by C G Cooper
“That’s Morris Hall,” said Chandra, pointing to the left of the tunnel, “home to the Science and Engineering College. We can go there, if you like. It is Emma’s home-away-from-home.” She didn’t sound as excited as she had on their other stops.
From the corner of his eye, Mac saw Emma wringing her hands. In the bright light coming through the window, she looked even paler than she had against the snow.
Mac decided to intervene. “I want to say again how sorry I am for your loss. I appreciate the work you’ve done to accommodate me.”
Chandra gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“Excuse me,” said Emma. She stepped away, turning her back on Mac and Chandra.
“Take a moment, dear,” said Chandra.
“No,” said Emma. “I’m fine.”
Again Mac wondered how close Emma had been with the lost girl. He didn’t trust answers to direct questions. He decided to find out some other way.
Chandra pointed out a mural on the wall between the fountain and the library that had been done by students. The art classrooms, such as they were, had space on the first floor of the Administration Building. She explained her hope to expand the art department and add a fully-staffed music department when they were able to find the money.
Having expressed her optimism for the future, she ushered the party the rest of the way back to the lobby of Grant-Spencer.
“Let us hope,” she said as she pushed open the door, “that Professor Arken has kept to his class schedule. I would rather not go another round with him today.”
Instead of the scarecrow, they found a bear of a man waiting on the spiral carpet. Liver-spotted skin and the complete absence of a waist put him well above middle age, though his hair was an impressive shock of burnished copper, teased almost big enough to be called a pompadour. He smiled when he saw Emma, spreading his hands as if he expected her to run to him and jump into his arms.
“Hi, Daddy,” said Emma, stepping lightly across the floor.
The Dean of the Morris College of Chemistry gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek.
Mac remembered his dossier well. Born in Glasgow and educated at St. Andrews, Brian Jarrald had been hailed as one of his generation’s brightest minds. After graduation, he’d worked at the Newlyn Institute of Science, eventually taking over as its head. Under his leadership, Newlyn had developed tests for various chemical markers used to detect explosives, which put him in close contact with the UK military apparatus.
After a car accident killed his wife and daughter, Brian had emigrated, taking a teaching job in the US in the late ‘90s. His current wife was also a professor. Emma hadn’t been kidding when she suggested that she’d been born for the role of Mac’s guide. The elder Jarrald’s dossier concluded with a brief mention of her father having turned away attempts to recruit him into a Company-friendly think tank. Mac didn’t blame the guy for wanting to live out his days in peace, far from the red tape of Washington.
In an accent that immediately awoke a craving for whisky, Brian said, “Professor Mayhew, is it? Delighted to meet you.”
“It’s Mahoe. But Mac is fine.”
“Is it? Och, well, I can hardly object. What’s ‘Mac’ short for?”
“It’s, uh, Maka. But it’s kind of a middle name.”
“Oh? And what, if I may ask, is your first?”
“Kamaui.”
“Ka-Ma-We,” said Brian.
“That’s it.”
Pleased with himself, Brian said, “Ka-Ma-We Mok-Ah. Lovely. Redolent of seashells and coconut palms. Mac. Maka. And Ma-Ho-Ee, you say, is your surname?”
“It is.”
“All together, then, you’re named Ka-Ma-We Mok-Ah Ma-Ho-Ee.”
“That’s what it says on my license to kill.”
The joke would have gone over like a lead balloon with Paul Arken, but Brian chuckled heartily.
“Wonderful,” he said. “You know what your name reminds me of? Something I’d say to the wife after a night out drinking. ‘What you been up to, eh?’ she’d ask. ‘Och, you know. Kamaui Maka Mahoe.’”
He laughed again. Mac joined in. Emma rolled her eyes.
“And you’re our guest from the CIA? Fascinating. A haystack of a man, if you don’t mind me saying so. Military bearing. Did you see action, son?”
“God, Dad,” said Emma.
“It’s all right,” said Mac. “I did time overseas. Medically discharged after Iraq.” He turned so that Brian could see one hearing aid, resting all but invisibly, in his ear canal. “Purple heart and tin ears, though the tech does a good job making up for that.”
“Poor devil,” said Brian. He pounded Mac on the back like a comrade in arms. “Bless ya for your service, and all that. The wife and I both have tickets to your lecture next week. Perhaps you’d like to drop by the house for tea, after?”
Chandra took the opportunity to break in. “A gracious invitation, Brian. But the professor does have plans, just now. Are you coming to the luncheon?”
Patting his distended belly, Brian said, “Do I look like a man to turn down a free meal? Our madame president lays on a fine spread, Mac. You’re in for a treat.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Mac as the group of four made their way to the lunch hall.
Chapter Five
Mac made it a habit to check the exits whenever he entered a room. As a kid, he’d always been the biggest and the strongest, except when he wasn’t. On those rare occasions when he met a cousin with a chip on his shoulder, or a visitor from the mainland with skyscraper in his DNA, they’d seemed compelled to pick a fight.
Some of the little guys made trouble, too, especially his fellow doughboys. Something about being able to look a six-foot sergeant square in the bald spot made him a target for every grunt with a Napoleon complex. After a few unfortunate episodes, he’d decided that knowing how to leave a room in a hurry was an important survival skill.
