The Little Black Box

by K. J. Gillenwater

  “It’s true, Candace, we don’t know where it came from.” Paula prayed Candace believed her.

  Larry spoke up, “I scanned the barcode, and it doesn’t come up as part of the study. Have you heard anything about other AIM devices? Maybe something being used on a different project?”

  Candace’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened into a little ‘o.’ Paula thought she was finally listening to them. Miss Follow-the-rules-if-it-kills-you was going to listen to what they had to say.

  For a split second, Candace froze. Then, she darted for the phone.

  “Candace, no!” Larry dashed across the room like a linebacker ready to sack his opponent.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Larry took a flying leap at the petite researcher and crashed into Candace as she dialed. He sent them both skidding into the rows of metal shelving. Black boxes, wiring, and circuit boards rained down on their tangled bodies.

  From out of the heap of plastic and wires, Larry’s booming voice got her moving. “Get that box out of here!”

  Paula snatched the black box and bolted out of the lab. The glass door opened with a bang. She slammed into the janitor who mopped the hallway floor.

  “Watch where you’re going, lady!”

  She stumbled down the hallway and pressed the down button on the elevator. She glanced over her shoulder. Larry and Candace disentangled themselves from the mess on the floor. Candace’s face flamed red in anger.

  The elevator doors opened.

  Was Candace involved somehow? Or was she just a suspicious rules follower? The shocked look when Larry told her the barcode didn’t match—it was as if she was surprised someone found it out.

  ***

  With one hand on the steering wheel, Paula pressed the speed dial on her cell phone for Will’s number. She checked her rearview mirror to make sure no one followed her.

  The phone rang twice before Will picked up.

  “Will, listen to me. I think I might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “Did you get caught with the box?” His voice was edged with concern. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my car headed home. Listen, the box isn’t what we think it is. Larry couldn’t find it in their records. The black box I have doesn’t exist...at least not according to the AIM project. I don’t know what I have.” She glanced over at the black box sitting on the passenger’s seat.

  “You aren’t making any sense. Where would it have come from?”

  “I don’t know.” She slowed for a stoplight. “Remember that girl in the lab?”

  “Candace?”

  “Yeah.” Sitting still at the light shredded Paula’s nerves. She locked her door and waited anxiously for it to turn green. “She saw the box and tried to call someone. I think she knows something. I think she might be in on this.”

  “If Candace knows, it won’t be long before Professor Pritchard knows. I’m sure he has your home address somewhere.”

  Will was right. She couldn’t run home, lock the door, and hide. The professor would want his box back. “So where should I go?”

  “Meet me at my apartment. Do you think Candace suspects we’re working together?”

  “Well, she saw us yesterday—” The light changed. Paula pressed on the gas. She felt safer being on the move.

  “Okay, let’s do this: You drive over to my place. Wait for me across the street. Then, I’ll make sure the coast is clear before I bring you upstairs.”

  “And then what?”

  “We’ll think everything through. Put together a plan.”

  “I can’t hide forever, Will. By Monday, we have to have something prepared to take to the dean.”

  “Do you think he knows what the professor is doing?”

  Paula thought for a moment. “I wonder if we can track down that research assistant, the one who left over the summer. What was her name?”

  “Kathleen Smith. The one whose job you got?”

  “Yes. You said she worked pretty closely with Pritchard during the animal part of the study.”

  “Yep. You think she might be able to tell us something?”

  “It’s worth a shot. Maybe we can track her down, interview her, and find out what kinds of modifications they made to the boxes back then.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Will sounded much more confident than she felt.

  They decided to meet in an hour. Will didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, so he would stay in the office until most of the faculty had gone for the day.

  When she parked across from Will’s apartment complex, the feeling someone was following her faded. The approaching shadows of early evening crept across the hood of her car. To combat the heavy silence, she cranked up the radio. She had it tuned to the campus station.

  “...Today’s fire at Stewart Hall is still being investigated by the local fire department. A body pulled from the scene has not been officially identified, but a witness claimed seeing a female university student douse herself with gasoline and set herself on fire, causing the blaze...”

  Paula froze. Her thoughts jumped to Lark. Maybe she had been remiss in not worrying more about the box’s effects. What if even one exposure pushed Lark over the edge? She had to find her, warn her. How many days did Lark have before she tried to kill herself, too? The painful headaches, the unusually high readings—they were all part of the pattern. A pattern of death had followed in the wake of the black box she had in her possession.

  The tingling began in her arms. She clamped down on the steering wheel, sensing the loss of control over her ability. She willed her mind to stay focused. Drawing on her past success, she thought of the water putting out the flames, and the imaginary brick wall she’d created at home. A drip of sweat trickled down her face.

  “Get it together, Crenshaw.” She closed her eyes and willed the energy building inside her to settle, to dissipate. A rush of coolness ran through her body. The tingling subsided. She’d regained control more quickly this time. She grew better at it. Her telekinetic ability had turned into only an annoying static in the back of her mind.

  Focused and in control, she pulled away from the curb. A Cadillac passing by almost clipped her small car. The driver leaned on his horn to let her know his disapproval.

