The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  Brick pointed to the layout. “Angus believes that the book will either be here, in their R&D department where General Moloch and his team are probably frantically attempting to decode it, if they haven’t already, or in Cristina Culebra’s office. Gabe?”

  He gestured to Gabe to take over the presentation. Gabe took the last bite of his cardboard pepperoni slice, rolled his chair up to the chart, and wiped the remaining pizza grease onto his pants. He pointed to a large space in the top-floor corner of the building plan.

  “Cristina’s office is here. As Brick mentioned, we will be able to get into the building using the employee key card. Unfortunately, that is just one of the security protocols. According to our sources, it appears that Fix has installed some type of two-factor authentication once you get inside the building that controls access to the various sectors. The issue is that we don’t know what the information required to enter these sectors is, and apparently it varies by what sector you’re trying to access. It could be questions about the company like when it was founded, its mission, etcetera, or it could be personal information about a given employee like birth date, first car, or pet’s name. Rumor has it that in certain sectors there are logic questions that could only be solved by people with experience in the field that work in the building. I’ve prepared binders for you with information on Fix Industries, employee profiles, as well as answers to common logic puzzles in case you come up against any of this.”

  Albert and Turner simultaneously scoffed at the mention of answers to logic puzzles. The idea that either of them would need help in that area struck them as absurd.

  Brick ignored the haughty professors and took over the presentation. “Angus and Ying, you will take Moloch. His department is in the East Wing over here. Albert, you will access Cristina’s office. Gabe and I will be monitoring the security systems to make sure you’re in clean and head off any trouble if it comes.”

  “Where are you going to be while we’re doing all of the dirty work?” joked Ying, sitting cross-legged on the bed like she was at a slumber party.

  Brick smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll be driving the getaway car. We’ll rendezvous on the north side of campus at five a.m.”

  The group nodded.

  Brick clapped his hands in one thunderous clap. “OK, now that we’ve got that done, I suggest we all hit the sack so that we’re well rested for tomorrow.”

  Brick, Gabe, and Turner rose from Ying’s bed in unison and exited the room. Albert trailed slightly behind, tidying up the loose wrappers, pizza boxes, and cans as he left.

  After tossing the last piece of trash in the bin, Albert turned to see Ying sitting on the mauve floral blanket at the edge of her bed, her head hung and her fingertips running across her mouth.

  “You OK?”

  Ying looked up slowly, biting her nails as she turned. “Yeah, I’m just . . .”

  Albert hesitated and then reentered the room and sat down on the bed next to her, his hands folded in his lap and legs shaking. He never knew what to do in these situations. Do I hug her? Do I pat her on the back?

  “You’re going to do great tomorrow,” he said, barely lifting his eyes.

  Ying’s lips curled upward in a half smile, and she softly bumped Albert’s shoulder with her shoulder, tilting her head toward him slightly. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Albert turned toward her. “Just think about it. Whatever security system they’ve got is based on logic. You’ll have the world’s greatest logician right by your side, and you’re no slouch yourself.”

  “I guess.” She moved her hands to her legs as if to keep them from jumping back into her mouth. She bit her lip and looked up at him. He watched as she mustered the strength to say something.

  “Would you mind just holding me for a while?”

  Albert leaned back, surprised. “Oh . . . yeah . . . of—of course.”

  He awkwardly rotated his body and wrapped his arms around her. As he leaned in close, he could smell the soft citrus scent of her silky black hair.

  She sank her head into his shoulder, and their cheeks rubbed together. Her skin was warm and soft, and as Albert’s lips grazed her cheek, he felt at peace. She slowly turned her head, and their mouths touched. The plush heat of Ying’s lips was pure exhilaration. Without thinking, Albert ran his hands through her hair. He felt the delicate strands tumble over the back of his hand and forearm. It was bliss. Dangerous, intimate, heart-palpitating bliss. His mind began to float away, and his senses surged . . . but he simply couldn’t let go.

  I can’t do this, he thought. She’s my assistant. I’m her boss. This is wrong. I’m taking advantage of her anxiety.

  With a snap, Albert yanked the connection and stumbled off the bed. He adjusted his suit and glasses.

  “I should really go.”

  Ying looked up in abandoned confusion. “What?”

  “I—I just think I should go. You should get your rest.”

  “No, I want you to stay. Stay with me,” she pleaded.

  Albert could see the fear and need in her eyes.

  “I can’t. I just can’t.” He reached for the door. “Good night, Ying.”

  Chapter 8

  “Uh-huh, yeah, um-hmm, yes. Yep. No, I understand,” said Michael Weatherspoon into the receiver of his office telephone.

  Slumped in his seat, the detective was doing his utmost to sound interested, but Mrs. Carruthers on Glenview Road had been droning on for the past fifteen minutes about the “suspicious” characters roaming the neighborhood. Over the last ten years, Weatherspoon had grown to accept the monthly ritual of early-morning phone calls from Mrs. Carruthers. In her mind, everyone from the mailman to the pizza delivery boy was a suspicious character and “something must be done!”

