by Morgan Wolfe
He turned. Emma Starke was standing in line for a teller. “Dr. Starke,” he mumbled in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
“I have an account here,” he replied, sweat gathering on his forehead.
“I see.”
“Well, I have to be going,” he said, as casually as he could manage.
“I need to speak with you.”
“All right.”
“Come by my office after lunch. One o’clock. Don’t be late.”
He’d been on time for every meeting he’d ever had with her and she never failed to make him wait at least twenty minutes. He didn’t mention that however. “One o’clock. I’ll be there.”
“See that you are.”
Woody turned and walked out the door. When he got to his car, he sat for several minutes in the parking lot, hands gripping the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. Maybe he didn’t have the nerve for what he intended to do. Maybe the best thing was to just quietly withdraw from the graduate program. That way his dissertation wouldn’t be formally rejected and he’d have a shot at another school. It was something to think about. After a while, he got control of himself and started the car.
Little Emmie
There was a knock at Emma’s door just after one o’clock. She ignored it, focusing on a dissertation she was reviewing. After a few seconds, the voice of her secretary called, “Dr. Starke?”
“Oh. Becky,” Emma responded. “Come in. I didn’t know it was you.”
The door opened and Becky looked in. She was a pretty, plump young woman with glasses who wore her chestnut hair in two ponytails tied with yellow ribbon. “I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Goodman called. He said he wouldn’t be able to come in until five-thirty.”
“Five-thirty! What did you tell him?”
“I said I’d tell you.”
“Well, tell him that’s not acceptable. I want to see him right away.”
“Actually, he already hung up. Said he had to go and that you would understand.”
“He said what?”
“That you would understand. Do you want me to call him back?”
“Yes! Tell him I don’t understand and to get his butt over here now.”
Becky hastily closed the door. Half an hour later, Emma went into the anteroom. “I’m sorry if I was a little sharp, Becky. Mr. Goodman is a particularly troublesome doctoral candidate and I’m afraid he annoys me out of proportion to his importance.”
“That’s all right, Dr. Starke. I called but all I got was his voice mail. I left your message. Shall I try again?”
“No. Never mind. I’ll deal with him when he shows up.” Emma went back to her office, fuming. Time to cut the cord on Woody Goodman. There was no point in keeping him in the program, none at all. He really didn’t belong in neuroscience, a fool blindly devoted to that crackpot Popper. Let him go get a grad degree in psychology, preferably from some other university. Psychology wasn’t a proper science anyway. There was always room for another misfit.
Five thirty rolled around but Woody Goodman didn’t show. Fifteen minutes later he breezed through the door without knocking. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Starke.” His tone was hardly apologetic. In fact, it was flip.
“Woody,” she said frostily, “I don’t know what sort of little game you’re playing, but I’m about to leave. Come see me tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.” She stuffed some papers in her briefcase and rose.
He sat down. “No.”
“What?” Emma said, barely able to control her anger.
“No. I want to talk now.”
Emma sat. “All right. Maybe that’s a good idea. Let’s get this over with. What I have to say won’t take long. I have two things to tell you. First, it’s come to my attention that you’re seeing my daughter.”
“And?”
“Frankly, I’m at a loss what Candice sees in you, but she is off limits. I don’t want you seeing her again. Don’t call her. If she calls you, don’t take her calls. Do I make myself clear?”
“What else?”
“What?”
“You said you had two things. What’s the other?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes.”
“And do you understand?”
“Oh yes. You don’t want us together. So what’s number two?”
Emma glared at him. “Your dissertation. Have you started on your revision yet?”
“No.”
“Well, good because it would be a waste of time. This is to inform you that I’m formally rejecting it.”
“Oh.”
“You are no longer a PhD candidate in this program.”
“I see.” He actually smiled.
“Are you stoned, Woody?”
“Oh no. Not at all.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be getting the message. You are through at Templeton. You’ll have to seek your doctorate elsewhere. You’re not getting one from this department.”
“Actually, I am.”
Good God, he was more out of it than she’d realized. He must be delusional. She rose. “This conference is at an end. She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Woody. And good luck.” It wouldn’t hurt to show a little civility. Anything to get him out the door.
He didn’t take her hand and he didn’t rise. “Sit down, Dr. Starke.”
“Woody, this is my office. Leave or I am calling Security.”
“I won’t leave and you’re not calling Security,” he said pleasantly, as if they were discussing whether to order take-out. “Sit down.”
She sat. It was possible that he’d get violent. If he wouldn’t leave, she would. In a minute she’d make an excuse to go the restroom. Call Security from there.
“As to your daughter, I’m going to continue to see Candi. Actually though, we’re not ‘seeing’ each other. We’re fucking.”
Emma’s eyes opened wide. She felt a surge of maternal protection. She had pepper spray in her purse. That would put him out of commission long enough to escape. She could tell Security he’d threatened her. Not a bad idea. At least he’d be locked up for a while.
“Your pepper spray is past its expiration date,” Woody said. “It won’t work now.”
