“Sydney? What are you doing in here?”
She jumped at the sound of the voice, and at the feeling of the hand on her shoulder. “Oh my God, you startled me!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t think anyone was here, Professor.”
“I didn’t either,” Professor Barneton replied. “I’m sorry that I scared you. I thought Professor Fuller told me that you were still at home dealing with . . .” He paused. “. . . Taking care of your family,” he offered finally.
“I was,” Sydney lied. “I just had to get a little bit of work done.”
He looked at her quizzically. “You shouldn’t worry about anything with respect to your work,” he said. “You should just focus on your family and yourself at this point.” His eyes narrowed and he looked more closely at her face. “Oh my,” he said. “What happened?”
She realized that he’d seen the scratches on her face, and her mind spun. She hadn’t even thought to come up with a plausible story. “Oh, these,” she said with a flip of her head, trying to give the impression that they were inconsequential. “My cat,” she offered, hoping that would end the inquiry.
After a moment he said, “Your cat what?”
“Scratched me.”
“Oh.” He didn’t seem convinced, and the way he was looking at her made her uneasy. She changed the subject.
“Thank you for all your understanding,” she said. “I was just leaving anyway, but I’ll be back in sometime next week to start getting back to work fully. I don’t want to let anyone down.” There was some truth in that.
“Well, as I said, there’s no hurry.” He waved her off, his gaze still focused on the scratches on her face. “I’m sure Professor Fuller will feel the same way.”
The two of them stood there, and it seemed to Sydney as though Barneton had something else to say. After enduring a long, pregnant moment, she gathered her papers. “Thank you again,” she said. “I’ll see you when I get back to work.” She started to walk past him, but his hand shot out and grabbed her arm.
“Sydney,” he began.
She looked at him, and something in his eyes alarmed her. He had an intense, almost wild look. “Yes, Professor?” she asked nervously.
“We all need people,” he said, the grip on her arm staying firm.
She looked down at his hand on her arm. His grip was strong enough to be uncomfortable. “Please, Professor,” she said, her voice adamant. “You’re hurting me.”
He let go of her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that the world can be a cold, dangerous place. I could help you. I could—”
“Thank you, Professor,” she cut him off. “I’ll see you when I get back to work, I’m sure.” She spun on her heels and walked quickly out of the office suite. Over her shoulder she could hear him calling to her.
“I hope so, Sydney! I certainly hope so!”
z
Venable was angry; Cassian could see that. He made it plain in his every aspect, from his posture to his facial expressions. And there was no question that there was something intimi
dating about a man of his power and position willing to display such open hostility. Jack was sure that kind of intimidation was useful to the senator in his rough-and-tumble world of politics. It wouldn’t help him now, though, Jack thought, when confronted by two police officers who would not be cowed by the man; in fact, it was clear that Train was trying to provoke him—to see what would reveal itself when he was under pressure.
“And so,” Train was finishing his explanation of why they were there, “given your father’s connection to the Institute, we were hoping that you might be able to shed a little light on what might be going on there.”
Venable fumed, his chest expanding as he sucked in air aggressively. “Let me get this straight, Detective,” he said, his southern accent dripping with disdain. “Some lifetime mental patient with a history of drug abuse takes an overdose, and because my father—who passed away over a decade ago—worked at the same mental facility fifty years ago, you think it’s appropriate to interrupt the schedule of one of the most senior members of Congress. Is that about it?”
“As I said,” Train explained calmly, “we’re not convinced this was a simple overdose. Mr. Murphy hadn’t used drugs in years. Add to that the vicious attack on Ms. Chapin after she visited with him, and her sister’s murder a couple of weeks earlier, and it starts to look like this could be some sort of a conspiracy to conceal something.”
“You still haven’t explained to me what this has to do with my father—or with me, for that matter,” Venable growled.
Train looked at Cassian, and Jack could see that his partner was deciding how far to push the issue. “Well,” Train started, “it’s true that your father was in charge of the Institute for many years, correct?”
“A half century ago, yes, you’re correct.”
“And, tell me if I’ve got this wrong, but when your father was in charge, he instituted a number of policies that would probably raise some eyebrows in these more enlightened times.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”
Cassian interrupted. “Perhaps we have our information wrong, Senator, but it was our understanding that your father was one of the leading proponents of eugenics in his day. It seems that thousands of his patients were sterilized over the years, and it also appears that numerous experiments were carried out on the people he was supposed to be caring for.”
Venable’s face went scarlet with rage. “My father was a scientist. Science, by definition, sometimes leads even the best men down the wrong path. By the time my father passed on, he had renounced all elements of eugenics.”
“Still,” Train pressed, “by that time a significant amount of harm had already been inflicted. It seems to me that if the full truth about what went on at the Institute ever came to light, a lot of people’s reputations would suffer.”
“Your point, Detective?”
“Are you aware of anyone who might have an interest in keeping the past buried?” Train asked the question pointedly, and it hung in the air, increasing the tension in the room.
Venable stared at Train, his shoulders hunched forward over his desk as though he might leap across the mahogany surface at any moment and attack, his eyes burning his hatred into the other man. “No, Detective,” he said at last. “I am not.”
There was a long pause as the two men faced each other down, neither of them flinching, neither of them willing to give any ground.
It was Jack who finally broke the spell. “How about you, Senator?”
Venable’s eyes remained on Train for a moment before he turned to face Cassian, like a jackal shifting its attention from one zebra to another. “How about me, what?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t you be hurt by a full disclosure about what went on at the Institute while your father was in charge?”
“I don’t follow you,” the senator said in a low, challenging voice.
