The Little Black Box

by K. J. Gillenwater

  “Oh.” Will spoke with the caution of a mouse about to snap a particularly nasty trap. “I hope you don’t mind, but he invited me over, too.”

  Her thoughts became muddled with that revelation. “He what?”

  “I thought it would be nice. He said his wife was making chicken pot pie,” Will said meekly. “I kind of like chicken pot pie—”

  Tiredness settled in her bones. “Yes, it probably would be nice. You should go.”

  Will was her only friend in the department, and Peter wanted to take that away from her. Well, let him. Let him tell Will what a selfish mess of a person she was. How she cared about no one but herself.

  Maybe Peter never criticized her in so many words, but he was thinking it. She’d seen the disappointment in his gaze, the grim acceptance his sister was beyond redemption. He might not say the words, but he sure as hell was thinking them.

  “All right, I will.” Will lingered in the doorway.

  Paula sighed. He sounded so forlorn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take out my problems on you. My brother and I have been on the outs for years.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go to dinner at his house last week?”

  She’d almost forgotten he’d overheard the phone message the other day. “Yeah, pretty childish, huh?”

  A wry grin peeked out from under his moustache. “Siblings aren’t always the easiest people to get along with. I should know, I’ve got two sisters.”

  This was the first she’d heard any details about Will’s family. She couldn’t imagine him flanked by sisters. With his shaggy hair and rumpled clothes, she’d imagined one day he’d reveal he’d been raised by wolves. “So you were the spoiled only son?”

  A humorous glint appeared in his eyes. “Could I help it? Being so cute and all?”

  Paula had to admit he had kind eyes and, she suspected under all those slouching, sloppy clothes, there could be a pretty nice body hiding.

  Unexpectedly, warmth blossomed inside her. “Well, I guess if you’re willing to face the judgment of God’s servant than I can be brave, too. One o’clock on Sunday?” Even as she spoke the words, she wished her life were different. She wished a connection like this had the possibility for something more.

  “One o’clock.” He smiled his friendly smile once more. “Hey, why don’t I pick you up, and we could go together? He gave me directions, but I’m not sure if I can find the place by myself.”

  Although she knew better than to think it might work, she couldn’t resist. “Why don’t you pick me up around twelve-thirty?” Will’s friendly, easy ways and his corny jokes made her long for the closeness a more intimate relationship might bring. But she fooled herself to believe she had a chance.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  But not like a date. It could never be a real date.

  Nerves twisted her stomach in knots. Time to bail. “I’ve got an appointment with the professor. Don’t want to make him wait—”

  “Sure.” He moved to make room for her to pass. “Twelve-thirty on Sunday.”

  “Yep.”

  As Paula walked down the hall to Professor Pritchard’s office, she thought about Will with his green eyes, full of kindness and too many questions.

  ***

  “Dammit! You can’t mean that, Phil.” Dr. Pritchard’s voice echoed into the hallway. “We’re almost finished with the project. Just three more weeks, and we’ll have all the data we need to—”

  Minerva Caldwell’s chair sat empty, but a Styrofoam cup with steaming liquid sat on the desk. She couldn’t be far.

  Paula knocked on Dr. Pritchard’s half-open door, anxious to get the meeting over with. She hated to interrupt his phone call.

  The professor, a cell phone to his ear, beckoned her inside.

  He returned to his leather chair and spun it away from her to face the windows while he continued his conversation. “I understand you have some misgivings about the latest results of the project but believe me when I tell you that your money won’t be wasted. You know what this project can do for your organization. And you’d be on the ground floor, Phil—the ground floor.”

  Paula sympathized with Dr. Pritchard and his concerns about funding. Over the last couple of years, he’d put his eggs all in one basket. He so strongly believed in the applications for his AIM device, that he’d been willing to drop other promising research in order to pursue it.

  But imagine the money he could make if the AIM worked. He’d be set for life, could fund his own research, and would have to answer to no one.

  “Trust me, Phil. I am this close to proving my theories.” He gripped the phone so hard, his knuckles turned white. After a few moments, his hand relaxed. “You won’t regret it. In three weeks’ time, you’ll see.”

  He spun his chair around. “I hope you have some good news for me. Tell me that the box was sitting right next to a high-definition TV or something.”

  Sitting in front of Dr. Pritchard always made her feel small, like a mouse just waiting for a cat to pounce. Through the open door she could hear the buzz of a distant buffer polishing the hallway tile. “To be honest, I think there are some problems with the boxes. Fundamental problems.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You think there are ‘problems’?” He crossed his arms and leaned back.

  The sound of the repetitive sweep of the buffer grew weaker. “I do.”

  “And since when are you such an expert on my AIM device?” He emphasized ‘my’ by grinding it out between his teeth.

  Under his gaze, she felt awkward, stupid, out of her league. To support her theory, however, she’d have to confess to Lark using the box—a box he didn’t know she had, and she didn’t want to give back quite yet. How would Professor Pritchard react to her having shared his precious box with an outsider? Someone not even involved in the study? From the look on his face, revealing the truth probably wouldn’t be wise.

