The Professor

by Alexandria Clarke

  “With any luck, there won’t be a whole lot of breaking,” I said through a mouthful of noodles and beef. “That building is ancient. Besides, I’ve met the security guard in there. His name is Stan, and he looks like he’s about eighty years old. It shouldn’t be much of a problem to sneak by him.”

  “Stop,” said Wes as he sat cross-legged on the floor across from me and dug into his meal. “I’d rather stay ignorant of your harebrained schemes. At least that way, I can claim I didn’t know anything about it when they haul you off to prison.”

  “Weston!”

  “What?” he asked innocently. “I’ll wait for you until you get out. What’s the average punishment for espionage again?”

  “Death,” I answered dryly.

  “Oh, right. That throws a wrench in our romantic reunion then.”

  I flicked a peapod across the table at him. It landed on a pink Post-It note, and as Wes picked up the peapod and ate it, I reached across the table and pulled the note, now stained with soy sauce, toward me. It was the one I’d written Jo Mitchell’s information on. I pondered the three words—nec plus ultra—again. It was Latin—that much was obvious—but I hadn’t had the chance to run the phrase through a translation application yet. I glanced at the puzzle box again. Twelve spaces to access whatever was inside the box, and a twelve-letter phrase jotted down on a pink Post-It.

  “No way,” I whispered, picking up the box.

  “What?” Wes asked.

  “You’ll see in a minute, if I’m right.”

  I maneuvered the first spinning dial to the letter “n” then worked my way slowly through the remainder of the twelve spaces. When the puzzle reflected the phrase on the Post-It, I held my breath and pressed my thumbs to the lid of the box.

  It popped open.

  “Holy shit,” said Wes. His fork clattered to his plate as he leaned over the coffee table for a better look. “What is it?”

  The inside of the box was just as elegant as the outside. It was lined with lush, purple velvet, and nestled upon a small pillow of the same material was a petite ring. The band of the ring was polished silver, but the stone it sported was as black as night and cut in a peculiar octagonal fashion that would never be appropriate for a diamond. The same emblem that had watermarked Pluto’s and the Morrigan’s handwritten letters, the raptor with outstretched wings, was stamped on the varnished wood on the inside of the lid, and beside it, a short poem. I read it out loud to Wes:

  “Not life, nor death betwixt the breadth

  Not lost, nor found beyond the bounds

  Not a crypt, nor a tomb is our latet room

  Amidst the pillars we call:

  Nothing further beyond! Nec plus ultra!”

  “What the hell is that?” asked Wes.

  “It’s a riddle,” I answered Wes. I took the ring out of the box, holding it up to eye level to examine it. It was quite small, I noticed. I experimentally slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand, but it wouldn’t pass over my second knuckle. I handed the box over to Wes so that he could have a better look.

  “What does ‘latet’ mean?” he asked.

  “Hidden.” I knew enough Latin root words to recognize that one, and now that I had the English equivalent of nec plus ultra right in front of me, its translation seemed so simple. “Nothing further beyond.”

  “So what, like a secret room?”

  I nodded, taking the box back from Wes to read through the riddle again. “You better turn a blind eye tonight, Officer McAllen.”

  He cocked his head, confused. “Why?”

  “Because now I’m definitely breaking in to Flynn’s office.”

  Later that night, after Wes had gone to bed, I bundled myself up in a black snow jacket and left the apartment. That afternoon’s flurry had picked up. A thin layer of snow already blanketed the ground. My feet crunched through it as I ducked my head against the incoming flakes and pulled my hood tighter around my face. Without the sun’s warmth, the trek across campus felt ten times longer, and when the buildings that bordered the quadrangle finally swam into view, a sigh of relief left my mouth and crystallized in the cool air.

  It was late, nearly midnight, when I reached the doors of Research Hall. They were locked of course, but I could see Stan, the elderly night guard, sitting behind the lobby desk and reading a newspaper. I rapped on the window of the door, and when Stan glanced up from the paper, I gave him a sheepish wave. What with his decrepit bones, it took him ages to neatly fold the paper, haul himself off his stool, and amble over to the door.

