Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

  Philip turned in the seat to look at Eddie, wincing at the pain caused by the movement. “Who was coming and going?”

  “You tell me. You show up with a beautiful blonde, pretty soon two guys show up, the blonde leaves, then the guys leave.”

  “Two guys showed up?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No,” said Philip. “I think the beautiful blonde slipped something in my drink.”

  “Going to take advantage of you?” asked Eddie with a laugh.

  Philip ignored him. “What did the guys look like?”

  “Hard to tell, they had the collars of their coats turned up. White guys, one older—maybe in his late forties—one younger—maybe in his early twenties.”

  “How long were they in the house?”

  “You seriously didn’t know they were there?” asked Eddie, shooting him a look. “I thought maybe they were a husband or boyfriend of the beautiful blonde and a buddy, coming to teach you a lesson. I listened for noise just in case you needed the cavalry to ride in, but didn’t hear anything.”

  “How long were they there?” Philip repeated.

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” said Philip, eyebrows climbing.

  “Guys arrived at ten fifteen, beautiful blonde left about five minutes later, guys left around ten thirty.”

  “Jesus, Eddie,” said Philip, “you’re creeping me out.”

  Eddie shrugged. “You spend a career doing stakeouts, old habits die hard.”

  Philip gazed out the window for a minute, then asked, “Can I borrow your phone for a sec?”

  Eddie unlocked his phone and handed it over.

  Philip tapped, then held the phone up to Eddie. He had pulled up the video of the Brashear news conference, with the video stopped at the brief moment when Louise Mortensen’s unidentified escort had been in the frame.

  “Was it that guy?”

  Eddie glanced over. “Could be, but I can’t be sure. Like I said, he had most of his face covered up.”

  Philip gazed at the image. He had seen it before, when Lizzy had played the video for him, but now the face looked familiar for some other reason. Then he made the connection—yesterday’s client, Mitch Foot. Foot had looked younger than the guy in the video, but maybe that was only because of how he had been dressed. And now that he thought about it, Foot had said “water” the same way Lizzy and Owen did.

  Eddie pulled up to the entrance to the ER. “I’ll park and meet you inside.”

  Philip opened the door. “No need, Eddie—I really appreciate it, but I can take it from here.”

  “Hey, you’ll need a ride home when you’re done. I don’t have anyone else on my dance card today.”

  After a moment, Philip nodded. “It would be a big help. Thanks, Eddie.”

  Two hours later, Philip had gotten a clean bill of cerebral health, another dose of aspirin, and a lecture about the evils of alcohol. A few hours after that, he had cancelled his credit cards and been ferried by Eddie to get a new driver’s license and pick up a prepaid cell phone.

  By the time he got home that night, his head was throbbing again, but he had no doubt as to its source: a day spent dealing with irritable medical staff, credit card fraud departments, and the DMV would be enough to give anyone a headache.

  49

  When they reached the Philadelphia area, Owen checked them into a Hampton Inn in King of Prussia. They had gotten on the road earlier than usual that morning, and Lizzy suspected that the reason was Owen’s impatience to see his parents. After Owen carried the luggage to their rooms, he began arranging pillows on the bed for her to prop her leg on.

  “I can do that,” said Lizzy, taking a pillow from him. “You should go see your mom and dad now.”

  He stood back and looked critically at the construction. “They should have more pillows—now you don’t have enough for behind your back. I’m going down to the desk and get some more.”

  “This is fine—if you make me too comfortable, I won’t want to move, and I think I should try to walk around a little after having spent so much time in the car.”

  “Are you hungry? I could run out and pick up some food for you.”

  “There’s cheese and crackers and fruit in the cooler.”

  “Will that be enough? It seems a little light for a meal …”

  “It’s plenty! Now go on and see your mom.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Owen nodded and shrugged into his coat.

  “Say hi to Andy for me,” she said.

  “Actually, I probably won’t see Andy today. When he found out we were almost home, he left for a meeting with some colleagues in Louisiana.” Owen shook his head. “I didn’t realize he had been putting that off because I wasn’t around to take care of things.” He glanced around the room. “I’ll leave my laptop in case you want to stream a movie.” He looked at her anxiously. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  She pointed imperiously at the door. “Go. Now.”

  Owen gave her a thumbs-up and hurried out the door. Lizzy heard his heavy tread receding down the hall.

  Lizzy read for a while and ate a banana when she got hungry, then took a walk around the hotel parking lot. The exercise actually made her leg feel better, and she walked the short distance to the huge King of Prussia Mall. Once she got there, though, she found the crowds and the sensory stimulus overwhelming and returned to the hotel. Then she signed on to Owen’s laptop to do some research into an idea that had been coalescing in her mind during the drive from Sedona.

  Owen showed up around dinnertime with a Wawa bag.

  “How is your mom doing?” Lizzy asked as he unpacked the bag—hoagies, milk, and an assortment of fruit—and set the food out on the table.

