Eternal (7 page)

“I know. I … I trust you,” Julia said, looking into Austin’s eyes and feeling the warm surge that was now becoming familiar. “We were studying some groundbreaking stuff.” She took a deep breath. “Our research involved the human brain, specifically the pineal gland. Do you know what that is?”

He smiled. “An endocrine gland, buried deep in the brain. It secretes melatonin, which plays a role in sexual development, metabolism, and sleep. For hundreds of years people thought it was a useless organ, like the appendix.”

“How did you know all that?”

“I took a special interest in the pineal gland in college, because of its more mysterious side. Some shamans and other mystics believe that the pineal gland is a conduit between the earthly realm and the spirit world. Descartes called it the ‘seat of the soul.’“

“Indeed he did.” Julia’s eyes softened with wonder, as her lips twitched into a slow smile.

Austin smirked. “I know. What could a cop know about science and philosophy, right?”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking. I’m just surprised. Not because you’re a cop, but because few people—even scientists, physicians, and philosophers—know much about the pineal gland.”

“I had to take physiology for my criminology degree. But philosophy is a personal passion. In fact, I’m studying for a graduate degree, doing nights at UCI. I’d actually like to teach someday.” He grinned. “Why so shocked? Wondering how a philosopher ended up a cop?”

She was actually thinking that the French version of Austin in her dream had been a philosophy teacher, but all she said was, “Sure, I’ll bite.”

“My dad’s a detective, and his dad was a detective, as was his dad before him. In fact, Grandpa made chief of police before he retired, and my dad may be heading the same way. I wanted to make him and the family proud. He didn’t expect his son to have a knack for philosophy. Of course, my dad’s pretty damn smart. This job takes its own kind of expertise, and I’ve learned from the best. But my real passion is here.” He walked to a cabinet, picked up a small backpack lying next to it, and pulled out a book. Then he walked back to her and placed it in her hands.

She ran her hands gently over the antique leather as she read the title aloud,
“Metaphysical Meditations,
by René Descartes. Where did you get this?”

“At a rare book store.”

“It’s beautiful.” She handed it back, afraid that she might ruin the delicate binding.

He bounced it up and down, as if weighing what was within. “This is how I escape the world.” He blushed as he put it back in the pack. Then he picked up his notebook again, knit his brows, and cleared his throat. “So, you and Bertel were studying the pineal gland?”

That studious look was familiar. Where had she seen it before? In her dream. Why did looking at Austin make her feel as if they had a history? She shook off the déjà vu. Her dream was inspired by her meeting with Austin yesterday, that’s all. So she gathered her wits, tried not to look at the outline of his abs underneath his T-shirt, and explained Bertel’s research.

“Dr. Bertel was dedicated to finding out if science could prove the existence of the soul. He’d zeroed in on the pineal gland as one possible location. We’ve been studying the effects of different chemicals, medications really, on the brains of recently deceased cadavers to see if we could awaken the pineal gland. Theoretically, if we were to stimulate the pineal gland, and
only
the pineal gland, and if we then found evidence of activity in this one gland but absence of life in the rest of the body, it might provide initial evidence that we’re on the right track.”

Austin leaned forward. “Go on,” he said, obviously intrigued.

“The existence of a human soul never used to interest me, because science can’t prove the existence of something that offers no observable evidence. Then my mom died. So, I’ll admit, if Dr. Bertel could show me that the soul is observable, I’d be thrilled to believe. And now that I know about Dr. Bertel’s son, I can understand why he was so hyped up about it. One of our experiments recently produced a millisecond of pineal activity. It was one of the few times I’ve seen Bertel get animated.”

“What chemical did you use?”

“Phenylcyclohexylpiperidine.”

“PCP.”

“Exactly.” She paused. “But there’s no way Dr. Bertel ever took that drug. It … it’s … it would just be completely unlike him.”

“A while ago you were wondering if I thought he was crazy. What made you think that?” Austin asked.

Julia didn’t like the direction this conversation was turning. She had a feeling of foreboding, as if some terrible past and worse future were colliding. His questions reminded her of the investigation after the science fair, and this time things threatened to get more complicated. And not just because the way Austin looked at her suggested that he was attracted to her too.

Maybe that was wishful thinking. What was her evidence, really? A few blushes, a few overlong stares, the way he kept looking at her lips when she spoke. She felt a growing urge to wrap her arms around his tanned neck and press her lips against his. But was she out of her mind? Out of her league too. And what about Tyler? Her growing desire for Austin was matched only by her guilt.

Mainly, she didn’t want to disappoint Austin, and she had the feeling that the more this unexpected genius learned about her research with Bertel, the sillier he would think she was. But this guy was a detective, and even if she held back from revealing everything, he’d find out sooner or later.

She swallowed. “Austin …”

“Yes?”

