Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

  He pushed open the door to the department office and was irritated to see the same girl at the desk.

  “Hi,” she said. “Another package for Dr. McNally?”

  “You’ve got quite a memory,” he said with a smile. People with good memories were the bane of his existence.

  “You’re in luck,” she said. “Dr. McNally’s back.”

  “He is? That’s great news. Is he around?”

  “He was here a little while ago. You just missed him by half an hour or so.”

  “Do you expect him to be in again soon?”

  “I’m not sure, but he collected the journals I hadn’t mailed to him yet and didn’t leave instructions for me to mail any more of them, so I figure he’s back for good. If you want to leave your phone number or email address, I can let you know when he’ll be having office hours.”

  Millard was running through the options in his head—he’d start with the closest faculty parking area to see if McNally’s SUV was there, and then continue scouting the campus if it wasn’t. He wanted to find McNally as soon as possible, but in the worst case he would stake out the office, waiting for his next visit.

  “That’s okay, I’ll catch up with him one way or the other,” said Millard. “I’m looking forward to running into him again.”

  He closed the door behind him and broke into a jog toward the stairway.

  52

  After his visit with Ambrose Steck, Owen’s next stop was the library to return a woefully overdue book. The walk through the campus reminded him why he didn’t pine after travel the way some of his colleagues did. The central campus of William Penn University had always represented his dream of college life—had when he first admired it as a prospective student, still did as he enjoyed it as a faculty member. The hundred-year-old stone and brick buildings exuded a sense of timeless permanence. In the aftermath of an early warm spell the previous week, some of the dogwoods and forsythia lining the wide walkways had started to flower. In response to the uptick in temperatures, the students had predictably broken out shorts and flip-flops, and hadn’t returned to warmer clothes despite the now more seasonally appropriate temperatures. The people hurrying to a class or talking and laughing in small groups also gave him a sense of confidence that he wouldn’t disappear into a dark alley.

  He had a nice chat with the young man at the returns desk at the library, searched for and checked out a book he needed to prepare for his fall class, and had started back toward his car when he remembered that he needed to pick up a paper from his office. He got on the elevator before it occurred to him that he should probably add stair climbing to his new exercise regimen. He’d at least take the stairs down.

  He retrieved the paper from his office and added it to the briefcase of journals he was carrying. He had started for the stairs when Gina emerged from the department office.

  “Jeez, Dr. McNally, you and the guy who’s looking for you keep just missing each other—it’s like Noises Off. He was in the office not five minutes ago.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know his name, but he was in about a month ago to drop off a package for you.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know, I just put the forwarding address on it and sent it out.”

  Owen recalled an envelope he had received in Sedona with Gina’s forwarding label attached to it that contained only a copy of Psychology Today, definitely not a magazine on his subscription list.

  “What do you do with the envelopes after you put the forwarding address on them?”

  “The mail girl picks them up. Why? Was there a problem?”

  Owen was starting to picture how George Millard might have discovered that he and Lizzy were in Sedona.

  “No, no problem. What did he look like?”

  “Average. Average height. Average build. Dark hair.” She considered for a moment. “Tanner than you would expect someone to be in March, but he must have had a beard and mustache when he got the tan, because his skin wasn’t as tan around his mouth and on his chin.”

  “Did he leave anything this time?”

  “No. He had another envelope, but he didn’t leave it. Said he’d catch up with you.”

  “Thanks, Gina.”

  “Sure thing, Dr. McNally.”

  Gina continued down the hall, leaving Owen standing by the door to the stairway, his heart thumping. He guessed that Jim of Thread-the-Needle Trail had come visiting to Pennsylvania.

  Owen trotted from office to office and window to window, checking every possible view, and finally spotted his target. He was standing in what from the ground would be an inconspicuous spot overlooking the faculty parking lot. He was wearing jeans, a blue windbreaker, and a black cap. When he turned his head slightly, Owen could see on the front the white and orange of a Flyers logo, which had always looked to him like a fried egg.

  Owen also noticed, much to his irritation, that his Arizona SUV had a ticket under the windshield wiper, since his properly tagged Pennsylvania SUV was no doubt still somewhere on the Pocopson property of Louise Mortensen and the late Gerard Bonnay.

  He removed his phone from his pocket, zoomed in the camera as far as he could, and snapped a photo.

  He gazed at the image. It was fuzzy, and had caught the man only in profile. Without the beard and mustache, he couldn’t positively identify him as the man from the trail—even with a beard and mustache, he hadn’t seen enough of the man through the Eye to make an informed assessment. Owen looked out the window again. The man glanced at his watch, then scanned the area around the parking lot.

  Owen had told Lizzy he wanted to come back to Philadelphia in part because he would have access to more resources, but at the moment his best resource was Ambrose Steck. It was not a comforting thought. Maybe, he thought bitterly, he could just ask Gina to escort him to his car.

