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Not with me, Holly thinks. I escaped. Thanks to Bill and only by the skin of my teeth, but I did. “You came out of the fog just to tell me that?”
No reply. She gives him a kiss and tells him again that she has to go.
“Get the man, Janey,” he says. “The one who comes. Tell him I need him. I think I might have pissed myself.”
8
Barbara is in Olivia’s living room, replying to Holly’s text when Marie calls down from the head of the stairs. “I think you should come up, honey. She wants us both. I think… I think she might be going.”
Barbara sends the text off unfinished and runs upstairs. Olivia Kingsbury—graduate of Bryn Mawr, a poet whose work spans almost eighty years, shortlisted for the National Book Award, twice bruited for the Nobel, once on the front page of the New York Times (at the head of a peace march and carrying one side of a banner reading U.S. OUT OF VIETNAM NOW), longtime teacher at Bell College of Arts and Sciences, mentor to Barbara Robinson—is indeed going. Marie stands on one side of her bed, Barbara on the other. They each hold one of the old poet’s hands. There are no last words. Olivia looks at Marie. She looks at Barbara. She smiles. She dies. A world of words dies with her.
9
On her way back to the city, Holly stops at a Wawa for gas. After she fills the tank, she drives to the far side of the parking lot and has a cigarette in her usual try-not-to-pollute-the-car position—door open, elbows on knees, feet on the pavement. She checks her phone and sees she’s got a text from Barbara. To which one Holly has sent What do you mean? followed by a more exact request: Is it Rodney Harris you recognized? Have you met him? I know you’re busy but let me know when you can.
The reply: Went to Emily Harris for an intro, didn’t dare cold-call on Olivia. Prof Harris was washing his car. We just said hi. BTW I added Jorge Castro to J’s MapQuest. Probably not impor
That’s where the text ends. Holly supposes Barbara sent it off unfinished by mistake, then got busy doing something else. Holly’s done that herself. She remembers Jerome telling her he marked the various disappearances on a MapQuest printout, but who is Jorge Castro?
She calls Barbara to find out. On the coffee table in Olivia Kingsbury’s living room, Barbara’s iPhone gives out a low phone-on-silent buzzing and then falls still. Holly starts to leave a message, then changes her mind. She locks her car and goes into the little Wawa restaurant (really just a jumped-up snack bar), where there’s free WiFi. She buys a hamburger that’s already grown old in its foil bag, adds a Coke, and sits down with her iPad. She plugs in Jorge Castro’s name and gets a whole slew of hits, including an auto parts millionaire and a baseball player. She thinks the most likely Castro is the novelist and yes, that one has a connection to the college on the hill. Below Castro’s Wikipedia entry is an article from The BellRinger, the college newspaper. She taps on the link, nibbling at her burger without really tasting it—not that there’s much to taste. The store’s WiFi is slow but gets there eventually. There’s a big headline, so Holly guesses it was on page one of the issue published on October 29th of 2012.
CELEBRATED NOVELIST LEAVES SUDDENLY
By Kirk Ellway
Award-winning scribe Jorge Castro, author of such novels as Catalepsy and The Forgotten City, has suddenly and unexpectedly decamped from his position as writer-in-residence at the world-famous Bell College fiction workshop. He was two months into his fourth semester at Bell, and a great favorite of his students.
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” said Brittany Angleton, who has just sold her first fantasy novel (werewolves!) to Crofter’s Press. She added that he had promised to line-edit her work in progress. Jeremy Brock said, “He was the best writing teacher I ever had.” Other students talked about his kindness and sense of humor. One member of the program who did not wish to be named agreed with that, but added, “If your work was bad, he’d put it out of its misery.”
Fred Martin, who lived with Castro, said the two of them had had several discussions lately about their future, but added, “They weren’t arguments. I would never call them that. I had too much love and respect for Jorge and he for me for us to ever argue. They were discussions about the future, a full and frank exchange of views. I wanted to leave at the end of the fall semester. Jorge wanted to stay until the end of the year, perhaps even join the faculty.”
However, the discussions may have been closer to arguments than Mr. Martin is willing to admit. A source in the police department told the Ringer that Castro left a note saying “I’ve had all I can take.” When asked about that, Mr. Martin said, “It’s ridiculous! If he felt that way, why would he have wanted to stay? And where did he go? I’ve heard nothing. I was the one who wanted to leave. I got very tired of the midwestern homophobia.”
In the spring semester Castro was part of an effort to save the Poetry Workshop, an effort that eventually failed. One English Department faculty member who wishes not to be named said, “Jorge was very eloquent, but he accepted the final decision with good grace. Had he stayed and joined the faculty, I think he would have reintroduced the issue. He said noted poet (and retired faculty member) Olivia Kingsbury was on his side, and would be happy to speak to the department faculty if the subject could be raised again.”
When asked exactly when Castro left, Mr. Martin admitted he didn’t know, because he had moved out.
There’s more, including a photo of Jorge Castro teaching and another that must be an author photo from the back jacket of one of his books. Holly thinks he’s quite handsome. Not quite as good-looking as Antonio Banderas (a personal favorite), but in the same neighborhood.
She doesn’t believe the article she’s just read would come close to passing muster on a big city newspaper, even with the dire straits the print media has fallen into; it has a kind of undergraduate nudge-nudge, wink-wink feel that makes her think of Inside View or one of the New York Post gossip columns. But it’s informative. Oh yes. That heat is going up her spine again. She thinks it’s no wonder that Barbara added Castro to Jerome’s map.
Olivia Kingsbury must have told her about him. And it fits, doesn’t it? Even the notes fit. Castro: “I’ve had all I can take.” Bonnie Dahl: “I’ve had enough.” If those two disappearances weren’t nine years apart…
Yes, and if the police weren’t short-staffed because of Covid; if they weren’t afraid that one of the current Black Lives Matter protests might spiral into violence; if there had ever been a single body, something besides a moped and a bike and a skateboard…
“And if pigs could fly, poop would rain all around us,” Holly mutters.
Jorge Castro in 2012, Cary Dressler in 2015, Ellen Craslow and Peter Steinman in 2018, Bonnie Dahl in 2021. All three years apart, give or take, except for Ellen and Peter. Maybe one of those two had authentically run away, but wasn’t it also possible that something had gone wrong with one of them? Wasn’t what the Predator wanted? But what did he want? Serial killers who had a sexual motive usually stuck to either men (Gacy, Dahmer) or women (Bundy, Rader, et al.). The Red Bank Predator took both… including one male child.
Why?
Holly thinks there’s someone who can give her the answer: Professor Rodney Harris, aka Small Ball and Mr. Meat. That nickname makes her think of Jeffrey Dahmer again, but that’s too ridiculous to believe.
Holly tosses her half-eaten burger in the trash, takes her soda, and leaves.
10
It’s Barbara’s idea, and Marie agrees instantly. If, that is, they can get Rosalyn Burkhart on board. She’s the head of the English Department.
