The Faculty Club

by Danny Tobey

  I tore myself away. The smoke was burning my eyes. I heard a noise down the tunnel. Fuck, I thought, fuck I should’ve paid attention. Someone was coming. I turned away from the salmon square, slid back as fast as I could on my elbows and stomach toward the end of the tunnel, back to the branch point. Whoever was coming was coming fast, getting closer, louder. The echoing of the tunnels, those drums still pounding, faster and faster, building toward some unnatural orgasm. I reached the branch point. I looked down both tunnels. Where was the person coming from? Which branch was mine? I waved the penlight around the bricks. My key mark seemed lost in the scratches and nicks on the hundred bricks around me. There it was! I heard the crawler, coming from the other tunnel. I took off on my elbows down my original path, following the key marks, turning again, the sound of the crawler advancing, but I tore forward, fueled by pure fear, following the branches until the sounds grew softer, more distant. I worked my way back until at last I found the very first key mark and across from it the letters dm written on the brick. I started back toward my original goal, the one Humpty set out for me, the end point that might save me from whatever hell those people had in store for me.

  I went from path to path, following the marks for dm. It went on for God only knows how long, until I came for the first time to a hatch above me in the ceiling of the tunnel.

  DEAD MAN, IT SAID.

  I pressed the hatch up and it gave easily and slid away to the side.

  I climbed up through the hatch into a narrow crawl space. It was dark, but light poured in on three sides. I moved toward the bright light and came out from under an object into a room. My eyes adjusted. I looked back and saw that the object I had crawled out from under was a bed. I looked around.

  I was standing in my room.

  22

  What fear! Fear like I had never felt before. I remembered myself checking locked doors, locked windows, putting chairs under the doorknob—worthless! What a fool I was, thinking I could ever be safe with them against me.

  I had to get out of my room. I needed somewhere to hide while I thought this through.

  I cut a wild path through campus, walking with my head down and hands deep in my pockets, a wool hat pulled low over my eyes.

  I knocked on Miles’s door and prayed he would answer.

  Finally, I heard rustling. He opened the door, looking like I’d roused him out of a very deep sleep. Miles in pajamas—all six foot seven and three hundred pounds of him—was an unnatural sight. And considering my night up to that moment, that was saying a lot.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Miles said, rubbing his face.

  “I’m sorry, Miles.”

  “What time is it?”

  I started to say something.

  “It’s a rhetorical question. I have a clock. What I mean is, what the fuck?”

  “Miles,” I said, “we need to get inside.”

  That surprised him.

  “Miles, I’m in trouble . . .”

  He studied me. I watched it dawn on him.

  “You didn’t,” he said softly.

  “Miles, I—”

  “You didn’t,” he said.

  I couldn’t say anything. I just nodded.

  “Damn it,” he shouted, and his voice thundered down the hall.

  “Miles, we have to get inside . . .”

  “IT DOESN’T MATTER,” he shouted at me. I saw a look in his eyes, one that I hadn’t seen in years. It was the look he used to get in debate matches. The one that said I’m going to destroy you. Forget his size. Forget his mass. That look was why they called him The Beast.

  “I warned you,” he growled. “I told you not to mess with them. Didn’t I? You didn’t listen. Goddamn it. What did you do?”

  I started to explain, but he talked over me.

  “You came here?”

  I paused. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “You fucked up and then you come here?”

  “Miles, no one followed me.”

  “How do you know? You don’t know anything.”

  He smacked the door with his massive fist.

  “I could send you away right now. You haven’t told me anything. I could shut the door right now.”

  “Miles, I don’t know what to do.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his face.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.” He slammed the wall and I felt it shudder.

  He walked inside, but he left the door open. I followed him and locked us in.

  He sat on the futon. The old thing groaned under him. He rubbed his face with both hands. He took several giant breaths. Some of the angry flush went out of his cheeks. When he spoke, he was calmer.

  “It was Chance, right? You and Chance met up again.”

  I hesitated, then said yes.

  He nodded a couple of times to himself. The heaving of his massive shoulders slowed.

  “It was a mistake, putting you two together. I thought I could control it. It’s my mistake.” He rubbed his neck. “It’s okay,” he said finally. “You’re frightened. It’s okay.”

  “No. I shouldn’t have come.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know you and I know Chance. I’m the connection. They would’ve put it together anyway.”

  “Miles,” I said. “I’m really scared.”

  He looked at me, and the beast was gone from his eyes. They were calm again, philosopher’s eyes—warm, wrinkled at the corners.

  “Scared,” he said, nodding. “That’s a good start.”

  We called Chance. No answer.

  “We need to go over there,” I said. “He might be in trouble.”

  “Slow down. We need a plan first or you’re going to get us all killed.”

  “We should call the cops,” I said. “Tell them everything. It’s the only way.”

  Miles smiled at me, and it was an annoying, patronizing smile.

  “Jeremy, these aren’t the kind of people you just report to the police. Or the FBI, MI6, Sydney Bristow, or Batman, for that matter.”

  “Then what?”

