Whenever he needed the inside scoop on someone, he’d ask Bruno. The man was a walking, talking information station and seemed to have the lowdown on everyone. The CIA and NSA had nothing on this dude.
Once through screening, Bruno deposited the younger Ramsay into the wheelchair waiting on the other side. “There you go, Chief, safe and sound. The uptown Ritz, as promised.”
“Thank you, sir,” Drew said, giving Bruno a firm fist bump. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Drew turned around in the seat to make sure his backpack was in its proper place, hanging over the handles on the back of the wheelchair. Drew was obsessive about his pack and tended to freak out if it wasn’t exactly where he expected it to be at all times.
Bruno adjusted the spin of his belt and raised it up along his waistline before leaning back and rubbing his oversized belly. “Now that I’ve had my exercise for the day, I think I might take a break to get my chocolate fix. Obviously, I need it to maintain my girlish figure.”
Lucas laughed at the man’s worn-out gag even though he’d heard it a dozen times. He liked Bruno and accepted the heavyset man for who he was, but it still didn’t stop him from worrying Bruno would develop diabetes. All his friend seemed to eat was mounds of sugar from the vending machines in the security team’s breakroom, only a short fifteen feet inside the checkpoint. Candy bars seemed to be Bruno’s order of choice, though he did see him munching on a sleeve of Oreo cookies a few times. Regardless of the snack food, a can of Pepsi was sure to follow it down the hatch. And there was no chance it would ever be a can of diet.
Bruno started down the hallway for the breakroom, then stopped and turned back. “Dr. Lucas, I forgot to ask . . . How’s your dear, sweet mother doing these days?”
Lucas had to bite his lip, stopping the urge to release too much personal information. Bruno was a one-man intelligence gathering agency, after all, and he didn’t want everyone in the lab to know his family business. Not that he didn’t trust Bruno; he just thought it best to keep most of the family matters private. Especially the medical bills and the stupid decision to submit his paper to Dr. Green.
He locked eyes with Bruno and faked a thin smile. “Pretty good, considering everything she’s been through. The doc says she can go back to work in January, thank God. I think she’s starting to go a little stir-crazy without work to keep her busy.”
“That’s great news. I’d be tired of being cooped up in that house, too. It’s always better to have something to do other than just sit around all day and stare at the wall.”
“Yeah, no lie.”
Bruno gave him a quick hand wave. “Be sure to tell her I said hi, and that I’m looking forward to more of her delicious fudge bars.”
Lucas responded with a quick nod and said, “Will do.”
He turned and grabbed the handles on the wheelchair, pushing Drew down the hallway toward their lab.
Their assigned workspace was located at the far end of the science lab, through a maze of interconnecting corridors five hundred feet away. Along the way, they passed two dozen lab doors, many without windows, plus a scattering of restrooms, storage rooms, and utility closets. A security card-reader controlled access to each lab and was installed a few inches above the project number next to the doors.
The hallways between the security checkpoint and the entrance to their lab were a curious mix of odors: old, musty, moldy smells were strong in some places, while bleach and cleaning products dominated others.
The same contrast was true with the paint and lighting fixtures. Some hallways were bright, shiny, and clean, while others were downright dilapidated, with paint cracking and ancient fluorescent lights buzzing and blinking sporadically.
Lucas assumed the disparity was tied to the amount of funding each of the individual projects received from the University. He was thankful his section of the building was in the well-kept category: it smelled clean, the lights worked perfectly, and while the paint in the hallway outside his lab wasn’t exactly new, it wasn’t peeling, either.
When he pushed Drew around the final corner, he saw three silver-colored boxes the size of microwave ovens sitting outside the double automatic swing doors of their lab. The containers were labeled with block lettering that read U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE and wrapped with three evenly spaced strips of yellow security tape.
Lucas wanted to let out an excited whoop and give Drew a high-five when he saw the delivery, but thought better of it when he noticed two imposing Marines guarding the precious cargo. They were standing at attention with shoulder-slung rifles and unyielding attitudes.