  “I think she was glad to see me. We had a nice talk when I first got there, but she got hazier later. At one point she thought I was Andy.” He gave a weak laugh. “Wait until he hears that—it’ll kill him.” He examined the food. “I’m getting really tired of restaurants and take-out food,” he said. “I can’t wait until we’re settled somewhere and we can cook.”

  “What are you going to cook first?” asked Lizzy.

  “Excellent question,” he said, sitting back and taking a bite of an apple. He considered while he chewed. “A big pot of soup. Maybe vegetable beef soup. Grass-fed beef. And we could go to the market in Lancaster and get vegetables.” He picked up steam. “And you know what would be perfect with that?”

  “What?” asked Lizzy through a mouthful of hoagie.

  “Homemade bread. I love the way the house smells when bread is baking. And a big salad, with Italian dressing. And then for dessert we could have espresso and biscotti.”

  “I don’t like biscotti,” said Lizzy. “It’s like trying to chew a brick.”

  “Cappuccino and spritz cookies,” he amended.

  “And then a long walk.”

  Owen laughed. “Yes, a very long walk.”

  Lizzy set aside the hoagie. “I’ve been thinking about what to do,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking I could turn myself in.”

  “To Louise Mortensen?” asked Owen, aghast.

  “No, Uncle Owen, not to her,” she said, a hint of a verbal eye-roll in her voice. “To someone who can stop her. Her and the guy she was with at the courthouse. Then they can put Louise and George Millard in jail and put me and that guy somewhere safe.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know—the government, I guess.”

  Owen stirred uncomfortably. “It’s not what your parents wanted for you.”

  “They kept me at home and look what happened,” she said, her voice rising. “Or if they were going to keep me at home, then they should have kept me there all the time. If Dad had kept me in Parkesburg, none of this would have happened.”

  “You wanted to go to New York so much—“

  “
He was the dad, he should have said no!” she yelled.

  “I know, I know,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a minute, Lizzy tearing her paper napkin into thin strips.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad,” she said eventually.

  Owen said nothing.

  “They wouldn’t gain anything by treating me badly. In fact, they couldn’t treat me badly, because I’d squeeze them if they did.”

  “I—“ he began, then his voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

  They sat in silence for another minute, then Lizzy set the napkin aside.

  “How about Penn?”

  “Penn?”

  “William Penn University. Maybe I could turn myself in to them. Not just to them, but to your department. You said that you’d have more resources you could tap into in Philly. Maybe that’s one of them.”

  “What about Louise and Millard and the guy in the video?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, clearly exasperated at his lack of enthusiasm. “Maybe the university could notify the police. But if they were protecting me, I’d be safe, and Louise and Mr. Millard would have no reason to bother you or Andy or Ruby anymore.”

  After a moment he said, somewhat reluctantly, “The idea of turning yourself in to a university isn’t totally outlandish—I’ve thought about it myself—but I don’t know that Penn would be the place to do it. Any organization that was protecting you would no doubt come under considerable pressure from other interested parties, like the government. To withstand that pressure, you’d need to have as an ally someone who was in a position of authority at that organization and who displayed some intestinal fortitude. Or you would need someone who would be willing to try to keep you a secret within the university, which would be difficult if not impossible. I don’t think my boss fits any of those criteria.”

  “Maybe keeping it a secret wouldn’t be so important,” she said, warming to the idea. “If enough people knew what I could do, it would be a sort of protection, wouldn’t it? Like if someone can create a nuclear bomb, they’re probably more safe if a lot of people know they can do it than if just a few people know.”

  “I guess so,” replied Owen warily.

  Lizzy’s excitement was building. “You could go to the person who runs your department, and describe a what-if scenario to him. ‘What if we knew of a person with this ability? What would we do with them?’ And see what he says.”

  “He’s going to say I’m crazy. Or at least think it.”

  “That might be better—if he thinks you’re just discussing some crazy scenario that could never actually happen, you might get more information from him.”

  “Oh, Pumpkin, I don’t think—”

  “Please, Uncle Owen, can’t you just try? What can it hurt?”

  He heaved a sigh and, after a moment, nodded. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

  50

  The next morning, Owen stepped into the William Penn Neurobiology Department office. “Hi, Gina,” he said, “I’m back!”

  The young woman at the desk looked up from her monitor. “Dr. McNally! I didn’t expect you back yet—how are you doing?”

  She circled the desk to give him a hug, then stood back and examined him.

  “You look great—Sedona must have agreed with you.”

  “I took up hiking,” said Owen, sheepish but pleased.

  “I can tell,” she said with a smile. “I know lots of good hiking trails in this area, I can give you some recommendations.”

  Owen had never in his life expected to be discussing hiking trails with an attractive young woman. He blushed. “That would be great, thanks.”

  Gina returned to her seat and began rummaging under the desk. “I have a stack of journals I was getting ready to send to you. Can’t you get this stuff online these days?”

  “Some of it, but paper’s more fun,” he replied. “Is Ambrose in?”

  “As luck would have it, he is,” she said, plopping the journals on the desk.

  “Does he have a minute?”

  “For you, Dr. McNally? Absolutely.”

