What Lies Hidden

by C G Cooper

  Sure enough, he could see a small figure in a hooded parka trudging up the road toward the bridge. “Eyes on my contact. Gotta go.”

  “One more thing,” said Kreisburg.

  “Yeah?”

  With a sincerity that made Mac sit up straighter, Kreisburg said, “Don’t figure this job for a cake walk.”

  “I— I didn’t. I won’t. What, uh, what makes you say that?”

  The menthol Kreisburg had sucked in over the years had coated his lungs with more frost than on any of the trees within spitting distance of the car.

  “Paranoia,” said the old man. “The occupational hazard of knowing everybody’s out to get you.”

  Mac stared at the flashing red light of the disconnected phone for a full second before tucking it away inside his leather jacket. Struggling with the seat belt more that he would have liked, he exited the sedan.

  The hooded figure was halfway across the bridge now, close enough that he could tell she was a woman. Despite the cold, she wore nothing on her legs but dark, wool leggings and moon boots. Her parka was unzipped, showing off a light-green mini dress that hugged her waist and hips.

  Mac put on a smile and checked his breath. He felt foolish standing next to the dinky car, so he took a long step to the left. He hadn’t complained when the kid at the rental place had handed over the keys because he knew Kreisburg would say the compact drew less attention, but it looked about as fitting for a man Mac’s size as a kid’s red Radio Flyer tricycle.

  The woman waved. “Professor Maw-hoe?” she said.

  “Ma-Ho-Ee,” corrected Mac. “Like ‘may’, a garden hoe, and being happy to see me. Most people call me Mac. You’re Emma.”

  “I’m Emma,” the woman agreed. “Emma Jarrald.”

  The parka’s fur-lining made it sound like her voice was coming out of a tunnel. She must have been aware of the effect, because she swept back the hood, revealing pale cheeks and eyes the color of tropical seas. Her hair spilled over her collar, a cascade of liquid gold.

  Mac had spent enough hours reading the dossiers of all the prominent faculty to know the Jarralds were a university family. Emma, their only child, was a grad student and the pride of her father’s chemistry department. Her dossier mentioned accomplishments in modern dance and a dozen other details.

  The overall picture was of a nice, ordinary girl. It didn’t do her justice. She had a face out of a Raphael painting.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma,” Mac said, the warmth in his tone surprising him. “Thanks for meeting me. Do, uh, do you mind driving?”

  Emma blinked. “You want me to drive?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he said. “Just to the school.”

  “O-kay,” she said, stretching out the “o.”

  “It’s a cultural thing,” said Mac. “Among the true people, when you enter a village for the first time, you’re supposed to be led in by a trusted resident.” Emma’s eyes didn’t squint at his explanation, so either she believed him or had expected him to lie.

  “Cool. Okay,” she said. “I’m your girl. I practically grew up here. Nobody more trusted than me.”

  “You’re perfect,” he said.

  “Nice of you to notice,” she said and held out a hand.

  He took it but didn’t shake, cupping the slender fingers as though they were made of porcelain. She flashed him a twinkle. He was glad she was flirting. Lying was so much easier when everybody joined in.

  Bowing his head, he motioned her to the driver’s seat. He did her the courtesy of opening the door before he stomped through the frozen slush to the other side.

  All the way across the bridge, he kept his eyes glued to his phone, typing a fake text. When they had rumbled to the other side, he smiled at Emma. He would have liked to have thanked her audibly, but he didn’t have the breath. The old fear, realized but never dealt with. Crossing a bridge without hyperventilating was a major accomplishment, even with somebody else driving.

  They came to a place where newer pavement branched off to the right of the main road. “The new townhouses are down that hill,” said Emma, nodding in their direction. She added, “Do you really have to meet Chandra right away? I could take you to your place instead.”

  He glanced her way, unsure whether or not she was joking. “I, uh, I think we’d better stick to the plan.”

  “No prob, Professor,” she said. “We’ve got days and days.”

