Read Online Whom Dog Hath Joined by Neil S. Plakcy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neil S. Plakcy
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One day about four months before,
the college president, John William Babson, had called me into his office. I’d
thought at the time that I was being fired – but instead, he had a new job for
me.
Eastern had recently completed the purchase of a
nineteenth-century monastery a few miles from the campus. Officially called Our
Lady of the Waters, it included a hilltop chapel and dormitory, several
outbuildings and about fifty acres of woodland. At the base of the hill was a small
body of water known as Friar Lake. Mendicant friars, those religious men who
spent their lives among the poor, retired to a house at the water’s edge to
lives of country peace and quiet, the soothing sound of lake water lapping, the
rhythms of nature around them.
The church had decided to consolidate facilities, so the
monks and the friars moved to western Pennsylvania and Eastern bought the
property. Babson had given me the opportunity to create a conference center for
the college on the grounds. Though I had little background in the skills
required, he had faith in me, and I had been scrambling to learn as much as I
could since I got the assignment.
Part of my responsibility was overseeing the choice of
materials for the interiors, and since my idea of decorating is a comfortable
sofa and a big-screen TV, I recruited my friend Mark Figueroa to help me. He had
a degree in interior design and ran an antique store in downtown Stewart’s
Crossing jammed with an eclectic mix of antique furniture, fifties dinnerware, and
the kind of kitschy crap I’d seen at the Harvest Festival.
He’d been reluctant to help me out at first, because he had
his own business to manage, but he had warmed up to the work, and I was eager
to see the paint and carpet samples he’d put together.
While Rochester and I walked, I tried to focus on getting
through the meeting with Santiago Santos. Until I had that certificate of final
release, I was still a parolee, and the state of California, through Santos,
had control over me.
I had done some foolish things since leaving prison—almost
all of them involving the very crime I had done the time for. I had continued
to think I was the smartest guy in the room, that I could break into websites
and find the information I wanted without worrying about the consequences.
Suppose Santos discovered the way I had hacked into the Quaker State Bank
system while investigating Caroline’s murder? Or the many other small hacks I
had committed in search of the truth about other crimes?
He never knew that I’d kept my hacking software on Caroline’s
laptop, hidden in my attic. In addition to it, I had used computers at Eastern
College to do research I didn’t want Santos to know about. Hell, I’d even had a
handgun in my possession, an inheritance from my dad, and hadn’t reported it
until one of my students was shot with a similar weapon and I had to surrender
it for forensics evaluation. Since it was against the terms of my parole, Rick
had held it for me after the ballistics didn’t match the weapon used.
If Santiago Santos wanted to turn me in for parole violations,
there were plenty of ways he could do it.
I wished I could take Rochester with me, for the comfort of
his company, but I was sure dogs wouldn’t be allowed in the Bucks County
Courthouse in Doylestown, where the regional office of the Parole Board was located.
I left him on the first floor of the townhouse, with the gate up blocking the
stairway to the second floor. The tile was strewn with his toys—his squeaky
blue plastic ball, the frayed rope we played tug-of-war with, a miniature piano
keyboard that played different squeaks depending on where the dog bit down.
I have no idea how Doylestown became our county seat. It’s a
medium-sized town in the center of the county, in the middle of an ocean of
waving stalks of corn. It has no distinguishing features, and it’s far from any
highway. I negotiated a series of two-lane roads to the outskirts of the
the college president, John William Babson, had called me into his office. I’d
thought at the time that I was being fired – but instead, he had a new job for
me.
Eastern had recently completed the purchase of a
nineteenth-century monastery a few miles from the campus. Officially called Our
Lady of the Waters, it included a hilltop chapel and dormitory, several
outbuildings and about fifty acres of woodland. At the base of the hill was a small
body of water known as Friar Lake. Mendicant friars, those religious men who
spent their lives among the poor, retired to a house at the water’s edge to
lives of country peace and quiet, the soothing sound of lake water lapping, the
rhythms of nature around them.
The church had decided to consolidate facilities, so the
monks and the friars moved to western Pennsylvania and Eastern bought the
property. Babson had given me the opportunity to create a conference center for
the college on the grounds. Though I had little background in the skills
required, he had faith in me, and I had been scrambling to learn as much as I
could since I got the assignment.
Part of my responsibility was overseeing the choice of
materials for the interiors, and since my idea of decorating is a comfortable
sofa and a big-screen TV, I recruited my friend Mark Figueroa to help me. He had
a degree in interior design and ran an antique store in downtown Stewart’s
Crossing jammed with an eclectic mix of antique furniture, fifties dinnerware, and
the kind of kitschy crap I’d seen at the Harvest Festival.
He’d been reluctant to help me out at first, because he had
his own business to manage, but he had warmed up to the work, and I was eager
to see the paint and carpet samples he’d put together.
While Rochester and I walked, I tried to focus on getting
through the meeting with Santiago Santos. Until I had that certificate of final
release, I was still a parolee, and the state of California, through Santos,
had control over me.
I had done some foolish things since leaving prison—almost
all of them involving the very crime I had done the time for. I had continued
to think I was the smartest guy in the room, that I could break into websites
and find the information I wanted without worrying about the consequences.
Suppose Santos discovered the way I had hacked into the Quaker State Bank
system while investigating Caroline’s murder? Or the many other small hacks I
had committed in search of the truth about other crimes?
He never knew that I’d kept my hacking software on Caroline’s
laptop, hidden in my attic. In addition to it, I had used computers at Eastern
College to do research I didn’t want Santos to know about. Hell, I’d even had a
handgun in my possession, an inheritance from my dad, and hadn’t reported it
until one of my students was shot with a similar weapon and I had to surrender
it for forensics evaluation. Since it was against the terms of my parole, Rick
had held it for me after the ballistics didn’t match the weapon used.
If Santiago Santos wanted to turn me in for parole violations,
there were plenty of ways he could do it.
I wished I could take Rochester with me, for the comfort of
his company, but I was sure dogs wouldn’t be allowed in the Bucks County
Courthouse in Doylestown, where the regional office of the Parole Board was located.
I left him on the first floor of the townhouse, with the gate up blocking the
stairway to the second floor. The tile was strewn with his toys—his squeaky
blue plastic ball, the frayed rope we played tug-of-war with, a miniature piano
keyboard that played different squeaks depending on where the dog bit down.
I have no idea how Doylestown became our county seat. It’s a
medium-sized town in the center of the county, in the middle of an ocean of
waving stalks of corn. It has no distinguishing features, and it’s far from any
highway. I negotiated a series of two-lane roads to the outskirts of the
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