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East of Evil

By Joni M. Fisher

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. 1 .

Monday, April 19, 2010

Nefi’s life-changing day started ordinary and turned peculiar on the way to morning classes.
A tingle ran up her neck. The sensation heightened her senses, akin to hearing a distant scream. While other Harvard students hunched over cell phones, Nefi scanned the shop-lined street at the edge of campus. On a van's rear window, she spotted the reflection of a broad-shouldered man half a block behind who was taking awkwardly long strides. Unlike other students trudging to campus, this man had no backpack straps on his shoulders. With his face shadowed by a ball cap, he kept his hands in his jacket pockets.
Nefi unzipped her raincoat to access her cell phone. April weather in Boston could bring rain, snow, or cold wind, and this morning’s damp breeze in the low forties shot through her open jacket. The wind also carried car exhaust fumes and the hum of traffic. Her thick neck scarf kept her warm enough to prevent shivering.
She pulled her trusty old cell phone from the inner pocket of her coat and flipped it open. After pressing the camera icon, she held the phone up to her ear, stopped, and turned sideways on the sidewalk, aiming the lens at the stranger. She took a few photos. Feigning conversation, she checked her watch, nodded, and glanced at the man.
The stranger immediately looked down, further obscuring his face with his Red Sox cap while he slowed his pace. Clean-shaven, he was about five feet eight inches tall in dark blue jeans, brown hiking boots, and a plain navy-colored zip-up jacket. His athletic gait and posture suggested sports or military training.
Her Advanced Abnormal Psychology class started promptly at 8 a.m. She had overdue homework to turn in and despised being late to class. After turning toward the path to William James Hall, she tucked her phone away and elongated her stride to the stark white boxy fourteen-story building. Of all the buildings on campus, Nefi ranked it the second ugliest structure after the Science Center. William James Hall towered over the surrounding older, stately red brick buildings like a giant cheese grater.
She decided to test if the man was following her. Once inside the building and on familiar ground, she dashed into a recessed doorway where the overhead floodlight had burned out. She remembered it because the shadowy area had spooked her last week. Standing in the darkness, she watched students pass by in groups and couples in animated conversations. Others, absorbed by the small screens of their cell phones, marched at a zombie’s pace while people maneuvered around them.
The stranger charged through the corridor, dodging around slow-moving students, his head pivoting at open doorways. He glanced at the dark doorway where Nefi stood but continued to the elevators. At the elevators, he stopped, removed his hat, and combed his fingers through his short hair. He scowled and tugged his hat on.
Nefi’s curiosity turned to alarm and then anger.
The man was retracing his steps in the hallway when Nefi stepped into the light.
He flinched and halted two paces from her.
The stranger flashed through three emotional reactions--surprise, fear, and disgust. It was his last reaction that piqued Nefi’s curiosity. Why would a stalker feel disgusted? Was he following the wrong person?
“There you are,” he said.
Nefi loosened her arms, reached into her left sleeve, and grasped her knife handle.
Carrying a weapon on campus violated Harvard University policies. Having a double-edged knife on campus was punishable by a fine of up to $1,000 and two years in prison. Still, Nefi weighed the probable legal punishment for carrying her knife against the permanent consequences of being beaten, raped, or killed and decided in favor of self-defense. With campus violence becoming more common, she believed waiting to be rescued by campus security could be a fatal mistake.
Students passed behind the stranger. If she cried out for help, would they take action or take pictures to share on social media? She assumed she was on her own. At five feet eleven inches tall, Nefi had a height advantage over him, but he looked strong.
His attention shot to Nefi’s hands while he eased his hands from his pockets and spread his fingers in front of his waist. “I’m a friend of Ruis Ramos.”
She recognized his voice, then his face. His hair was slightly longer than at Ruis’s wedding. Ruis was her best friend’s older brother. At the wedding, Ruis had called this man by a nickname. “Repo?”
He smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, Miss Jenkins. My real name’s Arlo.”
Leaving her knife in its sheath, she shook his hand.
In the time it took to blink twice, he had looked her over from hat to boots. Guys often did that. When men looked at Nefi’s best friend Martina, they flirted, and their pupils expanded. When they noticed Nefi, they reacted to her height. Arlo showed no pupil response of arousal or fear.
Nefi sighed. “Did Ruis send you to protect me?”
Arlo smiled at two women passing by, and one smiled back. He chuckled and faced Nefi. “The way I hear it, Martina finds trouble, and trouble finds you.”
Nefi nodded. “And here you are stalking me.”
“I told Ruis I was moving to Boston, and he said I should stop by to see how you’re doing.” His half-shrug and glance away suggested a trace of deception.
“You could have called.” Nefi stilled her body and studied his face.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay. We had a little wager. I bet I could sneak up close enough to touch your shoulder before you spotted me. He bet I couldn’t.”
The male ego mystified her. Was this just a bet, or was Ruis’s friend practicing stealth for another reason? She weighed his ego against his safety and favored his safety. “I spotted you two blocks ago.”
“No way.” He flashed straight white teeth. The smell of coffee wafted from him when he spoke.
She showed him the photo on her phone. It was worth being late to class to observe his reaction—the moment expectation collided with reality.
His eyebrows rose. “Huh. I saw you stop and answer your phone. Very tricky. What gave me away?”
“No backpack. Military posture. But the real tell was when I looked at you on the street. You immediately turned away.”
“I didn’t want you to see my face.” He raised one shoulder.
