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THE UNMASKING
By
Amanda Burns
© copyright by Amanda Burns, January 2008
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, January 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-125-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
PROLOGUE
Who will be the next goddess?
Images flickered across the large screen TV. The dark-haired woman had her back to him. She'd shut off the shower and was toweling herself vigorously.
"Very nice," he muttered, tugging the brown robe tighter about his torso.
She turned.
"Full breasts." He licked his lips.
She tossed the towel over her shoulder, exposing her lower body to the hidden camera.
"Imposter!" the man shouted, punching the fast forward button. His heart pumped. Her blond curls gave her away for what she was. A pretend goddess, one of those Nordics. Not worthy of being an honored Celtic goddess. Not worthy of his gift.
Another co-ed graced the screen. His pulse slowed. This one stood naked running a brush through long dark wavy hair. A sleeping shirt lay on the bed behind her. She smiled and lightly brushed the dark curls forming the triangle above her treasure.
"Ah." He groaned. "You'll do."
He checked her name. "Mary. A serene name. Mary, I name you Goddess of the Autumn Equinox. You will be blessed with my seed. Many will envy you."
Chapter One
Who will be the next victim?
Nancy Appleby scanned the co-eds in the small lecture hall. Each could be his next prey. Each looked much younger than she remembered being as a full-time student. Each woman hung on Professor Bayfield's well crafted words.
Was it the topic, Celtic Myths and Rituals, or was it the aloofness of the tall, dark-haired lecturer with the strong protruding chin that mesmerized? He did command attention. Although his tone was mild, Bayfield played with his audience like a polished actor. Clearly he was in control. Though he gestured but rarely, he moved like an athlete, comfortable in his body.
Nancy jotted notes on a yellow pad, pretending to be no different than anyone else in the room. She glanced up at Bayfield, whose eyes had settled on her. They were piercing and inquisitive. Then he shifted his gaze, but he'd noticed her, was thinking about her. Why? She'd done everything she could to blend in. He hadn't seemed particularly troubled by her presence, just curious.
Nancy redirected her attention to the individuals sitting in front of her. She'd arrived early to claim an aisle seat in the back row. The raised auditorium layout provided an advantageous observation post. About sixty women and twenty men were in attendance, no doubt a decent turnout. Blackthorn College had a student body of less than two thousand.
Nancy scribbled more notes and then focused on the men in the room.
Was he in the lecture hall? Would he strike again, tonight? Or would the rapist stay in his hole, biding his time?
Professor Bayfield concluded his lecture. Nancy leaned back in her chair, flexed her cramped fingers and welcomed the assurance of the small service revolver pressing against her lower back.
Sergeant Nancy Appleby of the Stevens Point, Wisconsin police force had been on the Blackthorn campus for two weeks and had made no progress in identifying the rapist. She'd enrolled in two classes and moved into a small off campus walk-up, attracting little attention.
Only two persons in Trillium, Minnesota knew her true identity, and why she was there--the president of the college, Joan Williams, who also happened to be Nancy's favorite aunt, and Lucy Washington, an officer with the college police department. The president had sought outside help to solve a string of rapes because she believed that not only was the security of campus women at stake, so was the future of the college. On leave from her own department, Nancy had registered for classes as Nancy Crane, assuming her grandmother's maiden name.
She watched Professor Bayfield talk briefly with several co-eds gathered around the podium. What were they seeking from the handsome professor? What did he see in them? He dismissed them quickly and began gathering his things.
Was it coincidence that two of the rapes had taken place only hours after his lectures on Celtic culture? The rapist might have attended one or more of the lectures. The question remained--Had the rapist given the lectures?
So who was the mystery woman? Matt Bayfield reassembled his notes and glanced toward the newcomer standing in the rear of the lecture hall. He'd been offering this lecture series for nearly a year, roughly every six weeks. This fall, only three freshmen had inquired about last year's handouts. The dark-haired female in the back wasn't one of them.
Odd that she'd sit in the last row because most women, especially those as comely as the co-ed with full lips and watchful eyes, wanted to sit up front to impress him--as if he were looking. He didn't expect to be hanging around Trillium, Minnesota long enough to develop any romantic interests. And he had an ironclad rule against such liaisons with students.
Nonetheless, the woman in the bulky gray sweater and black slacks didn't fit. Matt prided himself on having honed some keen observation skills in his fieldwork as a sociologist. The other students chattered with one another. The interloper remained silent and observant, almost aloof.
Bayfield recoiled. Aloof--that's what Carol Macy accused him of being. He'd found it quite ironic that it was his lesbian colleague who seemed most concerned about his lack of romantic relationships. Her periodic nagging was an irritant he chose to put up with because he counted Carol as his best friend at Blackthorn--one of few.