  Miles picked up a Rubik’s Cube from the table, smacked it down hard, then started pacing and fiddling with it. It was a nervous habit that went back to childhood. His dad had given him his first cube on his tenth birthday. Whenever he had a problem to solve, Miles would pick up the cube and start fidgeting with it.

  It seemed so simple. Just nine squares on a side. In high school, Miles used to tell me there were forty-three quintillion possible configurations of the cube: forty-three followed by eighteen zeros. The Earth would fall into the sun before our fastest computers could find the best solution for every position.

  It begged the question: how could something so simple get so screwed up?

  He sighed.

  “You’re in a bad position. You know enough to be in trouble, but not enough to protect yourself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Think about it. A secret can get you killed, but it can also save your life.”

  “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

  Miles glared at me. “You came to me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you did sound like a cookie, a little.”

  “Yeah, well try this one on for size: there’s only one way to kill a shadow.”

  He looked at me without a trace of humor.

  “How’s that?”

  “Turn on the light.”

  Miles outlined a plan. I would find Humpty Dumpty and get him to tell me everything he could about the V&D, as quickly as possible. We would document everything in writing, make copies, and address them to all sorts of people—reporters, investigators, conspiracy theorists, anyone we could think of. Then, we’d seal those envelopes in larger envelopes and send them to Miles’s most trusted friends at big law firms. Firms that knew about offshore accounts and information that had to be invisible yet accessible. Miles would reach out to them quietly, informally. They would never even know what the information wa
s about. They would just know that if something happened to us, they were to open the envelope and drop the package inside in the mail. That was the leverage: we would live in a precarious balance, like Schrödinger’s cat; the information would exist and not exist, and everyone could go on living. I had no idea if the plan would work, if it even made sense. But I couldn’t think of anything better. And I was so tired, so scared, that I grabbed on to it like the revealed word of God.

  “Now,” Miles said, slipping into a sweater. “Who else have you been with since the night at the plant?”

  I felt my heart stop.

  Sarah.

  23

  I went to see Humpty Dumpty. I had no idea where he lived, but the last time I saw him, he could barely walk. My gut told me I’d find him passed out in his office chair at the library. If he made it that far.

  I called Sarah and begged her to meet up with Miles. She sounded tired and confused, but I managed to convince her. She had no idea what was going on, and when she did, she would probably hate me, but at least she’d be safe. That was good enough for now. There was a sick feeling in my throat that kept pulsing: you did this. But I swallowed it down. Right now, I was the investigator. Humpty had reached out to me. I was the one he would talk to. I had a job to do.

  The library was open twenty-four hours, but it was after midnight on a Sunday, and it was deserted when I got there. I kept my hat low and tried not to look over my shoulder too much.

  I headed for the administrators’ wing: forsaken on a busy night and now positively gravelike.

  There was a soft light under the door of Humpty’s office. A good sign. The nameplate announced ARTHUR PEABODY, HEAD TUTOR OF LEGAL METHOD.

  I knocked softly.

  No response.

  I knocked again.

  Nothing.

  I tried the door.

  It was unlocked. I slipped into the room. I saw the dome of Humpty’s head over the back of the chair. A few liver spots. Some wisps of white hair.

  “Mr. Peabody?”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Peabody?”

  Passed out, I thought. I wondered if I could rouse him.

  Then I heard it.

  A soft, gurgling noise. I thought of a child blowing bubbles in milk with a straw.

  Oh, no.

  What was it? Was he choking on his own vomit, like a drummer in a rock band? Or something else . . .

  No.

  I pushed the thought out of my head and walked closer.

  The office was perfectly silent, except for that faint gurgling noise. I was suddenly slapped across the face by the sound of a clock chime.

  I jumped, let out a nervous little laugh, and kept walking.

  Still no movement from Humpty.

  “Mr. Peabody?”

  I got close enough to touch his chair.

  I reached my hand out. My fingers were trembling.

  The chair wheeled around slowly as I pulled on the leather arm.

  Arthur Peabody was holding his neck. Rivers of blood spilled through his fingers.

  “Oh my God.”

  I grabbed for the phone on his desk. He caught my arm and squeezed it.

  “No,” he hissed.

  “I’m calling 911.”

  He tried to shake his head. With every turn, the river between his fingers surged.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  I could barely hear him. His fingers clawed into my arm. He was trying to pull me in. He whispered into my ear.

  “Now or later . . . they’ll . . . get me . . .” he wheezed.

  “I can protect you.”

  When I saw his face, I knew what he thought of that.

  “. . . let it . . . happen . . .”

  “Please. I can’t.”

  His mouth worked in my ear.

  “I missed . . . my . . . chance.”

  “Chance for what?”

  His mouth felt wet. Pink froth appeared at the corners.

  “. . . not . . . dying . . .”

  His whole body started to shake. His lips were turning blue. His eyes were fading. They were distant, blind. I was losing him.

  “Please, Arthur, I need your help.”

  He made wild, incoherent noises. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Please. Tell me something. Anything.”

  His life was spilling out all over me. The desk was rapidly turning dark red in an expanding pool. I needed his help. Now.

  “Arthur say, something.”

  Just hissing; twitching muscles.

