The Violet Crow (10 page)

As he left the green, the people assumed a more sober, businesslike manner. Crossing 34
^th
Street, he saw the biotech building, an ultramodern facility named after one of the pharmaceutical giants. Interesting coincidence? He wondered if Dr. Jurevicius or Dr. Fischer might have some connection here?

The Palestra struck out, as did Franklin Field. The fighting Quakers were nothing after all.

Crossing South Street, he spotted a building that looked like a temple with a rectangular fountain in front. Gazing at the murky water, Bruno realized it'd be good to make a pit stop before getting on the train back to Jersey.

He entered the building and found himself facing a great hall with gigantic statues of Ramses II. He couldn't help but admire the scale and majesty of the art—in spite of its despicable origin. Ramses was the pharaoh who enslaved the Jews. He enslaved his own people too. Well, God punished him, didn't he? Bruno thought back to countless Seders and tried to remember the list of plagues. What were they? Locusts. Death of the firstborn. Boils. Night. That was four. Murrain—he only remembered that one because he could never remember what it was. Five to go.
I Love Lucy
reruns. Beef liver. Wife shopping at Bloomingdale's when there's a big sale at Macy's. Pants too tight. And of course, mother-in-law moves in—permanently.

Bruno approached Ramses defiantly. “
Mazel tov, alter kocker—
you old fart—you're still famous, but so what? You should've stayed in the smaller house, the one with all the stairs and no extra bedroom!”

Then he wandered into the next gallery, feeling rather pleased with himself. The feeling didn't last long. Thinking of mothers-in-law reminded him that he still needed to talk with his niece, Mimi. He wanted to see her, flesh and blood—and it could provide important leads. But her parents continued to put off Chief Black. Finding the victim had been traumatic enough. They couldn't expose Mimi to another interview. And that
shmuck
, Bill McRae, her father was carrying on about his character. Where did he get off feeling so superior? Who gave him the right to judge?

Bruno's indignation led to self-righteousness. Self-righteousness lapsed into sentimentality. And, inevitably, sentimentality devolved into self-pity: Why had this psychic stuff happened to him? He'd give anything to be free of it. It separated him from other people. His wife. His job. Look at him. Alone. Friendless. Trapped in a world that no one else could fathom or share.

Fortunately, this reverie was interrupted by a small, roundish figure in a uniform, with a walkie-talkie parroting amplified static from his belt.

“Huh?” said Bruno, not understanding what the man was saying to him.

“I get lonely here at night sometimes,” the guard drawled in an accent that was a dead ringer for Peter Lorre's. “But I never get scared.”

“Scared. Why should you get scared?” asked Bruno. He tried keeping his cheeks sucked in while he spoke to see if he could reproduce the guard's creepy manner of speaking. But he quickly abandoned the attempt. One Peter Lorre was enough.

The guard gestured toward the display cases. Bruno's self-absorption had been so complete, he hadn't noticed they were in the Gallery of Mummies. “A virtual necropolis,” panted the guard, reading the sign on the wall. No less than half a dozen mummies, in various stages—wrapped, partially wrapped, unwrapped—were on display. Human mummies. Mummified animals. There were also coffins, canopic jars and other paraphernalia of the mummifier's art.

“Would you like me to show you around?” Peter Lorre leered. “I've heard the tour so many times, I can easily give it myself.”

Before Bruno could protest, the guard launched into his explanation. “It takes 70 days to make a mummy. First you remove the internal organs. Except the heart,” he gestured at Bruno's chest, “… and the brain.” He touched Bruno's forehead. “Then you put the body in a bed of natron, which is a kind of salt that's only found in Egypt. Finally, you anoint the body with oil and spices.”

“Sounds like making lox,” Bruno joked. But the guard ignored him.

“The priests would pray and place golden amulets on the body. Then they'd begin wrapping the mummy in linen bandages.”

“
Shmattes
,” interrupted Bruno. “I'm expert in ancient Semitic languages and the technical term is
shmatte
.”