  Chapter Three

  The Grant-Spencer Welcome Center presented an impressive facade. Looming above precipitous granite steps, which were sectioned by four runs of metal handrails, its brick-and-block structure was an architect’s dream of modernity, with lines inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright.

  The building itself stretched to four stories. A steeple added a fifth. At the top of the steeple was a numberless clock with a pearlescent face shining like a perpetual full moon. When Emma wheeled around the circular drive and parked in front of the steps, the clock’s hands indicated precisely 10:40am.

  Mac stood looking up while Emma worked her way around to the curb, careful not to slip. Mac was about to apologize for putting her in a tight spot when the clock gave a buzz that sounded like it came from a hummingbird the size of a golden retriever.

  The next moment, he realized that the sound hadn’t come from inside the steeple itself, but from a nimble quadcopter swooping around from behind. Mac ducked instinctively as it dove his way, but the machine pivoted in midair and gave him a wide berth.

  Emma laughed. “Don’t mind Fu-Fu. She’s our eye in the sky. The new head of security started flying her around campus a couple of days ago.”

  Mac waved at the drone. He heard Kreisburg’s voice from three days ago, saying, “We’ve got boots on the ground already. Call sign Tentpole.”

  “Must be popular with the ladies,” Mac had said to Kreisburg.

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  At least he had confirmation that the “new head of security” was on point. Having a friendly watchdog would save him a lot of creeping around.

  “Fu-Fu?” he asked Emma.

  “Some freshmen named her that,” she said. “It’s from a video game.”

  The copter made an orbit of the steeple then dipped an acknowledging bow before zipping away.

  “It doesn’t bother you being watched all the time?”

  “No,” said Emma. She looked away. “Not after what happened.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. I, uh, read about it online.”

  Tiffany Garrett had been an undergrad, so probably not in Emma’s circle. Still, too close for comfort.

  A hint of a deeper sorrow than she wanted to admit flitted over Emma’s face then was gone. Her sly smile returned. “And, you know, there’s only one of him.” Turning her head as though watching for the quadcopter, then winked at Mac. “He can’t see everything.”

  To say Emma was forward was an understatement.

  “You sure? Not a lot of places a good spook can’t get into.”

  “Is that what you are, a spook? I hope you’re the friendly kind.”

  Deciding that they had sparred long enough, he gestured at the steps. “You wanna get out of the cold?”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t want to keep Chandra waiting.”

  He again noted the casual use of President Chandra Velankar’s first name, but didn’t comment on it.

  “Is it okay to leave the car here?”

  “It’s fine,” Emma said. “Nobody uses the circle drive when it’s icy.”

  “Right. Sorry I made you risk it.”

  “I like a little danger.”

  They mounted the stairs side-by-side; up to the double doors of the Welcome Center. Mac reached for the handle. Emma waved him away. “You’re the guest, Professor.”

  A warm rush of air greeted them. Grant-Spencer’s lobby was a huge space, half again as broad as the steps outside and rising all the way to the steeple’s base. The heat came from an impressive wood fireplace off to Mac’s left, where
a semi-circle of high-backed chairs had been arranged just off the edge of a round carpet that must have been thirty feet in diameter.

  The carpet was decorated with geometric patterns that reminded Mac of a mosque he had scouted in Tangiers.

  A man and woman were standing on the marble floor between the carpet and the door. The photos he’d seen of the university president showed a kindly, appealing woman who looked incapable of telling lies. For his own sake, Mac hoped that last detail was wrong.

  A story was concocted. Bored with his desk job, Mac would say that he’d applied to join the Officer in Residence program then accepted the first opportunity the Company threw his way.

  President Velankar would explain that she’d forgotten to bring up her old friend Bogey’s offer before the Board of Trustees. Pressed for an answer by her trusted Agency acquaintence, she had made a unilateral decision to host Mac. Fait accompli.

  As deceptions went, it was Fisher-Price simple and onion paper thin. Mac’s cover depended on Velankar standing by a decision she hadn’t actually made. The Board would be within their rights to hold her accountable. If she couldn’t take the heat, both she and Mac would end up with mangled careers.

