But if he didn’t know what was coming next, twelve years of Stansbury progressions didn’t teach him the most important lesson: the story of Goldsmith showing no mercy while booting eleven of Cooley’s friends out into the street was not finished yet. As soon as Cooley got himself out of this Riley jam, the next job before commencement was something that came easy to the guy who made the name Guernica famous around this place. Revenge.
16
Inside the faculty conference room on the tower’s fifty-second floor, the headmaster stood behind a podium at the head of a long white table shaped like an ellipse. Seventy-one administrators and professors were present, either in chairs around the table or simulcast via plasma screens hanging on the walls. The mood was typically solemn and serious, the faces of those good men and women long and grave with the rigors of duty, as if they were divine denizens of a modern-day Mount Olympus charged with overseeing the well-being of four thousand gifted but ultimately fragile mortals. For the past fifteen minutes, all eyes were on the headmaster, their Zeus in a slim black suit, as he summarized the events of the past twenty-four hours for them: a former specimen had died under as of yet unexplained circumstances and Mr. William Winston Cooley, the somewhat notorious specimen they were all familiar with, was being investigated by Mr. Thomas Oliver Goldsmith. At first the faculty thought they were being summoned for yet another tedious staff meeting; now each of them was riveted. Dozens of donut-flavored laser syringes were going stale at the table’s center.
“… And I can assure each of you that this matter will be resolved swiftly and—,” said the headmaster as he tried (and succeeded, in his own experienced estimation) to project an air of reassuring authority and control in the face of danger.
“But sir!” All eyes shifted toward the image of Professor Partridge, who was being simulcast onto a screen at the far back wall. He sat in an office that had been overrun by dozens of congratulatory flower bouquets and bottles of Champagne sent from around the world after the previous day’s announcement of Panacetix’s government approval. The headmaster was not accustomed to being interrupted and wondered if young Partridge wasn’t letting the good news go to his head. Partridge gulped and smoothed back what was clearly a toupee worthy of a game show host. The headmaster was tempted to ask him why finding a decent wig was more difficult than curing cancer, but the meds he took with breakfast helped him suppress the urge. “The Select Committee on Education is voting on the Stansbury grant proposal this evening!” Partridge said. “We’re about to release Panacetix onto the market and we can ill afford a public scandal that—”
“There will be no scandal,” said the headmaster. “The entire matter is being handled internally by Captain Gibson, the security detail, and the valedictorian.” And don’t worry about your stock options, Professor, he thought. They’re in better shape than poor Mr. Cooley, not that you care about the young man’s well-being.
The headmaster had always had a soft spot for Stansbury’s orphans. He fancied himself a bit of a surrogate father to each of them, even the unbalanced ones like Cooley. And, contrary to the majority of his colleagues’ tendencies, he did not judge a specimen solely on his or her academic achievements. The headmaster was the one who set forth the school’s unspoken but widely understood hands-off policy toward Cooley following the Guernica incident four years ago. He would have called the young man into his office and thanked him personally for defending the Evans girl, but he did not want to give the impression that Cooley had carte blanche forever. Sure enough, Cooley proved to be more street-smart than his peers, and soon understood that the wide berth he was receiving from the security detail was a favor returned—as long as he did not cross certain lines.
Stansbury, the headmaster had always privately believed, needed intellectuals like Goldsmith and those who instinctively understood the concept of honor and pride, like Cooley. It added to the diversity and character of the specimen body. But alas, Cooley crossed the proverbial Rubicon of the headmaster’s goodwill after the dopazone and Riley incidents. There was no more he could do for the boy.
President Lang, seated at the table to the headmaster’s right, cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “this crime involves current and former Stansbury specimens. Our security detail officers were the first ones on the scene and our relations with the San Angeles Police Department are cordial. They will hopefully understand that we retain jurisdiction over this matter.”
The headmaster glanced around and detected a universal sigh of relief passing through Mount Olympus.
* * *
Goldsmith descended from the atrium in an elevator pod and thought about the future. His future. There would be harsh consequences if the administration discovered he had been communicating with Cooley without their knowledge. All it would take was a single phone call from President Lang or the headmaster to Harvard or any other university he would have considered attending and, number one specimen at Stansbury or not, he’d be blackballed. The pod’s digital display lit up as floors shot past: 49, 48, 47 …
He was putting himself in an unacceptably vulnerable position. And for what? Doing the “right thing”? Goldsmith wasn’t sure if he was undertaking this responsibility out of moral concern for a fellow human being or simply because he enjoyed solving puzzles and flexing his cerebral muscles. Camilla had a point: William Winston Cooley was not worth sacrificing everything he had worked for over the years. And where did Cooley figure into the larger scheme of things, anyway? No institution was perfect, but Stansbury was close. Its accomplishments and triumphs saved the lives of millions, perhaps billions of people, and kept the progress of human civilization pumping. Every endeavor of historical significance had its own collateral damage. Great societies had been built on the sweat and blood of slaves, wars regularly took the lives of women and children in the process of restoring liberty, captains of industry revolutionized our way of life and got rich while laying off thousands of employees. Wasn’t the life of one unbalanced specimen a reasonable exchange for the cure for cancer?
