Free Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Page A

room.
    It was while standing in the bedroom, sweating like a pig, that I heard it: the sound of a car door slamming. I went to the window, tripping on a tripod in my haste. Three squad cars bearing the distinctive blue stripe of the St. Paul Police Department had gathered in the middle of the street. One officer was standing next to his vehicle, looking at the house—I guessed one of Thoreau’s neighbors must have seen me pick his lock and called it in. I cursed and moved away from the window. Again I tripped on the tripod. “Dammit,” I swore, then thought better of it. The tripod was attached to a video camera; apparently it had been set at the foot of the bed. I checked the camera and was amazed to find it contained a tape. I yanked it out and glanced through the window again. The officers were approaching cautiously, hands on their holstered guns. I cursed some more. The last thing I needed was to be caught breaking and entering a house containing a murder victim with ten thousand dollars cash in my pocket—more than enough to buy a couple of guys dead.
    The upstairs consisted of a bathroom and two bedrooms. The second bedroom, which had also been carefully explored, had a window that opened up over the backyard. It wasn’t quite as high as my father’s roof. I kicked out the screen, hoping it didn’t make too much noise, and jumped. I hit the ground with both feet, jabbed myself in the eye with the tape, rolled, came up running. I made the alley without anyone shooting at me and did not stop until I hit the street. From there I walked as casually as possible toward the St. Thomas campus, trying hard not to stare at the blue Ford parked at the corner.

    I found a restroom in a white brick building—Murray Hall, it was called—and inspected the damage to my eye. There was a slight swelling, hardly noticeable. Good. I didn’t need any distinguishing marks. Next I went searching for the bookstore, which wasn’t where I left it fifteen years earlier, asked directions and was pointed toward a building that hadn’t existed when I was a student. It cost me seventy-nine dollars to disguise myself with a red backpack printed with the university’s logo and a large, used textbook— A History of Western Civilization. I put the videotape and my jacket into the bag and slung it over my shoulder. I carried the textbook in my hand and slowly made my way to the campus grill where I sat at a corner table. I opened the book to Chapter Sixteen—“The Inquisition”—sipped a Dr. Pepper and waited for a K-9 unit to sniff me out.

    College life swirled around me—it seemed more exciting than it really was. I know many people who would love to relive their school days. Not me. Except for the occasional course taught by the rare enthusiastic professor, I hated college. I spent nearly three years there working toward a business degree before deciding, out of sheer boredom, to transfer to a community college and try for a law-enforcement degree instead.
    The grill filled and emptied at approximately fifty-minute intervals with young men and women—children, really, although I wouldn’t have said so when I was their age—most of them taking life too seriously, not really appreciating how serious it can be.
    As my heartbeat slowed to normal, I eavesdropped on four young women who encompassed the spectrum of natural hair color: black, blond, brown and red. They were sitting two tables away and talking about presenting a resolution to the All Student Council demanding the adoption of politically correct language on campus—“womyn” instead of “women,” “freshperson” instead of “freshman,” “teenage womyn” instead of “girl.”
    Their conversation annoyed me. None of their demands addressed the real problems facing women in today’s society, problems such as being paid only sixty-five cents for every