He shrugged into a tweed sports jacket. Snapping his briefcase closed, he looked up into two of the most calculating gray eyes he'd ever encountered. They belonged to the woman from the back row.
"Can I help you?" he asked, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. "I can't take long, but I've time for a question or two."
The hint of a smile played across the woman's full lips. The lips seemed large, yet they were right for her. Just then they parted into a pleasant smile, showing straight white teeth.
"Sorry if it's a bad time." The co-ed extended her hand. He shook it. It was a cold hand, matching her eyes rather than her smile.
"It's been a harried two weeks," the woman said. "I've just transferred here, and I apologize for not having come to your office to ask about this lecture series. I was told it would be okay to just show up."
Who had misinformed her?
"I really enjoyed your lecture. I'd like to come to your office and pick up any handouts you have from last year and ask you some questions about topics you've already covered."
He didn't have time to waste on someone who hadn't bothered to stop by before tonight. The woman's outward expression was one of exasperation, yet he sensed she was very much in control of herself and the situation. What game was she playing?
"You see, it's quite important to me that I understand Celtic philosophy and practice."
"Why is that so, Ms ...?" Matt absently ran fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Crane. Nancy Crane. Well, I've been told my grandparents came to this country from Wales. So, I guess I want to learn more about myself."
"I see." Matt scowled and glanced at his watch. "I'm not a genealogist, Ms. Crane."
"I understand that, but ...."
He held up a hand, stopping short her plea. "Okay, but not now. I have to go. Can you come by my office tomorrow--at two o'clock? I'll have some materials for you. You can ask your questions then, though I doubt that I'll be very helpful."
Matt walked toward the side door still feeling Ms. Crane's appraising eyes. Did she size up all her professors so thoroughly? Genealogy! He doubted she had very much interest in the subject. What was she really after?
He took long strides down the corridor toward the outside exit. An image of broad lips forming a sexy pout teased him. He groaned. Get hold of yourself, Bayfield. This is only the beginning of the new academic year. Don't make it any longer than necessary by fantasizing about some inexplicable female. You don't have time for fantasies.
This year he had to produce at least two solid articles in order to move up to the next academic tier. He didn't mind the students at Blackthorn. Some surprised him with their insights and abilities. Still, he wanted to have more impact on the field of sociology than he could ever have based at a small liberal arts college. His sights were set on a research university with doctoral students.
It wasn't a matter of fame or money. Neither was particularly attainable in his chosen field. He wanted more engagement with colleagues about the issues he considered important, and that was hard to do in a department consisting of three professors.
He was eager to move on. Besides, the weather was abominable--Trillium was practically in Canada.
Myths and fantasies were objects of his academic study. In reality, he prided himself on being a hard-nosed pragmatist, not subject to the allure of outrageously kissable lips.
* * * *
Nancy left the building convinced the circumspect Professor Matt Bayfield could be more helpful than he thought. He'd seemed preoccupied when she approached him after the lecture. Was he frosty with all students, or did he have some quirky sense of who she was? When she'd asked to meet with him at his office, he had acted like she wanted to trespass on his private sanctuary.
Her own reaction to the professor surprised her. She was good at quickly sizing up people. That skill had gotten her out of more scrapes than she could count. She'd bet a month's pay that Bayfield was not the rapist. That would be too easy.
He had proved he could captivate an audience. Up close, there was a hint of more to the man than academics.
What was he hiding behind that veil of academic objectivity? His dark eyes flickered passion--out of fear, because of her?
His passion for Celtic culture was evident. That was a passion fueled by intellectual curiosity. What she'd just seen in his probing assessment of her was more basic, more elemental. She'd sparked his interest. Why?
She’d never imagined finding a professor intriguing. If she hadn’t been working a case, she might enjoy cracking the professor's stiff exterior.
Still, she had to strike Bayfield from her suspect list. That he was a chameleon, of sorts, did not make him a rapist--but it didn’t mean he wasn't. She'd know soon enough.
Nancy stayed in the shadows, waiting for Bayfield to exit. Only moments went by before he emerged from the building. He strode quickly down a walkway leading away from campus. Apparently, he was going home rather than back to his office. Or was he preparing to lie in wait for some unsuspecting co-ed? Careful to remain within the protection of darkness, Nancy followed.
No more than ten minutes elapsed before Bayfield turned up a sidewalk toward a modest house, stopped on its porch and retrieved some mail, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.
Nancy made her way up a small hill to a clump of aspen in the park across the street. From there, she had an unobstructed view of the professor's house. She nestled into a wind blown pile of leaves and breathed the night air deeply. The setting made the stakeout almost enjoyable.