Just minutes ago, Cooley admitted he was using him. Not that this was a problem for a valedictorian of Goldsmith’s caliber, retired or not. He knew he could easily tap Cooley for his knowledge about the Riley situation, keep him at bay by threatening to follow through on his dopazone confession—an expellable offense to which he did admit—perhaps threaten to go after Bunson and maybe even Sadie, if Cooley started causing difficulties. If Goldsmith had to, he’d cooperate with the administration in building a case against him. Worst-case scenario, he could go around Stansbury entirely and inform the police of Cooley’s narcotics use and possession. Either way, he would be protected from any vengeance attempts.
The elevator pod dinged and stopped on Level 34. The doors slid open. Pete stepped inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Goldsmith. Studying hard?”
“Just taking a quick break.”
“Really? Me too.”
The doors slid closed. Pete reached over and jabbed the Stop button. The pod remained stationary. “What kind of trouble is Mr. Cooley in?” asked Pete.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Goldsmith, feeling his heart begin to race. If Pete knew even this much, that Cooley was under investigation at all (not to mention for what), the school’s image and reputation would be at risk fewer than twelve hours before the Senate committee’s vote that evening.
“No?” Pete gave him a smug grin. “You might be interested to know that a guard named Harvey, down on the registration and reception level has let him off campus five times in the past five months.”
“Who told you that?” Goldsmith knew his face was betraying him, could feel his eyes getting wider against his wishes, the veins in his neck and temples throbbing.
“Journalist’s Number-One Rule: Never divulge your sources. You’re sweating, Mr. Goldsmith. Pressure of being the flagship model specimen getting to you?” Pete released the Stop button. The doors slid open. Golds
mith couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The doors closed behind him and he stood by himself in an empty corridor on Level 34, his mind racing.
Get it together. You’re a pro. Run through your options:
#1: Find Captain Gibson and get him to detain Pete before he finds out anything else about the Riley-Cooley affair that could incriminate Stansbury.
#2: Get the administration’s permission to start yanking specimens out of progressions and start interrogating them with the aim of finding out who’d been giving Pete his inside info and why, starting with the probable cognoscenti: Cooley, Sadie, Bunson, and yes, Camilla.
#3: Get the security detail to detain and question the registration and reception guard that Pete mentioned in connection with the Cooley case.
#4: Find the headmaster, disclose everything he’d learned this morning and convince him to send the security detail to follow up on the torn-out yearbook pages and missing gun that Cooley claimed he saw in Riley’s apartment.
#5: Forget the whole thing, go back to your room, lock the door, and wait out the three days left before commencement.
Goldsmith ran through the calculus of probable timetables and behavioral possibilities. Option #5 was out of the question; it left too much of a possibility that Pete could write and publish an exposé on Stansbury in time to ruin the school’s reputation and sink the Senate committee’s vote—whereby Goldsmith’s diploma wouldn’t be worth the sheepskin it was printed on, and his reputation would go down in flames along with everyone else’s. Options 1–4 were methodically logical and in his and Stansbury’s best interests, but in all cases he would be passing control of the situation back over to the administration. And he’d never solve the puzzle of why Stansbury was so dead set on placing Cooley and Riley in that bathroom together as murderer and victim.
Stop.
Pretend you’re Cooley for a moment. Stop thinking so hard. Stop playing angles. For the first time in your award-winning life, stop thinking and just act. He hit keys on his Tabula, connecting him to Universal Taxi. A cheerful chirp of an outsider answered on the other end of the call.
Time to take a field trip.
* * *
Down on Level 1, Harvey leaned back in his chair and zoned out on the sports section of the San Angeles Times. The San Angeles Lakers defeated the Mexico City Aztecs 101–99 in overtime last night. Big deal, thought Harvey: the double doses of lithium and Equimodes he rationed himself from Cooley’s meds pack had taken hold, and the frontal lobes of his brain pulsated gently, the edges of his vision smoothed flat into a two-dimensional haze. The powdered sugar on the donut next to the paper looked like it was breathing. Harvey was glad they didn’t make the staff inject their food. Some, like President Lang, wanted to, because they were (in his opinion) fanatics. He glanced up and saw a gaunt archangel in a Stansbury blazer standing before him on the other side of the desk, his golden hair looking like a halo …
“Mr. Goldsmith!” Harvey stammered as he jumped up to his feet and tried to shake off the buzz. His blurry vision did not afford him the humiliation of seeing Goldsmith roll his eyes at this pathetic, roly-poly man who couldn’t even conceal his altered state with the skill of the most delinquent specimen. “Don’t see you down here much,” Harvey found himself saying. “What can I do you for, son?”
“Open the front gates for me. Now.”
“I, uh, can’t do that. Even for the valedictorian … policy says—”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
Harvey cracked a grin, feeling that the tables were slightly turning now that this goody-two-shoes nerd was veering into the kind of talk he was used to. “Now, what could you possibly have that I’d want?”
