Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  ‘Look, let’s deal with one issue at a time. For now, that issue is your recovery. The rest, even the thing with Vicki, will wait.’ If only she meant that. If only she could wrap up her anger and hurt, and stuff them into a storage bin.

  ‘No. You. I.’ Or know you I?

  Harper managed to meet his eyes. They were almost black, shining, twinkling at her. How could they twinkle, even now? Did he think their situation was funny? Or maybe it wasn’t a twinkle of laughter. Maybe it was something else, a glower?

  ‘You’re walking well.’ She changed the subject.

  ‘Go. Three. Times. Hall.’

  ‘Really? Three times?’

  He nodded. ‘Now. Six. Will.’

  Wow. Ten days ago, he could barely make it to the nursing station. ‘Soon you won’t need the walker.’

  ‘Now. Not. Need.’ It was true. He was gliding the thing along with his good arm, not leaning on it at all.

  ‘Use it anyhow. Just in case.’

  ‘Soon. Hoppa. Home. Come.’

  Together, they walked up and down the hall three more times, each limping slightly on opposite sides. They talked politely about neutral topics. The endlessly hot weather. Hank’s need for a haircut. No mention of dead students or marital infidelity. The conversation continued tentatively, and Harper was so intent on keeping it neutral that she was out of the clinic and on her way to class before it occurred to her how much Hank was talking or how easy it was to understand what he was trying to say.

  And she was climbing the stairs before what he’d said actually hit her: soon, Hank intended to come home.

  A cop car coasted behind her. Annoying. The cruisers appeared at random times, watching her, making Harper feel invaded, maybe like Iraqis had felt, being watched by her security patrol. She resented the presence of the police. She wasn’t a suspect, didn’t need to be followed. And she was army, able to defend herself. Detective Rivers, though, thought differently, and the cop watched her, making sure she was safe as she made her way to class.

  Class, of course, was pretty empty. Three weren’t there due to death. Only a handful showed. Anna was among the absent. Harper wondered how she was dealing with the news of more dead classmates. She pictured her lying somewhere, trapped in cataplexy.

  ‘Are we having class, Loot?’ Terence raised a muscled arm. ‘Nobody’s here.’

  Wait. Hadn’t he heard? Didn’t he know? Harper drew a breath.

  But Jeremy spoke before she could. ‘We’re all that’s left. Everybody else is fuckin’ dead.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Esoso’s eyes widened. ‘I swear, this class is cursed.’

  ‘We need to talk.’ Harper sat on her desk. ‘But, first, let’s make sure everyone knows what’s happened. Has everyone seen the paper or watched the news?’

  ‘The university sent out an email—’

  Terence’s face was blank. ‘I didn’t look at mine. Not in a couple days. What’s going—’

  ‘Larry and Monique. They’re dead,’ Shaundra wailed.

  ‘Whoa, not funny, Shaun—’ Terence stopped in the middle of her name. He’d turned, was silenced by the stricken look on her face. ‘Damn. For real? They’re dead?’

  ‘First Graham; now them.’ Esoso shook his head. ‘I told you. It’s a curse.’

  Terence looked from classmate to classmate, saw their identical morose expressions. ‘What – they killed themselves, too?’

  As gently as she could, Harper explained that they’d been murdered, omitting any mention of her house. Some students would know that, but she didn’t need to advertise the fact. She did, however, give more information than they’d have heard on the news.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you is not public knowledge yet.’ She’d seen Esoso and Jeremy with Larry at the clinic, so she kept her eyes on them as she continued. ‘The deaths of your three classmates may have been connected to the theft of some experimental drugs from Cayuga Neurological Center, where some of you are research subjects.’

  Esoso’s gaze fell to his desk; Jeremy’s moved slowly to Esoso.

  ‘Whoever took the drugs probably thinks they can be sold and used for recreational purposes. But I’ve learned from a doctor at the Center that the drugs are dangerous. They can have serious, deadly side effects. So if any of you know anything about them – anything about how to get them back – please let me or the police or Dr Kendall at the Center know. You won’t get in trouble. You can make an anonymous call—’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Loot,’ Dustin interrupted, eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think any of us would know about stolen drugs?’