How did he know that? “Have you been in my…” She caught herself.
“In your purse? No. But that’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”
He must have had a confrontation like this with a female professor. Maybe she’d actually sprayed him. The man was small but dangerous.
He went on placidly. “Technically speaking, Candi and I haven’t fucked yet. She gave me a blow job is all. Well, that and a hand job. I’m looking forward to fucking her though.”
Emma was speechless. “I, uh, I have to go to the restroom.” She rose.
“No you don’t. Sit down. I can understand you might feel like throwing up, but you don’t need to pee.”
Emma remained standing. Suppose she made a dash for it? Could she be out the door before he was able to grab her?
“Dr. Starke,” he said firmly. “Sit… down.”
She sat. “You shouldn’t run off just yet,” Woody said in a lighter tone. “You see, what I have to say to you is important to your career.”
Important to her career? My God, she was with a madman!
“My dissertation may have its imperfections, but it’s as good as any that the department has approved in the year you’ve been here. I mean you approved Justin Schwartz’s paper! He writes English like it’s second language. And his research? Shallow and self-evident. Why did he get a doctorate? Because his old man is a big donor. Good God! That would have never happened under Dr. Popper.”
She wasn’t going to get drawn into an argument with this loony. “I, uh, I really do have to go.” She made her voice sound pleading and urgent.
He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “As I said, my paper may not be perfect, but at least it was original.” He looked hard at her. “
Not plagiarized.”
“I never said it was—”
“You strongly implied parts of it were. But then you have an unusual sensitivity to the subject, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
He dug into his briefcase. “I checked this out of the university library yesterday.Fascinating reading. It’s titled ‘Jumping Spiders and Aposematic Prey: The Role of Contextual Cues During Avoidance Learning.’ Familiar with it?”
Her throat was suddenly dry. “It’s my dissertation,” she said hoarsely.
“Well, yes and no. It is and it isn’t. The paper itself, however, is brilliant, a model of research and writing. Very original.”
He dug in his briefcase and pulled out another document. “Now here’s another dissertation, written about five years before your own. Strangely enough, it’s also titled ‘Jumping Spiders and Aposematic Prey: The Role of Contextual Cues During Avoidance Learning.’ Except in this case, the author is someone named Paul Starke and it was written for the MIT Neuroscience Department. Amazing coincidence, isn’t it? And of course the similarity goes beyond the titles. Word for word, they’re the same document. Of course no one noticed because Paul Starke’s dissertation was never submitted.”
“That’s what you were doing at the bank,” she said in disbelief. “I could have you arrested!”
“I doubt it. The person who let me into your deposit box won’t be any help.”
“You bribed him!”
“It wasn’t necessary. In any case, you’re not going to press charges because you’ll do anything to keep this from coming to light.”
Terror and rage battled in Emma. She had to stall him, distract him, find something hard and heavy to hit him on the head. “May I see that?”
“Of course.” He handed Paul’s dissertation to her. “That’s a photocopy by the way. The original is in my deposit box. Now let’s get down to business.”
She folded her hands. “Yes. Let’s. I assume you want back in the graduate program.”
“Since you haven’t taken action yet, I was never out of it, but go on.”
“You want me to approve your dissertation so you will receive a doctorate from Templeton. Very well. I’ll do it.”
“How soon?”
“Well, this is Friday. Too late to do anything today but I can approve it Monday. The Doctoral Review Committee will have to cast the final vote but that’s a formality. You’ll have confirmation within four weeks.”
“Two.”
“The Committee only meets once a month and the candidates for this month have already been posted.”
“Add my name. You’ve done that before.”
She gave him a look. “You’ve planned this very carefully, haven’t you?”
“Yes and I don’t intend to stop being careful. There’s nothing in your office heavy enough to knock me out but I’m not going to give you the chance anyway, so stop thinking like you’re in a bad movie.”
She looked at him with amazement. “My God!”
“Yes. I can read minds. Dr. Popper taught me.”
“I knew that old man was evil!”
“Otto Popper was a saint,” said Woody. “He discovered a fantastic power, used it a few times and then put it away like a man who swears off liquor. Why? Because he was afraid he would misuse it. You’re the wicked one. You put your name to a dissertation that wasn’t yours. Disrespected Dr. Popper in dozens of ways – abused him really. And now that you’ve inherited his position, you’ve used your power to thwart people who could make a real contribution to neuroscience, all because of your vendetta against Popper.” He pointed his finger. “You, Dr. Starke, have been a bad girl. Very bad!”
He bent to get something from his briefcase. In that brief moment, Emma grabbed the iPhone on her desk.
From his briefcase Woody pulled out a medium-sized cardboard box and put it in his lap. “Put the phone back,” he said casually.
She was shocked. How did he know? The temptation to call 911 was strong but he might turn violent. She reluctantly put the phone back on the desk.
“Now pick it up again.”
“What?”
“Pick up the phone.”
She did. An electric shock ran through her hand.
“Ohhhh!” she yelped, dropping the phone. She stared at him in amazement. “How did you do that?”
