Immoral by Brian Freeman Page A

floor. But be forewarned. You carry a piece of equipment that Nancy doesn’t exactly approve of.”
    Stride was puzzled. “A gun?”
    “A penis.”
    Stride laughed, and Andrea giggled, and soon they were both laughing loud and hard. They stared at each other, enjoying the joke and feeling the subtle attraction that came with it. It almost felt strange to laugh. He couldn’t recall how long it had been since he had relaxed enough to find humor in something. Or how long since he had shared it with a woman.
    “At least you know what you’re in for,” Andrea said.
    “Thanks. You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Jantzik.”
    “Call me Andrea,” she said. “Or are you not allowed to do that?”
    “I’m allowed. And call me Jonathan.”
    “You look more like a Jon to me.”
    “That works, too.”
    Stride hesitated and wasn’t sure why. Then he realized that he felt an urge to say something else, to ask her to dinner, or to ask what her favorite color was, or to take the one strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face and gently put it right. The power of the feeling suddenly overwhelmed him. Maybe it was because he had not felt even a glimmering like that in almost a year. He had been dead inside for so long that he wasn’t sure what it felt like to wake up.
    “Are you okay?” Andrea asked. Her face was concerned. It was a very pretty face, he realized.
    “I’m fine. Thanks again.”
    He left her on the steps. The moment passed. But it never really passed.
     
     
    Stride found Nancy Carver’s office tucked into a cubbyhole, almost invisible from the corridor. When he poked his head around the wall, Stride saw a narrow door, with Nancy Carver’s name etched onto a wooden block hung from a nail. The photos and brochures plastered all over the door were guaranteed to send school board members into hysterics.
    There were magazine articles about the dangers of homophobia. Other articles, with graphic illustrations neatly scissored out, decried the prevalence of pornography. She had a brochure from last year’s annual meeting of the American Society of Lesbian University Women, with her name highlighted, where she had been a speaker. There were also dozens of photographs of women in camping gear in the outdoors. Stride recognized the Black Hills and some wilderness waterfalls he guessed were in Canada. The photographs were mostly of teenage girls and young college-age women. The one exception, who appeared in most of the photographs, was a tiny, sturdily built woman around forty, with cropped berry-red hair and large, thick-rimmed black glasses. In most of the photos she wore the same outfit, a green fleece sweater and stonewashed blue jeans.
    Stride studied each of the girls in the photographs closely but did not recognize Rachel—or Kerry—in any of them. He was vaguely disappointed.
    Stride was about to rap his knuckles on the door when he heard faint noises from inside. Changing his mind, and wondering if the door was locked, he simply twisted the doorknob and pushed. The door fell inward, then thudded against a diagonal wall, leaving only a three-foot opening through which to squeeze into the office.
    Stride’s eyes painted the scene before the two people in the room could react. A teenager with a plump baby face and stringy blonde hair lay, eyes closed, in a ratty blue recliner that barely fit into the office. Nancy Carver stood behind the chair. Her spread fingertips massaged the girl’s cheeks and forehead. Carver’s eyes, too, were closed behind her glasses. As the door banged into the wall, their eyes flew open. Carver’s hands flew away from the girl’s skin as if it were on fire.
    The girl in the chair didn’t look at Stride but instead craned her neck and looked nervously back at Carver. Carver in turn stared at Stride with barely controlled fury.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in here like that?” she demanded.
    Stride adopted his most pleasant, apologetic