The taller man, a first lieutenant by his insignia, was holding a red briefcase and fussing with the handcuff fastened around his left wrist.
THREE
Lucas wondered how the Marines were able to pass through security with their weapons in hand. Bruno’s scanning systems must’ve lit up like a Christmas tree the second they got close to the equipment. Then again, Kleezebee may have cleared the way since he seemed to have pull with almost everyone. The professor was the man in charge of the Science Lab after all, so who would’ve questioned his decision to send them through?
“Which of you is Dr. Ramsay?” the lieutenant asked.
Lucas raised his hand. “That’d be me,” he said. He held up his ID for the Marine to check. The lieutenant nodded once and then removed a written manifest from the briefcase. He gave it to Lucas.
“Project AG-356-12,” Lucas said in a matter of fact tone, scanning the paperwork. He checked the items against the boxes sitting on the floor. “Yes, that’s correct. Looks like it’s all here. Do I need to sign for it?”
“Yes, sir. Just sign the form on the line at the bottom.”
Lucas pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and signed it. The Marine took the document, put it in his briefcase, and the two marched in unison the opposite way down the hall toward the newly-completed NASA annex. Their movements were measured, precise, and efficient, without a single misstep the entire way.
“Drew, did you see where they went? That’s weird.”
“Yeah. Kleezebee didn’t say this stuff was from NASA, did he?”
“Not that I remember. But I guess it doesn’t really matter where it came from. I’m just glad it’s here. We finally get to move ahead. We’ve been in a holding pattern for way too long.”
Drew snatched the manifest from his brother and looked at it. “Me too. I’m tired of running simulations. We needed this stuff months ago.”
Lucas bent over and tested the weight of the closest box. “These modules are much heavier than they look.” He wondered how the two Marines managed to carry the containers. They were both taller and stronger than he was, but still, they must’ve had help. “Hang on a minute while I find a dolly. There has to be one around here somewhere.”
“I think there’s one in Dr. Davies’ lab. He usually works all night on Fridays and should still be there.”
Lucas whirled around and stared at the door to Dr. Griffith Davies’ lab with trepidation—the lab of a world-renowned astrobiologist who specialized in the origin and evolution of life in the universe. The man held a slew of PhDs in chemistry, molecular biology, physics, and astronomy. From what Lucas had heard from Bruno, Dr. Davies was the go-to guy for Dr. Kleezebee whenever something unexplained landed on his desk.
Davies was beyond brilliant and well-respected by his peers, but had a few personality quirks that jumped off the page. He was an odd duck to be sure, but then again, most would say the same thing about any of the accomplished scientists working in the Science Lab. Intelligence and polished social skills didn’t always go hand in hand for the members of the genius guild.
“That guy drives me crazy. He never shuts up and is always trying to ingratiate himself,” Lucas said.
“That’s because he has a little man-crush on you.”
Lucas ignored the imagery swirling around his head. “Thanks, just what I needed.”
“I think he
wants you as his boy-toy.”
“Knock it off. That’s not even funny. The guy’s not gay. You’ve seen his wife—she’s a total knockout.”
“Yes, she is.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Nothing. I was just messing with you. It’s all good, bro.”
“Can we get back to work now?” Lucas asked, wondering how Griffith managed to land such a gorgeous trophy wife. She was ten years younger than Griffith and had a stellar homegrown body that supermodels would envy. To keep her satisfied, he assumed Griffith was packing a 10-pound wonder dog or a plentiful balance sheet. Either way, Lucas was jealous.
Lucas stood in front of Griffith’s lab door and planned his actions carefully. Griffith had several close friends on the Advisory Committee, any one of whom could shut down his experiment with a single phone call. He knocked twice and took a deep breath to steady his nerves.
Be nice, but not too nice, he told himself.