  As the lock clicked open, Stan pushed the door open just enough to allow his voice to carry through. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, doing my best to sound exasperated. “My professor left a really important file in Dr. Flynn’s office. He needs it tonight. Is it okay if I go upstairs to get it? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  “Do you have your student ID card?”

  I hesitated, biting my lip, then produced my ID card for Stan to inspect. Hopefully, his vision was too terrible to make out my full name, or maybe he was senile enough not to remember it tomorrow morning. He handed it back with a satisfied nod then opened the door wider to let me in.

  “Quickly, quickly,” said Stan as I stepped over the doormat and a gust of wind blew snow into the lobby.

  “Thanks again,” I said to Stan and hurried up the staircase.

  Flynn’s office was much easier to find the second time around. I paused outside her door, listening for any signs of movement inside, but all was quiet. The antique knob refused to turn, locked from the inside, but I expected this. I knelt down, took two bent bobby pins from my pocket, and went to work. I’d learned to pick locks during undergrad after I’d forgotten the keys to my dorm room one too many times and ended up in a rainstorm in a white T-shirt. That day, I’d learned a life lesson and a new skill. When I coaxed the bobby pin into the keyhole and the lock clicked into place, I grinned.

  Once inside, I closed the door behind me and headed straight for the crow sculpture on the bookshelf. It was heavy, and the books that it had been propping up tumbled to the side like dominos as soon as I moved it. Swearing under my breath and making a mental note of how the bookshelf had been arranged, I flipped the crow sculpture over to examine the bottom.

  “No shit,” I muttered. It was almost too easy. A twelve-letter puzzle, similar to the one on the wooden box, adorned the bottom of the sculpture. I manipulated the dials into place, nec plus ultra now stored permanently in the files of my long-term memory, and a small, spring-loaded lid flipped open to reveal that the inside of the crow was hollow. Like the puzzle box, it was lined with purple velvet and boasted the raptor emblem. There was a ring as well, this one slightly bigger but still with a feminine flair.

  I closed the sculpture’s secret compartment, spinning the puzzle dials back to a random selection of letters. Then I straightened the books on Flynn’s shelf and replaced the crow. There was no doubt in my mind that Catherine Flynn was the Morrigan, but Wes would be harder to convince. In addition, I still had no idea what the Morrigan and Pluto had conspired about in those secret coded letters to each other. I needed more proof.

  I went behind Flynn’s desk and woke up her computer. The password page blinked at me, and wondering how many times I could get lucky in one night, I typed nec plus ultra into the appropriate bar.

  “Morons,” I uttered under my breath as the computer immediately allowed me access to Flynn’s private work computer. It was common knowledge to never use the same password for multiple access points, but Flynn had apparently never been clued in on that. I navigated to her desktop email application—she had never logged out of it, once again placing a little too much faith in her password protection—and quickly searched “Pluto.” A series of emails popped up, all of them to or from the elusive Pluto. With my cell phone, I took a few pictures, making sure the Morrigan’s sign-off and Pluto’s email address were both visible in the photos. I logged
off of Flynn’s computer, looking around the office for anything else that might benefit my research.

  The tall filing cabinet in the far corner demanded my attention. I swiped a letter opener from Flynn’s desk and crossed the room. Filing cabinets were even easier to break in to than doorknobs. I inserted the skinny end of the letter opener into the lock, jimmying it until it clicked, then rotated the letter opener. The first few drawers of the filing cabinet held nothing of interest—Flynn’s lesson plans, student essays, textbook copies, et cetera—but the bottom drawer contained several file folders simply labeled “BRS.” I knelt down, rifling through one of the thicker files. Inside, several bank statements referenced enormous sums of money being transferred back and forth between multiple accounts. Each statement was stapled to a photocopy of a letter between the Morrigan and Pluto. As I compared the statements to the letters, I suddenly understood. Even in code, it wasn’t hard to decipher the point of the letters. They discussed whatever monetary deal was being made under the table, and the bank statements were attached as proof of purchase, but why Flynn kept records of her shady transactions with Pluto in such a conspicuous place as her own office had me questioning her judgement. Did she really not expect anyone to find out about it?

