“Sabotage? That’s absurd!” she gasped.
“Lieutenant Campbell,” a police officer called from under the corner desk where he was following the power points.
“Yes? Do you have something?” Campbell asked zealously.
“I could be mistaken, but it looks like several plug points in this office have been tampered with.” The officer’s voice was strained as he forced his slightly out-of-shape physique to crouch down lower under the table.
“Here?” Campbell asked.
“All three sockets that could have been used as auxiliary power have been disrupted, sir. Not just that one and not just the wall cable.” In turn, Lieutenant Campbell simply gave Melissa and her security officers a good old I-told-you-so look and said, “Sabotage.”
Melissa folded her arms as a look of worry crossed her face. “So, what do we do now?”
“Now, I shall need all the personnel files on the staff here at Sinclair so that we can run background checks and look for any criminal records. Fortunately for me, you are just the right person to furnish me with that documentation,” he said, smiling triumphantly.
He never admitted it, but Campbell loved the fact that he could remind pretty young women that their control was all a dream when matters crossed his turf. The look of discomfort on the barely qualified administrator was a pleasure to behold.
For the rest of the day Campbell annexed the administrative wing, taking up residence in Melissa’s office to go through the human resource folders one by one, meticulously checking each individual for a possible motive to be involved in the attempted assassination of a patient.
“See?” Melissa sighed at the wrong end of eleven hours, sitting across from the investigator with the Earl Grey fetish. “Not one of these people have criminal backgrounds, Lieutenant Campbell. That leaves you with nothing on motive; just that the fried circuit was a trick of bad weather and not some premeditated sabotage. What do we do now?”
The police officer had to concede. He had no reason to believe that anyone on the staff had some nefarious associations, although he was familiar with the patient in question and the man’s reckless relic hunting.
“Now, Miss Argyle, we have to uncover the real motive for someone to impersonate a deceased psychiatrist…or psychologist, whatever,” he told the exhausted young administrator. “I know a lot about Mr. Purdue. In the past he’s had some run-ins with the law, but mostly as a trespasser with a penchant for digging in the wrong tombs, if you know what I mean.”
“As do I. Mr. Purdue has done a lot for educational institutions the world over, including my own, where he instituted bursaries and shared programs to help the less financially able students. I cannot imagine that someone would want to kill him,” she contested naively. And naïve is precisely the unfortunate tone the investigative officer decided not to respond to.
“I suppose it’s time for me to leave. We’ll be in touch with your legal department about the negligence of this facility,” he stated deliberately just to watch her squirm at the threat.
“Lieutenant, I have to appeal to your sensitivity here. There’s no need to demonize this institution or its staff for a coincidental camera failure that just happened to precede an attack on the premises,” Melissa implored, wringing her hands nervously.
“My dear Miss Argyle, I appreciate your point,” he replied as he pulled on his coat and sucked up the last bit of cold tea in the latest cup, “but unfortunately, sensitivity is not a virtue I was blessed with.”
He gathered up the copies he’d had printed of all the pivotal human resource material and gave Melissa a wink. “We’ll be having a chat with Mr. Purdue tonight at the precinct. He was kind enough to agree to an interview with the captain. Thank you so much for all your help. Goodbye.” Campbell forced a smile as his eyes quickly fell on Melissa’s pen.
“Goodbye, Lieutenant Campbell,” she choked out nervously as he left the office.
Peering around her doorway, she watched Campbell traversing the lobby and signing out, before disappearing into the night outside.
“Unbe-fucking-lievable,” her full lips mouthed. The sound of her pen tapping against her hip hastened in cadence as her mind raced. “What could Mr. Purdue ever help him find?”
She shook her head and returned to her upturned office to tidy up before leaving for home.
Mills had overseen the cleaning up of the room as two of the janitors returned the place to its former clean comfort after the forensics team had finished with it. He’d left an hour prior to the tenacious detective, but thus was the encumbrance of Melissa’s higher paying position that she had to stay later. Sometimes her responsibilities held her captive from any sort of social engagements or the few hours after work where she could wind down from her day.