Peter Lorre ignored him. “When that was done, they'd place him, or her, in a series of coffins. Why did they do all of this? Because the ancient Egyptians believed that a person was made up of four different elements. Each of these needed a place to reside after death. The Akh goes up to live with the gods. The Ka is the person's vital energy; that's what all this stuff is for, because the Ka needs to keep eating and drinking in the afterlife.” Moving close to Bruno's face, Peter Lorre opened his eyes as wide as they could go. “I guess that's the scary part.” He giggled. “Running into a hungry Ka at night. The Ba is a human-headed bird that goes flying around. And the Ren, of course, is the name that needs to be preserved and repeated.”

Bruno went white. Hearing about the hungry Ka and the flying Ba had struck him with a new idea. “The name needs to be preserved and repeated.” He smacked his fist into his open palm. “Of course. I'm such a
shmegegge
.”

He ran out with the guard following him, yelling, “Hey wait, you haven't seen the mistake carved into the Pharaoh's throne. It's the world's oldest typo.”

Bruno ran all the way to the station. He caught the train back to Jersey, just as the sun's rays turned bright orange in the polluted sky.

Chapter 20

The orange glow also highlighted Alison's hair mousse, making her look exotic beyond her years. Nate Littlejohn invited her into his living room and offered her a single-malt scotch. His apartment was ultra-modern, a bit museum-like with scientific apparati, phrenological heads, straitjackets, stuffed baboons and so forth displayed like art. The walls were painted in dark, masculine colors.
Typical bachelor pad
, thought Alison.

Littlejohn hadn't changed since their meeting earlier in the afternoon and Alison's splendor took him by surprise. “You look lovely tonight. I'm glad you decided to come. Here we can talk without artificial student-teacher roles getting in the way.”

Alison smiled. She was determined to get what she wanted, and if Littlejohn was more comfortable talking in his apartment, so be it. “Thank you, Professor Littlejohn,” she said. “I really need your help.”

“Please, call me Nate,” Littlejohn insisted, adding, “It sounds like you've done something that goes beyond the scope of the assignment?”

“Maybe I did.” Alison feigned innocence for a moment, to get his guard down. Then she let him have it: “To tell the truth, though, I don't see what difference it makes, now that we've dropped our artificial student-teacher roles.”

Littlejohn took a deep breath and started over. He decided to take the high road this time. “Alison, do you remember how Emerson went to visit Thoreau in prison? Emerson says to Thoreau, ‘Why are you here?' And Thoreau answers, ‘Why aren't you?'”

“Sure.
Civil Disobedience
. Thoreau's saying it's a responsibility. That's exactly my point.”

“But Thoreau's in jail.”

“So?”

“You said yourself, you're concerned about legal implications—that's why you want to talk to me.”

“Yeah.”

“But you have to realize, if you talk to me … about something illegal … that will definitely have implications for me … and my job. And I still don't have any idea what this is all about.”

“I figured as the Deviant professor, you must be willing to take some risks. Aren't you a risk-taker, Nate?”

Littlejohn had to admit he liked this brazen tone and he responded in kind. “I guess I prefer Emerson to Thoreau. He spoke his mind, but he still had a comfortable place to live, a steady income and he didn't have to do any jail time. My philosophy is to corrupt from within.”

That was all the encouragement she needed. “I was reading about women in the Third World; they grow most of the food on the planet, did you know that?”

“OK. I'm with you.”

“Traditionally, they grew almost 200 varieties of plants. For thousands of years. Then these giant corporations come along and force them to just grow corn or something stupid like that. They patent crops and make people pay for their own seeds. They're stealing the world's biodiversity and starving people to death. I get so angry about it, I could scream.”

Littlejohn nodded in encouragement.

“So I wanted to do something about it. Something deviant, like you talked about in class.”

Littlejohn frowned but Alison ignored it.

“So my … friend and I, we … er … borrowed this truck and drove out to this … biotech … this awful company in my hometown, just across the river in Jersey that performs terrible genetic experiments. We wanted to sneak in and do something like liberate the lab rats and mice or at least throw rocks through the greenhouse windows.”