  “I’m not claiming to be an expert, but something strange is going on.” She took a deep breath to calm her unsteady nerves. “Did you know that two of the three students I visited this week have committed suicide?”

  Professor Pritchard’s face didn’t change expression.

  “Suicide. Don’t you think that’s rather coincidental?” Paula could hear her voice become thinner and thinner, her feelings of inadequacy growing by the second. “I mean, what if this box had something to do with it?”

  He snorted. “What could my AIM device have to do with two students killing themselves? It’s a box that read auras.” He rubbed his knuckles across his chin. “Maybe I chose the wrong person to help me sort this out. I thought you could be low-key about this, ask questions without raising suspicions. But perhaps I made a mistake.”

  She cringed at his words. Her assistantship was in jeopardy for sure. “I don’t know.” She wished he would listen to her, think about what she was telling him. “I just know something is not right here, Professor. All of them complained of horrible headaches when using the boxes over the last week.” She leaned forward. No matter how scared she was of Dr. Pritchard, she had to let him know how serious her concerns were. “Did you know that? Headaches. Blindingly painful headaches. Would some innocent box that does nothing more than read your aura be able to cause pain like that? How do you know something isn’t fundamentally wrong with these boxes? What kinds of risks are you exposing them to?”

  He rolled his chair back. “Headaches? You come to me about some headaches and a couple of suicides? Where are the facts? Where is the proof that any of this is related?”

  “I’m not wrong.” She hated that she could hear a tremble in her voice.

  “And why are you so sure?”

  “I feel it in my gut. Something’s not right here. You need to recall the boxes.”

  “You’ve got to be joking.” He let a slight smile mar his serious face. “You hardly know anything about the project and now you’re telling me how to run it?” He ran a hand through his graying hair and turned toward the windows.<
br />
  Did she see a nervous tremor in his hand just now?

  She took a guess. “What happened with the mice?”

  He said nothing. She’d hit on something. “What happened during the animal trials? What aren’t you telling me? What aren’t you telling all of your subjects?”

  “Get out. Get out of my office, now.”

  She sat for a moment, unwilling to bend. Professor Pritchard kept his back to her, his fists clenching and unclenching. His body was one big ball of tense energy. She opened her mouth to press her point, to tell him that people’s lives may be at risk.

  “Get. Out.” He snarled at her, like a caged animal might when prodded one too many times. This man sounded capable of more than just firing her for insubordination.

  A knock broke the tension.

  “Professor?” Candace, the lab rat who’d interrupted them the other day, pushed open the door. “I’m having some trouble with the adjustments you wanted. Do you have a moment?” She pressed her thick, oversized glasses against her nose and blinked at Paula. Her presence seemed to confuse the lab assistant.

  The professor ignored Paula. “There’s nothing here that needs my attention. Let’s go to the lab, and you can show me exactly what you’re talking about.” He glided right past Paula and followed Candace into the hallway. “Ms. Caldwell, can you please lock up behind me?”

  He threw a few parting words over his shoulder. “Meet me in my office tomorrow morning, Ms. Crenshaw. We’ll discuss this further.”

  In other words, Paula was probably going to be fired.

  Her mind reeled with random thoughts about the project, Lark, her job. She thought she’d done the right thing by coming to Professor Pritchard, but where did that get her?

  The professor’s whole effort seemed focused on making the AIM device work, no matter the consequences. His phone conversation revealed he was more concerned about keeping his source of funding happy, even if the true results were buried. Craig and Sam would be swept under the rug. They never finished the entire project, so their results would be tossed. And Bianca? He’d probably find a way to kick her from the program for non-compliance.

  If it were just an issue of manipulating results, she might’ve been able to turn a blind eye or walk away from the project without churning up any opposition. But two students had died. What if something more serious was going on? The professor should at least halt the project and look into the possibility of medical complications for certain individuals. What if the device interfered with the subject’s electrical impulses? Screwed up his brain? Caused synapses to short out or function erratically?

  She had to get her hands on the abnormal results from all three students. That way, she could compare them to the data she already had from Lark’s session with the box. But how would she get that kind of information?

  Will might help. If she told him her suspicions, would he be willing to listen? She thought he knew someone in Data Processing, plus he worked with the compiled data to produce his statistical reports.

  It was her only shot.

  “Ahem.” Ms. Caldwell appeared in the doorway, a ring of keys in her hand. “I need to lock up, if you don’t mind.”

  ***

  Will tacked up a new printout from one of the Internet news sites he visited regularly. He’d created different sections on his “Wall of Weird,” as he called it. He had a section for ‘Strange But Useful’ information, a section for ghost and spirit sightings, another for UFO reports. The bottom left-hand corner, though, had a neater appearance.

  Man Survives Lightning Strike on Municipal Golf Course.

  Paula watched from the doorway. Will stared at the article for a moment. He grabbed a highlighter and inked some of the words. Seeming satisfied with the end result, he turned back to his computer.

