The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) by P.M. Steffen Page A

a shredded newspaper in Sky’s face and scream a curse.
    “What’s all that yelling? Where are you?”
    “Harvard Square.”
    “Hub of the universe, huh?” Elwood’s tone conveyed mild disdain. “I don’t know how you put up with all those people. Guess I lost my taste for humanity.”
    “Are you back on Pine Ridge?”
    “I was, for a while. Unci’s getting old, you know.” He pronounced it “oon-chee”, referring to his grandmother. “I had to leave. Me and some buddies got drunk one night and raised a little hell. A guy got hurt. Some prick tried to blame me. Pawnee,” he added, as though that explained everything. “So I beat tracks. Got a new job.”
    “Where? Doing what?”
    “Caretaker. Five hundred acres in northeast Vermont. Virgin forest, Sky. Not too many ghosts. I like that.”
    “What do you do all day?”
    “There’s a nice pond. Lots of catfish and pike. Some small mouth bass. Decent hunting,” he added. “Cross bow, of course. I like a fair fight.”
    “This guy hired you to fish and hunt?” Sky was dubious.
    “Not exactly. Some assholes from Barre and St. Albans were running a meth lab on his land. He hired me to run ‘em off, keep an eye on things.” Elwood grunted. “Guess he liked my military background.”
    “How long will you be there?”
    Elwood said something she couldn’t understand. The audio turned static and the call terminated unexpectedly. Sky tried again but it wouldn’t go through. She made a mental note to call later, find out exactly where in Vermont he was living. Talking to Elwood made her feel a little better. It was reassuring to discover he was in a neighboring state.
    Despite the raw conditions, two chess players faced off across a table near Au Bon Pain. The chess master, sporting a beard and a white fedora, gnawed on a cigar and waited for his young opponent to make a move. Over in the Pit – the name locals gave the sunken area in the center of the square – two gangly boys in Goth black shivered as they smoked cigarettes and tried to look dangerous.
    On an impulse, Sky entered the Coop, a Harvard bookstore, and purchased an absurdly long wool flannel scarf, crimson, with two vertical white stripes running through it. Then she crossed Massachusetts Avenue and entered Harvard Yard at the southwest corner, cutting a diagonal path.
    On a massive marble pedestal in front of University Hall, the bronze figure of John Harvard slouched in his bronze chair. An African woman in a bright yellow head wrap stood grinning in front of the monument while a young man snapped pictures. More tourists milled in a line that was forming just behind the photographer. Being the only sculpture in the Yard made John Harvard popular. On his lap, a book lay permanently opened, permanently unread. The bronze head gazed westward with a preoccupied look. He certainly wasn’t studying. Sky always thought he looked like he was thinking hard about his next drink. Well, John Harvard’s father had been a tavern owner, after all.
    Sky reached the Science Center and veered right on Kirkland until she came to William James Hall, the white skyscraper that held Harvard’s psychology department. It was easily the ugliest building on campus. No Doric columns, no golden marble, no red brick, just a giant concrete slab with windows. Legos had more charm than this building. Bicycle racks along the front added an authentic proletariat touch. Sky stepped inside and faced a bank of elevators. Tucking the scarf and Stoli close, she took the first available car to the seventh floor and walked down a dim hallway to Room 740. The door stood slightly ajar.
    Sky pulled a battered book from her coat pocket and read the cover: Hypnosis by Dr. A.V. Gudzenko. She stared at the copperplate script for a long minute before she called out. “Alexei?”
    She peeked inside the doorway.
    “Sky?” A doubtful tone. “Is it really you? Come! Come!”
    Alexei Vladislav Gudzenko – therapist, physician, poet,