Peeking through the blinds of her office to see if any staff members were within earshot, Melissa Argyle surveyed the adjacent offices to make sure that she was the only administrative staff member still there. With a deep sigh she picked up her landline and punched in the phone number she knew by heart.
“Guterman, it’s me,” she said as quietly as she could. “Purdue is aware of the changeling.” She paused and swallowed hard before forcing the next report. “And the changeling is under police supervision at Hopkins Memorial.” Her eyes caught movement outside her office, but the figure passed by without stopping. She continued listening for more instructions. “Two gunshot wounds. His findings…are in the possession of Lieutenant Campbell at the Dundee Precinct.”
The voice on the other end was telling her to be as helpful to the police as possible without betraying the true nature of the situation. She should not draw attention. Then the call was ended unceremoniously.
A loud bang startled her momentarily before Melissa realized that it was the door to the restrooms, the only door in the building that didn’t have a fire door closer to ease it shut. “That’s another thing I have to get fixed. Geez,” she said to herself.
Melissa grabbed her car keys and bag, electing not to wear her raincoat, as the cool night air would be good for her fevered nerves. In the deserted wing of Sinclair, the white luminescent lights hummed over towers of paperwork and dead fax machines. Computer monitors with black screens rested on unoccupied desks, leaving Melissa feeling dreadfully melancholy. Her only company was the second arm on the wall clock ticking monotonously while she locked her door. Her keys fell to the floor when she misjudged the slot and she bent down to pick them up.
From a distance, one of the night janitors watched her grunt from the effort and came to help her.
“Oh my God, you frightened me!” she exclaimed as he rushed to pick up her key for her. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Argyle,” he apologized, scooping up the keys for the lovely young woman. “Here.”
“Thank you,” she smiled reluctantly, trying to hide her frustration. But he could see it in her face and manner as she briskly walked off without saying goodbye. His colleague joined him, both men staring at the fresh beauty with the bouncy locks.
“I wouldn’t mind test driving that one, hey?” he told his colleague, but the man who’d helped Melissa had a look of distaste on his face when he replied, “You can have her. In bed I like limber women and that kitten is so stiff-limbed she can’t even touch her toes.”
Laughing, the janitors left the offices to have a smoke outside in the cold where Invergowrie Bay breathed under the full moon.
4
While Nina was visiting St. Vincent’s Academy she resided in the North Hostel, a small assemblage of garden flats on the northern side of the property. The other cottages were not occupied this time of year, as most of the current faculty consisted of permanent teachers and she was the only visiting fellow. Much as she enjoyed the good meals the Dean’s mother brought her every night, Nina felt sorry for the elderly lady. She had to work hard not just to cook, but also to walk up the steep lawn every evening to bring Nina her meal.
Even after the historian offered to retrieve her own food, she was politely denied. Tonight she was standing outside, smoking a B&H Silver. The fact that cancer was ravaging her lungs had little effect on the way in which Nina lived her life, as long as the pain was kept to a minimum and the nausea was not overbearing. Having made peace with the state of her health in no way meant that she had made peace with the man she blamed for contracting the disease.
Nina tolerated Purdue only because he’d made some effort to make up for almost killing her. Other than that, she was not about to start her biological penance a few years too late because of some absurd hope to recover. That ship had sailed, she knew. Keeping the illness from her friends was easy after she’d redirected her medical bills to be charged to her own account instead of Purdue’s. All panels and treatment were billed under Dr. Nina Gould, because, as she told the accounts department, it was nobody’s business but her own now.
Frigid whips of wind brightened the orange glow of her cigarette, as her dark hair impaired her view of the sleepy streets just off campus. Deep inside Nina there flowed genuine tranquility, even in the volatile forests of uncertainty and fear. She missed Sam and Bruich. The journalist was out on assignment for a government exposé on the Faroe Islands concerning anti-whaling terrorism.
