The Violet Crow Read online

  That was all Alison needed. “I think it’s immoral to obey unjust laws. Like Gandhi. He equated laws with superstition. People really have a duty to disobey. Just like you teach in the course.”

  Littlejohn tried to be modest, but he couldn’t help beaming. “I can’t take any credit. Students, people your age, are so idealistic and dedicated. It’s the best time of life in many ways. One of the reasons I offer this course is to learn from you. All of that creativity is an inspiration.”

  “Well, I really put a lot of thought into it,” she gushed. “My project has to do with the corporate manipulation and appropriation of the global food supply, which forces millions into poverty and submissiveness.”

  “Very impressive.” Littlejohn drew a deep breath. Something told him this was going to be one of those projects. Every couple of years one cropped up and things could get really hairy. He reminded himself to be careful.

  “Things started out well,” Alison explained. “Then they took an unexpected turn. On the whole, I think it’s really a good thing. But it turned out to be much, much bigger than I expected. Now, to really get the full impact, I need some help. We have to get the word out. It’s so frustrating …!”

  Littlejohn might have been confused by all these generalities if he had been listening more carefully, but he assumed he knew where she was headed. “It’s very difficult to get work published these days. Even for faculty, it can be a challenge. Undergraduate work … I have to advise you not to get your expectations up. You have your whole career in front of you.”

  Alison tossed her head. “It’s nothing like that. This isn’t just research. It’s something newsworthy. But it has to be handled just right, because I don’t want to get mixed up with the police.”

  “I see.” Littlejohn started to feel his blood pressure go up. Another naive kid, thinking she could change the world all by herself. It seemed they were always coming to him for validation. Lucky for them, he had plenty of experience: He knew how to let them down easy without squashing their ideals. “The police, huh? That sounds a little bit complicated for an undergraduate assignment.” He smiled at Alison in a particular way when he said “complicated” to suggest that he recognized and appreciated her effort—in spite of what he was about to tell her.

  Alison looked down at her fingers, which she was interweaving nervously in her lap. A good sign. Littlejohn continued, “Don’t you remember the caveats on the project handout? I can give you another copy if you need one.”

  Alison’s face started to turn red with frustration. Why wasn’t Professor Littlejohn being more encouraging? “Like I told you, things escalated in a way that I didn’t expect … I wasn’t planning to do anything illegal. Except maybe trespassing. And a little bit of vandalism.”

  “Hold it right there,” said Littlejohn. He stood up and started to pace the room. He needed to phrase this delicately. “It sounds to me like you’ve committed a political act. Am I right?”

  Alison perked up a bit. “Yeah, that’s it exactly. Technically illegal but morally justified: a political act.”

  The doorknob twisted open and one of Littlejohn’s colleagues stuck her head in. Face framed with curly black hair, left long and natural, like the ’60s. Bright red lipstick and tiny black-rimmed reading glasses pushed down on her nose. It was Nathalie Porthous, the resident expert in feminist theory—a celebrity in Alison’s eyes.

  “Still on for coffee tomorrow with Bill Conway, Nate?” said Dr. Porthous in a cheery, bell-like tone.

  “Yes. The usual time and place.” Littlejohn gave her a big thumbs-up; she mumbled a vague “Excuse me” in Alison’s direction and withdrew.

  Dr. Porthous’ interruption allowed him to see the situation with Alison in a new perspective. He had to admit he was curious to find out what was going on. But it was so difficult to talk here, in his official capacity. “Where were we?” he wondered rhetorically. “Ah, yes. I was about to say it would be better if we could discuss this issue in a more neutral context.”

  “What do you mean?” Now it was Alison’s turn to feel confused.

  “It’s very simple. Here at Penn, I’m your professor. And I have certain responsibilities.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “I thought you’d want to …”

  He cut her off. “I know. I know. You need to talk. I want to listen. I’d like to help you, but …”

  “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Alison’s look of derision made him hesitate. Then he plunged ahead anyway. “Look, you can’t go around breaking every rule in sight. And you don’t do it just for the fun of it.” His voice sank to a whisper. “This isn’t anarchy, it’s about principle. Building on principle requires circumspection. And tact. Speaking freely in this office would be neither circumspect nor tactful.” He resumed speaking at normal volume. “Are you beginning to understand?”