“There was really no shock, you know. I told you that you’d feel a shock.”
“You told me no such thing.”
“I didn’t use words. I communicated directly with your brain.”
“I don’t believe you. Mind reading might be possible but mind control, that’s …”
“Hokum. Bunk. Hooey. That’s what I thought too. Go on. Pick up it up again. This time you’ll get a real shock.”
She hastily put her hands in her lap. “No. I know what you’ve done. You’ve switched phones. That’s not mine. It’s one you’ve rigged.”
“That’s very clever of you, Dr. Starke. Not true but still clever.” Woody reached out and picked up the phone. “See? No shock.” He put it back on the desk. “Now you pick it up.”
Emma kept her hands deep in her lap. “No! It’s a trick.” To her horror, her right hand rose from her lap and reached for the phone. She tried to jerk it back but the hand seemed to have a will of its own. Her fingers opened, then suddenly froze. Her hand hovered over the phone.
“Still think this is hokum, Dr. Starke?”
“Please don’t make me pick it up,” she said weakly. “Please.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “Actually, I have something else I want you to do.”
“What?” she said anxiously.
“Take off your pantyhose.”
“NO!” she exclaimed loudly, but her hands were already reaching down to remove her shoes. Once those were off, she found herself standing, hands raising her dress so they could slip underneath and pull her pantyhose to her knees. She sat down again and they rolled the hose off her left foot, then the right. She nervously arranged her dress around her now naked legs. “What are you going to do?” she said, a tremble in her voice.
“Punish you, Dr. Starke,” Woody said quietly. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out something wrapped in white tissue paper. “You’ve been very bad and you’re long overdue for some discipline.”
From the paper he removed something that looked like a large ping-pong paddle, except it was entirely polished wood. Holes of different sizes had been drilled in it. “I got this today at Taboo Toys. The clerk said it’s very popular with the fraternity crowd. The holes reduce wind resistance.”
“You’re going to spank me?” she said, stunned.
“I’m going to hit your rear end, yes, but much harder than a mere spanking. What I'm going to do, Dr. Starke, is give you a sound beating.”
Emma tried to stand but her legs refused to lift her from the chair. “HELP!” she screamed. “HELP! BECKY! ANYONE!”
A moment later, the door opened and Becky looked in, concern on her face. “Dr. Starke? What’s the matter?”
“Call the police!” cried Emma. “Hurry! Woody, he’s crazy. Dangerous!”
But Becky didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, she looked at Woody. “Nothing’s the matter, Becky,” he said with a smile. “Everything’s fine. It’s late. Go lock the door to the anteroom and turn off the lights. Then sit at your desk until you hear my voice. If someone knocks at the door, don’t pay any attention. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer your own phone. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” she pleasantly. “No problem.” She closed the door. A moment later, the lights in the anteroom went out. Woody turned to Emma. “Now no chance of being disturbed. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Emma sat and stared helplessly. A nightmare. That was the only explanation. She was home asleep, having a nightmare. She shut her eyes tight and willed herself to wake up.
“It’s not a nightmare,” said Woody’s voice. “It’s real. Open your eyes
and stand up.”
Her eyes opened. Her legs lifted her from the chair and she stood.
“Put the pantyhose in your chair.”
“What?” she said, confused.
“The pantyhose. You’re still holding them. Put them in your chair, then come around to this side of the desk. There’s more room here.”
Against her will, her legs took her around the desk. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Well, Dr. Starke,” Woody said in a light tone. “You’re already doing whatever I want and as for hurting you, that’s what I’m about to do. In spades.”
A gasp and sob escaped Emma. “Lean over your desk,” Woody told her.
Her body obeyed promptly, without resistance. She felt like a marionette, arms and legs on invisible wires manipulated by someone else.
“Lie on the desk, feet on the floor.”
She complied, lying on top of several papers, a book, her nameplate.
“Pull your dress up. All the way to your waist.” Her hands gripped the hem and she pulled it up until her naked rear was exposed.
“Well now!” Woody exclaimed appreciatively. “You have a very nice ass, Emma. Yes, indeed. Very trim for a woman your age. Say ‘thank you’ to the nice man.”
Emma’s mouth opened and the words “Thank you” came out.
“Exactly how old are you, Emma?” Woody said in an overly sweet voice, as if he was talking to a child.
“I’m forty-two,” she said, the words had a high, wee tone. She felt very strange. He was behind her and out of sight now. She hadn’t been exposed like this since she’d been spanked by her father for some forgotten misbehavior. She remembered his voice as she lay over his lap, explaining that he was not hurting her because he wanted to. He loved her. He wanted her to grow up and have her own children, and when she did, she or her husband would sometimes have to spank them for their own good, just as his father had spanked him. He too had been calm and friendly.
“Forty-two? My, my!” said Woody. “Emma, from now on, I want you to call me ‘Sir.’ Say ‘I’m forty-two, Sir.’”
“I’m forty-two, Sir.”
“Good girl! And when is your birthday, Emma?”