“No, baby,” Muffy whispered. “Would have been happy to, though.”
Melissa shrugged, feeling satisfied. Lea wasn’t there to pick out people’s lies for them, but this girl was no criminal mastermind.
“Why?” Muffy said, glancing up suddenly. The subject of murder seemed to have broken the Garrett spell for a moment. “Is he dead?”
Garrett took the opportunity to back up a few paces. He shook his head gingerly, and blinked his eyes like someone walking into a too-bright room. His current headache was sending him to brand new levels of distraction. “Yeah,” he said. “Someone killed him last night.”
A loud voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “Someone killed who?” They all turned to look, and an athletic, buzz-haired boy came walking down. Muffy sprang back from Garrett as if his skin were hot to the touch, and almost fell over the flowered couch behind her.
“Hey, Van!” she chirped, trying to maintain her balance. The boy walked over and planted a kiss on Muffy’s cheek. “What’s up, sex-pot?” He seemed oblivious to her near-infidelity, and he grinned at Garrett and Melissa. “Hey, it’s the late-comers.”
They looked back at him blankly.
“You guys were late to psych class two days ago, right?” Van nodded his head, answering his own question. “Man, Carlisle was all over you. He got you to participate in some experiment or something, right? How’d it go?”
Garrett and Melissa exchanged glances. “We’ll let you know,” Melissa said.
Van shrugged. “Who’d you say got whacked?”
“Professor Carlisle.”
Van’s eyes went wide with shock. And maybe a little bit of glee. “Wow, seriously? No class for a few days, I guess. They know who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“It was probably Gooding.” Van nodded wisely, as if this declaration were the result of hours of careful thought.
“Jeff Gooding?” Melissa looked at Garrett, whose eyes were now shut tight against the pressure building inside his skull. “He’s on the suspect list,” she said, turning back to Van. “What makes you think he did it?”
Van seemed pleased that his suggestion was being taken seriously. “Are you joking? Gooding hated that dude. I was in Cog-Sci with him last year, and half the time he just ranted about what a jerk Carlisle was. About how all his research was so der-something.”
“Derivative?” Melissa suggested.
Van pointed at her, impressed. “Right, what you said. Gooding’s line was that Carlisle couldn’t come up with a new idea to save his life.”
Muffy was holding onto Van’s arm as he spoke. At the same time, she was staring hungrily at Garrett. As if he were a favorite food that she had been craving.
“We should go,” Melissa said uneasily, glancing at Garrett with concern. Both of his hands were on his head now, and Melissa could tell that he was lost inside his pain. “Good to meet you, Muffy.”
Muffy ignored the pleasantry. “See you, Gar.” There was a distinct note of longing in her voice.
Melissa led Garrett out of the sorority by one hand. His eyes were still closed, and he was starting to talk to himself. “Just need another… one more quick shot of the buzz, loosen everything up make it STOP why can’t you just help me?”
He was getting worse, and fast. Melissa walked him off the path, between two of the frat houses, to a patch of grass that was out of the way. They were hidden on both sides from wind and people. She thought the quiet might help keep him calm until his headache subsided. Her mother had never suffered migraines – only a debilitating sadness – and she was unsure of what to do.
Maybe he’ll feel better lying down.
Her own head was starting to spin in a loopy, rolling way that made the ground seem to go slanting off at irregular angles; she felt like lying down herself. With a few awkward lurches, she helped him ease back onto the grass.
This seemed to fix him for a moment. He paused in his ranting. But then his head began moving from side to side, as though he were in the middle of a nightmare.
“Just help me just help me just HELP ME,” he said, over and over again.
Melissa was genuinely alarmed now, and she leaned over him. “I’m trying,” she said. “Open your eyes and look at me. Focus. Think about something else.”
At first she thought he couldn’t hear her. But then his head stopped its thrashing, and he did open his eyes. They were frantic, bloodshot eyes. Full of pain. Then, all at once, they cleared. And Garrett took a long, shuddery breath. “Oh you’re so beautiful,” he said.