Within an hour, the downstairs lights in Bayfield's house went out. An upstairs light came on. Nancy rolled her eyes. Didn't the man know he was putting on a show for anyone sitting in the park watching his house--not that there was a crowd. Damn, she should've brought a pair of binoculars. Then, the bedroom went dark. "Show's over," Nancy muttered, stretching cramped muscles.
She stared into the darkness, waiting, doubting that many perps got undressed and climbed into bed before setting out to rape. Still, she waited. She checked her watch. Each of the attacks had taken place between the hours of eleven at night and two in the morning.
At two-thirty, Nancy stood, stretched, brushed off her bottom, and headed back toward the parking lot to retrieve her car. It had been a long stakeout. At least, Bayfield hadn't raped anyone that night.
* * * *
A cold wet nose nuzzled Nancy Appleby's bare ankle below the hem of her blue fuzzy bathrobe. She remained hunched over her early morning work, transfixed by words on the computer screen. Automatically, she reached under the kitchen table to scratch the Rottweiller's ears. The dog lapped at her ankle with increased urgency.
"Okay, okay, Mal. I'll get you some breakfast." She left the laptop on and rose to pour some kibble into a large metal bowl. She waited while the animal gobbled his meal. "What would I do without you, Malaki?"
She knelt and hugged the dog who in turn licked her face. "You're a lifesaver. Don't know hardly a soul in Trillium. With you along, it doesn't really matter."
The detective refilled her coffee mug and returned to the kitchen table. She reviewed her computerized notes. She needed a live lead. The rapist wouldn't stop until she caught him.
Very little was actually known about him. Estimates of height ranged from five foot seven to six feet. Weight descriptions varied from one hundred and fifty pounds to two hundred. The perp wore dark clothing and a dark ski mask.
After overpowering his prey, the man would bind and blindfold the woman and take her off campus, driving what seemed like two to three miles, before raping her. Two women had reported that the attacks had occurred outdoors while the other two said they had been taken to some type of shelter or shed, but not to a house. The air was described as dank and musty.
Nancy sipped lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug. She continued scrolling. The perp had threatened to beat or kill the woman. No weapon had been reported.
Next, Nancy considered what was known about the victims. They were all co-eds. The four women shared one significant anomaly--each had attended Prof. Bayfield's Celtic culture lecture series. Two were raped hours after attending a lecture. One was raped a few days after a lecture. The fourth victim, however, didn't seem to fit into the pattern. She had been raped two months after the last lecture of the previous academic year. The victims had also frequented the same bar before being attacked.
The rapes occurred about a month or so apart: February fifth, March twenty first, May first and August first. Nancy frowned at her notes. Why no rape in June or July? And the August rape made no sense. Although the college had a summer session, Bayfield's lectures only took place during the traditional academic year.
Bayfield? Nancy suppressed a smile remembering his reluctance to meet with her. Although he wasn't a hot lead, he did fit the rough descriptions of the rapist--but so did seventy-five percent of the males residing in and around Trillium. He must be about six feet since she was five-five, and he loomed a good six inches or so taller. She had yet to determine where he’d been when the rapes had occurred. Certainly, he was in town for the two that had happened the night of his lectures. His whereabouts at the time of the August rape could be the key to striking him from her suspect list.
She'd find out if he taught during the summer session or whether he spent his summers elsewhere. It was not difficult to imagine him sailing. Somehow he had obtained a very nice summer tan, giving him a rugged, weathered look. Maybe he spent his summers canoeing and fishing the nearby Boundary Waters. Now that would be a great way to spend the summer.
She saved her files and shut down the laptop. There hadn't been enough time for fishing this past summer. Nor enough time for men.
Nancy pushed the chair back from the table and Malaki sprang to attention. "Okay, big boy. I'll get dressed and then we'll go for our run. Then a quick shower. A class on botany. Lunch and then a date with the good Dr. Bayfield. What do you suppose we'll learn about him today?"
* * * *
Nancy sat across from Professor Bayfield in his cramped office. Book shelves overflowed with volume after volume. The metal desk was functional. A computer and printer sat on a table beneath a window with a view onto the quadrangle. Very little of the floor was visible because of stacks of papers and more books. He wasn't a slob. The stacks were neat and seemed well organized. Did he ever finish a project, or did he just need more space? He'd moved a pile of papers from the corner of the desk to give her a surface upon which to write.
