Read Online The Spire by Richard North Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard North Patterson
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living room. What Rusty proclaimed as 'Team Betts' deposited Joe's Miata with great ceremony, as though unfurling the flag at Iwo Jima or toppling the statue of a dictator. 'Aren't we going to the library'' Mark asked.
'Got to clear the road.' Rusty reached into the Miata, producing Joe's car keys. 'It's your day, Mark. You get to drive.'
Rusty was not usually a leader'it struck Mark that, for him, inspiring this teamwork meant more than the perpetration of a prank. 'Whatever you say, Captain. From this night on your name will forever live in legend.'
With pleased solemnity, Rusty issued directions. As Tim and Skip pulled the library table to one corner, Rusty handed Mark the keys.
Sitting inside, Mark turned the ignition far enough to put Joe's top down, then started the motor. To cheers and applause, Mark slowly drove the Miata through the open double doors, into the library.
He killed the engine, then sat there, mildly astounded. Rusty handed him a cup of whiskey on ice. 'Why don't you try out the sound system,' he suggested.
Mark took a deep, harsh swallow of whiskey, then reached into the glove compartment for a tape. It was Bon Jovi, a favorite. Surrounded by friends, Mark leaned his head back, listening to the music as he slowly closed his eyes.
WHEN M ARK AWAKENED, the library was dark.
He felt sick. His head pounded, and his mind filled with rueful self-recrimination. The illuminated clock in Joe's Miata read 3:04.
He needed to get back to his room. But he lived in the bowels of the stadium, a good three-quarters of a mile away. Too far to walk at night'too far, period.
Still drunk, he reached for Joe's car phone.
Steve owed him, he reasoned'Mark had saved him from certain death at the hands of Joe Betts. Early-morning taxi service was not too much to ask.
With a trembling hand, he punched in the number to Steve's room.
The phone rang once, then twice. At fourteen rings Mark hung up. 'Wake up, you sonofobitch,' he murmured.
Nothing.
Mark dialed again, counting to fifteen rings.
Slowly, he replaced the phone. Never again, he promised himself. Then he shut his eyes once more.
4
W
HEN M ARK AWOKE AGAIN, HIS SKULL THROBBED AND HIS mouth tasted sour. The stale air smelled of beer and whiskey and cigarette smoke, the faint pungent whiff of marijuana. Adjusting to the dark, his eyes were slits. He could not remember feeling so stupid.
The clock in Joe's car read 5:43. Soon dawn would break, providing enough light for him to stagger home. He craved fresh air and his own bed.
Slowly, Mark extracted himself from the Miata.
The living room was empty except for a body sprawled on the couch. Rusty Clark. Passing through, Mark cautiously opened the side door, as though expecting to find himself in a foreign country. He took one deep breath of chill morning air and started on his way.
The first thick ribbon of orange-gray dawn appeared above the trees outlined in the semidark. In the distance, Mark discerned the steeple atop the Spire.
He headed there. Between the fraternities and campus, a gently sloping walkway flanked by trees and gardens passed modern buildings constructed of red brick'the library, the student theater, the alumni center, and, newest and most impressive, the architecturally striking student union, a steel-and-glass marvel that was the pride of Caldwell. But as with most other paths at the college, this one led to the Spire, towering above all else. As the sky lightened, the steeple emerged more clearly, creating the illusion that it was moving toward him from above the trees. There was a dusting of frost on the ground.
At the foot of the pathway, a black metal clock, eight feet high, told Mark that it was now 6:07. Passing it, Mark entered the main campus, demarked by a sandstone gateway. For the next few minutes he wended his way through the buildings, varied in size and style, that housed his classes in English, history, philosophy, and science. At midday, he promised himself, he would
'Got to clear the road.' Rusty reached into the Miata, producing Joe's car keys. 'It's your day, Mark. You get to drive.'
Rusty was not usually a leader'it struck Mark that, for him, inspiring this teamwork meant more than the perpetration of a prank. 'Whatever you say, Captain. From this night on your name will forever live in legend.'
With pleased solemnity, Rusty issued directions. As Tim and Skip pulled the library table to one corner, Rusty handed Mark the keys.
Sitting inside, Mark turned the ignition far enough to put Joe's top down, then started the motor. To cheers and applause, Mark slowly drove the Miata through the open double doors, into the library.
He killed the engine, then sat there, mildly astounded. Rusty handed him a cup of whiskey on ice. 'Why don't you try out the sound system,' he suggested.
Mark took a deep, harsh swallow of whiskey, then reached into the glove compartment for a tape. It was Bon Jovi, a favorite. Surrounded by friends, Mark leaned his head back, listening to the music as he slowly closed his eyes.
WHEN M ARK AWAKENED, the library was dark.
He felt sick. His head pounded, and his mind filled with rueful self-recrimination. The illuminated clock in Joe's Miata read 3:04.
He needed to get back to his room. But he lived in the bowels of the stadium, a good three-quarters of a mile away. Too far to walk at night'too far, period.
Still drunk, he reached for Joe's car phone.
Steve owed him, he reasoned'Mark had saved him from certain death at the hands of Joe Betts. Early-morning taxi service was not too much to ask.
With a trembling hand, he punched in the number to Steve's room.
The phone rang once, then twice. At fourteen rings Mark hung up. 'Wake up, you sonofobitch,' he murmured.
Nothing.
Mark dialed again, counting to fifteen rings.
Slowly, he replaced the phone. Never again, he promised himself. Then he shut his eyes once more.
4
W
HEN M ARK AWOKE AGAIN, HIS SKULL THROBBED AND HIS mouth tasted sour. The stale air smelled of beer and whiskey and cigarette smoke, the faint pungent whiff of marijuana. Adjusting to the dark, his eyes were slits. He could not remember feeling so stupid.
The clock in Joe's car read 5:43. Soon dawn would break, providing enough light for him to stagger home. He craved fresh air and his own bed.
Slowly, Mark extracted himself from the Miata.
The living room was empty except for a body sprawled on the couch. Rusty Clark. Passing through, Mark cautiously opened the side door, as though expecting to find himself in a foreign country. He took one deep breath of chill morning air and started on his way.
The first thick ribbon of orange-gray dawn appeared above the trees outlined in the semidark. In the distance, Mark discerned the steeple atop the Spire.
He headed there. Between the fraternities and campus, a gently sloping walkway flanked by trees and gardens passed modern buildings constructed of red brick'the library, the student theater, the alumni center, and, newest and most impressive, the architecturally striking student union, a steel-and-glass marvel that was the pride of Caldwell. But as with most other paths at the college, this one led to the Spire, towering above all else. As the sky lightened, the steeple emerged more clearly, creating the illusion that it was moving toward him from above the trees. There was a dusting of frost on the ground.
At the foot of the pathway, a black metal clock, eight feet high, told Mark that it was now 6:07. Passing it, Mark entered the main campus, demarked by a sandstone gateway. For the next few minutes he wended his way through the buildings, varied in size and style, that housed his classes in English, history, philosophy, and science. At midday, he promised himself, he would
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