by Carolyn Nash
And it was at that moment that I realized that I loved him. It wasn’t just heat. It wasn’t just hero worship. I saw the man and I loved that man and I thought my heart would simply stop beating from the knowledge that he was to marry someone else.
“What?” Andrew asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Where do we start looking?”
“Well, as I expected, no computer. He would have taken his laptop with him. Hell, there’d be no way to figure out his password, anyway. I’ll go through the filing cabinets and look for the lab journals. It’ll be faster if I do it. You don’t know what to look for.”
“Fine.”
He pulled open the first file drawer and started flipping quickly through the folders. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?” he muttered.
“What, J.P.?”
“Yeah. Why didn’t I see the way he played the game, never doing work himself, never suggesting anything new, always using his students’ work to make himself look good?”
His hands paused on the files. “No, that’s wrong.” He looked over at me and then away, as if he were embarrassed. “He’s not always been that way,” he said. “In his early years he produced some exceptional work. It’s possible some of his success was luck, but not all of it.”
“Andrew, he was and is bright. You have no reason to be ashamed because you didn’t see him for what he was.”
“But why didn’t I see the signs? He would always listen when I talked to him, but never suggest anything. He always managed to make it to LA when there was some celebrity fundraiser, but never when it was a seminar. Jesus, I’ve been such a jerk.”
“Look, you obviously aren’t the only one he’s fooled. Look at this place. Look at these photos. He’s got just about everybody who’s anybody fooled. Don’t feel bad because you wanted to believe in him.”
Andrew smiled at me. “You do know what to say to make me feel better.”
I shrugged and sat down in a chair by the door. “Now that you’re feeling better, can we get on with this? I really am enjoying myself, but too much of a good thing, you know.”
“Right.” Andrew turned back to the files and began flipping through them again, going from one drawer to the next, quickly, surely. I sat back against the straight chair, waiting and watching, and trying to think how to take in this new awareness of how I felt about this man, and how to live with it in the days, weeks, and years ahead. It was in the third drawer down in the second cabinet that he hit pay dirt. He grinned at me and pulled out a series of thick black and grey notebooks, all neatly numbered and labeled. He dumped them on the desk, then pulled the lamp over and placed it back on the desk. He took off his jacket, dropped it over the back of the desk chair and sat down. I walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder. The first dozen books each had, neatly lettered on the front label, the name Andrew Richards.
He ran his hand over the stack, and patted it almost lovingly. “All my grad work is in these books. I started my work on the mechanisms for the control of development here.” He paused, and shook his head and looked up at me. “I know now that he was a good con artist, but Jesus, I was so naive. I’d be working on something and get stuck and go to J.P. and he’d say in that rumbling voice, ‘Go look it up, boy. You ain’t going to learn anything by asking me.’ He’d always have this look in his eye, this knowing little twinkle like he knew the secret, but for your own good he wasn’t going to part with it. I’d bust my tail, work on it for days, and then when I’d come back with the answer he’d nod knowingly and say, ‘I knew you could do it kid’ and I’d act like a puppy that’s just been told good dog.” He leaned an elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand and stared down at the notebooks. “I really cared what he thought. It mattered to me. He mattered to me.”
My hand reached out to give comfort, but it stopped before it touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry Andrew.”
“Me too.” He shoved his old notebooks aside and dropped his baseball cap on top, then grabbed the newer books. He opened the first of them and started quickly scanning them. “This is going to take a while. You might as well get comfortable.”
“Okay.” I went back to the chair by the door and watched Andrew flipping quickly through the books, reading the pages in the small circle of light cast by the small green glass lamp. For all the coldness of the too neat little room, the light shining on the light brown flannel shirt was warm. It had pleased me when I’d found that shirt, because I knew the color was going to look good on him. I’d enjoyed the feeling of choosing among the stack of shirts, finding the right size and it had pleased me to take it to the register and pay for it, even though it had taken the last few dollars I had.
I sat up straight in the chair. Stop it. Just cut it out. Andrew turned a page, tilting his head to the side to study the words written there. The shirt suited him. The flannel stretched across his shoulders and back, not too tightly, but snugly enough so I could see the muscles of his back shift as he reached to turn another page. I shook my head fiercely and stared down at my hands clenched in my lap.
He is not the man in your life. He is the man in Caren Granzella’s life. He is your friend. That’s it. That’s all. Finis.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Perfect.” He looked over at me and grinned. “Got him. Hey, what’s wrong?”
I smiled quickly and jumped from the chair. “Nothing. You really found something?”
“Yeah. Oh, there’s a lot of little stuff, but this one’s sure fire. Look here.” He pointed to a list of chemicals. “This is a run of a purification of a protein, one of the first steps in the process that will eventually lead to getting the gene. This list is all the solutions that they are making up for the experiment, preparing them all in advance. See this one?” He pointed to one about halfway down the list.
“Dithiothreitol?”
“Yes. It’s absolutely critical to the process. If you don’t have it at the right concentration at the right time, the protein you’re trying to purify will be chewed up by enzymes and you end up with nothing. See here? This says to make it up in 70% ethyl alcohol and store it at 10 degrees.”
