Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  “Cooley!” said Goldsmith. He lightly slapped Cooley’s bloodied face. Cooley’s eyes drifted open, dazed for a split second before focusing on him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine … I’m fine.”

  Goldsmith nodded and extended his hand, helping him up from the ground. They opened the sliding scrap metal door and made their way through the warehouse, ducking behind a row of wooden crates near the entrance as a dozen detail officers stormed inside, headed toward the dodgeball court with cattle prods and bullhorns.

  Cooley looked back at the riot. He saw Officer Jamison jab Bunson with an electric prod. He fell to the ground. Jamison kicked him in the head. Cooley’s jaw clenched. He looked at Goldsmith.

  “Ready?” Goldsmith asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Goldsmith sprinted for the elevator banks. Cooley followed right after him, rubbing blood from his face and wiping it on the dark navy blue of his blazer so the stains didn’t look too obvious.

  20

  Goldsmith and Cooley stood at the elevator bank on Level 3 trying to catch their breath. The din of cursing, hollering specimens echoed from the warehouse all the way to where they were waiting for a pod to arrive and whisk them to the next phase of their gambit. Cooley hit the Up button over and over again.

  “What’s taking so long?” he hissed. Goldsmith pointed to the tracking display above the sets of elevator doors: all of the pods (represented as green digitized lights) were zooming downward.

  “There aren’t any pods free,” he said. “Everyone’s responding to the alarm and headed down here. This diversion is part of the plan.”

  “But Sadie’s waiting for us.”

  Goldsmith glanced at his watch. Time was running out. “I know. We’re jumping in the next pod that arrives on this floor.”

  “And what if whoever’s inside wants to bust us?”

  “We neutralize him before he can.”

  “Meaning we kick his ass?”

  “Yes,” said Goldsmith.

  Cooley looked at him and grinned. There was a ding. A set of elevator pod’s doors slid open. They rushed inside to block the passenger in and commence with neutralizing, but stopped short.

  “Get in,” said Sadie.

  They stepped inside. Goldsmith pressed the button marked “119” for the Office of Administration and Executive Suite. The three of them looked at each other in silence. Sadie looked at Cooley’s face. Cooley self-consciously tried to wipe the remaining blood away.

  Cooley stepped over toward Sadie. He tried to kiss her, but she pulled away.

  “You don’t want to kiss me right now,” she said. “Trust me on this one.”

  “I’m … damn it, I’m so fucking sorry about this.” Cooley looked down, his fists clenching over and over again. “Where’d you get the gum?” he asked.

  “I had it,” said Sadie.

  “But it’s against school rules to have it. How’d you get it?”

  “I just did.”

  “Did you get it from Nelson?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not like you’ve been off campus. How’d you—”

  “Here,” Sadie said. She was holding out Professor Nelson’s key card to Goldsmith. “You shouldn’t have a hard time getting to Lang’s office. Every adult and security detail officer in this place is falling all over themselves to get to the riot and help out.”

  He took it from her and tried to give her a friendly smile, like he had no idea what she had just been through. “Thanks,” he said. “You don’t know how important this is to us.”

  “Give me some fucking credit,” she snapped. “Of course I do.”

  “How much time do we have?” Cooley asked Goldsmith, seeming somewhat cowed by Sadie’s harsh tone.

  “Their lunch can’t go on much longer, despite Pete’s best efforts. We’ve got five, maybe ten minutes at the most.”

  The elevator dinged. They arrived at Level 119. Goldsmith stepped out. Cooley stood there looking at Sadie. The security detail alarm still blared at an ear-splitting level. “Come on,” Goldsmith said, raising his voice slightly. Cooley turned and exited, following him into the hallway.

  “Be careful,” he heard Sadie say as the doors closed behind him.

  They jogged down the silent corridor past dozens of empty offices. Sadie was right: there were no guards, no bureaucrats manning cubicles or making Xerox copies. They turned a corner and reached a set of glass doors affixed with a sign that read EXECUTIVE OFFICE SUITES.

  “Nelson is going to find Miss Chapman,” Goldsmith said. “Can she handle him?”