  Be careful. Take your time. It won’t help anyone, if you get in a wreck.

  She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was six o’clock and getting darker by the minute. Was Lark working today? Or would she be at the Bull’s Eye? Or at home? Lark’s studio was only a few minutes from here. The tattoo parlor and the bar were several miles further. First, she’d try the apartment.

  She snatched up her cell phone and selected Lark’s number. The traffic thickened downtown as people got off work. Her progress had slowed to a crawl.

  “Goddammit!” She braked hard when a van zipped in front of her.

  The phone rang.

  “Pick up, Lark, pick up.”

  While she waited for Lark to answer, she calculated the fastest route through the traffic to her friend’s apartment. She could cut across on Monroe and take the alley by the train tracks. Or she could keep going straight and make a left at the mall. Which would be faster?

  Her heart raced so fast, she couldn’t think straight. With the phone still ringing in her ear, she turned onto Monroe.

  “Lark, where are you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What did you do to me?” the frat boy asked Lark. He peeled off the gauze and tape covering his left arm to show her a crusted, red-and-black scab in the shape of his fraternity’s letters.

  His girlfriend, pretty but dim as a low-wattage bulb, pouted. “Did you give him that flesh-eating virus or whatever? We want our money back.”

  As if the little bimbo had paid for the stupid tattoo. All she’d done was sit in a chair by the front door filing her nails and scrolling through Instagram while her six-foot-two wimp of a boyfriend trembled under Lark’s needle.

  It took more than a half-hour to convinc
e the guy the scabs were completely normal and that they’d be gone in a few days. Just as she’d told him yesterday when she’d handed him the “What to expect...” sheet they gave every tattoo customer.

  Greg’s sister was getting married tomorrow, so he was closing shop earlier than usual to make it to the rehearsal dinner on time. He’d promised it would be an early night for everyone.

  By the time she’d finished reassuring whiner boy his arm wasn’t going to fall off, Greg and the rest of the crew had left for the day. This left her with the hated chore of emptying the garbage in the dumpster and locking up. Usually they took turns. Tonight it was Javier’s turn.

  Screw him for slipping away while she dealt with the dumb frat boy.

  Lark lugged a heavy trash bag to the back of the tattoo parlor and slid a brick doorstop into place. She was petite but strong; however, this particular bag weighed more than an elephant. To get it as far as the back door had robbed what little energy she had left. She dragged the bag several more feet into the alley. It started to rain, drizzle at first, and then larger drops. She heard a crack.

  “Dammit.” She dropped the bag and looked at her newly painted black-and-hot-pink nails. A fingernail had broken off, leaving a ragged tear. Annoyed and wet, she kicked the garbage bag with her steel-toed black boots. The bag split open, spilling coffee grounds, empty soda cans, and hamburger wrappers.

  “Shit.” Of course this would happen. Why did she think her crappy day would get better instead of worse? She kicked the split bag several more times, making an even bigger mess. The rain left her drenched to the skin. After a moment of staring at the destruction and wishing she didn’t have such a volatile temper, she leaned against the wall and yearned for a cigarette. Too bad she’d quit in high school.

  Letting out a long sigh, Lark tucked a lock of wet black hair behind her ear and surveyed the damage. She wouldn’t be going home to her teeny little apartment until she’d picked everything up.

  For some reason, it just got to her. More than it usually would. A dark depression settled over her like a heavy blanket. She hadn’t felt so hopeless since...

  She tugged at the thick leather bands she wore on each wrist and thought about the jagged scars hidden beneath them.

  Stop it, Lark. Just stop it. You’re over that shit.

  She gritted her teeth and slipped back inside the shop. She wouldn’t let her stepfather and the memories of what he did to her sneak back in. She was over that. He was nothing to her anymore.

  She unlocked the supply closet and grabbed a pair of yellow rubber gloves and another black plastic garbage bag. No way she was picking up that nasty trash with her bare hands.

  After she locked the supply closet, she heard the rumble of a truck out in the alley. It sounded as if the new tenants were moving in next door. That space had been up for lease for months. Maybe this time it would be a business that would stay open for more than a few weeks.

  She stepped into the alley, crouched down, and began picking up the loose bits of trash. The rain pounded down.

  God, who put this kind of crap in here?

  Between two gloved fingers, she pinched the edge of a Tupperware container overflowing with mold and chunks of something disgusting. She tossed it into the fresh garbage bag.

  None of this shit better end up on her favorite black leather skirt.

  She moved closer to the dumpster behind the building and picked up the scattered bits of her co-workers’ lunches. She snatched up one last banana peel and hefted the half-full garbage bag, carrying it to the dumpster.

  The moving truck’s gears grinded. She swung the trash bag to get some momentum, then lobbed it into the open dumpster.

  She remembered a night when her stepfather had thrown her across the room, just like she’d thrown the trash. She’d broken an arm, but no one had noticed or cared to take her to the doctor until a week later, when her gym teacher noticed the bruising. For her, life had been one misery after another with very few bright spots. And now, here she was, at twenty-four, working at some scummy tattoo parlor in a barely respectable part of town. Her co-workers consisted of misogynistic slobs and lowlifes who pinched her ass any chance they got.