Melissa felt a warmth go moving through her. Down and around and in her. She was aware, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Garrett’s smell was mostly responsible for this reaction. But she realized she didn’t care. The smell, after all, wasn’t the only reason. It was quick work to slip out of her jeans, and then she felt herself melting. She leaned forward and put her face in the hollow of his neck, and let her hips move as they wanted to.
She thought she could have stayed there, that way, forever.
Garrett sat up, looking dazed. Melissa was already beside him, clothing back in place, hair slightly mussed.
“I feel much better,” Garrett said.
I don’t, she didn’t say. My head’s scrambled, the ground is still spinning, and none of my limbs seem to be working properly. And you still smell fantastic, which isn’t helping.
Instead what she said was: “Good. So get up. And then help me up. They’ll be waiting for us.”
5
Melissa needn’t have worried. When she and Garrett returned to Phi-Delta, Jason and Lea didn’t look impatient at all. In fact, they seemed mildly put out by the interruption. Jason’s cheeks were shining, as if he’d just gone for a run. Lea did her best to act normal. To pretend she didn’t want to stand here talking to this boy forever.
Except, of course, that talking for Lea – just talking – seemed to be getting harder every minute. She turned to them. “Did you two… find out any…” Her voice faded away as she read the information hidden in Melissa’s eyes. Melissa tried to look elsewhere, but it didn’t make any difference.
“Oh,” said Lea quietly.
Garrett picked up the slack. “We need to visit that teacher,” he said hastily. “Jeff Gooding.”
“That’s right,” Melissa added quickly. “Unless you two turned up anything, he’s our best bet. Let’s go see him immediately. I’m actually getting sort of desperate.”
“We’re all going… downhill,” Lea said. She took a deep breath. “I can see it in… see it in each of you.”
“Gooding is the one,” said Melissa, trying to sound confident. “He’ll know where the antenna is. Everyone just hold on for a little longer…” As she spoke, she began leaning slightly to the right. It looked to the rest of them as if she were being buffeted by wind. Lea was the first to see what was happening, and she moved quickly.
“Damn,” Jason said, reacting when he saw Lea lunge. He got his arms under Melissa and helped her sit down slowly. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Melissa said. “I’m just a little dizzy.”
Garrett maintained his distance. “Is it me again?” He looked distressed. “My smell, or whatever? I wasn’t even thinking about women that time.”
“No, its nothing.”
Lea looked torn. She seemed to be making a decision. “I can’t – ” She stopped. “I can’t remember words,” she blurted out.
They all stared at her. Jason looked thunderstruck.
“What?”
Lea put a hand to her head. “The… big words, I mean.” She was clearly struggling. “I have to… have to think harder than before. To talk. To say… things.” She sighed heavily, as if the admission had tired her out. “Also, I’m not getting… not getting some of the things you guys say. It’s as if you’re… going in and out of a… of another language.”
They watched her silently, absorbing this new information. Melis
sa was still on the ground. She looked up at Lea with gratitude.
That was brave. Thanks for taking the attention off me.
Lea glanced at her and smiled. No problem.
Melissa spoke up. “My balance is starting to go, if you guys couldn’t tell already.” She sounded embarrassed. “I thought it was just because of all the nausea at first, but things are really starting to spin.”
“Can you walk?” Garrett asked.
Melissa nodded slowly. She looked run-down. “I think so. My arms and legs feel as if they’re going to sleep, but whatever. I’ll need to put my hand on someone, that’s all. Just in case.”
“I’m… I’m up for it,” Lea said.
“Speaking of that,” said Jason, “I could use a guide too. My eyesight is getting really bad. I’m going to start running into things if I’m not careful.”
Garrett sighed. “We’re turning into quite a crew. Anyone need to be carried? I could go look for a hand-truck.”