  “She knows what to do.”

  Goldsmith nodded and swiped the key card against a sensor on the wall to the left of the doors. It beeped, the light going from red to green. They entered an empty reception area. Cooley glanced behind the secretary’s desk and saw a plasma screen simulcast of the warehouse level elevator bank. Administrators were pouring out from elevator pods and dashing toward the fray. Goldsmith headed for the office door marked PRESIDENT JUDITH LANG. He swiped the key card against the lock sensor. The light went green. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  * * *

  Sadie rode down toward her dorm room on Level 11. She popped another red stick of cinnamon gum into her mouth and chewed voraciously. All she wanted to do was brush her teeth and take a long shower, but the elevator dinged and stopped on twenty-nine. The doors slid open. Professor Nelson stepped inside. His face was still flushed, but this time with anger. Sadie stepped backward, nervous. She bumped up against the hard wall. Nelson shoved her into the corner.

  “You’re in deep shit,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “Not as deep as you,” she responded, calm.

  “Give me the key card.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “It’ll be worthless in a matter of minutes, you stupid bitch. You don’t think I’ll have it deactivated immediately?”

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

  “Where’s the fucking card?”

  “Sitting on top of the sexual harassment suit I’ve typed up and am prepared to turn in to the headmaster if you take any action against me.”

  Nelson’s face went pale. He reared his hand back. Sadie thought he was going to slap her, but his arm fell down to his side. The pod dinged and the doors slid open on Level 11. Sadie brushed past Nelson as he stood there, paralyzed. He wasn’t really angry, she thought to herself as she walked down the hall toward her room. He wasn’t blinded by the searing rage he must have hoped to convey. He was just plain heartbroken.

  * * *

  Inside President Lang’s office, Goldsmith moved around the enormous eighteenth-century cherrywood desk and slid into the seat behind the computer terminal. He pulled out two pairs of skintight latex surgical gloves, more souvenirs from his pilfering of the med tech bay. He pulled them on and tossed Cooley the other pair. Just in case Lang got back here and found something amiss, he didn’t plan on leaving his fingerprints everywhere.

  The on-screen icon asked him for his password. He connected his Tabula to the system’s hard drive and ran the cracking software he downloaded from the Web site that Cooley showed him. He watched as the small screen on the Tabula ran through the name of every person, place, and thing in the English language at lightning speed. If Lang’s password was in Italian, they were screwed.

  Cooley took a seat in front of the simulcast screen and started flipping channels to the tower’s security camera broadcast. The screen showed dozens and dozens of angles from dozens of floors.

  “Go to the Presidential Dining Suite on 121,” Goldsmith called out. “When she appears at the elevator bank, we’ll have approximately three minutes to get out of here.” Cooley found the right channel. The bank was empty.

  “How long before Nelson gets Captain Gibson to invalidate his key card?” Cooley asked.

  Goldsmith tried to keep up with the cracking program’s words as they blinked past. Direful, dirge, dirh
am … “I picked Nelson because he’s up for tenure next fall. He’s young and ambitious, so we’ve got more time than we’d have with anyone else. He’ll dawdle for a while, think about his career, and probably spill his guts in about an hour, before begging for the school’s forgiveness.” Henbane, henbit, hence, henceforth, henchman …

  “Shit,” Cooley said. Goldsmith looked up at the simulcast monitor. Lang and Pete were standing at the elevator bank. The computer terminal chimed. Goldsmith looked down. The password was Henry.

  “I’m in,” he said. “Keep an eye on her. Give me five more minutes.” He navigated Lang’s desktop. He clicked on the folder labeled: Specimen Files—Alumni Database and started scrolling through thousands of names, finally locating the Class of 2033.

  “We don’t have five minutes!” said Cooley as he jumped up and rushed over to the desk. He leaned down, reaching below Goldsmith’s legs and pulled out a navy blue steel trash bin with a gold Stansbury insignia on the side. Cooley grabbed it and leapt up onto the couch near the wall.

  Goldsmith finally found the right names and highlighted them. Alvarez, Miller, Riley, Saltzman, Santana, Smith. The Tabula began its download of the files.

