors coasted shut. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," I started, surprised I jumped in with such vigor, "is that someone was probably murdered on our campus less than 12 hours ago, and that--from what little I've seen--everyone is treating it like a big joke."

We started walking again in silence. Guy was the first to speak. "Yeah. Huh. I guess it hasn't really, like, hit me."

"It will, trust me. Especially if you let it."

Guy moved the gum around in his mouth and tightened the grip on his stack of books. "Wait, in that case, why are we practicing now?"

"There was blood spilled on our turf. At our college, right in front of where we rock out. That doesn't change the fact that we gotta keep on doing what we do."

We passed a poster nestled amongst its fellows on the door to the student center; someone must've posted them in the past day or so. It announced a college musician competition in a few weeks. "Nor does it change the fact that we're going to win that battle of the bands."

2

I walked to the library, set my case against the slant of the steps leading to the weathered oak doors, and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I dialed a number.

My mom answered. "Hey mom."

"Oh, hi honey! How are you?"

"Good, mom. Hey, I w--"

"There was something on the news about a murd--"

"Yeah--mom, tell me about that."

"You don't know? Well, let's see, they've been teasing us on the radio every ten minutes without actually reporting on it, but on the TV...hmm...OK, uh, 'murder at local college'...'students in panic'...mmm, looks like one of your custodial staff was killed. That's all they really say."

I looked out at the silent campus. A dull wind swept across the ground, tossing leaves against buildings and making the yellow tape bob in the distance. "I'm not sure 'panic' is the best of terms, mom."

"Oh, honey--" She sounded as if someone was dragging the wind out of her like a rope.

"It looks like the police are doing OK here, mom. Please, don't worry about me. OK?"

"I still will. You should call home more often."

"I will mom."

"We can send you some cookies."

"I'd love that, mom. I love you, mom. Tell dad I miss him too."

"I love you too, honey. Come visit us some time. We like to hear about what you’re doing at school."

We hung up. I didn't remind my mom that I didn't have a car, but that was the last thing she needed right now. She had worry to keep her company. Too bad worry isn't a good companion.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and grabbed my backpack and case, headed up the stairs to the library, and snuck through the doors after prying it open with my foot. My dress shoes made thin clicking sounds against the smooth stone under foot. The librarian behind the main desk shot me a dirty look and held it on me as I let the thick door glide shut behind me.

The periodical room was off to the left; I crept in, swooped by several students studying at a nearby table, slapping one in the elbow with my guitar case as I passed.

"Sorry," I mumbled. The student mumbled something back that I chose to ignore.

The newspaper rack stood in front of me, a sentinel amongst the magazine bays dotting the room. I scanned the nationals (nothing) and paused on the few area papers. Nothing stood out, so I set my gear on the ground and pulled out each paper, flipping through the local news sections and eyeing headlines. Nothing. Unless there was a late-breaking afternoon edition--something that never happens, ever--I'd have to wait 24 hours to see what happened in print.

I gathered my things and stepped outside. The wind was consistent; I had to hunker down to the side of the steps, near a bench, to cut some of the chill down. I closed my eyes for a moment and thought.

A murder on campus, early this morning. Somebody wanted someone to be dead. How do we know it wasn't an accident? We don't. Or suicide? Again, we don't. Then add conflicting reports; Matt said it was a student. Mom heard it was college staff. What if it was neither?

I rooted around in my backpack and pulled out a small tablet I used in journalism class and a pen, jotting down some of the questions as they came to me. I put the pen in my mouth and jiggled the end.

In the distance, I could see Matt walking toward me at a fair--nix that--fast clip. He started speaking just as he came within earshot.

"...found some things."

"Same here," I said, shouldering my pack and propping my case against the stairs.

"You go first."

Right. "Called my mom. She said they're saying it's a janitor on the news--"

"Dammit!"

"--and I also checked in the library. Found zip with the papers."

Matt leaned on one foot. "OK, your mom is lying."

What--"You can't be serious."

"Maybe she isn't lying. OK, she isn't lying. The news is messed up. I've definitely heard from several sources that it was a student."

"'Sources.'"

"Yes." Matt looked like something was distracting him.

"Elaborate, please."

"If you must know, both several people in the student activities department--"

"--when have they ever done anything right?--"

"--and Jim Cathoway--"

"--and your bullshit detector should've been in the red--"

"--have heard it was a student."

"--and I can't believe you buy any of this."

Matt crossed his arms. "I do. I'll wait 'til someone proves me wrong."

I smiled. "This should be easy. You buy the first line of crap that comes out of someone's mouth, especially if that someone is Cathoway?"

"Er, I mean, he--"

"Exactly. OK, now your turn."

After taking a moment to notice the wind, Matt stepped behind the cover the steps provided. "I couldn't exactly call my parents--out of state, and all--but I did hit the Snack Shack. Word is, whoever it was, someone caved their head in with a pipe."

"Oh." I put my arm on the concrete banister, inhaled, exhaled. I had taken what had happened lightly, but the actuality of the events accelerated toward me like the wind that was burning my cheeks. Someone had died on campus, close enough that I could still see local law enforcement infesting the scene. And it was possibly a murder.