  “Will, can I ask you for some help?”

  “Uh-huh?” He clicked around on his computer screen.

  “Hey, my face is over here.” She spun his office chair in her direction.

  He sighed and set his jaw. He must have suspected she wouldn’t let him get any work done—professional or personal—until he heard her out. “All right, what can I help you with?”

  “I need access to the data records.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What data records?”

  “The data records of three subjects in the study: Craig Peters, Sam Gunderson, and Bianca.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a minute.” He knew, like everyone else in the department, the importance of masking the identities of each subject for the entirety of the project.

  “I think the professor is doing something unethical, and I need your help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he knows that some of the devices are harming subjects, causing them to commit suicide.”

  “You’re insane. The box reads electrical impulses. It’s a receiver. That’s it.” When he attempted to spin his chair back around, Paula held him in place.

  “You have to believe me. I’ll admit that I’m no expert, but after meeting with some of the subjects—” She needed his help. Otherwise, she’d hit a dead end. “My gut is telling me something isn’t right.”

  “Your gut?”

  “Will, listen, okay? If you think I’m crazy or a liar or stupid, I’ll understand, but I need you to hear this. I need someone who doesn’t have an agenda to hear this. I just got back from Pritchard’s office…”

  “And since you’re talking to me about this, let me just assume he thought your idea was a load of sh—”

  “He won’t listen to me.” Her stomach bottomed out. She grew queasy.

  “What makes you think I will?”

  “There have been three cases of reporting anomalies.” It all came out in a rush. She’d unload all the evidence she had, and either he’d see the same things she saw, or he wouldn’t. What else could she do? Who else could she turn to? “All three students complained of headaches while using the box.”

  “Headaches? Come on, Paula—”

  “And now two of those students are dead.”

  He stared at her. “Dead?”

  “Yes. They both committed suicide within hours of my visits with them.” She knew she gave him very little to go on, but she hoped he might have enough curiosity to help her dig for more concrete evidence.

  “What kind of information are you looking for?”

  He was going to help her. Thank God.

  She repeated her earlier list, “I want to see the data from these three students: Craig Peters, Sam Gunderson, and Bianca Hines. Subject numbers 22, 125, and 85.” She wrote their names and subject numbers on a sticky note pad and handed it to Will. “I’ve already got the journal entries, but I want to see if—” She stopped. She’d almost told Will she wanted to see if these three students had readings as high as Lark’s.

  “If what?”

  “If they had similar readings.” Her thoughts focused on Lark. What did Paula get her friend involved in?

  “I know someone in the lab—Larry McAllister.” Will looked at the list she’d handed him. “We had Intro to the Paranormal a few years ago. I might be able to convince him that I need those specific records. It’s going to take some finagling to get the information without a lot of questions.”

  Paula’s hope must’ve have been echoed in her expression. He picked up his phone and dialed an extension.

  “Hey, Larry? It’s Will. Can you do a favor for me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” Will said.

  He and Paula headed to the stairwell and the fifth floor, which housed the lab.

  “Shoot.” Paula trailed behind him.

  “What was your undergrad degree?” Their steps echoed in the closed stairwell. “Most of us in the program came to Blackridge to study Paranormal Science from the very beginning. But I don’t remember you in any of my classes.”

  “I majored in Psychology.”

  “P
sychology?” He waited on the landing while she caught up to him. “All that Freudian theory get to you after a while?”

  “You could say that.” Little did he know, she’d only studied psychology hoping to find answers for herself. When she’d come up empty-handed and had exhausted all of the accepted sciences to explain her unusual problem, she’d turned to the Paranormal Department. “Psychology and Paranormal Science are intimately linked if you think about it.”

  “Is that right?” When they reached the fifth floor, Will held the door open for her.

  “Both fields delve into the human mind to find out what makes it tick. Psychology deals more with the tangible, Paranormal Science with the intangible.”

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  Paula paused. “I almost didn’t make it into the program.” She’d never shared that with anyone before.

  “Oh?”

  “In June I got a rejection letter. Then, Ms. Caldwell called me up at the beginning of August. Someone dropped from the program, and a research position opened up.”

  Will nodded. “Kathleen Smith.”

  “I think that was her name. Anyway, when she dropped, I took her spot.”

  “I always thought that was weird, what happened with Kathleen. She worked with the professor over the summer. She was one of the few seniors who’d worked as a T.A. for Dr. Pritchard last year. In fact, she helped with the lab write-up for the animal portion of the AIM study.”

  They headed down the hall toward the lab. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, we all thought she was sort of the teacher’s pet. He wouldn’t let anyone touch those mice except for her and Candace.”

  Paula fleetingly thought about Candace and her interruptions when she’d been with Dr. Pritchard. “How long did they test the box on mice?”

  “Two years.”

  “Wow, and this Kathleen person helped him the whole time?”

  “I don’t remember, to tell you the truth. Most of the higher-level courses I took back then were with Dr. Raiman and Dr. Glick. I didn’t spend a lot of time near the labs.”