  “I think so …”

  “Good. The hypocrisy in this culture is absurd. That’s why we have to do things in a roundabout way. In theory, our political views are protected speech. As a couple of concerned citizens, we have a right—or as you put it, a duty—to discuss the issues and act on our principles. We have a right to privacy.”

  “Exactly …”

  “So if we’re going to talk, we need to ensure we protect our right to privacy.”

  He wasn’t actually winking while he said this, was he? “So, you’re suggesting …”

  Littlejohn did not reply. Instead, he wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Alison.

  “You want me to meet you at this address?” asked Alison, hesitating.

  Littlejohn nodded affirmatively.

  “Tonight?”

  He nodded again as he half-ushered, half-prodded her out of his office.

  Chapter 18

  Alison was royally irritated as she walked across the campus. Was she the only competent person on the planet? If the police had been doing their job properly, they’d have connected the dots to the girl in the meeting house long ago. Then she could have written her paper, and received the credit that was her due. Was that too much to ask?

  But things weren’t going the way she expected. The police had hired that ridiculous psychic. No hope there. But at least he wasn’t a threat. No, the newspaper really was her best option. P.C. Cromwell seemed like a serious person, though she had gotten seriously off track with all that mystical garbage. If she could set it up the right way, Alison could be like Deep Throat feeding Cromwell the information she needed to blow the whole rotten scandal wide open.

  To do that, she needed Professor Littlejohn’s help. She admired his ideas. Like many of her teachers, he saw events in terms of revolution. In class he was always speaking about the duty of the individual in an insane world and the need to speak truth to power.

  So why was he being so evasive about talking to her? This business about context was a red flag. What difference did it make where they talked? Alison hated it when people referred to things off campus as “the real world.” If the university wasn’t real, then what was she doing wasting her time here? For all his talk, Littlejohn was acting like someone who was still part of the system. If it weren’t for the fact that he was friends with Nathalie Porthous, she probably wouldn’t trust him …

  Alison was distracted from her reverie by an unexpected sight. A man was walking toward her on the pathway, gesticulating and talking to himself under his breath. There was something familiar about him. Was he one of her teachers? He was in the right age bracket. But he was dressed in dark business clothes. And his demeanor was definitely not professorial.

  Alison edged to the other side of the pathway so she could watch him carefully without being too obvious as he approached. Then she realized why he looked familiar. She’d seen his photo in the paper. It was the psychic, Bruno X—speak of the devil. What was he doing on campus? Adrenaline shot through her system with the idea that he might be pursuing
her. She steadied herself. She didn’t want to make eye contact, but she also didn’t want to attract attention by doing anything too obviously evasive. He had to be after her. Why else would he be here?

  She summoned her courage to look at him directly as he passed. He hadn’t noticed her. His mind was elsewhere. It might have been a complete coincidence that brought him to Penn. What a joke. Her confidence surged with every step.

  When she got back to her dorm room it didn’t even bother her to find Icky there. He was shooting up. It was almost a relief to not have to talk to him about Littlejohn and running into the psychic. She could tell he was too high to have a rational discussion and that left her free to mull things over. His excitement and incessant chatter seemed to fit her mood. It was like background music. It made her feel good, but she didn’t really have to listen.

  “Y’ know Alison, it’s really cool here on campus. I met this guy on the train who’s really into African music and guess what, he’s studying it here for credit and everything. He says the teachers are actually musicians and they teach the class. Mostly they just jam. Last week they had a master drummer from Africa as the guest lecturer and he worked directly with everybody on their drumming. I could handle that. It’d be great to major in something like that. My father is bugging me to get my high school degree. Maybe I could do it and major in drumming. Or in Africa. Can you major in Africa?”