“Inside information.”
“Do tell. Although I should warn you I don’t get my rocks off on Stansbury gossip like everyone else.”
“Open the gates.” Something in Goldsmith’s voice and the intensity of his gaze sent a nervous reflex down Harvey’s arm. His hand hit the air lock switch. The large titanium door past the waiting lounge area started to hiss. Goldsmith turned and headed toward the exit.
“Uhhh … Mr. Goldsmith?”
“The security detail is coming for you,” he said, not looking back. “You now have a three-minute head start.”
Goldsmith disappeared into the desert rainstorm outside the tower. Harvey’s stomach started to feel all ticklish and queasy. His legs went weak and he fell back into his chair before bouncing back up, glancing to his left and right. Around the corner, he heard an elevator pod ding, announcing its arrival, and several sets of footsteps. Then he heard another series of hisses as the front gates slid closed again behind Goldsmith. As much as the meds coursing through his veins told him to slow down, the fear in his heart told him to run. He took two steps, knocked the donut and newspaper to the floor, and moved away from the approaching rumbles of boots echoing against the marble floors as fast as his stubby feet and legs could carry him.
* * *
Up on Level 52, the headmaster glanced around at his fellow educators, letting the sure looks in their eyes feed his own confidence and authority, which in turn bounced back to them, creating a sense of unalterable destiny of purpose in the room. They were teachers, each and every last one of them, charged with the highest responsibility of all: the nurturing and care of this nation’s youth. The headmaster was not so hubristic as to assume that the school created the prodigy in its population. He and his old friend Raymond Stansbury always believed that genius existed in the soul of each and every child born on the face of this planet. Some would be doctors, others sculptors, yet others would be warm, understanding mothers to a future generation of geniuses who would one day keep the human race alive and well with their efforts. No, Stansbury School did not create geniuses. It was merely a vessel the specimens rode on their journey to adulthood, a place where they could blossom and soar. Even at the age of seventy, this thought was still enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Fellow teachers,” he said, projecting his voice into a lush octave of beatitude, “in this time of adversity, let me remind you of Matthew 5:14. ‘You are the light of the world. A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden. They do not light a lamp and then put it under a bushel basket. It is set on a lamp stand, where it gives light to all in the house. Your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father.’ Amen.”
Across the room, the headmaster saw the image of Professor Partridge broadcast on a hanging plasma screen. Partridge rose up from his desk, the one cluttered with flowers and champagne, and stood at attention, bringing his hands together. His applause began slowly and then got faster. Then the claps became louder and louder, filling the entire room. Seventy-one pairs of strong hands—teachers’ hands—came together in an ovation that restored the headmaster’s faith in their mission and higher purpose.
Stansbury, he thought, will survive this. It will survive the passing of each and every one of the men and women in this room, himself included. Because it must. Because the world so desperately needs it.
* * *
In his dorm room on Level 9, Cooley sat at his work terminal and strapped his wrist cuff on after plugging it into the back of his computer. He was too proud to show it at the time, but Goldsmith’s bombshell about there being no polygraph/Pentothal session hit him hard, tamping down the full-bore volume of his defiance into the kind of futile sensation common to those who do not control their own fate. Cooley navigated to the Dopazone domain site and transferred the last thirty-four dollars in this bank account so he could refill his stash. He didn’t even bother locking the door. What was the point? Dopazone was small beans compared to killing a guy. He already admitted to doing drugs on the record, and Stansbury didn’t seem to care. The only guys who did seem to give a shit about anything lately were Goldsmith and himself. And that was only because they were using each other out of selfish needs.
Cooley hit the familiar Return key and let the
flood of narcotic ions take him away to another place. He leaned back in the chair and saw the long glass doors of that house in the distance, and Mom’s frantic, shortened gasps punctuating the soundtrack. Everything cut to that window—golden sunlight pouring through—and then … wait. It was different. She was saying something. Talking to him. Her voice wasn’t quivering anymore. He eased himself out of the trip just slightly, trying to take that bare big toe out of the warm pool of water and back up onto the cold, sterile deck under an artificial sky.
“Is it true?” she asked. No, Mommy. I didn’t do it. Nobody understands … “I heard it’s true. That it makes you see this beautiful light.” What? Cooley forced his eyes open and blinked the luster away. The flashing spots cleared. There was Sadie, the door to his room closing behind her. Her hair looked just like that brightness squeezing through Mom’s window. Cooley ripped off the cuff and tossed it to the side. It’s not like Sadie never knew that he and the guys got high, but he still never liked getting caught in the act.
“I wasn’t—” he started as she walked over to him as the circulation started to return to his legs.
“I heard it makes you see a beautiful light,” she said. “Come on, tell me. What does it make you see?”
“It makes me see you.”
She smiled and brushed the long ambrosial hair from her face. “Liar,” she whispered into his ear. The way the word rolled off her lips let him know she was grinning. Sadie straddled him, wrapping her legs around his waist as his work terminal chair rolled them along the glimmering white marble tile across the room.
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