She made it to her office, but peace, quiet, and caffeine were not meant to be.
“Paula, glad to see you.”
Today, Will had pulled his wild, wavy hair back in a ponytail, low on his neck, exposing his almost mutton-chop length sideburns. He had quite a nice-looking face. If, that is, he ever decided to ditch all the weird facial hair he had going on.
He wasn’t listening to his music or giving his absolute concentration to his computer screen.
Something was up.
“Break it to me gently, please. I’m barely functioning right now.”
He handed her a full mug of steaming coffee. “Sit down and drink this.”
She gratefully took it, feeling a hair perkier after inhaling the aromatic steam. She swiveled her chair around and wished she could shut the lights off. A little darkness would soothe her burning eyes.
“Professor Pritchard dropped off something for you.”
“What?” She drank greedily. She might have one killer of a headache, but at least the coffee made her feel human.
“A journal.” He leaned back. Their office was so small that when they were sitting face to face, their knees touched.
Paula turned slightly to break contact.
He handed her a journal held shut with a rubber band. “He came by about an hour ago. When you weren’t here, he dropped this in my lap, told me to give it you and that you ‘would know what to do’. Does that mean anything to you?”
She slipped off the rubber band. Inside the notebook was another sticky note in Minerva Caldwell’s writing: Bianca Hanes, Stewart Hall.
She recognized the name immediately. Bianca had participated in Paula’s first assigned project in late August. An ESP test with cards, each with a different shape or object printed on it, which the subject had to guess by using the powers of the mind. Paula remembered her because Bianca had gotten every single card wrong. Not a whit of ESP in that poor girl.
“Did the professor say anything else?” God help her if it was another one of these boxes on the fritz. Maybe they needed to chuck the whole project and start over. Three problems in three days? That was a little extreme.
“Nope.”
She didn’t want to venture out again into the bright morning sunlight. She tossed the notebook onto her bag. “Well, he’s just going to have to wait. I’ve got other work to do.” She determined to do nothing more than ingest caffeine for the next thirty minutes. Then, if she felt better, if she felt less like a walking zombie, maybe she’d consider talking to Bianca.
Will shrugged. “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
Paula thought she saw a gleam of curiosity in his eye.
Maybe he grew bored with his work routine of numbers, numbers, and more numbers. Statistics had been the dullest class she’d taken as an undergrad. She didn’t know how Will could be so enthusiastic about percentages and decimals and all that crap every day, every week. But that little hint of interest in his eye, perhaps...
“Maybe you could help me.” She pulled out her laptop. “I’ve got some data on here, and I just don’t know what to make of it.”
“Data?” Will scooted his chair forward to get a better look at the screen. “What kind of data?”
“From a black box that might be malfunctioning.” If Minerva Caldwell knew about the names, then what did it hurt if she brought Will in for some advice? After all, he was a member of the research team, and if he could help her find some answers—
“Malfunctioning?” Will stroked his moustache and narrowed his eyes when the columns of numbers appeared from last night’s little experiment.
Neither of them dealt directly with the black boxes. Will received compiled data from the Data Processing guys and did something with it—she never quite understood his role—but she knew he was kind of a computer geek.
“I’ve interviewed two students over the last two days because journal entries didn’t match up with their output, but I don’t quite understand what the output means. Maybe you could look at it and help me out.” In order for him to get a good look at the data, he had to practically sit on top of her. His warm breath tickled the back of her neck.
“Well, see these low numbers here?” He pointed at the first couple days of data.
She nodded. Will’s leg pressed against hers.
“There’s a range from one to ten. Most normal aura activity takes place in the lower ranges, indicating a calm, relaxed state. These little fluctuations here?” He pointed at a spot where the numbers went up to 3.1 or 2.9. “This indicates a mild level of stress—fear, worry, sexual tension—”
She moved her leg subtly away from his.
“Small increases that match up to the experiences indicated in the journals are what we are looking for. But this—” He pointed to the high numbers from Lark’s time with the box. “These numbers are so high...it would mean something had gone seriously wrong.”
“Like the box wasn’t working properly?”
“No, I mean something is seriously wrong with the subject.”
“What do you mean?” She thought back to last night. The worst thing that happened was Lark’s horrible headache.
“When Professor Pritchard tested the boxes on rats last year, he only saw results like this with the flight-or-fight responses. You know, life-or-death kind of stuff, when their adrenaline is on overdrive.”
Paula wasn’t sure what to think. “Was there an indication from any of the subjects you interviewed they had some kind of recent trauma?” Will looked away from the screen. She could feel his gaze scanning her profile.
A knot of confusion formed in her stomach. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something just wasn’t right. Did Lark’s headache have anything to do with the output? And why would she be experiencing a surge of adrenaline? She had been sitting in a dark, quiet room. There had been no threat to her life. Nothing could have startled her to that degree.
“No, there was nothing like that,” she mumbled. “Nothing at all.”
Will leaned back, hands laced behind his head. “Well, then, the boxes must be malfunctioning, just like the professor is thinking. Or the students are lying.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Will spun around and scooted back to his desk.