  Harper paused. ‘I don’t. But Graham’s death and Larry and Monique’s murders seem connected to the drugs. And since some of you were close to them, it makes sense that some of you might know something.’ She didn’t look at Esoso or Jeremy.

  ‘What? Being close? That doesn’t mean I’d know anything.’ Terence crossed his arms. ‘I liked to look at Miss Pinkie’s backside, but that doesn’t mean—’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Harper ran a hand across her hair. ‘No one’s accusing anybody of anything. But this is serious. Whoever wants those drugs isn’t messing around. People have been killed. And I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.’

  Silence. Someone shifted in a chair. Someone coughed.

  Someone burst through the door. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Anna stood in the doorway, breathless and harried, carrying a lopsided white-frosted cake. ‘I wanted to bring this.’

  She rushed in, setting the cake on Harper’s desk. Blue icing spelled out ‘Happy Twentieth Birthday, Graham’.

  ‘What’s that?’ Terence was on his feet, eyeing the plate.

  Anna cleared her throat. ‘Today is Graham’s birthday. So my dorm has a kitchen. I baked him a cake.’ She was elated, a bit hyper. She pulled plastic wrap off the cake and the aroma of chocolate and sugar wafted through the room.

  Nobody said anything; they stared at Anna. Or at the cake.

  ‘Well, it’s his birthday. Somebody should remember it.’

  Harper was worried that Anna might collapse; she was breathing shallowly and fast. ‘That was thoughtful of you, Anna.’

  ‘I brought plates.’ Anna reached into her book bag and pulled out a steak knife, paper plates, napkins, even plastic forks. Harper watched, half expecting favors and party hats, too.

  Terence eyed the cake, licking his lips. ‘What is it – vanilla? I love vanilla.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘White chocolate. Graham’s favorite.’

  Harper spoke cautiously. ‘I suppose it’s fitting that, especially on his birthday, we take time to remember Graham. To celebrate his life. And, given what else has happened, we should take some time to think about our other lost classmates, too.’

  Anna paused, crumpling plastic wrap. ‘Other lost classmates?’

  ‘Girl, haven’t you heard?’ Shaundra was amazed. ‘You don’t know about the murders?’

  Anna turned to Shaundra, then to Harper. Then to the cake. ‘Murders?’

  Oh God, Harper thought. Anna didn’t know.

  Shaundra replied, ‘Monique and Larry? They’re dead.’

  Harper stepped to Anna’s side, ready to catch her. Anna’s eyes drifted slowly.

  ‘Terence, come over here. Now.’ Harper used her best command voice, and Terence hopped to attention, not questioning why. Anna’s pale skin had become ashen; her eyes rolled upward.

  As the other students gaped, Harper grabbed hold of Anna’s arm.

  ‘Somebody killed them,’ Shaundra continued.

  ‘Damn.’ Anna frowned. Then she keeled over into Terence’s arms.

  ‘Oh God. Is she dead, too?’ Cathy gasped.

  ‘I told you – it’s a curse.’ Esoso’s eyes widened.

  ‘Should I call nine–one–one?’

  ‘Everyone relax,’ Harper ordered. ‘Anna’s fine. She just passes out easily.’

  The class gawked as Terence helped Harper carry Anna to a seat, positioning her head gently
on to the pillow of her book bag.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harper continued. ‘Anna has a condition. Narcolepsy. She falls asleep when she’s upset. She’ll be up again in a little bit.’

  The little class settled down, but the mood remained gloomy.

  ‘Look, everyone. Remember what I said before. If you know anything about those stolen drugs, tell the authorities. And, whatever you do, if you come across unidentified pills, do not take them.’

  Blank eyes watched her, needy, waiting. She recognized the look, had seen it before, in the war. The kids needed guidance.

  ‘So. Let’s take a moment. Does anyone have some words to say about Graham, Monique or Larry?’

  A sniffle. A cough. A throat being cleared.

  Finally, Terence spoke. ‘They died too young, man.’ He shook his head.

  ‘That girl really liked pink,’ Jeremy offered.

  Dustin stood, pivoting, angry. ‘This whole thing’s messed up. What’s the point of saying anything? They’re dead. I mean, DEAD. What the fuck is happening? This is supposed to be college, not some slasher movie. It’s frickin’ fucked up.’ He started toward the open window. Oh God.