  She crossed to a closed door and rapped on it smartly. “Dr. Steck?” she called through the door. “Dr. McNally’s back and he’d like to speak with you.”

  A muffled response came from behind the door.

  “Sounds good, sir,” said Gina, with a shrug at Owen. “I’ll send him in.”

  She threw the door open and stood aside. “Good luck,” she whispered as Owen stepped into the office.

  Ambrose Steck rose from behind his desk to his inconsiderable height and extended a pudgy hand.

  “Owen, what a pleasant surprise! Welcome back.”

  Owen shook the hand, finding it damp and limp, as always.

  “Thanks, Ambrose. Good to be back.”

  “Please, have a seat,” said Steck, waving toward one of the chairs facing his desk. He flopped back into his own chair. “So, I understand you were on a little break?”

  “Yes, enjoying warmer climes.”

  “Gina was so secretive about where you were—where did you go?”

  Owen couldn’t imagine it could matter whether or not Steck knew where he had been. “A couple of weeks in the Florida Keys, about two months in Arizona.”

  “Both lovely places, I’m sure—and so appealing at this time of year.”

  “They were very nice.”

  “All ready for your classes in the fall?”

  “Yes, I’ll be ready. Listen, Ambrose, I had a question for you …”

  “Yes?” asked the little man, suddenly looking wary.

  “What’s the most unusual neurobiological or psychological case you’ve ever encountered?”

  “Personally?”

  “Yes.”

  Steck leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers over the mound of his stomach. “As a graduate student, I did some work with a couple who displayed characteristics of telepathy. They had responded to an ad for participants in a study of decision-making between couples in established relationships—it was related to a study I was assisting with in the Psychology Department—but it soon became apparent that their decisions were based on something beyond just familiarity with each other. We began applying standard tests for telepathy—Brugmans, Rhine—then started coming up with tests of our own. The couple aced them all. A fascinating area of study, really—there was an interesting article not long ago in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience—”

  Owen cleared his throat loudly and, in the resulting pause in Steck’s story, interjected, “Have you ever had the private sector, or the government, express interest in one of your subjects? For example, the telepathic couple?”

  “Well, certainly various government agencies have used the findings of studies with which I was involved—”

  “Not just the findings, but the people themselves.”

  Steck knit his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “For example—just as a theoretical case—let’s say there was someone who was displaying unusual mental abilities. Telepathy or telekinesis or, say, the ability to cause strokes in other people just through the power of their minds. That would certainly be of interest to the private sector or government, wouldn’t it?”

  Steck examined Owen with narrowed eyes. “You have quite a bee in your bonnet about this topic, Owen.”

  Owen tried to settle back in the inadequate chair. “I’m thinking of writing an article on the moral obligation of educational institutions to protect their research subjects from exploitation.”

  “Sounds to me like a topic more appropriate to Ethics and Health Policy.”

  “But of interest to any institute of higher learning involved in research, wouldn’t you say?”

  Steck steepled his pudgy fingers and examined Owen. After a moment, he sighed. “I would expect any member of my department to keep the identity of his or her research subjects confidential, of course. As long as a subject’s ability did not pose a danger to the researc
hers, or to the general public, I would assume no obligation to alert the authorities to its existence. I would put telepathy in that category. Probably also telekinesis. However, if the subject posed a danger to society, as in your example of the person with the ability to cause strokes, then of course we would have an obligation to protect the well-being of the community.”

  “What would that entail?”

  Steck shrugged. “FBI … Homeland Security. I must say I have never been in a position to have to give it much thought.”

  “No. But it is an interesting question. Might an academic institution not have a responsibility to protect its subjects from exploitation by private for-profit or government organizations?”

  “Dr. McNally,” said Steck, unsteepling his fingers, “you have been a member of this department for a good many years, and a member of the academic community for many more. You surely can’t imagine a scenario where we would become the defender of a research subject with an extraordinary and dangerous ability.” He sat forward. “What would you suggest—our own version of a witness protection program? Perhaps we could barricade ourselves in the faculty club, deploying sharpened mortarboards like throwing stars as the SWAT teams descended.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Owen, clearly amused by the picture he had painted.

  “No, of course not,” Owen replied testily. “I was thinking more of a legal defense than a paramilitary one.”

  Steck sat back. “It will make an interesting article,” he said, “but perhaps one best published under a pseudonym.”

  51

  Millard jogged up the steps to the floor housing the Penn Neurobiology Department office. His pursuit of Lizzy Ballard on the hiking trails of Sedona had convinced him of the need for some more aerobic activity, so he had bypassed the elevator. They hadn’t yet located Ballard and McNally, and he figured he had nothing to lose by trying the package-for-McNally approach again.

  He had checked out McNally’s house in Lansdowne, outside and in, and there was no sign that anyone had been there since McNally and company’s abrupt departure in December. Ditto with the Ballard house in Parkesburg. If they had driven from Arizona—and if Pennsylvania was in fact their destination—then they should be back by now, depending on how many scenic side trips they took.