“So?”
“So, they’re making it up three days before they need it. Dithiothreitol deteriorates very rapidly. If you don’t use it within four hours of the time you make it up, you might as well be pouring Kool-Aid into your experiment. In fact, Kool-Aid might do better.”
We grinned at each other. “Andrew, that’s it!”
“It’s a start, anyway. Now, to get copies.” His smile faded. “I still don’t like the idea of you going alone.”
“You can’t be running up and down stairs.”
“I know. So, are you sure you can find the copy machine all right?”
“Left out the door, end of hall, down the stairs, come out the door, turn right, I’ll see the Bio department office, the copy machine is in an alcove just beyond the office door. If I see the Computer and Equipment room I’ve gone too far.”
He still looked worried. “I really don’t like this.”
“Not much we can do about that. If either of us had our phone, we could take pictures, but we don’t. Come on, hand over the book. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He marked the page and handed the lab book to me. “Just be sure you are,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I tucked the book under my arm and headed for the door.
“Melanie?”
I turned back. He was looking at me, all trace of humor gone. “If you see anyone, or anything the least bit out of the ordinary, you get out of here. Promise?”
“Well...”
“Mel, that was the deal.”
“Okay.” I turned to go.
“Mel?”
“Yes?”
He reached out to take my hand.
I shook my head. “You need to stop that. You need to stop.”
“Sorry… again. I… Sorry.”
I turned and put my hand on the doorknob. “Light please,” I said.
<
br /> The light switched off and I lifted the shade, checked the outer room, then eased out the door without looking back.
Walking down those hallways with Andrew had been bad enough; alone it was truly unnerving. The shadows cast by the shifting ivy became more sinister, my footsteps much louder. The darkness at the end of the hall was not merely the absence of light; it was a substance, suspended in the air, waiting to engulf me. And, within that darkness waited the two men. The darkness had already swallowed them. They had become a part of it, and now they lurked within, waiting for me, reaching for me...
If I got out of this, I was going to have to seriously consider cutting back on my Stephen King intake.
Midway down the hall was an elevator matching the one we had come up in on the other side of the floor. At the end of the hall I found the door to the stairwell easily enough; a green exit sign lit the way. I slipped through and ran lightly down the steps. Dim security lights lit each landing. I slid through the door on the next floor and saw the Biology Department office immediately; a night light had been left on inside which silhouetted the lettering on the door and lit my way. Just past the department door was a large bulletin board covered with notices, and just beyond it was the alcove with the copy machine. I felt down the side and found the on-off switch and flipped it. With a hum, the indicator lights came on. There was a small LCD display on the panel. It flashed, SYSTEMS CHECK, then, to my dismay, STAND BY.
“For how long?” I whispered. I stood in that dimly lit hallway, surrounded by the shadows, listening to the sounds of the building settling, knowing those sounds weren’t shifting beams, or cooling bricks, but a pack of thugs led by Short Blond and Beer Belly, who were even now prowling the halls looking for me.
I backed up against the wall opposite the copy machine. “Okay,” I whispered. “Get a grip.” I was wrong; it was forever. When the STAND BY started flashing, I placed the book inside, closed the lid, and then stared at the display, too anxious to think to do anything else. Sometime in the middle of November the STAND BY disappeared and READY flashed in green. I hit the copy button, grabbed the copy and the book and raced for the stairwell door.
Just as I reached for the handle I heard a sound. A non-building-settling sound. A completely alien sound for a university stairwell in the dead of night. It was the clink of metal on metal, the sound of change in a pants pocket when the owner of those pants is climbing a step. My hand froze a half-inch above the handle. I held my breath, trying desperately to hear that sound again, or any other sound to let me know that it had only been my imagination, my poor, frazzled, overworked imagination.
Another sound came, and when it did, it sent my heart to pumping wildly. It was the rumble of a man’s voice, followed by a hushing noise from another voice. These were no grad students with an experiment to check; these were men with reason to move silently.
I stood, breathing through my mouth, unable to move, my mind blank from panic.
I can’t stop them. I can’t warn Andrew.
I’ve got to warn Andrew.
I can’t warn him.
I’ve got to stop them.
There’s no way to stop them.
Stop it! Stop it! Think!
I closed my eyes, concentrating furiously. My fingers closed around the hard form of the notebook.
The evidence. We’ve got evidence now. The police! I can call the police!
I pressed my ear gingerly to the stairwell door. I heard no sound but the roar of the blood pounding in my ears. I began to back away on my toes. A few feet from the door, I spun and ran down the hall then groped for the throwaway phone in my pocket.
I dialed 911. Nothing happened. Of course. Naturally. Phones don’t work in nightmares. I almost laughed at my own stupidity. I looked at the phone’s screen. Not a single bar. I ran further down the hall, holding the phone up in the air, to the side, down toward the floor. Nothing, then as I neared the windows at the end, a bar flickered. I punched in 911 and hit send. It was answered immediately.
“Police emergency.”