  A minute, then two, ticked by as he watched the man watch his car. He tapped his phone on his open hand, considering and eliminating options until only one was left. He sighed and hit a speed dial.

  “Philip Castillo, Psychic Counselor. Can I help you?”

  Owen sighed. “I hope so.”

  After Owen ended the call with Philip, he dialed Lizzy’s number.

  “Hey, Uncle Owen,” she answered.

  “Hey, Pumpkin.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I talked with my department head.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Really?” Her disappointment was clear.

  “Really. He basically said that it would be his responsibility to turn anyone who posed a threat over to the authorities.”

  There was a pause.

  “Maybe his boss …?”

  “Maybe, but we have another problem. It looks like Jim from Thread-the-Needle Trail is here.”

  He heard her quick intake of breath.

  “I’m sending you a picture I took of him,” he continued. “It’s not very clear, but can you take a look? If it is the guy from the trail, he’s shaved off his beard and mustache, so it might be easier for you to tell if it’s George Millard.”

  “Got it,” she said in a moment. “It’s pretty fuzzy. And the hat makes it hard to see his face.”

  “I know. I’m pretty far away from him.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s watching my car.”

  “Watching your car?” she said, her voice rising. “Uncle Owen, you have to call the police!”

  “What could I tell the police, Pumpkin? That I want someone arrested for watching my car? And I’d no doubt have to file some sort of complaint, and that might make it easier for Millard and Mortensen to find me. No, I don’t think we can call the police yet.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I think that the idea of getting the protection of some large, powerful organization isn’t a bad way to go. Penn was a bust, but I know people at Harvard
and MIT—at the NIH, for that matter—who might have more influence, or at least be willing to try. Are you still thinking that’s the right plan?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Lizzy.

  “Okay. As soon as we get things under control, I’ll start getting in touch with those people who might be able to help us. I think that discussion will be better done in person than via email or phone.”

  “What are we going to do in the meantime?

  “I called Philip and he’s coming out here. He’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Philip?” He couldn’t tell whether this news had lessened or fueled her panic.

  “Yes. I’m sure we’re being overcautious, but better safe than sorry. I want you to pack up our stuff and go to a different hotel. Or motel. Or bed-and-breakfast. But wherever it is, don’t tell me where, because I don’t want to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just in case they catch up with me …” Owen didn’t finish the thought.

  “Uncle Owen—“ Lizzy’s voice was reedy with panic.

  “I’ll be okay, Pumpkin. It will be in my favor that I don’t know where you are.”

  “How am I going to get to a new place?”

  “Take a cab.”

  “I don’t have any money—”

  “There’s money in my suitcase.”

  “But what if you aren’t back before that money runs out?”

  He could tell she was crying now, and that her concern wasn’t about the money running out, but about his time running out.

  “If you need more money, or need anything, call Andy.” He gave her his brother’s number.

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “Maybe I can line up someone to keep an eye on me until we get this thing worked out.”

  “Andy?”

  “I’m thinking more of a professional.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Especially if you think they might try to force information out of you like … like in some movie interrogation scene.” Her voice was starting to spin up again.

  “Don’t worry about me, Pumpkin. Until I get that lined up, I’m going to go somewhere where there will be lots of other people, so nothing bad will happen to me. And Philip will be here soon. Give him a call and let him know what your new location is. And I’ll get away from George Millard as soon as I can. I’ll ‘shake his tail,’” he added, in a bid to elicit a laugh from Lizzy.

  She obliged, but without much enthusiasm.

  “Sound like a plan?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice exhausted. “Be careful, Uncle Owen.”

  “You know I will, Pumpkin.”

  He ended the call, then returned to his office. He removed the journals and paper from his briefcase and replaced them with four of his heaviest reference manuals. It was the best he could do for self-defense.

  Owen eased the door of his office open and peered into the hallway. He would have felt better if Gina had been on her way down the hall on some errand for Steck, but it was empty.

  He hurried down the hall to the window from which he had been able to see the parking lot, and the presumed George Millard, but a large van had parked in a position that blocked his view. He started for the elevator, then changed direction to the stairway. At least he wouldn’t get trapped alone in a tiny cube with whoever was watching his car.

  When he reached the first floor, he switched his usual route to a less-used side door. He peeked out and saw nothing but passing students. He descended the steps and started down the walk. It would take him toward the parking lot, but he would be coming up behind the position he had seen Millard in. Maybe Millard had given up, and Owen could just drive away.

  He was about to round the corner of the building when he jumped at the sound of a male voice and running feet on the walk behind him.

  “Hey! Dr. McNally!”

  He turned, drawing back the arm holding the briefcase, only to be confronted by Randy, a student from his research seminar the previous year. He groaned inwardly as he let his arm fall to his side. Randy was a bit of a groupie.