“Cut it out,” Jason said. “Get over here and help. Lea shouldn’t have to lead this train all by herself.”
“Take it easy, Helen Keller.” Garrett walked over to Jason and studied him critically. “You can still see me?”
“Yeah, barely. But it’s – ”
“Good. You’re fine. Just stay on my left shoulder.” He glanced at Lea and Melissa. “You guys set?”
Melissa nodded. “Good for now.”
“Everyone try to use… to use small words,” Lea added.
Garrett nodded. “Jeff Gooding, here we come.”
“He’d better have some answers,” Melissa said.
“He will.” Garrett sounded calm. His head had stopped bothering him for the time being, and he flashed Melissa a smile. If Jason had been able to see better, he might have found the gesture puzzling. “We’ll take our answers from him if we need to,” Garrett added.
“You’re right,” said Melissa. She breathed in his confidence. “We will.”
Fathers
1
With a different riding companion, Dr. Kline decided he might have enjoyed the trip to Dartmouth. The drive up Interstate 89 to Hanover, New Hampshire, was a scenic one: evergreens and oak trees crowded at the edges of the road for most of the way, with the leaves and pine needles battling for space. The shoulder of the road was narrow in places, overgrown and wild, as if to show travelers that nature could not be held back forever. Farther north, great valleys appeared without warning from around the corners, and the space stretched out, silent and immense. The horizon lost itself in miles of hills and haze.
Martin Hartman did not notice the natural beauty unfolding around him. His foot was heavy on the gas, and he was still muttering to himself about the endless problems that daughters were likely to cause their fathers. “They’re all rude,” he grumbled. “Rude, strong-willed, smart-aleck pests.”
He didn’t wait for a response from Kline. In fact, none of his comments seemed to invite conversation at all. With each muttered curse, his foot came down harder on the accelerator. The big Cadillac, still comfortably within its operating range, was soon hurtling across the New Hampshire countryside at better than 90 MPH. They charged past an old blue pickup truck as if it were standing still.
Dr. Kline kept silent and motionless in the passenger seat. His ability to understand language had deserted him forty-five minutes ago, and he was glad that Martin was not looking for conversation. Not that he would have started chatting anyway. He could still tell, after all, that the sounds coming out of Martin’s mouth were decidedly unhappy sounds, and the charged atmosphere in the car was making him increasingly nervous. Almost as nervous as how damned fast they were going. It wasn’t a matter of fear, necessarily; Dr. Kline was not afraid to die. He suspected that he would be meeting his end in a matter of days, if not sooner. However, he did not want to die right now. Not here. Not in a lumbering, sky-blue 1992 Cadillac, tearing along an empty stretch of New Hampshire Interstate 89. He still had errands to run. For example, there was the matter of finding out who was responsible for Carlisle’s death. And then having a talk with that person.
A very serious talk.
Nearly an hour after the aphasic period had begun, Kline detected a sense of returning clarity. Words, like clouds at first, crept into his mind. The temporal lobe deficit was passing. Thirty seconds later, as the phrase “driving too fast” occurred to him in all of its sharp, bright-edged detail, he heard the sound of… what were those things called?
Sirens.
The word triggered a flood of relief, and Kline felt as though he had been rescued. They would have to slow down now. In fact, they would be pulling over shortly. And then they would actually come to a complete stop. Wonderful. His relief was short-lived, however. It only took him a few more seconds to remember that the police would probably be far more interested in him than in Martin. Speeding tickets were one thing, but murder was quite another.
He had been very busy, after all.
Martin cursed under his breath. He brought the Cadillac to a gradual stop at the shoulder and hung his head over the steering wheel. “Mother fucker.” A quick glance at Kline, and then a rueful smile. “Typical, right?”
Kline nodded silently. He could see the police car sitting behind them, its lights flashing. The officer was taking his time, sitting in the car and writing something on his little pad.
Probably checking the license plate, Kline thought.