The words came out in a rush. “My name is Melanie Brenner. I’m calling from the biology building at the University. There are some men in a lab at the front of the building on the fourth floor threatening another man. I heard them say they were going to kill him. I couldn’t see much but I’m sure at least one of them had a gun. Please, please send someone now.”
“Miss, your name again.”
“Melanie Brenner. Please, there’s no time!”
“And where are you?”
I told her in detail, stumbling over the words. “Please, please, this isn’t a game!”
“Melanie Brenner from Los Angeles?”
“Yes! Yes! They’re going to kill him. Send help now!”
“Stay on the line. Help is on the way.”
“I can’t,” I said and hung up the phone.
I looked down at the piece of paper clutched in my hand. Just in case, I thought. Just in case. I grabbed a pen, scribbled a quick note on the page, then turned and ran back to the copy machine. The cell phone rang in my pocket so I reached in and turned it off. Just before I reached the copy machine the name on the door nearby registered and I skidded to a stop. Computer and Equipment Room. I took down a fire extinguisher, swung it at the glass, and reached inside.
* * * *
The door to J.P.’s lab was open, only a couple of inches, but enough so that a shaft of light shone through. Even with it open, as I crept up to the door, hugging the wall, I could hear no sound except the whistling of my own breath going rapidly in and out.
Please, please let him be all right. It’s all I ask.
“Ah, Andy, my lad.”
I jerked and my heart went to tumbling again. The voice sounded from just beyond the door. My hands were trembling but I managed to punch the record button on the small digital recorder I’d picked up in the equipment room. I held it out toward the door. “You should have considered the fact that I might have had an alarm installed.”
“The rest of us have no need for alarms. But you’re right; I should have considered it with you.”
He’s alive! Thank god, he’s alive.
“Andy, you always were a little too holier-than-thou for my taste. I see you haven’t changed.”
His name’s Andrew, you bastard.
“J.P., a leech is holier than thou. Come to think of it, leech fits you. Only difference is that you don’t suck blood; you suck the life out of your student’s creativity, their lives, their work.” Though the anger and disgust were clear, his voice was too weak, his breathing too ragged.
I stood, flat up against the wall, my head up, my eyes closed, holding the recorder out at arm’s length.
Oh, please! Please, where are the police?
“Look, Andy. I don’t want to stand here all night and listen to you rave. Just tell me where the notebook is, tell me what you found in it, and we’ll get this over with.”
“Notebook?”
“Oh come on. No matter what you think of me, you know I’m not that stupid.”
A different voice answered. “His little girlfriend must have it.”
That voice crawled up the skin of my back. Beer Belly’s voice.
“Where is she?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what” His words were cut off as there was a sickening thud of flesh against flesh. I flinched so badly I almost dropped the recorder. There was dead quiet for several seconds.
“Now, you know I don’t like having to do this. Tell me where the girl is, tell me where the notebook is and we’ll put an end to this.” J.P.’s voice was light, reasonable. “I know money means nothing to you. What you’ve always had, you don’t value. I, on the other hand, have only just become accustomed to this lifestyle. I don’t wish to give it up. I’m not going to let you ruin my plans.”
“I told you.” Andrew stopped and I felt an ache in my chest at the effort it took for him to speak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
>
The sickening thud came again followed by a crash as something heavy fell against the cabinets and slid to the floor. Within that louder sound, came a smaller sound that could only have been from Andrew. I pushed away from the wall and stood facing the door, holding the tape machine out in front of me like a weapon, watching the little indicator needle flickering with the sounds coming from the room. I noticed that the machine was vibrating, and then that I was trembling all over. And suddenly, incredibly, I realized that it wasn’t fear making me tremble; it was a raging, roaring anger. I wanted to lay hands on J.P. Harrison. I wanted to hurt him. And I wanted to hurt him before he could hurt Andrew again.
I looked down at the recorder, then around me. The hall was empty, there was nothing to use as a weapon, there was nowhere to secret the recorder should something happen. I looked toward the window, and then down at the recorder in my hand.
J.P. spoke again. “Andy, Andy, Andy. Come on, boy. Sit up now. Pay attention. You know, I really am sorry about this. Well, no, actually…” He chuckled. “To tell you the god’s honest truth, I’m not.”
I slowly moved toward the door and that wedge of light coming out of the lab. The light lit a patch of floor and the central windows in the front hall, but left the window in the corner, at the juncture of the walls, in darkness.
“I’ve got your research; I’ve got a big chunk of change in my little old numbered Swiss account.”
I eased just to the edge of the door, paused to listen for a moment, then jumped lightly through the wedge of light into the shadow in the corner and hugged the wall for a count of three. No one cried a warning; no one came thundering through the door.
“Hell, come to think of it. Who cares about that little old notebook or whether or not your little friend has it? We’ll find it. We’ll find her.”
I forced myself to ignore those words as I reached up, twisted the old-fashioned lever that kept the window in place and eased it open. The window was hinged in the middle and swung outward. I pushed the tape player out on the ledge and into the shadows of the ivy.