Leaning against a tree not fifty yards away, Bruce Cable watched the exchange and enjoyed a good laugh.

EPILOGUE

Eight inches of overnight snow had blanketed the campus, and by mid-morning crews were hustling with plows and shovels to clear the walkways and doorsteps so that classes could go on. Students in heavy boots and coats wasted little time between classes. The temperature was in the teens and the wind was biting.

According to the schedule he’d found online, she should be in a classroom in Quigley Hall, teaching a class in creative writing. He found the building, found the room, and managed to hide and stay warm in a second-floor lobby until 10:45. He slipped back into the winter and loitered on a sidewalk beside the building, pretending to chat on his cell phone to avoid any suspicion. It was too cold for anyone to notice or care. Bundled as he was, he could have been just another student. She came out the front door and headed away from him in a crowd, one that swelled as other buildings emptied with the change of classes. He followed at a distance and noticed she was accompanied by a young man, one with a backpack. They turned here and there and appeared to be headed for the Strip, a row of shops and cafés and bars just off the campus of Southern Illinois University. They crossed a street, and as they did her companion took her elbow as if to help. As they walked on, even faster, he let it go.

They ducked into a coffeehouse and Bruce stepped into the bar next door. He stuffed his gloves in a coat pocket and ordered black coffee. He waited fifteen minutes, time enough to knock off the chill, then went to the coffeehouse. Mercer and her friend were huddled over a small table, coats and scarves draped over their chairs, fancy espresso drinks in front of them, deep in conversation. Bruce was beside the table before she saw him.

“Hello, Mercer,” he said, ignoring her friend.

She was startled, even stunned, and seemed to gasp. Bruce turned to her friend and said, “I’m sorry, but I need a few minutes with her. I’ve come a long way.”

“What the hell?” the guy said, ready for a row.

She touched his hand and said, “It’s okay. Just give us a few minutes.”

He slowly got to his feet, took his coffee, and as he left them he brushed by Bruce, who let it go. Bruce took the guy’s chair and smiled at Mercer. “Cute guy. One of your students?”

She collected herself and said, “Seriously? Is that really any of your business?”

“Not at all. You look great, Mercer, minus the tan.”

“It’s February in the Midwest, a long way from the beach. What do you want?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?”

“Great. How’d you find me?”

“You’re not exactly hiding. Mort Gasper had lunch with your agent, who told the sad story of Wally Starke dropping dead the day after Christmas. They needed a pinch hitter this spring for the writer in residence, and here you are. You like this place?”