And so, desperate to understand
The nature of change,
I placed the pieces of my soul
Under a glass.
If any clue was hidden in those fragments
To tell me how I got from ‘there’ to ‘here’,
I couldn’t find it.
13 -- Tiny Pieces: Part II
Rhonda slammed the receiver onto its hook. There was no point leaving another message. She’d been careful to use only public phones, in case her calls were being monitored by that bitch, Sandy Burrows. After more than a dozen messages, Hamish remained unreachable.
There was only one plausible explanation: Hamish must not be getting the messages. No doubt his trashy little voodoo wife was deleting them as soon as they came in.
The Professor was no fool. She’d underestimated her opponent from the start. Sandy was not the doormat Rhonda had imagined her to be. She was an alley-cat who would do anything to protect her turf. She’d made that clear to Rhonda the day they’d met at the hospital.
At first Rhonda Copps had been too intimidated to telephone Hamish directly. She’d tried reaching him through mutual friends on the faculty, but no one had heard from him.
Finally her anger overcame her fear. She began to call Hamish directly, and even called Sandy, hoping to arrange a meeting. Sandy, though, was having none of it. She accused Rhonda of pushing Hamish to attempt suicide, and even read his so-called “confession letter” to her over the phone.
When Rhonda questioned her on where she’d found the letter, Sandy revealed it had been given to her by none other than the writer Leda Maguire and her bodyguard Helen Strachan.
Those meddling fools! They were the reason Rhonda couldn’t be with Hamish. They were the ones who interfered with his possessive wife. They came to Boston for a couple of days, and in the process they destroyed Rhonda’s life!
She stared at the lobby payphone. Would it do any good to try to reach Leda Maguire again? After her first frustrating conversation with that stupid woman who called herself a literary agent, she’d left countless messages demanding Maggie Landers call her back. She’d tried every approach, from firm to persuasive, even threatening to cancel the huge order she’d placed on behalf of the University for copies of Two Good Hands.
Rhonda wasn’t sure what she’d say when she did finally reach Maguire. Maybe she could somehow appeal to the writer’s sympathy to help her get in touch with Hamish.
She picked up the phone, then slammed it down again.
The streets were still asleep, with only a few early risers passing in cars or jogging in the relatively clean morning air. The building’s main entrance was dimly lit, as were the hallways. At this hour – 6:00 am – there were no other faculty members to deal with.
Nor were there any young people – the sorry lot who called themselves ‘students’ couldn’t make it to a class before 10:00 am.
They’d make it this morning, though. The Professor had arranged an early morning lecture at 8:30 – attendance was mandatory and was worth three points. Rhonda expected an excellent turnout.
She left off staring at the payphone and headed towards her office. She had a special treat in store for the class. She planned to have them split into teams, where each group would assign a ‘leader’ and a ‘secretary’. The leader would attempt to discover specific weaknesses displayed by each individual that might be indicative of a “victim” profile, and the secretary would make notes of all findings.
Professor Copps opened the door to her office and reached for the light switch. She was unaware of the movement until a cloth covered her face. Too late she realised the danger – too late to let out so much as a cry for help.
She fell, knocking over the coat rack with a clatter. No matter, the building’s caretaker was not within hearing range. Her attacker dragged her to the leather chair behind her desk and propped her up, careful not to let Rhonda slide to the floor.
A small bag was emptied onto the desk. Its contents included a vial, a syringe and a suicide note in the professor’s own hand.
It read: Few people truly understand the dark forces that move us. Without this understanding, we are quite alone.
_______________________________
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 14 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!
Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
The Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy!
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