Yes, lying. There was still that possibility. But one student was dead, and the other? Well, the other probably would refuse to waste his time with her now that he was rolling in cash. Sam Gunderson didn’t need them to bankroll his poker playing any longer or to pay back any misused funds from his grant.
What about Lark?
She kept her gaze on her laptop screen. The numbers blurred as she stared at them. What did it all mean?
She looked at the notebook on top of her bag. Bianca Hines. Maybe if she talked to Bianca, she would figure something out. If Lark was keeping something from her, some terrible experience, Paula wanted—no—Paula needed to know. They were as close as two friends could be. If Lark didn’t feel comfortable telling her what might have happened—
It worried her.
***
Paula could reach Bianca’s dorm with a short walk. Parking on-campus was a nightmare, so it didn’t make sense to give up her spot just to save ten minutes.
She had called the freshman from her office but only got voicemail. Yesterday, she would’ve left a message. Not today. Today, Paula had a few questions. Maybe it would turn out to be nothing, but she had to know.
Crossing in front of the Student Union, she noticed a small crowd gathered on the steps. She slowed down when she noticed a couple of girls were crying and clinging to each other.
A tall, stringy guy in glasses nervously kicked a toe against a cement balustrade, “He’d just won all that money, and then, ka-blow, road kill—splattered all over College Avenue.”
“Shut up,” one of the crying girls said. “Sam was a nice guy. No one deserves to die like that.”
Paula stopped.
/> Sam?
A tough-looking student in a leather jacket rubbed a thumb across his mouth. “If I’d won a hundred grand, I sure as hell wouldn’t be throwing myself in front of a truck. That dude was psycho.”
Paula felt light-headed. Her stomach grew queasy. She needed to sit down. Now.
She stumbled toward a stone bench under an oak tree.
Sam Gunderson was dead.
She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Two dead college students in less than a week. Two suicides. And she happened to visit both of them the day they died. What were the odds?
A strange tingle crawled up her back, leaving gooseflesh behind. She couldn’t think straight. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Craig Peters had died. Sam Gunderson had died. What did it all mean? Or did it mean nothing at all? Was it just a huge coincidence?
She had to talk to Bianca. She needed to know these two deaths meant nothing, that the suicides had no relation to the AIM project, no relation to her. The cluster of students stood outside the Student Union discussing the demise of their classmate. A few of them blinked tear-reddened eyes, some smoked cigarettes.
Paula shifted her gaze toward Stewart Hall. Maple trees, their leaves just beginning to turn red, flanked its stone façade. Students spilled out of the entrance and headed in all directions, like ants out of an anthill.
She might find answers in there.
Talking to Bianca might clear her mind of the disturbing thought that somehow the black box and these two suicides were related.
***
“I’d like to say this is a social call.” Paula stood outside Bianca’s door. The freshman had half-a-head of wavy brown hair straightened and no traces of make-up on her face. A bit early for a visit, but Paula’s stress levels were through the roof. She couldn’t let it wait. “I’m here about the AIM project. We’ve been having some problems. I need to check out your set up and ask a few questions about your journal entries, if that’s all right?”
A slight wrinkle of worry appeared in Bianca’s brow. “What kinds of problems?”
“Can you let me see where you keep the box?” Paula hoped something was wrong—a computer too close to the box or a lamp with a high-wattage bulb. Anything that might account for the anomalies on Bianca’s aura readings. “There have been some issues with a few of the study participants. I’m sure it’s nothing.” She had an uncanny feeling, however, that there was something. Briefly, her thoughts dwelled on Craig and Sam. Could something about the black boxes connect them all?
“I guess it’s all right.” Bianca let her inside.
Whereas one side of the room was filled with the latest is gadgetry—the newest model PC, a printer, and a small flat screen TV—the other side, Bianca’s side, was devoid of any electronics. Only the black box and a desk lamp with a few neat stacks of notebooks and folders adorned Bianca’s desk.
“Is this where you use the box?”
“Yes, and I make sure that Jenna, my roommate, unplugs all her stuff when I’m using it, just like I’m supposed to.”
Paula slid her fingers across the smooth surface of the desk, thinking. “Have you had any headaches lately when you’ve been using the box?”
“Yes.” Bianca picked up her straightening iron and continued styling her hair. She caught Paula’s eye in the small vanity mirror on her dresser. “How did you know?”
In Paula’s mind, pieces of the puzzle sat in front of her. As she looked at them, she could begin to see pieces that fit together. Just a few. The headaches—Craig complained of one and so did Sam.
And so did Lark.
A whoosh of blood pounded in her ears and a familiar tingle appeared in her limbs. Panic grew inside Paula. The timing couldn’t be worse. Paula’s secret threatened to spill over, reveal itself here in Bianca’s room.
Not now.
Paula gripped the chair to keep control of her ability. Last time, it had been an out-of-control coffee pot in her kitchen. This time it could be something more dangerous.
“What about the headache?” Bianca ran her straightening iron through the last lock of wavy hair. “Does that mean something?”