“ What if Dr. Bertel wasn’t weak when he walked out of the hospital? What if he had some sort of, I don’t know, superhuman strength?”

“ What do you mean?”

She took off her jacket, and started to unroll the bandages that covered the deep scratches and bruises Dr. Bertel had given her the night before, during his strange awakening.

N
INE

A
s Julia pulled out of the parking lot, she glanced in the rearview mirror to see if Austin was still standing outside watching her. She waved and suppressed a giggle when he waved back. Then she rolled her eyes at herself in the rearview mirror. “Great. You make it all the way through high school without acting like a dumb high school girl, only to blow it now?” Black thunderheads had stirred the early evening sky into a threat, and it was starting to rain.
When did it ever rain in Southern California this time of year?
She wondered. She suddenly felt cold.

Julia resisted looking in the mirror again until she reached the first stoplight, where she conducted a closer survey of her appearance. Jeez, no wonder he didn’t ask her out. She looked like day-old pizza: limp, yellow, and even sporting a couple of new zits to top it off. She always broke out when she didn’t get enough sleep. Still, she prided herself on having kept his attention for the last—she reached over to the passenger seat and pushed a button on her phone—two hours! The time had flown by.

It hadn’t all been about the investigation. After Julia showed Austin the bruises Dr. Bertel had inflicted the night before, Austin tried to lighten the mood. Julia, her nerves stretched to their absolute limit, appreciated the gesture. They’d spent half the time talking about the kinds of books, music, and movies they liked. And she’d kept her Michele game face: “Remember, men like women who are interesting, but they find women even more interesting if they’re interest-
ed
.” So Julia had asked lots of questions, and she’d been rewarded with great answers. They both liked books by Dave Eggers and movies by Danny Boyle. They both liked music by Needtobreathe, Death Cab for Cutie, and Florence + the Machine. She was embarrassed to admit she’d never heard of Otis Redding, Nina Simone, or B. B. King, but this only seemed to excite him more. “You’re lucky I caught you in time to give you a musical education,” he grinned. “You’ll have to come by my place sometime and listen to my old records.”

“Records? Don’t you have an iPod?”

“Sure. But the records are collectors’ items, and there’s something richer about the sound.”

“If you can get past the scratches.”

“That’s why only a select few are allowed to touch my records.”

“Oh,” she teased. “I feel so privileged to listen to your dinosaur collection! I’ll have to practice my quadrille for the occasion.”

“And don’t forget to bring your bonnet,” he quipped. “True confession? I actually enjoy a good slow dance.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“Let’s just say that you’ll be entertained. Can’t keep a beat to save my life.”

Julia considered her feelings as she drove. She was a scientist—someone logical, someone deliberate, someone in control of her feelings. Yet she had allowed herself to get lost in the easy, enjoyable conversation that came naturally, as if they had known each other for a thousand years.

Her thoughts drifted, and she imagined herself listening to records in Austin’s apartment.
Suddenly, he reaches out his hand and pulls her off the brown leather couch to a standing position. He draws her close, one hand on the small of her back, the other holding her hand in his. Eric Clapton’s
Have You Ever Loved a Woman
is playing softly in the background. She rests her head on his muscular chest, completely relaxed, completely safe. The music swells, and he lifts her chin slowly with his finger. Gently, almost tentatively, he leans in and brushes his lips against hers. She responds warmly and reaches up to trace her fingers along his angular jaw line. With a burst of emotion, Austin kisses her deeply, passionately, pressing his body against hers. The song ends, but the dancing continues…

Feeling guilty over her sudden attraction to Austin, Julia stopped by the Bren Events Center to see if Tyler was still at basketball practice. He was having a late-night practice that evening, so she thought he might still be there. Being supportive of Tyler was a Catch-22. Whenever she stopped by practice, he teased her about checking up on him and not giving him space to sweat with the guys. But whenever she didn’t stop by for a couple of weeks, he talked about how much he wished she would come to watch his practices. Julia usually just went to the games, where he definitely expected her to be there to cheer the team on, along with all the other players’ girlfriends—a collection of cheerleaders and Barbie dolls that made Julia feel simultaneously jealous and superior. All that giggling, squealing, and gossiping.

By the time she arrived at the Bren, practice was over. Julia missed him at Shakes too, though it was crawling with college kids and wannabes, as usual. She drifted in and, overwhelmed by the noise, decided to order a chocolate shake to go.

As Julia picked up the phone to call Tyler, it burst into an abbreviated version of “Demolition Lovers” by My Chemical Romance. Tyler was such a schizo sometimes. He was an all-American jock who cried when he watched
Hoosiers
but also thought it the height of romance to personalize his ring tone with lyrics about a trunk full of ammunition, a liquor store robbery, and death in a hail of bullets. She figured it was just part of being a teenage guy—trying to be a man but still a boy at heart. It
was
pretty adorable.