  I had a vivid memory. In the hallway. The day Bernini fired me. Peabody said something about a joke. Bernini was furious.

  —Why don’t you tell him the joke?

  —Enough. Remember your deal.

  That meant something to him. Something important.

  “Arthur, listen to me. What was the joke? The one Bernini didn’t want me to hear?” I shook him hard. “The joke, Arthur.”

  For a split second, his eyes seemed to focus. The memory pulled him back.

  “The joke . . .” he whispered.

  “Yes. YES. The joke. Tell me.”

  He started moaning. His eyes rolled back up—all I could see was white, the tiny delicate veins.

  “What’s the joke?” I shouted, cupping his face and pushing my nose into his.

  He was moving his lips, just the last echoes of a memory. Mindless. Gone.

  I pushed my ear right against his foaming mouth.

  “. . . if . . . you . . . want to . . . know . . . about the V and D . . .”

  “YES? YES?”

  “. . . look . . . at . . . it . . . with . . . four . . . eyes . . .”

  And then his stare went blank, and the gurgling stopped.

  Arthur Peabody was dead.

  I couldn’t stop shaking. A man had just died right in front me. Someone who’d risked his life to help me. Whatever they were up to, Humpty had found the courage—at the very end of his life, in his own crazy way—to turn on them.

  Except that now he was facedown in a pool of blood on his desk, and I didn’t know anything—except a stupid childish riddle with no answer. What now?

  I rendezvoused with Miles at a seedy motel on the outskirts of town, the one families never used on Parents Weekend. Miles had paid in cash and used a fake ID from the bowels of his wallet, a vestige from his college days. Lenny Wurzengord, it said. Miles had been so proud of it back then. He even wrote me a letter explaining his genius: no one would ever suspect it was a fake ID, because no one on earth would choose to be called Lenny Wurzengord.

  I knocked on the door to room 18 and prayed Sarah would be in there. Seeing Humpty Dumpty had pulled back the last curtain between myself and death, which frankly had never seemed that scary to a young guy who lived in his parents’ basement. But now it wasn’t a concept anymore. It was red and sticky and all over my hands. One more night sleeping in the Dead Man’s room and I would’ve been the one gurgling and grabbing my throat.

  Sarah was there, sitting at a small table, next to a stack of papers—Miles’s first attempt at writing everything down for our protection. For a second she looked relieved to see me, like I was there to tell her it was all a joke. Then her eyes went wide. She stared at my arms, which were spattered with Humpty Dumpty’s blood. She ran to me and turned my hands over and over, looking for a wound to fix. She asked me what was going on. I tried to explain, but everything came out jumbled. I kept apologizing. More than once she said, “But I don’t know anything about this.”

  “I know, but we spent the last twelve hours together. We went out of town together. See how it looks? To them?” She shook her head again. “I’m sorry,” I said, again and again.

  “Listen to me,” Miles said. His voice was sharp and it popped the bubble Sarah and I were in. “We don’t have time for this.”

  I looked around the room.

  “Where’s Chance?” I asked.

  Miles shook his head. “I don’t know. His roommates haven’
t seen him.”

  That hung in the air for a moment.

  A phrase popped into my head: no way out.

  “Miles, they killed Peabody. I didn’t get what we needed.”

  “Okay, focus,” Miles said. “Think. What do we know? What do we assume?”

  The words were magical—this was just a trial, a case we could break apart and analyze. For a moment, the image of Professor Peabody coughing up blood was gone.

  I tried to lay it out, like a courtroom time line.

  “We know there’s a club. We know Bernini is in it. We assume Nigel, Daphne, and John have just been initiated. We know Humpty Dumpty”—Who? Sarah blurted—“was involved somehow, but he turned on them, and they killed him.”

  “Good,” Miles said. “We know they’re obsessed with immortality. We know they studied failed quests for it: Bimini, the alchemists, etcetera . . . What else?”

  “We know Peabody wanted me to see that obituary. We know it had a picture of a man who supposedly knew the exact day he was going to die. We know I met that man at a V and D event. Let’s suppose, then, that his death was merely a cover. He was old, and it had to appear like he died. But he wouldn’t, really . . . He would keep on living, hidden somewhere . . .”

  “So,” Miles said, “we assume that they found a way, where so many others failed . . .”

  “But how,” I said. “Every quest they studied was a dead end . . .”

  Miles nodded. “If we knew what they’re doing, maybe we’d have some idea how to stop it . . .”

  He was pacing around the room, rubbing his hands through his hair.

  “What are the loose threads? We know what you saw in the tunnels—some kind of ritual—but we don’t understand it. Nigel was there . . . and Bernini . . . and now we have this riddle . . . what was it?”

  “If you want to know about the V and D, look at it with four eyes.”

  “Right. Right. What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Four eyes. Four eyes.”

  “Glasses,” Sarah offered. It was the first thing she’d said in a while. We both looked at her. “You know, four-eyes. That’s what kids call someone with glasses.”

  “I don’t know,” Miles said.

  Sarah shrugged. Then her eyes lit up.

  “Maybe it’s an optical illusion. You need some kind of special glasses to see it.”