She uncrossed her legs and tugged at the russet skirt that had climbed to mid-thigh, mildly irritated at the short skirts so in fashion with co-eds. She'd do what it took to blend into the campus scene, but she wasn't accustomed to showing off that much of her thirty-one year old body in this kind of setting. Though she was proud of her well toned legs. Running and yoga definitely had their benefits.
Bayfield seemed antsy trying to find any place to look--above her right shoulder, above her left shoulder, at the floor, out the window--to avoid being caught looking at her legs. Maybe his discomfort gave her an edge?
She stopped fumbling with the hem of the skirt and studied the movement of his mouth. He was one of those annoying people who could talk while hardly moving his lips.
He smoothed out his dark green turtleneck and continued responding to her question. She stifled a yawn. What had she asked? Oh, yeah. Whether there was any truth to the notion that in ancient Celtic culture women were on a more equal status with men than in other cultures of the time.
"So ... you see ...," Bayfield said, interlacing his fingers, keeping his eyes focused on her nose. She'd never considered her nose one of her more endearing assets. "Based on Classical authors, archeology, and vernacular myths, it seems quite plausible that at least some women held positions of considerable power. They appear in stories as warriors, as priestesses, as politicians, and there is considerable evidence that a number of women were buried with much ornamentation, a sure sign of power and prestige."
"What about the common woman--the woman at home?"
Bayfield shook his head. "That's much more difficult to determine. If I had to guess, I'd say the man ruled as in most cultures and in most historical periods. But history does very little to preserve the stories of the common woman, or man, for that matter."
"Fascinating." Nancy leaned forward slightly, feeling the movement of her breasts against her thin blouse. She noticed Bayfield bite his lower lip and squirm slightly in his chair.
She was struck by the absence of anything personal in his office. Nothing except book titles spoke to the character of the man--no artwork, mementoes, or college banners. The lack of pictures of a wife or sweetheart pricked her curiosity.
"So, do you get all of this knowledge from books? Do you go through dusty libraries? Do you dig in dirt?" While she maintained a poker-face, she doubted Professor Bayfield let dirt get under his fingernails.
Bayfield gave her a patronizing smile before answering. Had she pierced his armor?
"Actually, all of the above. I know you must find it boring to think about, but it is quite challenging. It's sort of like doing a maze, or a labyrinth, or a crossword puzzle." He tilted back in his chair. "I'm just now finishing writing up notes from this summer's fieldwork."
"Really," Nancy said without having to feign interest. "What was that about?" She scrunched forward. Matt Bayfield was about to tell her something she really wanted to hear.
His eyes softened, reflecting a gentler side. He was focused on a distant memory.
"I just spent the most satisfying summer working on a dig in Ireland. It was very rewarding. I should get at least two, maybe three articles out of that work. Maybe even the beginnings of a book. Then, maybe I can get out of ...." He drew himself up short. "Anyway, to answer your question, yes, I do both dusty libraries and digs--that sort of goes with the territory."
Nancy sighed, surprised at the wave of relief she felt. She couldn't entirely explain the appeal she found in the man. He was arrogant and aloof. But then there was that gentleness. He was a paradox. Too bad she didn't have more time.
"Three months is a long time to be away from home, professor."
Bayfield flinched. "I imagine that depends on your home. There's not much tying me down, and I like it that way. I'd love to spend a year teaching abroad. Maybe, someday."
Oops. His exterior had cracked just a bit. Nancy checked her notepad to give the professor a moment to recover. With him off her list of suspects, could Professor Bayfield become a useful ally? She swallowed. She shifted in her chair. Her skirt inched a little higher. She didn't pull it back down.
* * * *
Matt pushed his chair further away from the woman and crossed his legs. Why had he made such a revealing remark? At least, Nancy Crane was more relaxed than when she’d first arrived. She'd been ten minutes late and seemed as scattered as most of his students. Yet, she was different. She didn't speak to him with the deference that students used. He ran fingers along the crease of his pants. It was difficult looking at her and seeing a student.
Ms. Crane was older. Probably not much younger than he was, if that. What had brought an older woman back to school, particularly a private liberal arts college? Divorce, boredom, ambition? She didn't wear a wedding ring. He'd predict divorce.
Sculpted legs and thighs--signs of an athlete. He welcomed the return of short skirts, but it was damn difficult sitting there carrying on a polite academic conversation while ignoring a woman whose entire persona screamed sex. Maybe Carol Macy was right. Maybe he had been too long without a woman.
Was Ms. Crane aware of the vibrations she emitted, or of his discomfort? Last night she'd been camouflaged under a bulky sweater. Today, she sat in front of him revealing a smoldering sensuality. Her shoulder length ebony hair was as dark as his. Ample breasts shifted beneath the thin blouse whenever she gestured, which was often.
