The Faculty Club: A Novel (19 page)

I went from path to path, following the marks for dm. It went on for God only knows how long, until I came for the first time to a hatch above me in the ceiling of the tunnel.

DEAD MAN, IT SAID.

I pressed the hatch up and it gave easily and slid away to the side.

I climbed up through the hatch into a narrow crawl space. It was dark, but light poured in on three sides. I moved toward the bright light and came out from under an object into a room. My eyes adjusted. I looked back and saw that the object I had crawled out from under was a bed. I looked around.

I was standing in my room.

What fear! Fear like I had never felt before. I remembered myself checking locked doors, locked windows, putting chairs under the doorknob--worthless! What a fool I was, thinking I could ever be safe with them against me.

I had to get out of my room. I needed somewhere to hide while I thought this through.

I cut a wild path through campus, walking with my head down and hands deep in my pockets, a wool hat pulled low over my eyes.

I knocked on Miles's door and prayed he would answer.

Finally, I heard rustling. He opened the door, looking like I'd roused him out of a very deep sleep. Miles in pajamas--all six foot seven and three hundred pounds of him--was an unnatural sight. And considering my night up to that moment, that was saying a lot.

"You've got to be kidding me," Miles said, rubbing his face.

"I'm sorry, Miles."

"What
time
is it?"

I started to say something.

"It's a rhetorical question. I have a clock. What I mean is, what the fuck?"

"Miles," I said, "we need to get inside."

That surprised him.

"Miles, I'm in trouble . . ."

He studied me. I watched it dawn on him.

"You didn't," he said softly.

"Miles, I--"

"You
didn't,
" he said.

I couldn't say anything. I just nodded.

"Damn it,"
he shouted, and his voice thundered down the hall.

"Miles, we have to get inside . . ."

"IT DOESN'T MATTER," he shouted at me. I saw a look in his eyes, one that I hadn't seen in years. It was the look he used to get in debate matches. The one that said
I'm going to destroy you.
Forget his size. Forget his mass. That
look
was why they called him The Beast.

"I warned you," he growled. "I told you not to mess with them. Didn't I? You didn't listen.
Goddamn
it. What did you
do
?"

I started to explain, but he talked over me.

"You came
here
?"

I paused. I hadn't thought about that.

"You fucked up and then you come
here
?"

"Miles, no one followed me."

"How do you know? You don't know
anything.
"

He smacked the door with his massive fist.

"I could send you away right now. You haven't told me anything. I could shut the door right now."

"Miles, I don't know what to do."

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his face.

"Fuck,"
he said.
"Fuck."
He slammed the wall and I felt it shudder.

He walked inside, but he left the door open. I followed him and locked us in.

He sat on the futon. The old thing groaned under him. He rubbed his face with both hands. He took several giant breaths. Some of the angry flush went out of his cheeks. When he spoke, he was calmer.

"It was Chance, right? You and Chance met up again."

I hesitated, then said yes.

He nodded a couple of times to himself. The heaving of his massive shoulders slowed.

"It was a mistake, putting you two together. I thought I could control it. It's my mistake." He rubbed his neck. "It's okay," he said finally. "You're frightened. It's okay."

"No. I shouldn't have come."

He shook his head.

"I know you
and
I know Chance. I'm the connection. They would've put it together anyway."

"Miles," I said. "I'm really scared."

He looked at me, and the beast was gone from his eyes. They were calm again, philosopher's eyes--warm, wrinkled at the corners.

"Scared," he said, nodding. "That's a good start."

We called Chance. No answer.

"We need to go over there," I said. "He might be in trouble."

"Slow down. We need a plan first or you're going to get us all killed."

"We should call the cops," I said. "Tell them everything. It's the only way."

Miles smiled at me, and it was an annoying, patronizing smile.

"Jeremy, these aren't the kind of people you just report to the police. Or the FBI, MI6, Sydney Bristow, or Batman, for that matter."