Where his beloved big ginger cat was, however, she had no idea. Sam sometimes left Bruich with her when he had to go somewhere far somewhat quickly, but it had been a while since she’d been chosen to babysit. Bruichladdich always calmed her with his lazy, low-toned meows and his wise cat eyes. He was a wonderful companion – he took care of his own shit, so to speak. Moreover, Bruich reminded her in a silent way that she should not take life too seriously. Right now, she reckoned that big feline would have cheered up her substantially.
From the edge of the garden a black figure emerged. Nina quickly flicked her fag into the pond just off the flower box and watched the water swallow up the tiny puff of smoke it died with.
“Hello, Dr. Gould!” the figure cried through the hard whisper of the gust. Nina visibly exhaled in relief.
“Mrs. Patterson, I thought you weren’t coming tonight,” Nina replied as she met the old lady halfway. “Let me take the tray. I can’t believe you’re coming out in this cold weather just for me.”
The elderly woman gave her a kind smile as she passed Nina the tray. “Och, deary. It’s not just for you.” Her glimmering eyes held some arcane message behind the words she spoke, but Nina was not sure if it was worth asking about. The smell of the food was irresistible and it was only when Nina caught a whiff of the dumplings and stew that she had to admit how hungry she actually was.
“You’re too kind,” Nina told Mrs. Patterson when she’d put the tray on the table. “Please come in.”
“I can’t stay for long,” the old woman said as she did every time Nina attempted to have a proper conversation with her. “So sorry I’m late tonight…” she said and then hushed her tone as she leaned in to share what was probably blasphemy around here, “but there was a bit of a squabble at home tonight and I had to resolve that first before coming over.”
“Oh my goodness! I hope it wasn’t too serious?” Nina answered as she removed the cling wrap with as much grace as a ravenously hungry woman could.
Mrs. Patterson just shrugged, “Och well, you know, the cattiness of women often cause confrontation and the men usually don’t know how to avert the catfights. I just take them with a pinch, you know, but sometimes you just have to say something. And I said something.”
“The Dean’s wife?” Nina assumed in a lighter tone.
“How could you tell?” the astute Mrs. Patterson replied with a laugh.
“Aye, I knew I wasn’t the only one to find Christa a bit…” Nina tried to think of a nice word, but it took her too long.
“Bitch?” Mrs. Patterson asked sincerely. “Blind people can see that. Deaf people can hear that. Old people can affirm that.”
The latter statement was a bit off the former, but Nina chalked it up to an old lady’s idiosyncrasy. Suddenly Mrs. Patterson looked at her watch. A look of what could very well be panic crossed her face as she looked up from it, her dark eyes peering into Nina’s. There was no denying that Mrs. Patterson wished to share something with Nina, but an unspoken urgency had her wavering.
“What is it, Mrs. Patterson?” Nina asked as she eyed the dumplings. On one hand, she wished the old woman would leave so that she could eat already. But on the other, the Dean’s mother seemed truly pressed to tell her something that Nina would want to know.
“You had a nosebleed today, I hear? Are you alright?” the old lady asked Nina, still keeping her voice down.
“Oh, that? That was nothing,” Nina fibbed to remove all concerns, but she did not realize what Mrs. Patterson was aiming at. “Just too long under the floor with those examinations, I suppose. Not a big deal.”
“You smoke?” Mrs. Patterson asked, quickly leaning back to check the lawn in between words.
“Aye? That is my prerogative,” Nina snapped a little. She was in no mood for yet another lecture on her health and the obvious, done-to-death sermons on smoking. On top of that, she wasn’t going to give up smoking just because smoking was prohibited in the cottages.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Patterson agreed. “You keep smoking, alright? Keep to what makes you happy. We all have vices and I believe even the deadly ones are worth the pleasure.”
Is this reverse psychology? Nina wondered. It was such an unusual response to get from the Dean’s mother.
“Um, thank you?” Nina smiled amusedly. Mrs. Patterson returned her smile, but it swam in apprehension. “I have to go, Dr. Gould. Just you…you keep on doing what you…” she started walking out the door, trying not to cry.