After a minute, the cop climbed out of the cruiser and made his way slowly towards the Cadillac. Kline eyed his NorthFace pack in the backseat. He considered making a lunge for the automatic nailer inside, but then decided against it. The cop would surely be carrying a real gun, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate having a carpenter’s appliance pointed at him.
Kline thought quickly.
Could I hold Martin hostage? Maybe if he threatened to kill Martin with the Hilti, the cop would back off.
No. A quick look at Martin’s bulging arms convinced him that this plan would fail horribly. He could imagine Martin elbowing him swiftly in the chin, then shoving him to the side and beating him senseless, all while shouting at him about what a bitch his daughter was.
There was no good plan here. The cop had already arrived at the driver’s-side door, and it was too late for heroics.
This could be messy, Kline thought.
The cop took his time coming up to the Cadillac’s driver-side door. He was very large.
But he’s also sort of pleasant-looking, Kline thought. As if he’s just here to let us know that one of the tires on the Caddie is running a little low.
When the cop leaned over to peer inside the window, his face did seem kind. “Afternoon,” he said. “License and registration, please.”
Martin pointed to the glove compartment, and Kline fished the documents out.
The cop looked the papers over carefully. Then he gave both Martin and Kline a good stare-down. Kline felt his skin start to crawl. “Had you fellows at ninety-four,” said the officer. His tone was still easy. Conversational. “Ninety-four in a sixty-five. Way too fast. Going to be a very expensive ticket, I’m afraid.”
Martin said nothing. He stared straight ahead, as if he couldn’t hear the policeman talking.
The cop waited for a moment, perhaps expecting an argument or excuse. When none came, he resumed his little speech. “No call for that kind of speed around here,” he said. “None at all. You boys sit tight, and I’ll be back in a few.”
He walked away.
Dr. Kline sat and debated. With the edges of his aphasia still lingering, some of the cop’s words had sounded foreign. The flipside, of course, was that he had been able to read the truth in the man’s face. And the lies, as well.
It was easy. It was like reading a newspaper.
That was the thing with aphasia: when the actual meaning of words faded, you couldn’t be deceived by them anymore. Only the non-verbal cues remained. Tone, body language, and facial expression took on brand
new significance. They were dead giveaways.
The cop had recognized him from somewhere, that much was clear. Probably a wanted poster or an APB description. Kline supposed that being able to spot a super-tall, super-skinny man was no big trick.
He took a long breath. The decision had been made for him, really. It was time to act. “Cop’s lying,” he announced suddenly.
Martin turned towards him. “What?”
“He isn’t writing up a ticket back there. He’s calling for backup.”
“No he is not.”
“Wait and find out.” Kline leaned back in his seat. “Makes no difference to me. I’m just a hiker. But it looks like you’re in some kind of trouble.”
Martin scowled. It was an expression his daughter would have recognized. “There’s no way,” he muttered. “They could never have put it all together that fast.”
Kline had to struggle to contain his smile. Paranoia was such an easy emotion to evoke. He had no idea what Martin might have done, but he could see the guilt on his face. In fact, he had seen it hours ago, as he was first climbing into the car. Maybe the man had knocked off a convenience store, or maybe he had too many parking tickets. It didn’t matter. An unclean conscience was a powerful thing. “Just watch him for a while,” Kline said, adding fuel to the fire. “He’s not even bothering with the ticket. He’s going straight for the radio.”
Martin turned to look, and Kline knew he had won. Because the cop was talking on the radio. It made the whole story seem more plausible. The only inconsistency being, of course, that the man was surely not calling for backup on account of Martin.
It was all for the sake of Dr. Nathan Kline.
“Fuck,” Martin growled. “I don’t need this right now. I really don’t.”
“What are you going to do?” Kline tried to make himself sound scared. It was important, he knew, to make Martin feel as though he was the one taking the initiative. The technique, a sort of passive guidance, was something he had learned as a college professor years ago.
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