  Harper moved, positioning herself between him and the sill.

  Silence.

  ‘May they rest in peace,’ Esoso said gently, head bent.

  ‘Amen.’ Terence began to hum ‘Amazing Grace’. A few others joined him, standing in a loose semicircle, Shaundra leading with a stirring soprano. After that, nobody said anything. Gwen was crying. Dustin stared out at the quad.

  When Harper was sure that Dustin wasn’t going anywhere, she went back to her desk.

  ‘You’re right to be confused. And angry. And sad. I wish I had an explanation or something wise and comforting to say. But I don’t.’

  More silence.

  ‘Can we have some cake?’ Terence’s voice was sheepish.

  Harper smiled. That was exactly what they needed to do. ‘In honor of our lost classmates and Graham’s birthday. Yes, let’s have some cake.’

  Picking up Anna’s knife, she began to cut.

  In seconds, most of the cake had been devoured. Sugar and buttery icing revived the class, distracted them from the tragedies.

  ‘Do we have an assignment?’ somebody asked.

  An assignment? Harper had to remind herself what the class was actually supposed to be about. Oh, right. Archeology. She hadn’t been following the lectures. Hadn’t even thought about them. ‘Yes. Review Chapter Six. Somehow, next week, we’re going to get back on track.’

  Before she could tell her students to take care over the weekend, before she could even dismiss them, the room erupted with the scraping of chairs and desks on the old wooden floor. Then they were gone, paper plates and plastic forks dumped haphazardly into or near the trash can. Harper wished that Esoso or Jeremy would come back and confide something about the stolen pills, but they didn’t. For a while, Harper sat alone with the remains of the cake, watching Anna sleep, listening to the inept rattling of the fan.

  The minutes dragged on. Harper couldn’t leave Anna there, propped up on her book bag. But neither could she sit there and do nothing. The room made her uncomfortable with its empty chairs and stuffy heat. Its yawning window. If she looked at it, she would still see Graham, climbing over the sill. She didn’t want to revisit his death, so, diverting herself, she picked at crumbs of cake. Fingered dollops of white icing off the edge of the plate. Yum. Maybe she’d have a small slice.

  The cake was moist, fresh. Incredibly rich. Cream cheese icing? Clearly not a mix. Harper had never had white chocolate cake before. It was too sweet for her. But Anna had clearly put some effort into making it. Obviously, she’d had serious feelings for Graham, remembering his birthday, baking him a cake. Poor girl wasn’t dealing well with his death. When she woke up, Harper would advise her to discuss Graham’s death with her doctors at the clinic so they could help her cope with the trauma. Then again, in Harper’s experience, doctors didn’t have incredible success in that area.

  Harper checked her watch. Anna had been out for a little over ten minutes, probably wouldn’t wake up for another fifteen or twenty. Harper had to fill time. She checked her phone. Saw that Vicki had called yet again. Deleted the message. Went next door to the ladies’ room, dawdled at the mirror, frowned at the stress in her eyes. Came back to the room and saw Anna still sleeping. And the remnants of the cake still sitting there. Cut herself another sliver, then another. She was considering shaving off a wad of frosting when Anna woke up.

  ‘Oh God.’ She lifted her head.

  ‘No – wait. Don’t sit up too fast.’ Licking frosting off her finger, Harper went to Anna’s side. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘They’re really dead?’ Anna picked up the conversation where it had stopped half an hour earlier. ‘Larry and Monique?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Anna’s oval face became somber. ‘What happened?’

  Harper didn’t want to go into it, didn’t want Anna to pass out again.

  ‘I heard you talking about the drugs.’

  Oh, of course she had – during episodes, Anna could hear perfectly.

  ‘Were they the same drugs, Loot? The stolen ones we talked about? Did they overdose or something?’

  ‘Anna, really, I don’t want to upset you—’

  ‘I won’t collapse. I promise.’

  Harper explained carefully that, while the drugs themselves hadn’t killed Monique or Larry, they might well have been the reason for their murders. And she mentioned that the stolen drugs could have dangerous side effects.

  ‘What kind of side effects? Like headaches?’