  Goldsmith heard a metallic ping over in Cooley’s direction. “What are you doing?” He glanced up and saw Cooley holding a silver lighter, reaching inside the trash bin and setting its contents aflame. Black smoke started to rise. Cooley held the bin up toward the fire sensors on the ceiling. And then something in Goldsmith’s mind went ping. He navigated back through the specimen files and clicked on the folder labeled CLASS OF 2036. He scanned for two names. Cooley. Goldsmith. Two confidential files that represented two insurance policies against treachery from the school or—just maybe—future threats from Cooley himself. A shudder of paranoia ran through him. Don’t leave leverage like this on a school-issued Tabula. The alumni files were now on its hard drive, but these …

  “I’m buying us some more time,” Cooley said, concentrating on the rising plumes of smoke. “The fire alarms shut down the elevator pods.”

  “Right,” Goldsmith said, feigning interest. “Right.” A honking noise went off. Along with the security detail’s alarm, which had been ringing this whole time, it sounded disjointed, an almost maddening jungle of racket. Ceiling sprinklers sent a cold shower of water down, soaking the office. Cooley jumped off the couch and put the trash bin under the sink at the wet bar in the office’s corner. The flames fizzled out.

  “Look,” Cooley said, pointing to the simulcast screen. Pete was looking up at the ceiling and covering his ears. Lang pressed the elevator bank’s Down button again, checking her watch and shaking her head in frustration. Goldsmith’s eyes were on the computer screen. He found their files: thousands of words of single-spaced text documenting twelve years of grades, behavioral analyses, medical reports … their family histories must be buried inside somewhere … He heard Cooley’s footsteps pounding toward the desk. He needed a single set of hard copies to offset everyone’s personal agendas. Goldsmith hit Print and closed the screens out, logging off from the system. Cooley reached down and replaced the trash bin under the desk.

  “She might smell the burnt paper and figure things out,” Cooley said. “But hopefully it’ll be too late by then.”

  “She’s taking the stairs,” Goldsmith said, nodding at the simulcast screen as Lang left Pete and opened the door to the stairwell. He looked at the printer. It was still spitting out pages.

  “We’re only two floors below her,” said Cooley, urgency creeping into his voice. “We’ve got to go now.” Cooley grabbed Goldsmith by the arm and started to yank him out of the chair.

  “If she catches us, the alumni files will be good for fuck-all,” he said. “Come on!” He pulled Goldsmith up. The alumni pages were already stored on his Tabula, he was just waiting on those final bargaining chips … Cooley rushed over to the door. There was a mirror hanging on the wall adjacent. He reached up, took it off its hook, and crouched down, angling it on the floor so that he could see through the crack of the semiopened door and into the corridor without revealing himself to anyone outside. The printer spit out one final page and powered down. Goldsmith grabbed the pages and shoved them inside his other pocket.

  “Shit,” Cooley said. Goldsmith rushed over. Someone finally switched off the dueling alarms. The ensuing silence was thick, leaving a ringing in their ears. In the mirror’s reflection, the door’s slit revealed President Lang walking toward them.

  Goldsmith started thinking of plans, options, some way out. He was positive he had enough information in his pockets to crack the mystery of the alumni deaths. He couldn’t get caught now. There was only one feasible thing to do: turn Cooley in. He could say that he apprehended him following the dodgeball match and … Lang was getting closer. Think fast. He looked over at Cooley. If he turned him in, the whole thing was over. Covering for himself meant piling more guilt on top of a specimen innocent of the charges leveled against him. And if Goldsmith did that, wasn’t he just as bad as everyone else? He would not do it. He stood up and decided he could handle whatever came next. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in Cooley’s hands. His face looked unfamiliar, different, vaguely proud, maybe coming up just short of heroic.

  “Hang the mirror back up, Cooley.”

  “Shhh … No! We’ve got a few seconds. Just think of something to say to…” He leaned in, seeing something. His eyes went wide.

  “What is it?” Goldsmith asked.