There were three exits out of Grant-Spencer Multi-Purpose-D. One was the door he’d entered. The other two flanked a window at the room’s opposite end. Of this pair, one clearly led to a kitchen, as waiters in white aprons were escorting rolling carts from there to the serving tables along the adjoining wall. The third exit was closer to the entrance he came through and he’d saw that that door opened into the hall. Two exits were plenty, provided he could keep close to one at all times.
Attendance at the luncheon was not so great that it would trigger his fear of crowds. There were maybe thirty academics milling around. Evidently Chandra wanted to encourage mixing and mingling, as there were no chairs or tables aside from those on which the buffet lay. Most of the attendees were professionally dressed, though there were a few who displayed a bohemian air.
Standing in a loose circle by the near wall was a group of people who were clearly grad students. As Mac spotted them, a young buck of their number thrust one hand in the pocket of his sport coat as he gestured with a disposable cup. The men in his circle guffawed. More than one young woman stared. And no wonder. The youth had the looks and swagger of a movie star. He was nearly as tall as Mac.
At the end of the table, a security guard was sipping coffee while a server set out sandwiches from a tray. A woman with a plate in hand had evidently just said something funny to the sandwich girl, who interrupted her task to laugh.
The joke-teller was attractive and athletic with the sort of figure Mac immediately decided was what poets meant by statuesque. She wore a smart gray skirt suit that complemented her chestnut skin.
As she closed her red lips around a nibble of croissant, Mac caught her eye. She smiled, and a thrill of anticipation played up his spine.
You’re not in high school anymore, Mac.
A passing head broke their eye contact, but the effect the woman had on him didn’t go away. For the first time since Kreisburg had dropped him into this mess, he considered that it might not be such a bad thing if he had to linger a while on campus.
Brian Jarrald nudged his bicep. Wi
th a nod and a jerk of his thumb, he pointed out a skeletal woman with a nose like an eagle’s beak, standing next to an array of pastries and melon balls.
“That’s the wife,” he said. “Come join us after your speech.”
Before Mac could ask what he meant, Brian was off, striding to the odd-looking woman’s side. Emma gave him a shrug and followed.
Chandra said, “Don’t worry. I am giving the speech today. Your turn is not until Tuesday.” Facing the chatting guests, she raised both arms, signaling for attention. “Everyone! Everyone, please join me in welcoming our distinguished guest lecturer, Professor Kamaui Mahoe.”
There was a smattering of polite applause. Mac put his hand up. “Aloha. Call me Mac.” The applause became more generous.
“Excellent,” said Chandra. “Thank you. Mac holds a PhD in Criminology from the University of Maryland. By now, I believe you all have heard that he comes to us via the CIA’s Officer in Residence Program. Participation in the program is both an honor and a privilege for Schuyler.”
There was another round of applause, again less enthusiastic. Fans of the clandestine service, in Mac’s experience, were rare among the intelligentsia.
“For eleven years,” Chandra said, “Mac has served with the agency’s Transnational Department—”
“Office of Transnational Issues,” Mac corrected.
“Oh yes, my apologies. Office of Transnational Issues. Perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to tell us what you do there, Mac?”
Raising an eyebrow, he said, “I paint birdhouses.”
This was met with just the right amount of laughter. He didn’t want to come off as too charming.
“Okay,” said Chandra. “No more questions.” Adopting a serious tone, she addressed her colleagues. “I know this is an unusual time to add a new member to our family. I hope we won’t allow personal feelings to stop us from extending Professor Mahoe every courtesy. Let us give him a real Schuyler welcome.”
The faculty and well-wishers clapped heartily this time, approving the call for solidarity. So much for his doubts about her ability to curate a narrative, thought Mac. The response to her battle cry was so resounding that for a moment he was afraid he might be asked to speak after all. He was trying to work out an excuse when Brian stepped over to draw him away.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “I would like to introduce you to Mac. Should, I say, because I don’t like introducing him at all. How am I expected to keep a gourmand such as yourself interested in this sack of potatoes when there’s prime beef like him walking about?”
The lady extended a hand. “Pay no attention to my husband, I’m Zelda Johns-Jarrald. Please call me Zelda.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mac said.
He launched into small talk for the next few minutes, thinking all the while that there was no way the woman in front of him could be a blood relative of Emma’s. Zelda’s nose, weak chin, and lanky hair so distinguished her from her supposed daughter that their sharing DNA seemed impossible. Mac would have suspected Emma was adopted, if not for a slight resemblance to her father.
“Wool-gathering?” said Zelda. She had evidently asked a question Mac had missed.
“Sorry. What was that?”
Brian said, “She asked how long you’ll be with us, Mac. I’m sure our Emma would like to know as well.”
Emma, who had been standing by while her parents monopolized Mac’s time, shoved him lightly. “Leave me out of your crazy, Dad.”
“Forgive me, dear heart,” Brian said. “I forget you’re a grown woman. You can hunt your own big game, eh?”