“That's very daring,” said Littlejohn. “But I don't remember reading anything about that in the paper. Usually they try to blow up these protests like they're a big deal and call them eco-terrorism.”

“Well, you didn't read about it because it never happened.”

“Ah.”

“Like I told you, we ran into something we didn't expect.”

“Yes. And …” He was getting impatient.

Alison sensed this was the moment of truth. She had to show him the goods or the deal was off. She moved closer and said in the most sincere voice she could manage, “I really need your help, Nate. Because what I witnessed there could make a big difference. It could bring down the company—definitely. But if we handle it right, we might be able to stop the entire industry in its tracks.”

“Sounds unbelievable,” Littlejohn said.

Alison reacted to his obvious lack of enthusiasm. “You aren't taking me seriously.”

“I don't know what to say.” Littlejohn faced her squarely and took a step closer. “You're making some large claims, but you haven't told me your basis for making them.”

“This is important, Nate. I need to know if I can trust you.” She looked him squarely in the eye.

“Alison, you can trust me.” Littlejohn reached out and began kneading the muscles in her neck and shoulders. “I can see you're stressed. And I'm worried it may be affecting your judgment.”

“Don't patronize me!” She wriggled free of his grasp. “What if I told you this was about murder, Nate? Would that be enough to earn your respect? Or would you sneer that I'm just another hysterical freshman?” She was pounding his shoulders as hard as she could, simultaneously, with both hands. “Because that's what they do over there at NewGarden Biosciences, Nate. They kill people. The question is, are you going to help me stop them?”

Littlejohn's mind was racing at top speed. This couldn't be happening: One of his students, involved in a murder while working to fulfill a course requirement. It'd be laughable if it weren't so horrible. It was time to take control of the situation. He caught both her hands so she would stop pounding his chest. “Alison, this is serious. If they really are killing people, why don't you report it to the police?”

Alison's frustration was uncontrollable. “This is supposed to be fucking deviant behavior! No matter how you cut it, calling the cops is not a revolutionary act … and …” she was starting to lose her composure, “… and I'm involved. It wouldn't be safe. I'm afraid of what might happen to me.” She burst into bitter tears again, clearly suffering.

Littlejohn released her wrists and slid his hands up to her shoulders. “You did the right thing coming here, Alison,” he said in his most soothing manner. “I can tell what you need most of all is to relax. Maybe a backrub would help you calm down.”

Alison went numb. She had suspected it might come to this. But, one way or another, she still needed Littlejohn's help—even if it was just an introduction to Nathalie Porthous. She also thought of Thoreau …

The backrub was perfunctory at best, and Alison was soon naked except for the fawn-colored camisole. Littlejohn was only partially undressed as well. He discarded his khakis and outlandishly patterned boxer shorts. But his oxford shirt was pulled up partway, where it acted effectively as a straitjacket. Alison worked away on top of him, her breasts floating a few tantalizing inches from his mouth. She pressed on his shoulders like a wrestler while she ground down with all her weight and strength against his hips.

Just at the moment of climax, Alison pulled away.

“You little bitch!” Littlejohn snarled. “I'll be sure to send you my cleaning bill.” Then he noticed the angry flush mounting from Alison's chest to her face, and he attempted a more tactful retreat. “You know, Alison,
this
is as deviant an act as anything my other students have ever performed. Why don't you write about it for your paper and forget about those other things?”

The callousness of the remark reignited Alison's fury. “Other things!” She grabbed his discarded boxers and tore them in half. “Maybe I should take you to the cleaners, you filthy …”

—“Alison, that just came out horribly wrong. I believe you. I really do.”

She tried to hit him with all her strength. “Liar. Hypocrite. Asshole.”

—“Alison, calm down. I'm on your side. I really am.”

“I won't calm down. I won't calm down. I won't calm down,” she raved in time with each attempt to beat him around the face and chest. “This isn't deviant. This is pathetic. It's routine. It's mainstream. I'm
not
going to write about this …” She gestured toward Littlejohn and the bed.