  “Dr. McNally, I didn’t realize you were back in town!”

  “Yes, just got back.” Owen glanced around, trying to see if Randy’s call had attracted any unwanted attention. “Now I’m trying to get caught up on all those things I should have been doing while I was away.” He looked meaningfully at his watch.

  Randy laughed. “I can imagine—you were away for a long time! Where are you off to now? Want me to carry your briefcase for you?”

  Owen almost succumbed to the urge to have the company even of Randy as some protection against George Millard, but he battled it down. He didn’t want to risk getting anyone else involved in the dangerous game they were playing with Millard and Louise Mortensen.

  “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but I have an appointment to see someone in just a few minutes and I really need the time to get my thoughts in order. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Randy tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment. “Sure, Dr. McNally, I understand.” He stood smiling at Owen. “Hey, I’m signed up for your Systems and Behavioral Neuroscience class in the fall!”

  “That’s great,” said Owen, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “I’ll look forward to talking with you then.”

  Randy continued smiling at him. Evidently he wasn’t going to be the first to walk away.

  “See you later!” Owen said jovially, and turned away. He took a few steps and looked back. Randy was still smiling gamely after him.

  Owen no longer wanted to go toward the parking lot, just in case Randy’s greeting had alerted Millard to his presence. He didn’t want to walk back in the direction he had come for fear he wouldn’t be able to disentangle himself from a second encounter with Randy. And he had an idea of where he could go. He stepped off the walkway to cross the lawn.

  “See you later, Dr. McNally!” Randy called after him.

  Owen waved his hand in acknowledgement but didn’t turn around.

  As soon as he was out of Randy’s sight, he changed direction toward his new destination. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a cap with the concentric white and orange circles—the Flyers’ fried egg.

  Owen stopped in his tracks. The wearer of the hat was behind a small group of students, and Owen shifted back and forth, trying to get a better look. The group shifted as well, stymieing his efforts. Then the students called farewells and the group broke apart, but the man and the hat were gone.

  Owen turned and began walking again, his heart hammering and his legs trembling. The image that filled his mind was one he had never seen in life, but had imagined many times in his mind—his friend Patrick Ballard, lying on the frozen, filthy ground of a Philadelphia alley, his life draining away from two bullet holes from George Millard’s gun.

  In a few minutes, Owen reached his destination—the one place he could think of that was open twenty-four hours a day, always busy, and unlikely to kick him out.

  He crossed the ER waiting room to the admission desk and pressed his hand to his chest.

  “Excuse me, Miss, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  53

  “He’s where?” Mortensen’s voice vibrated with irritation across the connection.

  “The Penn ER. It looked like he was having a heart attack.”

  “And how in the world could you tell that?”

  “I followed him and watched him from outside. He put his hand on his chest and then someone ran out with a wheelchair and wheeled him into the treatment area.”

  “Does the man think that emergency departments are his own personal sanctuary?” she said with disgust.

  “Maybe he really was having a heart attack. He’s been under a lot of stress—”

  “He’s not having a heart attack—it would be far too great a coincidence. He must have realized you were following him and figured this was a way for him to hide out in safety. And as far as he knows, if we can’t get to him,
we can’t get to Ballard.”

  “I’ll keep searching the campus—”

  “No,” she interrupted him, “I do give McNally enough credit to think that if he was going to risk showing up at the university, he would have hidden Ballard away somewhere else while he ran his errand.” She took a deep breath. “That’s not our only problem. I just heard from the AG’s office. They haven’t dropped the investigation. Someone else there thought there was sufficient merit to pick it up.”

  “Damn,” said Millard under his breath.

  “Yes. On top of dealing with McNally and Ballard, we have to speed up getting the rest of the records scanned and destroyed.” She was silent for a moment, and Millard could hear fingers tapping on a hard surface. “Whether he’s faking or actually having an attack, he’s likely to be admitted. We’ll find a way to give McNally the flunitrazepam, and then get Mitchell into his room to find out where Ballard is.”

  “Once we get the information from him, want Pieda to give McNally the crush?”

  “No. No more strokes. There have been too many strokes already. Plus,” she added, “I want to avoid giving Mitchell more of the steroid drug if we can help it. It’s undoubtedly unpleasant for him, and he might balk.” She was silent again for a moment, then said, “Meet me at the lab. I’ll have something else for you as well. I am done dealing with Owen McNally. Once you get Ballard’s location from him, administer the drug I’ll give to you. If he’s telling the doctors he’s having a heart attack, we’ll make his story come true.”

  54

  Owen had been admitted and called Lizzy to let her know where he was. She reported that Philip would be leaving Phoenix for Philadelphia on the red-eye that night.

  Now it was evening, and Owen sat in a chair in his hospital room, perusing the websites of firms offering bodyguard services, when a voice interrupted his research.