Craig Smith - Cold Rain

Cold Rain (2009)
A novel by Craig Smith

Synopsis:

I turned thirty-seven that summer, older than Dante when he toured Hell, but only by a couple of years
Life couldn't be better for David Albo, an associate professor of English at a small mid-western university. He lives in an idyllic, out-of-town, plantation-style mansion with a beautiful and intelligent wife and an adoring teenage stepdaughter. As he returns to the university after a long and relaxing sabbatical, there's a full professorship in the offing and, what's more, he's managed to stay off the booze for two whole years. But, once term begins, things deteriorate rapidly. The damning evidence that he has sexually harassed his students is just the beginning as Dave finds himself sucked into a vortex of conspiracy, betrayal, jealousy and murder. Unless he can discover quickly who is out to destroy him, all that he is and loves is about to be stripped away.

Genre: Thriller

Cold Rain

Craig Smith

The Whisper of Leaves

The Painted Messiah

The Blood Lance

Myrmidon Books Ltd

Rotterdam House

116 Quayside

Newcastle upon Tyne

NE1 3DY

www.myrmidonbooks.com

Published by Myrmidon 2010

Copyright Craig Smith 2010

Craig Smith has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-905802-59-3

Typeset in Sabon by Ellipsis Books Limited, Glasgow Printed and bound in the UK by

CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First ebook edition 2011

I WAS ON SABBATICAL and dropped by my department for no better reason than to rub it in. Making the rounds office by office I listened to the latest, inquired about projects and remembered to mention families. Asked what I was doing with my free time, I would confess to reading those books I never had time for when I was grading papers. There was envy among my colleagues naturally, but everyone I spoke to either had a sabbatical coming up or had just finished one, so we were all conspirators.

I ended the morning at Walt Beerys office. Walt had been a medievalist of some reputation once upon a time. For the past decade or so he filled in as the departments last bad boy. When I had arrived on campus eight years before, Walt had befriended me while others on the faculty were still considering it. I valued that about Walt.

I was thinking about getting out of here for some lunch, Walt announced after the surprise of seeing me in his doorway. What do you think?

Over the years Walt and I had stolen an afternoon or two in various taverns, and though I was not drinking at that time I suspect the very sight of me made Walt thirsty. Thats a bit egotistical, I suppose. Around noon, almost anything could make Walt thirsty. I had gotten all the news that was fit to broadcast. It was time for the good stuff, which Walt always had in abundance.

Still the junior prof in the presence of an Olympian, I shrugged agreeably. Lunch sounded good.

We went to Calebs. A new menu, Walt assured me as we walked across the cindered lot to the back door.

What he meant by that was they were now carrying Becks. I had been to Calebs too many times over the years to really see it anymore. It was hardly more than a big dark room with lots of tables and beer signs, eight ball at one end, a short order grill at the other.

At night it catered to locals. By day Calebs was strictly hard-core: serious drinkers only. There was the inevitable stink of spilt beer and as usual our choice of tables, mute testimony to the quality of the new lunch menu.

I ate greasy fries and a leathery hamburger washed down with oily coffee. Walt drank longnecks, which came two-by-two, so as not to wear out the bartender.

We talked about campus politics, the sexual intrigues of various campus perennials, recent scandals (a bit of plagiarism in Education, the miracle being that anyone noticed) and the latest charges brought against various profs, including a complaint against Walt himself. A wave of the hand at this. Purely a misunder -standing.

Having buried these issues and four Becks in rapid succession, Walt eventually turned to that subject dearest to his heart, his desperate need for a divorce.

Anytime you need a place, I told him without letting him see the worn tread on my smile, youre welcome to move in with Molly and me. This seemed to satisfy Walt, and I could see him working out the details, which mostly involved hiding from Barbara while he entertained swarms of nubile co-eds. But you know,

I added, as I always did when we had come to this juncture and Walt was looking a little too pleased with the fantasy, neither one of us is going to stand up to Barbara when she comes out to the farm and shoots you like the rabid dog you are.

His eyes going out of focus, Walt shook his bald head sorrowfully and patted his considerable paunch.

That was the problem, he said. Barbara wasnt going to handle it well. An open marriage would be the solution, he said at last, but that was out too. Shes scared to death of disease. Thinks Ill bring something home.

You probably would, I told him.

After his fashion Walt began a Chaucerian exposition in the original on the joys of infidelity, or at least serial marriage, the Wifes ruminations, I think, and from there he expounded Beery-style upon the siren call of youth and the golden time not too many years past when penicillin could cure everything but the bark of an angry husbands handgun.

Why did AIDS have to come along anyway? he moaned.

Im against it, I told him. Always have been.

It comes from monkeys, Walt said. Did you know that, David? Monkeys! His laughter had a nervous bit of chatter to it.

I was reading in the Times it actually comes from a subspecies of chimpanzees, I answered.

A chimp?

I nodded.

Walt shook his head. Im as liberal as the next guy, but I mean what kind of a man could do it with a monkey?

Chimp, I corrected, and Im not at all sure it wasnt the other way around.

Walts laughter exploded, and I couldnt help myself.

I went into an impromptu routine about the good chimp gone bad, tossing quarters on the shower floor.

Walt howled. Another reason Calebs stayed mostly empty by day.

As a drunk I had discovered the world was forever young in the presence of Walt Beery in his cups. He had a hair-trigger laugh and an old man innocence that let him enjoy it unabashedly. Sober, I had to admit Walt had become the kind of friend best enjoyed without witnesses.