“Well, Senator—and I’m just spitballing here—but you’re a prominent conservative politician making a run at the White House, right? Isn’t it possible that you could be hurt by public revelations about what your father did to his patients at the Institute? I mean, isn’t it at least conceivable that the fact that you’re the son of a famous eugenicist would probably scare away a lot of moderate voters; and that if someone had real
concrete information about what your father did while he was there, it could pretty much end your chances of being elected?”
Venable rose and leaned over the desk. For a brief moment, Cassian actually thought there might be a physical altercation in the offing. Then, after a pause, the senator hit the intercom button on his telephone. He stared at Cassian as he spoke into the phone. “Beverly?” he said. “You can come in and escort these gentlemen out of the office. This meeting is over.”
S
YDNEY HURRIED BACK
to the computer terminal where she’d left her belongings, stuffing the papers she’d printed out into her bag and throwing it over her shoulder. Her encounter with Barneton had left her unsettled; what had he meant when he’d pointed out that the world was a dangerous place?
Her mind wandered over her experiences with the well-known professor, and she began to wonder about him. As far as she knew, he was the last person to see her sister alive, and he’d admitted that she’d asked him about the Institute. Was it possible that there was some connection she wasn’t aware of? The notion seemed crazy, but then the look in his eyes had been just that—crazy.
She shook loose her suspicions as she walked toward the main stairway that led down to the main level of McDonough Hall. Better, she thought, to concentrate on whatever hard ev
idence she might find in the materials she’d printed out. Once she was back with Jack and Sergeant Train, they’d be able to sort all this out from whatever they found in the lawsuit. She had to hurry back to meet them at the police station.
First, though, she had to pee.
She ducked into the ladies’ room and went into a stall, hanging her bag on a hook by the sink. After relieving herself, she stood in front of the mirror, running cold water over her hands. The stress was wearing her down, and the icy flow seemed to relax her. She cupped her hands and bent down, closing her eyes as she splashed water on her face and rubbed her hand around to the back of her neck. This was all insane, she knew, and she resolved to fight her growing paranoia.
She threw her bag back over her shoulder and headed out of the ladies’ room, but as she opened the door out into the hallway, she froze.
He was standing there, not more than twenty feet away, his back to her as he scanned the area near the stairway. She recognized him instantly, his thinning blond hair unmistakable even from behind, and she thought for a moment that she might actually vomit right then and there. It took all the control she had to keep from screaming, or collapsing, or both.
She drew back into the bathroom, careful to keep the door from slamming, her chest heaving as she began to hyperventilate.
She stumbled back into the stall and closed the door as she tried to calm herself. Sitting down on the toilet, she forced herself to slow her breathing as she tried to think rationally, spinning out scenario after scenario as she tried to come up with a way out. She took out her phone and started to dial Cassian’s number, but an annoying electrical chime let her know that her battery was too low for service. As she put it back in her purse she cursed herself for not having charged it.
Then she heard the door open and she quickly pulled her feet off the floor, hugging her bag to her chest, listening for footsteps. She heard nothing, and a moment later the door closed again.
She held her breath for what seemed an eternity, afraid to move. Finally, she put her feet down, leaned forward, and pressed the stall door open a crack. The bathroom seemed deserted, so she stood and walked out of the stall.
She regarded the door out into the hallway with dread, though she knew she had no choice. She couldn’t stay in the ladies’ room forever.
She approached the door with trepidation, sneaking up on it slowly. She was about to open it when she heard a loud explosion and the door of one of the other stalls behind her swung open. She screamed as her knees buckled and the nerves leading to her muscles fired indecisively. She whirled toward the stall, throwing her hands to her face defensively.
“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice gasped. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She was a student, just a little younger than Sydney. The noise she’d heard, Sydney realized, was the toilet flushing, and the other woman was now regarding Sydney like an escaped mental patient.
“That’s okay,” Sydney choked out. “I was just . . .” She didn’t bother to finish her sentence; there was really no rational way to explain her situation.
She took a deep breath and walked back to the door and pushed it open slowly. There was no one in the hallway, and after a moment’s internal debate, she exited and hurried toward the stairs.
z
Salvage walked around the floor, poking his head into empty offices and taking the time to carefully evaluate anyone he en
countered. Barneton had said he was sure the Chapin girl was working on this floor—he’d just seen her near his office—and yet she was nowhere to be found. It seemed hopeless, and if he had any better leads, he’d follow them, but he was running out of options.
He was turning the corner, heading back toward the main staircase, when he heard Barneton’s voice up ahead, calling out.
“Wait! Sydney! Someone’s looking for you!”
Salvage broke immediately for the stairs, his hand already inside his coat, reaching for his gun.
z
Sydney had made it halfway to the staircase, keeping her head down and moving with determination, before she heard Barneton’s voice behind her. She turned and looked up at him.
“Wait! Sydney!” he called, moving toward her.
“I have to go,” she said tersely as she turned and headed down the stairs.
He grabbed her, though, and pulled her back. “Someone’s looking for you,” he said, peering over his shoulder and down the hallway. “I think it’s important.”
“Let go of me!” Sydney demanded, trying to pull away, but Barneton held tight. Then she looked over his shoulder and saw the blond man hurrying down the hallway toward them. Her eyes darted back and forth between Barneton and the man from the highway, until they came to rest on Barneton’s face and she had an awful thought. She stared at him for a second, searching his eyes for an answer; and then he seemed to nod, as if to suggest everything was all right.
She acted without hesitation or thought, bringing her foot up and stomping on his instep with her heel, driving it down with all her weight. He crumpled, his face twisting in agony, but his hand still clinging to her arm. She took one last look at him and then swung her heavy backpack at his head, connecting with his nose, which cracked loudly as he crumpled to the ground.
She hesitated for a moment; just long enough to see the blond man still running toward her. To Sydney’s horror, she saw a gun in his hand.