  “I know, Mrs. Carruthers,” said Weatherspoon, trying to sound interested. He spun around in his vinyl desk chair, attempting to get it to stop at a perfect 180 degrees from its starting point. As he spun, he noticed that his other phone line was blinking. The perfect excuse. “Yes, it is outrageous. Well, I’ll be sure to get my men out there right away. Mrs. Carruthers, I’m sorry, but I have another call coming in.” He switched lines, not even waiting for her to finish. “Detective Weatherspoon speaking.”

  “Detective Weatherspoon? I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Albert Puddles.”

  Weatherspoon leapt forward in his rolling chair, crashing his knee into his desk and nearly toppling the cup of coffee he had precariously placed on the edge. Wincing in pain, the detective attempted to stifle his alarm. He snapped his fingers at the other officers in the precinct to be quiet.

  “Oh, of course, I remember you, Dr. Puddles. What can I do for you?” The detective’s thoughts bubbled. Didn’t the FBI go after him a few days ago? Shouldn’t he be in jail by now? Is he calling me from jail? He plopped himself on top of his desk in an attempt to relax his voice for the call.

  “Well, sir . . . I’m calling you because I know who killed the security guard at the bank.”

  Oh great. Another wack job calling me from jail to protest his innocence. Weatherspoon had seen it a hundred times.

  “Oh really,” said the detective sarcastically. “Because I was under the impression that you were the one who killed the security guard.”

  “No,” snapped the voice on the other end. “I know that’s what it looks like, but you have to hear me out. Before the attack on your police station, you came to me with a game tree that had a code on it. That game tree linked back to the real murderer. So she attacked the police station, drugged you so you wouldn’t remember, and then framed me.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say ‘she’?”

  “Yes! Eva Fix—that’s the murderer.”

  “Eva Fix? You mean the daughter of Cristina Culebra? You mean the woman who has been aiding our investigation of the crime? Apparently, you’ve had some time to
fantasize in your cell, Dr. Puddles.”

  “I’m not in a cell. Why do you think she was so involved in the investigation? She was making sure you didn’t find out the truth.”

  The detective rubbed his head and scratched the beginnings of his five-o’clock shadow. He remembered thinking it was odd how involved she was in the investigation. His eyes surveyed the crown molding of the station, searching for a memory of that day. Maybe he is telling the truth.

  “Dr. Puddles, we have you on video with a needle in your hand.”

  “That’s because she handed it to me after she took you out. Didn’t you think it was odd that I happened to be in the most conspicuous pose possible right as the cameras came on? Do you really think I would be that stupid? She was setting me up.”

  That was strange. Weatherspoon slowly stroked the maroon sweater that his daughter had given him and considered Puddles’s story. He dropped the phone down to his waist as he thought and then returned it to his cheek. “OK, I’ll bite. Why would Eva Fix want to kill a security guard at a local bank?”

  “She didn’t intend to kill the security guard. That was an accident. She was really after a book. A . . . um . . . rare book.”

  The detective squeezed the receiver in his hand so tightly that the plastic casing moaned. He was rapidly tiring of this cat-and-mouse game. “Where are you now? I’m coming to meet you.”

  “I can’t tell you where I am. But I can tell you where to meet me. I’m going to be at Fix Industries headquarters in Los Angeles tomorrow morning. We believe that there will be evidence implicating Ms. Fix in the burglary as well as broader crimes potentially involving Cristina Culebra.”

  “Puddles, I can’t do that. It’s out of my jurisdiction. This would be a matter for the FBI.”

  “The FBI? They’re the ones who nearly shot my head off the other day. Detective, you’re the only person we can trust. You’ve got to figure out a way to get out here.”

  The detective paused and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, shaking his head. This is none of my business. But he knew that there was something behind what Puddles was saying. He picked up the phone’s base and walked over to the wall so as not to be heard.

  “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 9

  While Albert spoke with Detective Weatherspoon, Ying Koh steadied herself to make the most important phone call of her life. She picked up the faded yellow receiver of the motel phone, twirled the ancient cord around her finger, and dialed. As the ringtones purred in her ear, Ying looked into the desk mirror and thought of how far she’d come from the scared little girl she’d once been.

  “Wei,” answered her mother’s voice at the other end of the line. Ying’s family often spoke Chinese at home.

  “Hi, Mama.”

  “Ah, Mao Mao! Let me get your father.”

  Ying’s chest ached at the sound of her family’s nickname for her. Since she was a child, Ying had been called Mao Mao, which literally meant “fuzz fuzz,” because of the way her hair stuck up on her head. With that simple phrase, she was transported back to her family’s kitchen, where she and her mother would prepare dumplings while her father and the boys talked politics around the dining table. She heard her father pick up the receiver.

  “Hey, Mao Mao,” exclaimed her father. His voice sounded weaker than she remembered it.

  “Hey, Baba,” said Ying, holding back tears. “Are you OK? You sound sick.”

  “Ah, just a little cold. Nothing to worry about. How are you, my little girl? How are things at Princeton? Do you need me to send you some money?”

  Ying laughed. Her dad would always try to send her money for books. It made him somehow feel useful now that his daughter was gone and the boys were grown up.

