The Believer

Chapter 1

      With the first unfeigned enthusiasm he had shown all evening, Ian Roshek leapt from his seat, determined to exit the conference room before he got trapped in a group of colleagues slobbering praise over the latest list of academic restrictions.Two hours of listening to Dr. Sheldon’s harangue had already given him a skull-splitting headache.

      Lavender twilight softened harsh angles of brick and steel as Ian hurried across the University of Tremont campus. He peeled off his blazer, hoping the September breeze would cool his frustration. If Sheldon was going to be so insanely picky, why didn’t he just write the lectures himself and replace professors with computers?

      Weaving through groups of students en route to Friday-night activities, Ian headed toward the tree-lined path that curved down the hill to Maddox Road. Students in yellow sweatshirts milled around the entrance to the path, peering up and down the sidewalk with an arrogant, alert air that prickled Ian’s nerves.

      More kids in yellow shirts lined the handrails of the path, studying each pedestrian as if trying to spot faces from the police bulletins. Ian forced himself not to quicken his step. What were these kids up to tonight?

He rounded a bend and stopped short behind a logjam of people. Several yards ahead, two tables blocked the path and students in yellow sweatshirts were rooting through backpacks, jackets, and computer cases.

      “Oh, hi, Dr. Roshek.”

      Ian nodded at the boy’s shaky greeting. He couldn’t think of his name. A freshman, certainly, looking pale and edgy.

      “What’s going on?” Ian asked.

      “They’re hunting for, you know, illegal stuff. I guess there’s been a lot of it around here, so the police got the student government to do a search.”

      “That’s a new one.” Ian tried to ignore a gush of adrenaline, but couldn’t hold back a frown. Students deputized to stick their hands in backpacks and pockets?

      “I think it’s a good idea,” the boy said loudly. “Can’t be too careful, huh?”

      Ian didn’t reply. He’d already applauded enough idiocy tonight.

      At the tables, a searcher shone a flashlight meticulously along the seams of a backpack like she thought the owner might have a warehouse of contraband hidden under the stitching. Sweat dampened Ian’s palms and he squelched an urge to check his own pockets for anything illegal. He had nothing to worry about.

      Footsteps clattered behind Ian and came to an abrupt halt. “What is the problem here?”

      People stared at the student who had spoken—a girl with long auburn hair and a leather backpack slung over her shoulder.

      “There’s no problem,” snapped a boy in front of Ian, a gangly kid with peeling skin from a recent sunburn. “Unless your pack is full of anarchist trash.”

      The girl reddened. “Idiot,” she returned.

      Massaging his aching forehead, Ian refocused his attention on the search. Fifteen or twenty kids in yellow shirts were leaning against the handrails near the search area or mingling with the waiting crowd, but only six were actually conducting searches—two dumping backpacks on tables, two emptying jacket pockets, two checking computers. Another kid in a yellow sweatshirt was forming the crowd into a line as he moved back along the path, scanning forearms with a portable ID scanner. Ian moved into the line as he presented his own ID chip. Apparently they were making sure no one left without going through the checkpoint.

      Chilled now, Ian slipped his arms back into his blazer, fervently regretting that he hadn’t chosen to stay in his office and get some work done. They couldn’t keep this search going all night, could they?

      How much contraband had they found? The searchers worked with rough, eager motions, almost ripping bags apart. A middle-aged woman in a yellow jacket, obviously the supervisor, watched impassively. No police officers were there, at least none that Ian could see.

      The line inched forward and the auburn-haired girl shifted restlessly, inadvertently knocking her pack into Ian’s ribs. “We’re going to miss our bus,” she grumbled to her companion.

      “You’re welcome to go ahead of me, if that will help,” Ian offered.

      “Thanks.” The girl squeezed in front of him, dragging her friend with her.

      The sunburned boy raised his voice like he was making a speech. “If you really cared about keeping campus safe, you’d wait your turn.”

      “Give me a break,” Ian said, irritated at the boy’s second attempt to draw attention to the girl and create a breach of behavior out of nothing. The boy turned away.