  “Shhh … Listen.” Goldsmith crouched down and looked at the reflection: Lang had been stopped by Captain Gibson in the hallway. He leaned toward the crack in the door, straining to hear what they were saying.

  “… IV food sabotaged with methamphetamine…,” came Gibson’s voice. “… Riot on the warehouse level … adverse allergic reaction to specimens’ med cycles … kids projectile-vomiting in the infirmary…”

  “It makes no difference at all,” rang out President Lang’s voice, confident. “Come with me. Find the reporter and make sure he’s contained until after the vote.” Gibson nodded. They started heading back toward the elevator banks. A pod arrived. They stepped in and disappeared. For the first time since this whole insane plot began, Cooley and Goldsmith exhaled.

  Cooley stood up and replaced the mirror on the wall. He looked at his face for a moment and shook his head at the sight of all the blood, watching a morbid smile form on his lips. His eyes went to Goldsmith. “Congratulations, Mr. Valedictorian,” he said, and winked. “I finally believe the hype.”

  Goldsmith opened the office door and stepped out into the deserted hallway. He said nothing and made sure not to look back inside. He didn’t want Cooley to see him grinning like a proud little boy.

  * * *

  Goldsmith and Cooley stepped out onto the eighth floor and headed for the room of Cooley’s expelled pal, Nathan Donald Oates. They reasoned that anyone looking for them would look in their own rooms first. Hiding there just might buy them some extra time. Goldsmith speed-walked with his long legs, the alumni reports practically burning a hole in his blazer.

  “Mr. Thomas Oliver Goldsmith!” rang out a man’s voice. They stopped and turned. Pete walked up to them at a leisurely pace, grinning. “Don’t ever let it be said that a Stansbury specimen won’t make the most of an opportunity when it’s offered to him.” He approached them, walking up to Cooley and studying him. “You must be the famous Mr. Cooley. You’ve got some blood on your face, bud. I wonder how that came to be. Mind giving me a couple of comments on—”

  “Yes,” cut in Goldsmith. “He does mind.”

  “Well isn’t that a shame,” said Pete. “Journalist’s Rule Number Two: always have two off-the-record sources.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Whoever do you mean?”

  “Your first off-the-record source. I’ll provide you with information in exchange.”

  “See Rule Number One, Mr. Goldsmith: A journalist never divulges—”

  �
��Let’s go,” Goldsmith said to Cooley. They turned and headed off down the hall.

  “Even if she didn’t ask for a confidentiality agreement,” called out Pete behind them, “I wouldn’t betray … her.”

  Goldsmith whirled around. Cooley stopped, taking everything in.

  “No quid pro quo necessary, young man,” said Pete. He bowed his head and walked away, disappearing around a corner.

  * * *

  Pete slipped into the fire escape stairwell on Level 8, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the shadows. Those harsh, unforgiving xenon lights in the halls always made him feel like he was on display inside of a glass case. And the security detail didn’t seem to patrol in here. Someone in the administration was going to wise up about his clandestine investigation sooner rather than later. He had to move faster than them. He dialed Senator Bloom’s private number and felt his heart pound. He was on the verge of throwing a hell of a wrench into the school’s grant proposal. He listened to the phone ring and thought about Stansbury’s odd couple, Goldsmith and Cooley.

  “Yes,” answered Senator Bloom.

  “It’s me.”

  “Did Harris have any luck in tracking down Lang’s former flame? Senator Mark’s made up her mind. She’s just itchin’ to end debate. We’re voting on the bill tonight and if it gets to the Senate floor it’s gonna pass. I can’t stop her. Mark’s the committee chair, so she’s got the numbers and goddamned parliamentary procedure on her side. If I’m gonna press her to keep the discussion going, you had better lob me a Hail Mary right about now.”

  “The former flame angle’s a dead end,” said Pete, who suddenly realized that his voice echoed up and down the solid concrete walls of the stairwell and lowered his tone to a frantic hiss. He thought he heard footsteps, but rang it up to his jangling nerves. “Listen to me. I’m positive I can help you sink this vote tonight.”

  “How?”

  “I’m in a rush here, can’t go into detail right now. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got before Lang sends her goons after me, so just trust me.”