  “No, Dad. I’m fine. School is good. I’m on a special project right now with two of the best professors in the Math Department, Professor Puddles and Professor Turner.”

  “Oh wow,” said her mother. “That’s great, Mao Mao.”

  “Pay attention to those men, Mao Mao. They can teach you a lot,” said her father.

  “Are you studying hard?” asked her mother.

  Hearing her parents’ familiar nagging crushed Ying’s resolve. Suddenly, everything she’d been caught up in—the Tree, running from the FBI, her affection for Puddles—seemed so foreign and cold, as though she’d lived it in a dream. She was tired and weak, and wanted to run home to her mother’s embrace and her dad’s protection. But that time had passed. She was a part of it now. A part of the Tree. A part of the Book Club. A part of the resistance—to Eva, to Cristina Culebra, to the serpent.

  Silently, she began to sob. She covered her mouth to keep the sound from her parents.

  “Mao Mao? Is everything alright?” said her mother.

  Ying breathed deeply to choke down the tears. “Yeah, Mom. I just—I just wanted you both to know that I love you very much and that I hope you’re proud of me.”

  “Of course we’re proud of you. Why would you say such silly things?” questioned her dad. His voice soothed her like the roll of ocean waves.

  But her mother sensed something more. “Mao Mao, if there is anything you need to tell us, you know you can.”

  “I know, Mom. I know. Like I said, I just wanted to tell you that I love you both and that I might be on this project for a while, so you might not hear from me too often.” Her voice quaked with every word.

  “OK,” her mom said. “Well, we love you very much, Mao Mao, and your father and your brothers and I are here whenever you need us, OK?”

  “OK, Mom. Good night. Good night, Dad.”

  “Good night, my girl.”

  Ying placed the receiver back on the hook. She wiped the tears from her face, put on her coat, and left the musty, old motel room, closing the door on everything she had ever loved.

  Chapter 10

  The four a.m. wind whipped across the dark, empty parking lot of Fix Industries, carrying a faint smell of ocean life and asphalt. Angus Turner and Ying Koh stood outside the R&D wing steeling themselves for the fraught entry. Brick and Gabe kept watch in the car from a distance. The building violently protruded from the Long Beach coastline, all steel and glass, making no attempt to welcome guests or visitors. Turner shivered as he slid the key card Gabe had given him through the secure door’s card swipe. Relief overtook him as he heard a soft click and saw the card reader light turn green. He pulled the door open and gestured for Ying to enter, following closely behind. The security entrance anteroom hallway was dark save the faint red glow of an exit light. The sterile smell of floor cleaner wafted through the cold corridor. A guard desk and metal detector stood empty. At the end of the room stood another doorway with a sign that read:

  R&D

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL

  ONLY

  Turner turned to his partner in crime and sagged. Standing before him was a mere girl. Ying was twenty-three years old, but she looked no more than sixteen. She wrinkled her nose, pushed her glasses up, and looked at him with large oval eyes. Silence hovered over them.

  What have I done? This young lady has nothing to do with this. And now I’m asking her to help me break into a building to cover for my mistakes.

  Noticing the look on Turner’s face, Ying whispered, “What?”

  “I can’t ask you to do this,” whispered Turner, patting Ying’s arm like a grandfather.

  Ying sighed and shook her head. She had seen that look before. “Professor, it’s alright. You’re not asking me to do anything. All my life, people have been protecting me or pitying me. I want to do this. I need to do this.”

  Turner took one long look at the foreboding door ahead of them, one long look back at Ying, and buttoned his jacket.

  She put her small hand on his shoulder and clenched, all the while nodding.

  He straightened his back and exhaled. “Alright
, Ms. Koh, then let’s have at it. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”

  Ying stepped forward and swiped the key card again.

  The door opened to a room of glowing white, magnified by the purest artificial light. To the left stood a bright-red door. To the right stood another red door. Straight ahead of them, seven white steps extended to a second floor with a third red door. The room was silent absent the hum of fluorescent lights and air pumping through the vents. They had reached purgatory. All that remained was a choice.

  Over a loudspeaker, a calm woman’s voice purred. “Wel-come to Fix Research and Development. You have five minutes to pass through security.”

  “Where is this?” said Ying, scanning the blank room for something familiar.

  Turner rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard, thinking. “A better question, my dear, would be ‘What is this?’ And it appears that we have stumbled upon some type of three-dimensional maze.”

  “A maze? Well, how are we supposed to get through this in five minutes?”

  “We will have to move quickly. Do you have a pen?”

  Ying began digging through her backpack. “A pen? Umm . . . yeah, I’ve got a pen.”

  “Good. The thicker, the better.” Turner held out his hand. Ying noticed it was shaking.

  Ying handed Turner a thick blue Sharpie.

  “Do you have some gum as well?”

  Ying squinted her eyes and then handed Turner a stick of gum.

  “A few more pieces, please.”

  She looked on as the old professor shoved five pieces of Bubble Yum into his mouth and began to chew. He gnawed on the wad of gum until it molded into a well-formed mass. Then he proceeded to extract the gum and used it to secure the marker to his walking stick.