“Oh my God,” said Emma. “Please ignore everything he says.”
Zelda cut in. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Your father’s trying to recruit a new member for your fan club.”
“I’m ready to pledge,” Mac said with a grin.
“Welcome,” Brian said. “As a charter member, permit me to shake your hand.”
For the second time in a few minutes, Mac felt like he could have enjoyed his time at the school, if the hangman’s noose had not been hanging overhead. The Jarrald family dynamic was a fascinating contrast to his own home life, which had never resembled a mainland sitcom.
Emma was blushing and Mac decided to give her a break. “It’s a nice turnout,” he said. “Shame our friend from earlier couldn’t make it.”
Emma coughed. “You mean Paul? God, I’m glad he didn’t show. He’s probably in class right now, rallying support for another lame march. Chandra told security to break up gatherings of more than six people. It’s times like these I’m glad we live in a shambles of a democracy.”
“None of that talk,” said Zelda. “I presume the ‘Paul’ you’re referring to is Professor Arken? You can’t be for and against him at the same time, you know.”
“I can be for what he says and against the douchey way he says it,” said Emma. “His protests are so lame. I’d be ashamed to be seen with his sycophants.”
Shaping the index and pinkie fingers of her right hand into a ward against the Evil Eye, Zelda said, “Don’t start.”
“Aye,” said Brian. “Say her name and she’ll appear, or so the story goes.” Noting Mac’s confusion, he added, “Emma is rather a fan of She Who Must Be Obeyed. You know your H. Rider Haggard?”
“Sorry,” said Mac. “Friend of yours?”
“Dirty Sassenach,” said Brian. “Him, I mean, not you. The ladies are at odds over a formidable person of our acquaintance. Best not get in the middle.”
Mac looked at the daggers flashing between Zelda and Emma. “Thanks for the advice.” Letting his eyes wander, he spotted the sandwich girl’s friend disposing of her plate.
“Are you feeling alright?” said Brian. “You’ve gone wistful.”
“Uh, my stomach is mad about starving in the middle of plenty,” said Mac, rubbing his belly.
“I know the call all too well,” said Brian.
“C’mon,” said Emma. “I’ll clear a path.”
“That’s okay,” said Mac. The last thing he wanted was Emma’s presence destroying any chance he had with the angel across the room. He was wondering how he could turn Emma down tactfully when Chandra stepped over.
“Pardon,” she said. “There are some people I’d like Mac to meet.”
“Of course,” said Zelda. “So sorry, Chandra. You know how Brian is. Like a toddler with a new toy.”
Brian threw an arm around Mac. “A lad this size is nobody’s toy.”
Emma snorted and covered her mouth.
“You’ll have to drop by the office, Mac. Trade war stories,” said Brian.
“Like you’re ever in your room, Dad,” said Emma. “You’ll find him bothering me or some cute young thing down the hall. Drag him out of our offices so we can catch up on paperwork.”
“That would be a nice change, dear,” Chandra said, her tone laced with condescension. She locked her arm in Mac’s. “Shall we?”
“After you,” he said.
Chapter Six
As Chandra pulled Mac away from the Jarralds, the tall man with movie-star good looks cut short his conversation with one of the boho professors. Instead of extending a hand to Mac, however, he swerved out of his path at the last moment and continued on, taking up a place between Brian and Emma. Just before he wrapped an arm around Emma’s shoulders, he winked at Mac. Chandra had piloted them halfway across the room, so Mac couldn’t hear the greeting Brian gave the Lothario, but it looked enthusiastic.
Calling his attention to a small man in a charcoal suit, Chandra said, “Mac, I would like you to meet…” beginning a round of introductions more exhausting by far than the campus tour had been. Mac went into memory mode, scribbling the names of everyone Chandra introduced in the corners of their respective portraits before hanging each in the gallery of his mind. In that way, he memorized the names and faces of six professors and an administrator plus the sandwich girl, Michelle, who was the administrator’s niece.
Mac and the woman realized this at the same time and shared a silent chuckle. After that, Mac was content to wait his chance. The woman flitted in and out of his line of sight for what felt like an hour, though it was probably more like fifteen minutes.
At last, there came a pause that was long enough to make his move. Mac said, “Chandra, I actually haven’t had anything to eat yet. Can we pick this up in a few?”
“Hmm?” said Chandra. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me.”
“No problem.”
He timed his escape carefully, weaving through gaps between clusters of guests to the drink table. The woman stepped close enough to warn off anybody else who might have been thinking about taking the initiative.
“Want a drink?” said Mac.
“Not just now. What’s your poison?”
“Pineapple juice. Chandra must have put it on the menu for my benefit.”
As he filled his cup from a pitcher, she said, “She must have. We don’t usually get anything more exotic than Bloody Mary mix.”
He laughed and took a sip. The juice was fresh and strong enough to prickle his mouth.
“What do you think? Bring back memories of home?”
“It’s good, but I’m not sure if I’m the dude to ask. I haven’t been back in thirteen years.”
“The fact that you just called yourself ‘dude’ probably means it’s okay,” she said. “Aloha, Mac. I’m Mikayla. Mikayla St. Simone.”