Voice Mail Murder - By Patricia Rockwell Page 0,2

directly into his eyes, and then, pointedly, inside the motel room.

“Privacy?” asked the visitor.

“Yes, ah, yes. Sometimes, I really need to just get away for a while—be by myself.”

“You’re by yourself?” asked the visitor, with a slight smile.

“Sure. Alone. You can see,“ the man answered, his arm gesturing towards the interior of the room.

“Why don’t I believe you?” The visitor pushed past the man and entered the room. The dark motel room contrasted sharply to the bright sunny day. As the visitor’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the contents of the room became clear; the visitor could see the primary object in the small room—the king-sized bed, sheets rumpled.

“Doesn’t look like you were alone,” said the visitor, staring down at the bed—and the stained sheets.

“I was,” responded the man, closing the door. This was embarrassing. And this discussion was much too loud and likely to be heard by someone outside.

“I was alone,” he repeated, more insistent, walking closer to the visitor. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“Yes, it is,” the visitor said quietly, and remained staring at the man.

“Why are you here anyway?” the man asked, flustered—no, angry now. He was not going to engage in a verbal battle with this person. It would just be a waste of time. “I was just leaving,” the man announced suddenly. He strode over to the nightstand where his wallet, cell phone, and keys were located. He picked up the wallet and shoved it in his back pocket. He reached down to grab his cell phone and keys. As he did, he felt a sharp pain in the center of his back.

“What the . . .?”

The pain tore into his body. Then again. A horrific, searing pain. He turned, or tried to turn. As he stretched his head to the side, he saw a hand holding a large, sharp instrument, poised in the air, ready to drop. The hand hit his back again, digging the sharp implement into it. And again. He tried to reach out—to speak—to call for help. Surely, someone here would hear him, someone must be around. It was a motel, for God’s sake. Maybe a maid, the desk clerk? But . . . no, it was too late. Another blow fell onto his back. And another. Sharp blows continued to pummel him. That sharp, horrible pain that he couldn’t stop. That was the last thing he remembered as his body slid quietly to the floor of the motel room—the sharp pain. His cell phone and keys dropped from his hands and silently landed onto the mottled green rug. The cell phone bounced when it fell and slid under the bed, out of sight.

Not waiting to check on the man’s condition, the visitor quietly placed a “Do Not Disturb” placard on the outside room door, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Chapter Two

The first day of the semester always felt like a new beginning to Pamela; it was appropriate that the new school year started in the fall when the seasons were changing, although in Reardon, a sleepy college community in the deep South, fall typically remained far into the winter months. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen any snow—probably when she and Rocky had taken one of their few vacations north to New York City to shop and go to Broadway musicals and dine in elegant restaurants.

The sense of new beginning came, she realized, because each fall meant new students, a new crop of possibilities. Of course, she was jaded at times because of her many years of teaching, but she was ever the optimist, a personality trait that was ingrained and so much a part of her nature that no amount of natural or unnatural catastrophe could alter her innate qualities.

There always seemed to be excitement in the air on the first day of class. Of course, she saw her colleagues almost every day (although some had been away for the summer—on lengthy vacations or sabbaticals), but all members of Grace University’s small Psychology Department were now officially back at work and she savored that sense of group commitment, of a team preparing for a game, or a battalion readying for battle.

The hub of the action was the Department’s main office, on the first floor of old Blake Hall, centrally located at the intersection of two hallways that connected it from two separate wings and a grand stairway winding down from the second story. As Pamela entered the open door into the main office, she found herself