  The moment Mac entered the lobby, the president was wearing an expression of mixed annoyance and distress. It shifted toward determination when her eyes fell on him. Before she could speak, however, the man beside her stabbed a finger at Mac.

  “You’re not welcome!” he said.

  Thin, wrinkled, and prone to letting his limbs hang at the joints, the speaker was so reminiscent of the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz that Mac had to stifle a laugh. The man’s angry glare could have frightened a pterodactyl.

  Under elbow-patched tweed, the man who Mac’s research identified as Professor Paul Arken, Dean of the History Department, wore a t-shirt displaying a crossed-out eye ringed by the legend “BIG BROTHER GO HOME” against a black background.

  “Put your hand down,” said President Velankar, in response to his rudeness. When Arken failed to obey, she pressed his thin wrist to his side with both hands. Having startled Arken into silence, she returned her attention to Mac. With her hands folded in front of her, she looked like a first-class flight attendant, unflappably composed. The quick mood shift put Mac at ease. If Velankar could swap masks so easily, he was sure she’d have no trouble selling him to the Board.

  “Aloha,” he said, as Emma stepped up beside him.

  The President put out a hand. “Professor Mahoe,” she began.

  “Chandra, this is a gross violation of the students’ First Amendment rights,” Arken said, shaking his finger at the ceiling. “I’ll not stand for it and I’m not the only one. You can’t silence the majority—”

  “Paul,” cut in Velankar, “this is not the sixties, and we are not Berkeley. Professor Mahoe is my guest and your colleague. He deserves—”

  “This fascist deserves nothing but my contempt,” Arken interrupted. “I am warning you, Chandra, for the last time. If you do not reverse the policies that have tarnished this school’s reputation as a beacon of liberal education, you will leave me no choice but to demonstrate the power of civil disobedience.” His voice raised in pitch the longer his tirade went on. “The carte blanche you’ve extended to the imperialists in Washington proves conclusively that you are a puppet of the wealthy elite. And I had such high hopes. You stand erect, and yet, you have no spine,” he sneered. “I’ll give you one more chance, then we’re through. Dismiss this person immediately, or I will unleash the potent exuberance of youth invigorated by a worthy cause. The choice is yours.”

  Still composed, though not looking his way, she waited a full three seconds before saying, “Will that be all? I can never tell whether you’re finished or just taking a breath.”

  Clenching his fists, Arken marched in the direction of the reception desk. The receptionist, who had been watching the scene with interest, busied herself with something on her monitor.

  Arken said over his retreating shoulder, “You’re the one who’s finished, Chandra. It’s embarrassing that you haven’t realized it yet.” He passed the desk and then disappeared into the far stairwell. The door banged shut behind him.

  Velankar let its echoes die out, then placed a hand over her heart. “I am mortified,” she said. “Please, do not imagine that Paul speaks for anyone other than his pompous self.”

  Emma placed her hands on her hips. “Or that he was speaking out of his mouth,” she said. “It’s no wonder Paul’s breath smells awful.”

  “Emma, decorum,” said Velankar mildly.

  Mac said, “Don’t worry. Give it a week, he’ll be buying me a beer. I’m a big fan of the First Amendment. All the others, too. We’ll have plenty to talk about. But thanks for covering for me, President Velankar.”

  “Please, Professor Mahoe. You must call me Chandra. I told you that over the phone.”

  “And I told you to call me Mac.”

  “So you did,” said Chandra. “Thank you, Mac.” Allowing her chin to sink an inch, she added, “You’ve come to us at a difficult time. I hope you understand.”

  Mac glanced at Emma, who was studying the floor tile. “I do. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It is my hope that your upcoming lectures will give the students something positive to think about.”

  “I, uh, I hope so,” said Mac. He resisted the urge to check his watch.

  Dredging up a smile, Chandra said, “Are you ready for the grand tour?”

  “Absolutely,” said Mac.