      A searcher dumped a backpack with such vigor that the contents scattered. “Careful!” the owner yelped, grabbing for a falling thermos. The searcher laughed.

      Losing patience with his role of captive audience member, Ian yanked his computer from his pocket. Perusing history journals wouldn’t do much for his headache, but it might help his sanity.

Before he could open the case, a girl in a yellow shirt was at his side. “Put that away.”

      “What?”

      “You have to put your computer away until it’s been checked.”

      Everyone within earshot goggled at Ian like he’d been attempting to delete plans to assassinate the president. Face hot, Ian shoved the computer into his pocket.

      The sky darkened and the pathway lighting flared on. The line behind Ian continued to grow. The supervisor finally gestured another handful of searchers toward the tables, but the line still moved slowly. Weary of watching the searchers, Ian stared with glazed eyes at the surrounding trees and resisted the urge to check his watch.

      When the auburn-haired girl was able to rush forward and hand over her backpack, Ian felt a feeble stirring of relief. Soon it would be his turn . . . the search wouldn’t take long since he wasn’t carrying a briefcase . . . forty minutes to walk home . . . within an hour he’d be sprawled on the couch with a cup of soup, a couple of aspirin, and the evening news—

      “Hey. Hey!” The searcher attacking the auburn-haired girl’s bag flapped a folded white paper above his head. “Check this out!”

      The girl’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not mine!”

      “Did you think you were smart, sticking it under the lining? That’s the oldest trick around.”

      “That trash isn’t mine!” The auburn-haired girl whirled toward her friend.“Tell them it’s not mine, I’d never read that stuff—”

      Her friend shrank from her. The auburn-haired girl spun toward the supervisor. “I swear I didn’t—someone must have stuffed it in my bag—”

      “Yeah, sure,” the searcher said. “Like one of your anarchist pals?”

      The girl planted her fists on her hips. “It’s not mine. Did you slip it in there so you can get a prize for finding it?”

      The searcher slapped her. Ian winced as she staggered into the sunburned boy who’d been standing next to her at the table.

      “Scum. I knew it.” The sunburned boy shoved her away.

      Tears glittered on the girl’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I did not put that trash in—”

      “Listen to her!” The searcher shouted. “The anarchist sneak is blaming us!”

      Anger arced through the crowd. People pressed against Ian, crowding forward to get a better view of the girl.

      “A traitor!” the searcher yelled. “A terrorist, a Garrett follower—”

      “No! That’s a lie—”

      The sunburned boy grabbed the girl’s hair and yanked her backward. She screamed, arms flailing.

      “Traitor . . . Tremont-hater . . .” the sunburned boy spat.

      Ian looked anxiously at the supervisor, but she was stowing the contraband in an evidence envelope and didn’t seem to be paying attention to the altercation.

      “Thought you were too smart to get caught, huh?” The searcher wrenched the girl’s hand into the air. “Here she is, the school genius! Who wants to shake her hand?”

      Students began to yell. They surged past Ian, closing in around the girl.

      Stop! Ian wanted to shout the word, but fear sealed his mouth. The police would be here any second, someone must have called them—these kids knew better than to hurt the girl too badly—

      A shrill scream made Ian flinch and he stumbled as the crowd pushed him closer to where the girl struggled in the grip of the searcher and the sunburned boy.

      “One shot per customer, don’t be greedy!” the searcher shouted. “Break a finger, get a bonus point. Kneecaps are worth double—can’t pray with broken knees.” Laughter exploded from the crowd. The girl’s former friend waved a handful of auburn hair that she’d ripped from the girl’s scalp.

      How can I let this happen? The thought roared through Ian’s mind on a wave of panic. They’re torturing this kid and I’m acting like I approve—I’m a coward—a hypocrite—

      A grinning boy, rancid with sweat, wriggled past Ian. “Little trash-reader—”

      At the glee on the boy’s face as he reached for the girl, Ian shoved the boy aside so roughly that the kid tripped and crashed into the handrail. Grabbing another student by the shirt, Ian felt fabric rip as he jerked the attacker away from the girl.