Though his behavior made sense to him, Nefi wanted him to understand why it didn’t work. “Which is exactly how a stalker behaves. How do you normally react when a woman catches you looking at her?” Nefi shrugged off her backpack and dangled it by a strap at her side to remind him she needed to go to class.
Arlo blinked a few times then his eyelids closed halfway. He worked his jaw. “I wasn’t looking at you like that.”
Funny how being on the receiving end of honesty could hurt. Nefi planted her free hand on her hip.
“I mean, I know you’re engaged.” Sweat beaded on his face.
Ruis had probably told him. Ruis treated Nefi like a spare sister. Had Arlo taken the information about Nefi’s engagement as a warning? She nodded as if accepting his excuse. “What do you normally do if a woman catches you watching her?”
His shoulders relaxed. “I smile. But if I’m shadowing someone, I don’t want to interact. I don’t want to be noticed.”
Nefi drew from a criminology lesson. “It doesn’t matter if the subject sees you. Did you know eyewitness accounts are the least reliable evidence in court?”
Arlo’s eyebrows furrowed as he pulled his head slightly back.
Nefi said, “People are generally not observant. I’ll prove it. Close your eyes.”
He did. His eyelashes were dark and long. He’d missed shaving a spot along his left jawline. Woody, sensual cologne emanated from him in heatwaves.
She had been close enough for him to see her at Ruis’s wedding and today. He considered her an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, but did he really see her? Most people stared once they noticed her eyes. Amber is the rarest eye color in humans. During a freshman year party, a drunk frat boy pointed and backed away, calling her a vampire. Hollywood has its standard for monsters, one of which is to mimic the eye color of predators like the eagle, the tiger, and the wolf. “What color are my eyes?”
“Light blue.”
“I rest my case.”
Arlo opened his brown eyes. “Whoa. Are those colored contact lenses?”
Nefi shook her head.
He continued to stare. “Ruis said you’re the only person who could sneak up on him.”
Nefi smiled. For whatever it was worth, she could sneak up on a Navy SEAL who now worked for the US Marshals Service. “Did you serve with Ruis?”
Arlo leaned closer to Nefi and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I flew a Sikorsky Seahawk. Can’t tell you where, when, or why, but that’s how I met Ruis.”
Nefi nodded. All Ruis’s military friends kept secrets.
“I’m joining my brother’s business as a private investigator.” He dug a business card from his jacket and handed it to her.
Nefi tucked the card into the top pocket of her backpack. “How much was the bet?”
“Two hundred dollars.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If I give you half, will you say I won?”
“Ruis says, ‘Don’t lie to someone who trusts you and don’t trust someone who lies to you.’”
He nodded slowly and smiled without showing his teeth.
Of course, Arlo was testing her. Ruis’s friends shared his honor code.
“Thanks for letting me practice.”
Alone in the corridor with Arlo, Nefi said, “You’re welcome to try again. Don’t grab me from behind because that won’t end well.”
His eyes widened. “Noted.”
Nefi carried her backpack to the elevator and pressed the button. When she glanced down the hall, she noticed Arlo had stepped into the shadowed doorway where she had hidden.
“Arlo, I can see your hat.”
Once he pulled off his ball cap, darkness enveloped him.
“Perfect.”
The elevator opened, so Nefi rode it up to her floor and sneaked into the back row of the classroom. After muting her phone and checking for new text messages, she dug out her pen and notebook while the professor spoke.
“Narcissistic personality disorder. One percent of the population exhibits this cluster B personality disorder, often caused by trauma that results in low self-esteem. A narcissist will do almost anything to be the center of attention, including playing the victim, twisting situations through reverse projection, blaming others when caught doing inappropriate or cruel things, and interrupting others' conversations. Naturally, they are attracted to high-profile jobs such as politics and entertainment to feed their egos. Rejection and criticism, in turn, tend to harden them emotionally.”
These characteristics fit an uncomfortable number of politicians Nefi had met through her uncle, Senator Hamilton Jenkins. Fortunately, her uncle had a servant’s heart with a sharp eye for spotting narcissists and liars. He also excelled at handling people diplomatically.
In the margin of her notes during the lecture, Nefi penciled in the initials of celebrities who fit the profile characteristics. She had watched the evening news all semester to identify abnormal personality traits like the ones described in the textbook. The class taught the basics. Watching for people who fit the various abnormal personality traits was simply fieldwork.
Last week, at a friend’s trial, she helped the defense team with her observations.
Her friend, Blake Clayton, had been charged with a capital offense, so Nefi skipped classes to attend the trial. She would have testified as a character witness if asked. After all, Blake was one of three men who had risked their lives to find her in the Amazon jungle after her parents were murdered. She could never fully repay Blake, Ruis, or Vincent for their journey to find her and bring her to the United States.
She longed to use her talents at the FBI, but the bureau’s age requirement meant she’d have to wait two more years to apply to the agent training program.
This was the last semester of her bachelor’s degree in psychology. She needed to turn in overdue homework and catch up on her studies before final exams.
Her roommates would be no help because Mutt and Cassie were sports fanatics, and April was the busiest sports month of the year.
“Miss Jenkins.”
Nefi looked up from her notebook at her bearded professor. “Yes, sir?”
“See me after class.”
A collective “ooooh” sounded from her seventy classmates.
The professor eyed the students over his wire-framed glasses. “Miss Jenkins attended a felony trial last week, and her homework was to write a field report to identify and analyze abnormal behavior in one person.”
“Was it the accused?” one student shouted.
“It was a witness,” Nefi answered.
“How many would like to hear her report now?” The professor opened his arms.
All hands shot up. Nefi tugged the report from her notebook. After the professor nodded, Nefi stood and delivered her findings to the psychology majors she had come to know and respect over four years. The class spent the rest of the session debating the report.

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