  What was the point of it all? What was the goddamn fucking point?

  She heard a rushing sound, the sensation of something very large too close behind her. The moving truck backed up toward her.

  She dashed to one side to avoid it. Then a strange thought entered her head: why not? It would be so simple and everything would be over. No more memories to forget. No more daily drudgery to trudge through. Only darkness and quiet and no more pain.

  Lark turned and jumped directly into the path of the truck.

  The huge rear bumper crushed her up against the dumpster.

  Lark felt no pain, only an impossible pressure on her lower half, like a tick being squeezed between two fingers. The sensation moved as fast as lightning up her body until her head felt as if it was about to burst open.

  Without really thinking, she looked down at the silver metal bisecting her. No longer could she feel her legs. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if there was any blood. But there must be. Or was that rain dripping down?

  Her vision dimmed, and she wondered if Greg would find her body the next morning in pieces. Like the garbage she’d kicked all over the alley.

  Just like the garbage.

  She smiled at that last thought.

  Wouldn’t that be a joke?

  Then the darkness sucked her in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pick up, Lark. Pick up.

  Paula held her cell phone to her ear while she navigated the poorly paved alley that followed the abandoned train tracks.

  She needed to warn Lark now. Before it was too late. She pressed down on the gas pedal. The car shifted into a higher gear. Up ahead, a light changed from green to yellow. She glanced at her speedometer. It inched toward sixty. Heaven help her if she missed that light.

  Now only a few blocks away from Lark’s apartment, she hoped to God she wasn’t too late.

  Lark’s voicemail picked up.

  “Lark? Where are you? You need to call me back. I’ll be at your place in a few minutes. Don’t go anywhere. Wait for me. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

  She ended the call and dialed again.

  Why wasn’t she answering?

  The first pinpricks of rain hit her windshield and obscured the view of the road. She flipped on her wipers, and the rubber blades swept the droplets away. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Though her foremost thoughts were about Lark, the back of her mind caught the smeared reflection of streetlights on the windshield, and she remembered.

  Another night many years ago when it rained. But it had been a driving rain, the kind that was so thick, so intense, her father had to drive more slowly, pay closer attention to the road. And he had. She knew he had. He hadn’t been driving too fast or recklessly. Not like the police told her Aunt Joanne.

  “Mommy? Where are you?”

  It was dark. She couldn’t see. Where was she? What happened?

  She remembered being at the school play, The Wizard of Oz. Her fifth grade teacher had chosen her to play the cowardly lion. Paula was anything but cowardly—she climbed the highest on the jungle gym, leapt off the swing at the height of its arc, performed cherry drops from the bars with her arms behind her back. Playing a coward was a big stretch for the outgoing eleven-year-old, but she did her best.

  Mom and Dad had been so proud. Paula could tell by the tears in her mother’s eyes when she’d picked her up back stage after the performance.

  “You were wonderful, honey.” Her mother’s warm hand had rested on Paula’s dark, curly head.

  Then, they were in the car, rain pouring down in buckets. Peter was at home with strep throat. Earlier that evening he’d seemed grateful for his illness. That had made her mad. It was her special play. Peter should be there.

  Paula’s eyes drooped.
The hard drum of rain on the roof sounded like a waterfall, and she drifted into semi-consciousness. But the anger lingered.

  In her mind’s eye—with her trick, her secret trick—she could see that Peter was fine. Instead of lying in bed, he was watching TV and eating his second bowl of ice cream. Peter was bad. A bad brother. He’d lied to her parents and lied to her.

  The pressure built behind her eyes, and the tingling shot down her arms and into her fingertips.

  Peter had lied.

  Her hands shook, and blood rushed to her brain. She felt funny. Light-headed. But powerful. Very, very powerful. The power surged out of her in an invisible wave.

  The car made a sickening lurch to the left. Her mother gasped. The tires squealed as her father overcorrected, sending the car spinning to the right.

  It happened too fast for Paula to think. The car rolled, sending her upside-down, then right-side-up, then upside-down again.

  She was going to be sick.

  Her mother screamed.

  Paula woke up in the back of the upside-down car against the rear window glass, trying to remember what happened. How did she end up pressed against the back window? The rain thundered down outside. She looked down at her costume and noticed a huge splotch of blood across the front. Her costume was ruined. Her mother would be angry. She had spent weeks piecing and sewing the heavy fabric together.

  Where was her mom? She could see nothing but the smashed-in roof of the car, blocking her view of the front seats.

  “Mommy?” Her voice was nothing more than a squeak.

  An acrid smell filled her nose. The dark interior of the inverted car made it difficult to see, but she recognized the odor instantly—smoke! The car was on fire.

  She scrambled to the door and tried to force open the bent, twisted metal. The handle snapped off. Pounding her hand against the glass, the tears poured down her cheeks.

  “Mommy? Mommy, I can’t get out,” she choked out. Black roils of smoke filled the back of the car. She heard coughing coming from the front seats but couldn’t see anything. The heat grew intense, unbearable. She screamed and scratched at the door and the window. She searched hopelessly for a crack or an opening.