The woman's lips mesmerized. They were thick--probably too large by most people's standards--yet, they fit Ms. Crane's smile perfectly. Actually, they were too inviting.
Bayfield fiddled with a button on his sport coat. He looked up at his visitor's eyes and then glanced quickly out the window toward the quad. What would it take for her smile to reach those steel gray eyes?
"You said you transferred. Where did you come from, Ms. Crane? And why Blackthorn, of all places?"
"In fact, I've been away from school for some time." She hesitated, peeking at her notepad. "I wanted to get a fresh start. Blackthorn has a decent reputation, and I love the northland."
"Oh ... I guess it does appeal to some folk. So, you're from the area?"
"No, I grew up in Milwaukee."
"Really! You're a city person. I'm from the Bay Area. San Francisco. And you still enjoy the northland?"
"You seem to find that preposterous, Professor Bayfield." The woman's eyes burned bright and then softened. Somehow he'd gotten behind her cool composure. "I grew tired of the cut-throat existence of the city," she said. "I love the solitude this part of the country offers, and all the fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing, and cross-country skiing. If you like the outdoors, then just about everything's at your fingertips."
"You hunt!" Matt knew his shock, if not disgust, was transparent. What did it matter if she hunted grizzly bear stark naked? He flushed at the image. Was she some female Celtic warrior come back to taunt him?
"Don't be squeamish, professor." She actually chuckled. Was she trying to goad him? "I didn't mean to offend. But abhorrence at a female hunting seems in sharp contrast to what we were just talking about in ancient Celtic culture--sounds like some of those women hunted."
Don't rise to her bait. Just let the discussion drop. It's not important. She's not important. "It has nothing to do with you in particular, or women hunting. I just find hunting to be an archaic pastime that's outlived its usefulness."
"Oh, well then." Her features darkened. She tugged at her skirt. "I guess--no, it doesn't matter." She abruptly dropped her pencil into her purse and closed her note pad. "This has been most instructive, Professor Bayfield. Now, if I can get copies of last year's handouts, I'll be on my way. I'm sure you are a very busy man."
"Of course." Matt opened a desk drawer and gave her the handouts. "I hope these will be helpful. I'm sure it's difficult jumping in mid-stream, but the college wanted this lecture series to span across two years in order to keep up student interest."
The Crane woman stood to leave. Matt rose. He wasn't sure he was ready for her to go, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He'd already said too much.
"Oh, that reminds me," she said, slipping on a light jacket, "are the lectures open only to students?"
He crossed his arms, ignoring the impulse to help her with her jacket. Why was she concerned about who attended his lectures? "The series is open to the entire college community, even to the town of Trillium. Mainly students come, but occasionally a few others show up."
"But you don't know who they are?"
"Of course not. We don't take roll. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, I guess." Nancy Crane gave him a wide, warm smile. "Thanks, professor." She reached for his hand and shook it. "I'm eager to read these materials. If I have more questions, I hope I can come back and pursue them with you."
"That would be fine." Bayfield nodded. He'd been pleasantly surprised by the woman's keen mind and genuine interest in the Celts. "That's why I'm here. Just don't expect too much. It is a general lecture series."
Before the woman could reply, a shrill buzzing emanated from her purse. "Excuse me," she said, reaching for her cell phone. She punched a button and held it to her ear. "Yes."
A shadow crossed Ms. Crane's face and her body shuddered briefly. Matt's pulse quickened.
"Okay," she said, to the caller. "I'll be right there." She hurriedly stuffed the phone back into the black purse that appeared to double as a carry-all bag.
"A problem?" Matt inquired. Instantly, he wanted to take back his words. Her problems weren't his.
"Yes, you could say that," she said. "One of the students was raped early this morning."
Matt gasped and took a step backward. "Raped! That can't be!"
"I'm afraid it can and it did. I've got to run--I volunteer at the Woman's Center. Thanks for your time, Professor Bayfield."
"Of course." He raised his hand to wave. "Any time. It's always nice to find a student interested in Celtic culture."
Had she heard him? She was in such a rush. Raped! Here at Blackthorn? That was something that happened in Frisco or L.A., not Trillium, Minnesota.
He pondered the closed door. Nancy Crane certainly was a go-getter. It hadn't taken her long to get involved at the Women's Center, and she wasn't intimidated by him in the least bit. Was she ever intimidated?
She was enigmatic, exuding sensuality while remaining distant, feigning subordination while staying in charge. Much about her didn't add up. Undergraduates seldom shook hands with him.
He pivoted and stared at the chair she'd just vacated. He couldn't recall ever meeting a co-ed who carried a gun in her purse.
So who the hell was she?
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