“Mrs. Patterson?” Nina said, feeling that something really amiss, but the woman just kept moving on to return home. She kept looking back at Nina with some desperate affirmation.
“We don’t realize how little time we have, Nina. Enjoy every moment, every bad habit, because before you know it, your youth is gone with your strength and then you will regret all the things you did not relish, my dear,” she crossed onto the lawn. “Goodnight, my dear.”
Nina frowned, dumplings in hand and very confused. “Goodnight, Mrs. Patterson.”
With her appetite somewhat dampened by the strange conversation she’d with Mrs. Patterson, Nina wolfed down the dumplings one by one. She couldn’t finish all of the stew, though, as it ignited the lurking nausea inside her. Every so often Nina would be reminded that she was sick and this was one of those occasions. Her stubborn nature did not afford her the luxury of acceptance or hope, and therefore the waning historian kept living in denial of her deteriorating state.
When she’d eaten her fill and successfully suppressed the night’s impending vomiting session, she stepped outside for another fag. It must have been Mrs. Patterson’s mention of the domestic ructions that made it clearer, but Nina noticed that the lights were still on at the Dean’s residence about three hundred meters from her cottage. With her ears now tuned to the argument, she could hear the vague sounds of heated voices coming from inside the large house.
“No wonder they’re fighting, with that bitch Christa living there,” Nina scoffed as she drew the smoke deeper in, deeper than she usually did, deep enough to constitute deliberate harm. But this time she got more than she bargained for. As if her fading body were retaliating, her lungs convulsed in a coughing fit. She felt like an amateur smoker – she was coughing just like had when she’d started at the age of sixteen after Jimmy Harrison dumped her.
Finally Nina’s attack subsided, leaving her weeping in pain. The cigarette had fallen from her fingers and it rolled rapidly toward the edge of the steps that led down to the lawn. Against the wall outside her front door she leaned hard against the coarse paint while clutching her chest, but it was her back that was on fire. The region underneath her right scapula especially seemed to tear from the surrounding tissue
every time she coughed, and it stung so badly that she cursed through her tears.
But what followed was a nightmare for Nina Gould. From the crying spell she sank to her haunches, burying her hands in her hair, trying not to draw her breath too deeply. Her scalp felt loose, in a way, when she lifted her head and her hands fell to her knees.
“Oh Jesus!” she cried. “No, no, no! Oh Jesus, no!” she mumbled insanely as tufts of hair stayed behind in her palms. The pain in her back was suddenly not her worst agony, as she felt around her head only to discover that her hair had started falling out. In disbelief, Nina looked at the result of even the gentlest run of her fingertips over her hair. “Christ, no!” she kept repeating from a whisper to the crescendo of her emotions where she screamed hysterically into the cushion on the sofa inside.
She knew it was true. She knew she had to expect this sooner or later, but now that it had actually happened for real, she couldn’t deal with the shock. Nina refused to believe what she knew was real. There was no denying the clumps of hair in her hands. For the past two weeks she’d been shedding more than the usual amount of hair when she brushed her tresses, but she’d chosen to ignore the obvious portent.
Muffled in the cushion, the sobs of the historian would never be heard through the noisy gales outside. Yet her frantic wails of despair were deafening inside her and around her, the final clout of reality too much to bear. Maybe she should have told Sam, or even Purdue. Maybe she should’ve counted on their support before she deciding selfishly to exacerbate her condition out of some kind of spite toward the cruel deities that punished her. But now the hour for such things was late. The small fraction of treatment she’d allowed, or could afford, was now depleted and she was on her own in every way.
Nina had never been so alone.
5
Kirkwall, the sleepy Scottish town on the Orkney Islands, was suffering a terrible storm that, according to the weather station, threatened to remain indefinitely. Just a few kilometers from the Bay of Weyland, the exclusive clinic, owned by Purdue’s holding company, had their generators on to brave the power outage. Power cuts had been plaguing the town since the night before, two days into the unexpected tempest that had approached from the northeast over Everbay and clean across Balfour.
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 5 Page 43