  “Sure,” said Alison. “Why not?”

  “My father’s a jerk,” Icky continued, not really changing the subject—because it was always the subject. Alison had been through it so many times, she knew exactly what he meant. Icky’s father was a jerk. Rude. Opinionated. Obsessed with money. Status. Not at all supportive. No wonder Icky was a speed freak.

  “I’m meeting somebody and I have to take a shower,” she said gently, starting to undress. “Want to take one with me?”

  Icky lit a cigarette. The initial rush had worn off and smoking helped him channel some of the nervous energy. “Nah. The girls in this dorm aren’t ready for the sight of the perfect male body.”

  “Right.”

  “Speaking of which, did I tell you?” he announced with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “DeKalb washed the school truck. And he put on new tires, snow tires. Right after the snowstorm. Kind of stupid, don’t you think? Weird, even, since it’s so late in the season.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me …” Alison replied. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking ahead to the appointment with Littlejohn. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later, wrapped in a light blue bath-sized terry cloth towel. She held another, smaller towel with a gaudy pattern in her hand and was using it to chase some water out of her ear.

  Icky watched, fascinated, as Alison prepared herself to go out. She released the bath towel and tossed it over the back of a chair. Completely naked, she spread her feet to shoulder width, and bent over quickly, her wet hair shooting a ribbon of water onto Icky’s shirt.

  “Hey, watch that,” he protested, checking to make sure she hadn’t put out his cigarette.

  Alison expertly twisted the patterned towel around her hair and stood upright, fashioning it into a turban. With every movement, her large breasts bounced and wobbled provocatively. Icky couldn’t take his eyes off them and Alison knew it. She picked up the bath towel and began rubbing underneath her arms, taking special care to dry the moisture that collected in the deep folds under each breast.

  A similar performance graced each leg. Icky had to light another cigarette.

  Now that she was dry, it was time for moisturizer. Alison chose a purple bottle from the top of her bureau. It was an herbal concoction, goat’s milk with lavender, which was so volatile, it almost chased Icky from the room. Alison anointed herself with loving care. Then she took Icky’s cigarette and shoved the moisturizer into his hand.

  Icky knew the drill. Alison had a spreading lotus flower tattooed on her sacrum that was quite spectacular. In fact, the whole vista was quite spectacular when she turned her back to him and bent forward. Anyone but a meth addict would have been hardwired to respond. Poor Icky. All he could do was gather a handful of goo and rub it on Alison’s back. As it warmed in contact with her skin, the moisturizer threw off vapors that combined the rank aroma of fermenting cheese and an oil refinery. Icky started hacking uncontrollably. He grabbed the blue towel to wipe his hands, then retrieved his cigarette, which was dangling from Alison’s lower lip.

  With a wry grin, Alison gave him a peck on the cheek as she slipped into a pair of skimpy, fawn-colored underpants and matching camisole. Icky got up to leave. “I need to check in with Julius, find out when my merchandise will be ready.”

  “Hang on a sec so you can walk out with me,” said Alison. “I’m almost ready.”

  She unwound her turban and let it drop to the floor. She brushed her hair vigorously, four minutes by the clock. Then she slicked in a line of mousse to give it the right amount of attitude. Sensing Icky’s impatience, she struggled valiantly to get into her jeans. She added a cashmere cardigan, leaving it unbuttoned to reveal a hint of the camisole, and plenty of cleavage.

  Eyeliner. Mascara. Lipstick. Four studs in her left ear. Three in her right. A brushed silver lotus ring from India. Plenty of bangles. And she’s ready to go. She threw her overcoat over her arm but didn’t put it on, in spite of the cold.

  “Hey you really look hot!” said Icky, a twinge of jealousy finally penetrating the penumbra of his high.

  “I have to meet my professor.” Alison sighed.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re so well prepared.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Alison laughed. “He must be, like, in his 50s or something. The other women call him Littlejohnson. I can handle him, no problem.”