  A door slammed in the hallway. I shoved the documents back into the file folder, hastily closed the drawer, and turned the letter opener again to lock the cabinet. Then I tiptoed over to the office door, opened it a hair, and peeked out.

  Catherine Flynn was at the opposite end of the hallway, strolling in my direction.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  I closed the door as quietly as I could and locked it, looking around the room for an alternate escape route. The windows behind Flynn’s desk were my only hope, but the first two I tried to open had been painted shut. The third one, thank goodness, I was able to pry free from its position and wrench wide.

  Flynn’s key jingled in the doorknob behind me. Sending up a silent prayer that I wouldn’t fall off a fourth-floor windowsill and die a horribly messy death, I hoisted myself up and out of the window. A stone ledge was attached to the brick building beneath the window. It was only about a foot wide, but it was enough space for me to step out on to. The ground swam four floors below me, and a sudden deluge of nausea hit me. I swallowed it back, nudging the window closed with my elbow, and edged as far out of view of Flynn’s office as the ledge allowed me.

  As I heard Flynn rummaging around in her file cabinet, my heart pounded so loudly that I feared it might give me away. One window ledge over, a rickety fire escape creaked in response to the wintry breeze that threatened to knock me off the side of the building. The jump from my ledge to the next was only a few feet, but it was the long drop to the snowy ground that made me think twice about that short hop. With no other options, I took one big, steadying breath and leapt to the other ledge.

  One foot landed soundly. The other slipped right off the icy stone. I windmilled my arms, leaning forward, and grabbed a hold of the rusted metal fire escape. It responded with a loud clang that echoed through the quadrangle.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  I climbed over the railing to get on the correct side of the fire escape and took the stairs down two at a time. It wasn’t a quiet getaway. Every step was accompanied by an obstreperous protest from the aged fire escape. When I finally reached the ground, I pulled the hood of my snow jacket up over my head and sprinted away, keeping to the shadows of the buildings, but as I crossed the quadrangle, I could’ve sworn I heard the sound of a window opening and slamming shut again.

  In the dark parking lot behind the quad, I found Wes sitting in his squad car. He leaned across the cabin to push open the passenger side door as soon as I emerged from the dim coverage of the campus oak trees.

  “Get in,” he whispered, beckoning me toward him.

  I slid inside and closed the door. “Go, go, go.”

  He peeled silently out of the lot and on to the little road that circled back toward on-campus housing.

  “I thought you didn’t want to be involved,” I said, holding my frosty hands in front of the heater vents. The inside of Wes’s squad car was delightfully warm compared to outside.

  “I didn’t,” Wes said, “but you were gone for a while, and I didn’t want you to freeze to death.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  Wes rolled through a stop sign. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Did you find anything?”

  I glanced over at him. “You really want to know? I can keep you out of it like you asked.”

  As he guided the car into the parking lot behind our apartment building, Wes said, “Honestly, Nicole, as soon as I heard you leave earlier, I realized that if I ever lost you because I refused to back you up and keep you safe out of fear of losing my job, I’d never forgive myself.”

  “Baby, I wasn’t shipped off to ’Nam.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, turning the car off and stepping out. “But still. Come on, let’s get inside.”

  Wes wrapped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me tightly to his side as we headed up the stairs to our apartment. As I stamped the snow out of my boots and hung my jacket up to dry, I asked Wes, “Does this mean you’d be willing to track down the owner of an email account for me?”

  “Right now?” He sidestepped Franklin, who seemed confused that we were both still awake at such a late hour, and started gathering ingredients for hot chocolate.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Wes turned on the stove. “You do this,” he said, handing me a sauce pan and the jug of whole milk. “What’s the email address?”

  I showed him the picture on my phone. As he sat down at the counter and booted up his laptop, I busied myself with the hot chocolate process. A few minutes later, I set a steaming cup full of chocolate and marshmallows in front of Wes, who nodded his thanks and took a sip.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Just one minute.”