  She twirled a finger at his jacket. “Is that all you have to fend off the cold?”

  “I’ve got a coat in the car.”

  “Forgive my impertinence, but please fetch it.”

  Emma groaned. “Do we really have to go outside?”

  “I’m afraid we do, dear,” said Chandra. “Please accompany the professor to his car.”

  “Whatever,” said Emma. Now she seemed a good deal younger than the self-assured young woman on the other side of the bridge. “You wanna just give me the keys, Mac?”

  “Sure. Back seat. Garment bag.”

  “Gotcha,” said Emma, snatching the key fob from his hand.

  As she spun on her heel, Chandra said, “Oh, and Emma?”

  Emma jolted to a halt. “Yeah?”

  “Do zip up, dear.”

  Emma sighed.

  Chapter Four

  It was a whirlwind tour. Chandra’s energy would have been impressive in a woman half her age. She conducted Mac and Emma from one collegiate building to another with barely a pause.

  Despite her warning, they stayed mostly indoors, crossing between structures by means of elevated corridors that connected much of the campus. Sections that could not be accessed via this network, including the Administration Building, Chandra’s beloved College of Mathematics, and the student residences, she mostly pointed out through paned glass.

  As they left one oak-scented building behind, Chandra recounted her pleasure at the response to her social media campaign to attract sign-ups for Mac’s lecture. She promised to give him a good look at the venue.

  They passed between the high-shelved library and the Émile Daubière College of English and the Humanities (College of E&H). Then, producing gloves and hat from a pocket of her coat, Chandra announced that the time had come to present her pride and joy.

  Exiting by a south-facing door, she led them across a snowy field. Crisscrossing shadows of naked trees lent it the texture of lacework. Mac and Emma walked with heads down against the wind. While Chandra and Emma treaded carefully on the icy crust, Mac crunched straight through it. Chandra called a halt with an upraised hand and pointed.

  Shading his eyes from reflected sunlight coming off a nearby window, Mac looked across the blanketed lawn at the two hundred sixty-year-old Church of Saint Alban. Resembling a miniature cathedral, the building dominated the landscape like a stone foot of God.

  He knew a little of its history. Built in cruciform and co
nsidered a fine expression of Italian Gothic style, it had been host to celebrated weddings and ecclesiastical events long before the university’s founder purchased the land on which it stood.

  Even after the new church in South Wilburville was consecrated, patrons continued to favor the older church, to the extent that the bishop personally asked one of Chandra’s predecessors to downplay the building’s liturgical role. The church altar had then been removed to a side chapel, replaced by a curtained stage. While the chapel was still used for ecumenical services, the church’s nave now served as an auditorium, with pew and gallery seating for eight hundred people.

  “Imagine,” said Chandra, beaming. “You’ll have a packed house.”

  The thought of so many eyeballs staring his way gave Mac a moment of vertigo. He braced his stance, trying to look intrigued instead of terrified. If he died inside St. Alban’s, he wondered if they would hold his funeral then and there.

  Checking that Chandra was distracted, he looked at the countdown on his watch: 99:54:03. Tuesday morning would be the absolute latest he could deliver Kreisburg the goods. Monday night sounded even better.

  After oohing and ahhing at St. Alban’s long enough to satisfy Chandra, the trio entered a stairwell that climbed to the bridge between the E&H College and the Admissions Building. Interior spaces like this didn’t bother Mac so long as they were wide enough that he felt sure he could defend himself should the need arrive. This one was big enough for a Winnebago to drive through.

  A few paces from where they’d entered, Chandra drew up in front of a window looking down on The Crossing. She gestured at its dry fountain surrounded by pink cobbles. South of the fountain, bare trees dotted a snowy expanse that, in springtime, would give way to a riot of wildflowers, she said.

  Vesper Memorial Library, through which they’d passed earlier, was up a set of steps to the north. To the west, beyond the fountain, was the archway to Fountain Tunnel. A few students were hurrying across the courtyard to climb the stairs and go the long way around to Morris Hall while giving the archway sidelong glances.