Griffith answered the door, wearing a wrinkled white lab coat and cheater glasses. His cheap black toupee was sloped forward, threatening to cover his brown, rheumy eyes. His right hand was on the door handle while his left was filled with a cordless soldering gun and a coil of resin. But what caught Lucas’ eye was the heavy smear of ink on the smiling man’s cheek. It stretched from just under his eye clear down to his chin. Lucas had to manufacture a cough to cover up his involuntary laugh. It seemed to work.
“Hey, Lucas!” Griffith said, his face beaming with a smile. “It’s wonderful to see you. Do you need my help with something? Wow, you look especially handsome today. How is your project coming along? I hear you’re getting a new lab tech tonight. How’s your mother feeling? What were those Marines delivering? They sure looked impressive in their uniforms, didn’t—”
Lucas was in a rush, but couldn’t afford to be rude. Keep it simple and to the point, he decided. “I’m fine, the project’s fine, Drew’s fine, we’re all fine. If you’re not using it, can I borrow your hand truck?”
“Sure, go right ahead. It’s right by my desk.”
He kept a safe distance away from Griffith to avoid his constant hand touches. The man smelled of cleaning chemicals; some of them were probably toxic, even fatal. Lucas was barely inside the door, and already his nasal passages were flooded with noxious fumes. He minimized his breathing.
“Do you need me to help? Did you know I work out regularly and can lift heavy objects? You should be careful with your back. Be sure to lift with your legs. Hernias can happen easily.”
Lucas stopped listening as Griffith continued to ramble, talking aimlessly about anything and everything. Lucas nodded and smiled, adding the occasional “Mmhmmm, yes, yes, fascinating” at the appropriate times. He just needed to find the hand truck and get back to Drew. Nothing else mattered.
He found it right where Griffith said it would be, spun it around with one hand to face the door, and pushed it ahead of him. Focus on the door, nothing else, he told himself. Just get back to Drew. He kept his head down to avoid eye contact.
The hallway wasn’t far, but Griffith was still right on his heels, yammering on about absolutely nothing. Truth is, on any other day, the endless jabbering without a breath between sentences might have been impressive—today, it was just annoying. Lucas knew the man was going to follow him into the corridor and possibly into their lab. He needed an excuse. He turned around and held out his hands while standing near the exit.
“Sorry, but this delivery belongs to Dr. Kleezebee and contains classified material. Nobody else is allowed within twenty feet of it.”
“Okay, I understand. Take your time. Just return the dolly when you’re done. I won’t need it for at least a week. When you stop by again, we should go to lunch—”
Lucas rolled his eyes in relief when he heard Griffith’s lab door close behind him.
Drew was waiting for him in the hallway, laughing quietly with the back of his hand covering his mouth.
Lucas scowled. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself. Now let’s get this stuff inside already.”
Drew slid his access card through the security scanner. After a loud buzz and a hollow click, the double doors swung open automatically. He used his wheelchair as a stop block to keep them from closing.
It took all of Lucas’ strength to load and center the three containers onto the hand truck. He hauled them into the center of the lab, being careful not to lose the heavy load along the way. Drew followed him inside with the doors closing behind his wheelchair. Lucas slid the stack off and left the boxes sitting on the floor next to a rectangular worktable. Before he could put the first container on the table and open it, the security scanner guarding the lab doors buzzed.
Lucas turned around in a flash. “Crap, what now?” he muttered, wondering if Griffith might be popping in for an unscheduled visit.
When the doors opened, he knew instantly it wasn’t the annoying Griffith—it was worse. It was Randol Larson of the Advisory Committee. The pencil-thin attorney was carrying a clipboard and gold-colored pen as he walked into the lab, his head tilted slightly back.
“I guess it’s up to me to deal with this guy,” Lucas mumbled when he didn’t see Kleezebee tagging along. He waved a quick hello to Bruno, who was standing just outside their door with his Master Security Card in hand. Apparently, Bruno had used it to let Larson into their lab.