"Then
what
?"

Miles picked up a Rubik's Cube from the table, smacked it down hard, then started pacing and fiddling with it. It was a nervous habit that went back to childhood. His dad had given him his first cube on his tenth birthday. Whenever he had a problem to solve, Miles would pick up the cube and start fidgeting with it.

It seemed so simple. Just nine squares on a side. In high school, Miles used to tell me there were forty-three quintillion possible configurations of the cube: forty-three followed by
eighteen
zeros. The Earth would fall into the sun before our fastest computers could find the best solution for every position.

It begged the question: how could something so simple get so screwed up?

He sighed.

"You're in a bad position. You know enough to be in trouble, but not enough to protect yourself."

"What does that
mean
?"

"Think about it. A secret can get you killed, but it can also save your life."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

Miles glared at me. "
You
came to
me
."

"I know. I'm sorry. But you did sound like a cookie, a little."

"Yeah, well try this one on for size: there's only one way to kill a shadow."

He looked at me without a trace of humor.

"How's that?"

"Turn on the light."

Miles outlined a plan. I would find Humpty Dumpty and get him to tell me everything he could about the V&D, as quickly as possible. We would document everything in writing, make copies, and address them to all sorts of people--reporters, investigators, conspiracy theorists, anyone we could think of. Then, we'd seal those envelopes in larger envelopes and send them to Miles's most trusted friends at big law firms. Firms that knew about offshore accounts and information that had to be invisible yet accessible. Miles would reach out to them quietly, informally. They would never even know what the information was about. They would just know that if something happened to us, they were to open the envelope and drop the package inside in the mail. That was the leverage: we would live in a precarious balance, like Schrodinger's cat; the information would exist and not exist, and everyone could go on living. I had no idea if the plan would work, if it even made
sense
. But I couldn't think of anything better. And I was so tired, so scared, that I grabbed on to it like the revealed word of God.

"Now," Miles said, slipping into a sweater. "Who else have you been with since the night at the plant?"

I felt my heart stop.

Sarah.

I went to see Humpty Dumpty. I had no idea where he lived, but the last time I saw him, he could barely walk. My gut told me I'd find him passed out in his office chair at the library. If he made it that far.

I called Sarah and begged her to meet up with Miles. She sounded tired and confused, but I managed to convince her. She had no idea what was going on, and when she did, she would probably hate me, but at least she'd be safe. That was good enough for now. There was a sick feeling in my throat that kept pulsing:
you did this.
But I swallowed it down. Right now, I was the investigator. Humpty had reached out to me. I was the one he would talk to. I had a job to do.

The library was open twenty-four hours, but it was after midnight on a Sunday, and it was deserted when I got there. I kept my hat low and tried not to look over my shoulder too much.

I headed for the administrators' wing: forsaken on a busy night and now positively gravelike.

There was a soft light under the door of Humpty's office. A good sign. The nameplate announced
ARTHUR PEABODY, HEAD TUTOR OF LEGAL METHOD
.

I knocked softly.

No response.

I knocked again.

Nothing.

I tried the door.

It was unlocked. I slipped into the room. I saw the dome of Humpty's head over the back of the chair. A few liver spots. Some wisps of white hair.

"Mr. Peabody?"

Nothing.

"Mr. Peabody?"

Passed out, I thought. I wondered if I could rouse him.

Then I heard it.

A soft, gurgling noise. I thought of a child blowing bubbles in milk with a straw.

Oh, no
.

What was it? Was he choking on his own vomit, like a drummer in a rock band? Or something else . . .

No
.

I pushed the thought out of my head and walked closer.

The office was perfectly silent, except for that faint gurgling noise. I was suddenly slapped across the face by the sound of a clock chime.

I jumped, let out a nervous little laugh, and kept walking.

Still no movement from Humpty.

"Mr. Peabody?"

I got close enough to touch his chair.

I reached my hand out. My fingers were trembling.