  Chapter 19

  After an hour in the library, Bruno’s head felt stuffed with useless information. The more he read, the more convinced he became that the Quaker connection at Penn was confined to sports. A dead end.

  Bruno squinted in the bright sunlight. The courtyard was littered with relics from the past: a brushed aluminum peace sign, 15 feet in diameter; a similarly oversized replica of a broken button; and a bright red and turquoise sculpture of the letters “L,” “O,” “V” and “E” stacked up like building blocks. Calculated silliness, which everyone seemed to ignore.

  He watched the students loafing on the green. Not a care in the world. He felt depressed. There’s no worse feeling than a psychic whose intuition isn’t working. He pulled out his map and headed for the athletic buildings. The old basketball palace, The Palestra, maybe it would hold some clue.

  As he left the green, the people assumed a more sober, businesslike manner. Crossing 34th Street, he saw the biotech building, an ultramodern facility named after one of the pharmaceutical giants. Interesting coincidence? He wondered if Dr. Jurevicius or Dr. Fischer might have some connection here?

  The Palestra struck out, as did Franklin Field. The fighting Quakers were nothing after all.

  Crossing South Street, he spotted a building that looked like a temple with a rectangular fountain in front. Gazing at the murky water, Bruno realized it’d be good to make a pit stop before getting on the train back to Jersey.

  He entered the building and found himself facing a great hall with gigantic statues of Ramses II. He couldn’t help but admire the scale and majesty of the art—in spite of its despicable origin. Ramses was the pharaoh who enslaved the Jews. He enslaved his own people too. Well, God punished him, didn’t he? Bruno thought back to countless Seders and tried to remember the list of plagues. What were they? Locusts. Death of the firstborn. Boils. Night. That was four. Murrain—he only remembered that one because he could never remember what it was. Five to go. I Love Lucy reruns. Beef liver. Wife shopping at Bloomingdale’s when there’s a big sale at Macy’s. Pants too tight. And of course, mother-in-law moves in—permanently.

  Bruno approached Ramses defiantly. “Mazel tov, alter kocker—you old fart—you’re still famous, bu
t so what? You should’ve stayed in the smaller house, the one with all the stairs and no extra bedroom!”

  Then he wandered into the next gallery, feeling rather pleased with himself. The feeling didn’t last long. Thinking of mothers-in-law reminded him that he still needed to talk with his niece, Mimi. He wanted to see her, flesh and blood—and it could provide important leads. But her parents continued to put off Chief Black. Finding the victim had been traumatic enough. They couldn’t expose Mimi to another interview. And that shmuck, Bill McRae, her father was carrying on about his character. Where did he get off feeling so superior? Who gave him the right to judge?

  Bruno’s indignation led to self-righteousness. Self-righteousness lapsed into sentimentality. And, inevitably, sentimentality devolved into self-pity: Why had this psychic stuff happened to him? He’d give anything to be free of it. It separated him from other people. His wife. His job. Look at him. Alone. Friendless. Trapped in a world that no one else could fathom or share.

  Fortunately, this reverie was interrupted by a small, roundish figure in a uniform, with a walkie-talkie parroting amplified static from his belt.

  “Huh?” said Bruno, not understanding what the man was saying to him.

  “I get lonely here at night sometimes,” the guard drawled in an accent that was a dead ringer for Peter Lorre’s. “But I never get scared.”

  “Scared. Why should you get scared?” asked Bruno. He tried keeping his cheeks sucked in while he spoke to see if he could reproduce the guard’s creepy manner of speaking. But he quickly abandoned the attempt. One Peter Lorre was enough.

  The guard gestured toward the display cases. Bruno’s self-absorption had been so complete, he hadn’t noticed they were in the Gallery of Mummies. “A virtual necropolis,” panted the guard, reading the sign on the wall. No less than half a dozen mummies, in various stages—wrapped, partially wrapped, unwrapped—were on display. Human mummies. Mummified animals. There were also coffins, canopic jars and other paraphernalia of the mummifier’s art.