  I waited patiently, blowing cool air across the surface of my own drink before taking a sip.

  “Okay,” Wes said. He picked a marshmallow off the top of his drink and fed it to Franklin. “To no one’s surprise, it looks like that address is managed by one Orson Lockwood.”

  “Seriously?” I scooched closer and rested my chin on Wes’s arm to get a better look at the laptop screen. “Which Lockwood is he? I’ve honestly lost track.”

  “He owns Lockwood Inc.,” Wes said, zooming in on a picture of Orson. He was a handsome guy for his age, mid-fifties maybe, with a full head of jet-black hair, a razor-straight nose, and the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

  “He’s Lauren’s father, then? The girl that got busted alongside Donovan Davenport?”

  “Looks that way.”

  I leaned over the counter, resting my forehead on the back of my hands. Franklin nosed my thigh, but I was too distracted by the information spinning around in my head to toss him another marshmallow.

  “Franklin, get down,” said Wes. His warm hand found its way underneath my T-shirt, where he rubbed my back in slow, serene circles. “You okay, Nic?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this.”

  “Around all of what?”

  I rubbed my eyes. It was way past my usual bedtime, but at this point, no matter how exhausted I was, I doubted my brain’s ability to shut up long enough for me to get some rest. “Wes, I found proof that Lockwood and Flynn—Pluto and the Morrigan, if you will—are moving massive amounts of money around. That paired with all the other stuff—Jo Mitchell, the university manipulating student grades, the police cover-ups—I’m starting to think O’Connor was really on to something here. What if that’s why he’s gone missing, Wes? Because he found out about all the illegal stuff the university is doing?”

  Wes closed his laptop and pulled me into his lap. “Nicole, it’s not your responsibility to expose whatever it is that’s going on here.”

 
“Yeah, but O’Connor—”

  “O’Connor isn’t here,” he said, his breath tickling my ear. “I know you care about him, and I can assure you that the force is still working very hard to find out where he’s gone, but there’s only so much you can do. Besides, O’Connor should’ve known better than to throw you into the deep end like that.”

  I rested my forehead on Wes’s shoulder and closed my eyes. “I can’t stop now.”

  “You can for tonight,” said Wes, stroking my hair away from my face. “You’re exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

  I nodded, and Wes helped me down from his lap. In the bedroom, I peeled off my damp layers of clothing. As I leaned down to pry my ankles free from my jeans, the front-page headline of a photocopied issue of The Daily Bird peeked out from under a pile of additional research. I shoved the other papers aside, unearthing the issue, and read the entire headline: “New Wing of Waverly library Opens.” I sat down on the edge of the bed to skim through the rest of the article.

  In a few short weeks, the new wing of the Waverly library, proposed and backed by a committee of Waverly alumni, will finally open its doors. This new addition, dedicated solely to rare manuscripts and other ageless texts, beckons a new era of education to our already esteemed institution. However, the new wing does not only inspire future Waverly scholars with its remarkable contents. The details of its architectural design also lend a hand in creating what is sure to be one of the most renowned university libraries on the continent. Mighty stone pillars tower over the entrance to the library. Waverly alumnus and former editor of The Daily Bird, Theodore Lockwood, describes the inspiration behind these pillars’ construction.

  “The committee wanted the entrance of the library to invoke a sense of magnificence in every student that passed by it,” Lockwood says. “The pillars reference the Tenth Labor of Hercules, in which Hercules split the mountain range that joined Africa and Europe in order to reach the Atlantic Ocean and defeat a fearsome beast. We now know this split as the Strait of Gibraltar, but the Ancient Greeks believed that it was a passageway to the unknown. Furthermore, the pillars were said to bear the phrase nec plus ultra, or ‘Nothing further beyond.’ While the original purpose of this phrase was meant as a warning, we here at Waverly consider it as more of a challenge. Waverly students should be encouraged to reach beyond their own abilities. Take risks. Face the challenge. Conquer the beast. It is the only way to better ourselves.”