The chair wheeled around slowly as I pulled on the leather arm.

Arthur Peabody was holding his neck. Rivers of blood spilled through his fingers.

"Oh my God."

I grabbed for the phone on his desk. He caught my arm and squeezed it.

"No," he hissed.

"I'm calling 911."

He tried to shake his head. With every turn, the river between his fingers surged.

"Please," he whispered.

I could barely hear him. His fingers clawed into my arm. He was trying to pull me in. He whispered into my ear.

"Now or later . . . they'll . . . get me . . ." he wheezed.

"I can protect you."

When I saw his face, I knew what he thought of that.

". . . let it . . . happen . . ."

"Please. I can't."

His mouth worked in my ear.

"I missed . . . my . . . chance."

"Chance for what?"

His mouth felt wet. Pink froth appeared at the corners.

". . . not . . . dying . . ."

His whole body started to shake. His lips were turning blue. His eyes were fading. They were distant, blind. I was losing him.

"Please, Arthur, I need your help."

He made wild, incoherent noises. His eyes rolled back in his head.

"
Please
. Tell me something.
Anything
."

His life was spilling out all over me. The desk was rapidly turning dark red in an expanding pool.
I needed his help
.
Now.

"Arthur say, something."

Just hissing; twitching muscles.

I had a vivid memory. In the hallway. The day Bernini fired me. Peabody said something about a joke. Bernini was furious.

--Why don't you tell him the joke?

--Enough. Remember your deal
.

That
meant
something to him. Something
important
.

"Arthur, listen to me. What was the joke? The one Bernini didn't want me to hear?" I shook him hard.
"The joke, Arthur."

For a split second, his eyes seemed to focus. The memory pulled him back.

"The joke . . ." he whispered.

"Yes. YES. The joke. Tell me."

He started moaning. His eyes rolled back up--all I could see was white, the tiny delicate veins.

"What's the joke?"
I shouted, cupping his face and pushing my nose into his.

He was moving his lips, just the last echoes of a memory. Mindless. Gone.

I pushed my ear right against his foaming mouth.

". . . if . . . you . . . want to . . . know . . . about the V and D . . ."

"YES?
YES
?"

". . . look . . . at . . . it . . . with . . . four . . . eyes . . ."

And then his stare went blank, and the gurgling stopped.

Arthur Peabody was dead.

I couldn't stop shaking. A man had just died right in front me. Someone who'd risked his life to help me. Whatever they were up to, Humpty had found the courage--at the very end of his life, in his own crazy way--to turn on them.

Except that now he was facedown in a pool of blood on his desk, and I didn't know
anything
--except a stupid childish riddle with no answer. What now?

I rendezvoused with Miles at a seedy motel on the outskirts of town, the one families never used on Parents Weekend. Miles had paid in cash and used a fake ID from the bowels of his wallet, a vestige from his college days. Lenny Wurzengord, it said. Miles had been so proud of it back then. He even wrote me a letter explaining his genius: no one would ever suspect it was a fake ID, because no one on earth would
choose
to be called Lenny Wurzengord.

I knocked on the door to room 18 and prayed Sarah would be in there. Seeing Humpty Dumpty had pulled back the last curtain between myself and death, which frankly had never seemed that scary to a young guy who lived in his parents' basement. But now it wasn't a concept anymore. It was red and sticky and all over my hands. One more night sleeping in the Dead Man's room and
I
would've been the one gurgling and grabbing my throat.

Sarah was there, sitting at a small table, next to a stack of papers--Miles's first attempt at writing everything down for our protection. For a second she looked relieved to see me, like I was there to tell her it was all a joke. Then her eyes went wide. She stared at my arms, which were spattered with Humpty Dumpty's blood. She ran to me and turned my hands over and over, looking for a wound to fix. She asked me what was going on. I tried to explain, but everything came out jumbled. I kept apologizing. More than once she said, "But I don't know anything about this."