      “Back off! I said back off!” Ian’s roar lanced through the hollering of the students. Everyone froze, gawking at him through still-frenzied expressions. Even the supervisor looked startled.

      Ian pushed toward the girl. Blood streamed from her nose and trickled from swollen lips. Flesh gaped open across her cheekbone. Fingernail marks raked her throat.

      “Back off.” Ian yanked the auburn-haired girl away from the boys holding her. Confused, they released her, but her former friend seized her wrist.

      “She’s scum!” the friend shrieked at Ian.

      Ian knocked the friend’s hand aside. “This is a police matter.” He could no longer see the supervisor. Where had she gone?

      The injured girl clung to Ian, her blood staining his jacket. “I didn’t . . . didn’t read . . . never touched . . .”

      Ian used his shoulder to ram a path through the crowd, speaking loudly as he went. “We’ll take her to the campus police station.” Uncertainty throbbed around him, everyone wanting to challenge him, no one wanting to be first.

Finally, an anonymous screech, “He’s helping her escape!”

      “Follow me, if you’re stupid enough to think that,” Ian yelled. “We’ll all take her to the police.”

      A hand reached from the crush, polished nails clawing at the auburn girl’s face. Ian slapped the hand away.

      “He’s protecting her!” hollered a voice Ian recognized as the sunburned boy’s. “He’s her friend. He probably gave her that stuff to read in the first place—and we let this guy teach us?”

      Ian’s mouth was parched, his shirt drenched. He wasn’t going to make it out of there without getting his ribs kicked in—

      The crowd swished back, leaving a ring of space around Ian and the girl. Relieved—confused—Ian glanced over his shoulder and saw gray uniforms just as a shove hurtled him forward. Unable to catch himself, he spun to the side to avoid crushing the auburn-haired girl beneath him. His shoulder slammed into the ground. The girl tumbled out of his grasp.

      Two police officers jerked Ian to his feet. Choking on pain, Ian couldn’t breathe, let alone form words to explain. Another officer dragged the auburn-haired girl away, and Ian’s escorts hauled him along the path toward Maddox Road. They stopped next to a patrol car parked at the curb and flung Ian facedown. His head struck the sidewalk with a jolt that ignited dizzying sparks of pain. An officer twisted his right arm up behind his back and an ID scanner beeped.

      “He is the one who was protecting the anarchist?” A woman’s voice, icy and authoritative, accompanied black boots that stopped several paces from Ian’s face.

      “Yes, Lieutenant.” The officer checking Ian’s ID chip released his wrist and straightened.

      “I wasn’t . . . protecting her.” Ian struggled to speak. “Was taking her to—”

      “Name?” the lieutenant asked.

      “Ian Roshek,” the officer filled in promptly. “He works here as a . . . let’s see . . . assistant professor of history.”

      The black boots stepped closer. “Do you wish to explain your behavior, Dr. Roshek?”

      Ian tried to look up at his inquisitor, but the attempt to turn his head sent pulses of fire through his skull. He caught only a brief impression of black hair, pale face, black clothing. “I thought the students were—going to kill that girl. I didn’t think the police wanted that.”

      “She is one of your students?”

      “No—I don’t think so—please, I don’t even know her—”

      The woman stepped back and stretched out her hand. “Profile?”

      Another pair of gray-clad legs marched into Ian’s view. He braced his palms against the ground and tried to stop trembling.

      Cheers erupted from the pathway. Had the students found another criminal, or were they still celebrating the capture of the auburn-haired girl?Ian’s interrogator was speaking to an officer, but through the clamor from the hill, Ian couldn’t hear what she was saying. He strained to listen and caught her last order. “Arrest him.”

      Terror slashed through him. “Look, this is just a misunderstanding—”

Handcuffs bit into his wrists. Dizziness blinded him as the officers yanked him to his feet and shoved him into the patrol car. The door slammed.

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