Larson, who appeared to be about ten years younger than old man Kleezebee, was dressed in a form-fitting blue pinstripe suit. His medium-length blond hair was neatly feathered front-to-back on the left side. It adhered to the side of his head, defying both gravity and air pressure as he moved. He had blue eyes, a sharp, pointed nose, and high cheekbones covered with acne scars. He looked like a nervous bird, scanning the area for insects to gather up in his narrow beak.
Lucas assumed Larson’s spotless presentation was intentionally calculated to distract people from noticing the scars on his face, which made his cheeks look like the surface of an asteroid after a yearlong meteor shower. He agreed with Kleezebee’s earlier assessment of the attorney: it was hard to believe this frail-looking man was a former gunnery sergeant in the Marines.
Larson brought his eyes around and looked at Lucas. “Dr. Ramsay, I presume? I am Randol Harrison Larson the Third, lead council for the University’s Advisory Committee for Theoretical Research.”
“Yes, sir, I’m Dr. Ramsay, and this is my brother Drew. What can we—?”
“Where’s Kleezebee? He was to meet me here thirty seconds ago.”
Lucas looked at his brother and then back at the attorney. “I don’t know, sir. I know he intended to be here to show you around in person. I’m sure he’ll be here any second.”
Larson clicked his pen frequently as he walked slowly around the room, stopping periodically to transcribe something onto his clipboard.
Lucas figured Larson needed to document the contents of their lab, possibly for insurance purposes, but he wasn’t sure. He considered asking the man, but decided to let Kleezebee handle it when he arrived.
Larson stopped in his tracks and stared through the ten-foot-wide window that led into the adjoining chamber. He scribbled a long series of notes before clicking his pen one final time and sticking it back in his shirt pocket. He whirled around and went to Drew’s location, leaning in close to Drew’s face. “All right, then, let’s get on with it.”
Drew rolled his chair back a few feet and didn’t respond.
“Come on now, I don’t have all day,” Larson said, louder this time, pulling the pen from his pocket again.
Lucas moved in front of Drew, chest expanded, fighting the urge to strike the pushy bureaucrat. It was an instinctive reaction brought on by years of torment in the orphanage. “Can I help you with something?”
Larson took an uncoordinated step back, lowered his head, and began fiddling with his gold pen while shuffling through several layers of his paperwork.
This guy’s a former Marine?
Larson cleared
his throat before looking at Lucas. “I’ve just received this lengthy, attorney-prepared disclaimer agreement from the Defense Department. Obviously, I need a comprehensive briefing concerning the nature of your project and its need for the material in these three containers. Liability must be assessed. Damage must be mitigated.”
Goddamn attorneys, Lucas thought, remembering the family’s hefty legal bills to defend his dad’s failed pest control invention. He’d thought about hiring a lawyer to fight the insurance company over his mother’s denied medical claims, but hated the idea of lining some future politician’s pocket with what little money he had.
Then a new thought popped into his head. Maybe he should team up with one of the chemical geeks down the hall and invent a bio-toxin that targeted only insurance executives and lawyers. He liked that idea—would probably make him rich in the process, since everyone would want a lifetime supply.
Larson continued, “Which one of you wants to explain this to me? I need to know who authorized this.”
Before Lucas could respond, Kleezebee buzzed in and bolted through the lab entrance. He pushed at the doors, not waiting for them to open fully on their own.
“Damn it, Larson, I’m here. I told you earlier I’d handle this. Let’s step outside and let these guys work. I’ll explain it all to you—probably very slowly, so you’ll understand.”
Kleezebee took Larson by the arm and led him out of the lab.
Lucas looked at Drew, who was sitting in his wheelchair, smiling. Lucas took a deep breath and then let the air seep out through his lips. He rolled his eyes after realizing Kleezebee had come to their rescue as he’d done countless times before. It seemed like any time they needed help, Kleezebee would somehow know and magically arrive just in time to assist.
“That was a close one,” Drew said with a concerned look on his face.
“Yeah, tell me about it. Thank God Kleezebee showed up in time. I never know how to talk to people like that. All I wanted to do was deck his ass.”
Linkage (The Narrows of Time Series Book 1) Page 4