Paula’s knees trembled. She willed herself to stay in control.
The lamp on the desk twitched.
“No,” she lied, “that doesn’t mean anything.” The sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The lamp stilled.
“But you would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?” Bianca unplugged the iron and flicked some mascara on her lashes.
Paula’s heart pounded. To gain control of herself, she looked out the window at the sunshine and the clusters of students who walked to class. Outside, it was clean and bright. Inside, her head remained muddled.
She faced the young freshman. “Let’s talk about your journal entries for Monday.” Control over her secret returned. She pulled the journal with the rubber band out of her bag. “We just need to clear up a few things—”
Paula listened to Bianca explain, as she had listened to Craig and Ben before her, that nothing had been irregular. The words in the transcript were identical to what happened on the day in question.
A dark thought began to form in Paula’s mind. A possibility, a chance. A way to make herself normal again. Get rid of the disturbing sensations, the loss of control. Maybe she’d ended up working on this black box project for a reason.
As Bianca rambled on about the notes in her journal, Paula’s thoughts wandered to the project which had brought her to the Paranormal Sciences Department in the first place. She needed to get back to her office and look over her notes. The black box might be more important to her than she ever thought possible.
Chapter Ten
Paula tucked away her notes on Bianca and pulled out the files for her Master’s research project. The project that brought her to this department in the first place. She opened up the top manila folder and flipped through articles and notes she’d gathered over the years.
Electro-therapy Shows Promise for Brain Disorders
Brain Waves Studied For Link to ESP
Brain Stimulation Yields Surprising Results
The Hidden Power of the Mind
As Will had explained, the black box read certain electrical impulses outside the body—what Professor Pritchard believed to be a person’s aura. All the subjects she had interviewed, and Lark, had experienced headaches. What if the black box was sending something out rather than just reading the electrical impulses? Something that might interfere with the normal process of the brain?
Could it be possible an aura was related to the strange surges that filled her body and grew out of her control? Her research indicated this possibility existed. What if there was a way for her to get that control back? Use the box, read her results, and then compare them to normal people. At least it would be a starting point for her research. To see if some kind of electronic stimulation or brain wave treatment would be the answer to her problems.
She had Sam Gunderson’s black box in her trunk. She’d meant to return it to the professor today, but he didn’t know she had it. What if she kept it one more day? Perhaps it could do something for her. Fix her. Help her understand what was going on inside of her that made her lose control.
She set aside the scientific articles and picked up a newspaper clipping that was aged and yellowed. Older than all the rest.
As she touched the cracked, dry edges, she read the title. She didn’t want to read the whole article. She knew the details all too well.
Couple Dies in Car Accident, Daughter Survives.
A small inset over the photo of the burned-up wreckage showed four beaming faces. Paula remembered taking that picture when she was ten, only a few weeks before Christmas. She’d hated the scratchy lace around the collar of the plaid dress her mother had made her wear. Her curly hair, long and unruly, would never cooperate when her mother had tried to style it. But on this day, she’d tamed Paula’s riotous black curls.
&
nbsp; Paula brushed a fingertip across the picture, a tear threatening to roll down her cheek. Her hand trembled. Her head roared and blocked out any rational thought. Pressure built behind her eyes.
Not here.
Not now.
What if someone walked in the door?
Paula bit her lip so hard she drew blood. Her fingers twitched painfully. It was happening again, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Fear and shame flawed her reasoning. And that fear paralyzed her. A flash of supernatural energy exploded uncontrolled from her fingertips.
A stapler on her desk flew into the wall with a crash. A calendar from the local farm co-op dropped onto her desk.
Paula froze in her seat.
A beat or two of silence. Paula sat rigid as an icicle.
She slumped in her chair. Her ability grew more out of her control every day.
“Hey, there you are.”
The sound of Will’s voice jolted her. She slammed the folder shut and wiped her eyes. “Mmm?” A few seconds earlier, and he would’ve found out what a freak she was. A dangerous freak.
“Your brother called. He was looking for you—asking about dinner this weekend?”
She swiveled her chair around, hoping her eyes weren’t as red as they felt. Praying her ability had been tamped down enough that she appeared normal.
“My brother?”
“Yeah, I hope you don’t mind. I answered your phone.” He gestured at the office landline on her desk. “It kept ringing and ringing. Every ten minutes. It was driving me nuts. He said he tried to call your cell. Anyway, he wanted to know if you were coming to dinner or not.”
She let out a sigh. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?”
She could feel Will’s gaze on her.
“He didn’t seem like such a bad guy. In fact, we ended up having a really cool discussion about existentialism and religion. You never told me he was a preacher.”
“A pastor,” she corrected. “My brother sometimes—no—most of the time drives me crazy. We don’t exactly see eye to eye on things.” She gave a glance at the manila folder, remembering. Some things a sister just couldn’t forgive. How was it that Peter could believe in God—a being unseen, unknown, unprovable—but yet he couldn’t believe in his own sister?
The Little Black Box Page 6