  No, not like headaches. ‘The drugs can over-stimulate part of the brain, causing unpredictable behavior. Impulsiveness. Even violence.’

  Anna’s eyes lost focus. She began to swoon. Dear God, Harper thought. Was the girl passing out again?

  ‘Anna?’ Harper cursed herself for upsetting her.

  Anna blinked several times and stood, steadying herself. ‘No, I’m fine. It’s just too much to think about. You were right; we shouldn’t talk about it. It’s so hot in here. There’s no air. I’d better go.’ She grabbed her book bag, explaining that she had to get to the clinic for her appointment, and Loot shouldn’t worry about her. She’d see her on Monday.

  Before Harper could respond, Anna was out the door, leaving her alone with the empty chairs, the rattling fan, the open window. And the remainder of the cake.

  There really wasn’t very much left. Besides, Harper had a lunchtime appointment with Leslie, wouldn’t have time to eat. And it would be a shame to throw it out.

  Wyatt was convinced that Ron’s numbers had nothing whatever to do with the stolen drugs. He was certain the Jennings woman had sent him down a blind alley, and Ron was, frankly, too turned on by her to see it. Wyatt would have to take charge and somehow find the drugs himself before more people died. If the cause of this mess were discovered, the Neurological Center, its research and his own career would be destroyed. For over an hour, he sat at his desk, making lists. One list of employees, patients and others who’d had access to the drugs. And another of people who’d known about the drug’s effect on learning and memory. A third of women Ron Kendall had been involved with since his latest divorce. Who knew what he’d told them?

  The list was long. Too long. Subjects in the study, for example. They didn’t know if they were taking placebos or the real medication. Or what dosages they were getting. Or what the drugs were supposed to do. But they knew the drugs were there, being tested. And some of them felt smarter and more alert after taking them. Due to lax security, any of the subjects – and there were currently hundreds – could have stolen them.

  Wyatt crumpled up the list, tossed it into the trash. Finally, frustrated, he checked his reflection in the mirror, repositioned his hairpiece and wandered to the Sleep Clinic to do his rounds.

  A nurse interrupted his reverie. ‘Beds three and seven are apnea.
Four is somnambulism; six is insomnia. Two is narcolepsy.’ She handed him a stack of files.

  Wyatt stared at them. Wondering how long he could keep up the facade of business as usual. How could Ron Kendall remain so unperturbed? Bodies were piling up. In the space of a week, there had been four. And, if the drugs continued to be taken in excess, their side effects would only increase in intensity. Four bodies this week could mean ten next, or twelve, and thirty the week after that. The only hope was that the imbeciles taking them killed each other off, with the last of them flushing the extra drugs. Fatigue washed through him. Good God, what was happening? He could barely breathe. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. Needed to. Couldn’t. But Ron Kendall – poring over his list of numbers as if they contained the damned secrets of the universe – Kendall seemed well rested, composed. And more than a little bit smug. Why? What was he up to? What did he know that he wasn’t sharing? Something about the drugs? About that Jennings woman?

  He was porking her. Had to be. And those random numbers – it was possible they were just a ruse, a construct by Kendall to keep attention off the woman. In fact, Kendall and the woman might be conspiring, hiding the drugs to bring him down, so Kendall could take over the research and the clinic . . .

  Well, he’d see to it that he didn’t go down alone. Kendall would go with him. He was as much at fault as anyone.

  Oh God. Oh God. Wyatt put his head down on the nursing-station desk. How could this be happening?

  ‘Dr Wyatt? Are you all right?’ The damned nurse hovered over him. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  He sighed and sat up, stretched his neck. ‘No, no. Please just carry on with your duties.’

  Good God, couldn’t a man have some privacy?

  Wyatt stared at the pile of folders in front of him. Of course, catastrophe wasn’t a given; there was always the possibility that Kendall had killed those two kids because he’d learned that they’d actually been the thieves. That they and they alone had known where the drugs were hidden. That no one else would find them. That the trials could continue and be completed without further ado.

  Those were definite possibilities. Even probabilities. So, probably, nothing else would go wrong. The drugs would be approved. The clinic’s funding would continue. No, it would increase. Exponentially. As would its reputation. His reputation. His career.