“Hey, Julia,” Tyler’s familiar voice was a welcome sound. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m pretty tired, though. I look like road kill, and I feel like it too.”

“Well, you’ve been through a terrible trauma. And I actually think the stitches are pretty hot.”

Julia couldn’t help but smile. “Oh good. Now I
do
see something good about that stupid zombie game you’ve been playing. Your standards are abysmal, you know that? Hey, I’m actually at Shakes right now. Wanna meet up?”

“I would, but I’m at Rob’s playing
Dead Space
before I crash. You know, college ball is a lot more demanding than high school ball, and these practices are killer. I’m sure you really need more rest too, after all you’ve been through. Why don’t we see each other this weekend?”

“Um, okay.” Julia said hesitantly. She could really use a dose of Tyler’s lightheartedness, and she was hoping that seeing him would put Austin out of her head. Tyler sensed her disappointment.

“Hey babe, if you want me to come over, I can tell Rob to stick it where the sun don’t shine.” A chorus of laughter in the background told Julia that Tyler was already preoccupied.

“No, that’s okay, Tyler. You’re right—I need to rest. Call me when you get a chance.”

“Take care, babe.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said and hit the end button.

Julia started home in the glistening darkness of a rainy, cloudy, moonless night. She was glad for the sugar buzz from the shake, because she could feel the scratches, sprains, and shocks of the past day and a half catching up with her. The monotony of the windshield wipers didn’t help. A couple of times she felt her eyes trying to close.

She shook her head, sucked down enough of her milkshake to give her brain freeze, and cranked the stereo. Someone was droning a teen rant about getting kicked out of a bar, and Julia sang along to stay awake. But she felt stupid singing about maxing out credit cards and ménage à trois and other risky, hedonistic BS she would never consider. So she pressed buttons until she landed on a station that played jazz and blues. She worried it might put her to sleep but was surprised to find the gutsy sax and bass waking her up. Her fingers tapped a beat on the steering wheel. Maybe Pierre still had something to teach her—Austin, that is.
I must be delirious,
she thought.

As she made the final few turns into her quiet San Clemente neighborhood, the rain stopped. Julia turned off the wipers, the stereo, and finally the engine, as she parked in front of her apartment building. That’s when she saw something move in her periphery. She looked toward the narrow space between the neighbor’s house and her building. The two buildings, a large bougainvillea, and a weedy little tree created competing shadows. Nothing.

“Okay, you’re just hallucinating now, Julia. Get some sleep,” she said to herself as she opened the car door and hurried up the sidewalk.

The sound of her own voice in the dripping quiet after the rain only made her more nervous, and her hands shook as she fumbled for her keys. Her dad always told her to have her house keys out the moment she got out of the car, and she usually did. When she heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind her, she looked over her shoulder and saw a man walking toward her. He wore an oversized sweatshirt, and his hands were stuffed deep in the front pouch. His hood was pulled low over his face, so that she couldn’t make out his features even when he passed under a street lamp.

Her body felt suddenly wet and cold—not because it was raining, but because a chill sweat was surging through every single pore as she sprinted toward her stairway. She tripped up the stairs and leaped to her doorway, where she dropped the keys. She felt around for them in the dark, wondering why there was no light like there usually was. Something sharp cut her hand, and she jerked it back with an involuntary gasp of pain. As she heard the metallic echo of feet on the stairway, her hand landed on the keys. She shoved her key into the lock, turned the key, then pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She quickly locked the deadbolt and chain, then leaned against the door, coughing and panting for air.

Julia steeled herself and then turned to look out the peephole. Just then, the apartment door across the hall from her opened, and a group of boisterous college girls spilled out into the hall. The hooded man walked past the girls, past her apartment, and around the corner into another section of the building.

Once she caught her breath, she remained in the doorway for several minutes, uncertain of what to do. She called Austin, but she hung up when she heard the voicemail greeting. Then she felt foolish. The guy probably lived in the building. She knew only a small fraction of her neighbors. She told herself that she was so traumatized from the other night, she must have overdramatized it all.

Mustering her courage, Julia walked to the kitchen and turned on the light. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and guzzled it down. Some of the water spilled out of her mouth and down her neck. She slid a hand across her neck, and it came away slick with water and sweat. She pulled out one of her two red Naugahyde kitchen chairs and sat facing the front door, staring. She imagined a body hurling at the door, the doorjamb splintering, the door flying open, and the guy in the hoodie rushing toward her. Julia shook from head to toe.

She became aware of a ticking sound. She looked at her retro diner clock. Midnight. She rarely came home this late on a weeknight, so the guy was probably just a neighbor she’d never seen. She walked to her front window, where she pulled the curtain aside a tentative crack. Shocked, she pulled it back all the way. Now she knew why her doorway had been dark: the light fixture and bulb in the outdoor hallway were broken. She looked at her hand holding the curtain and let go. Blood stained the curtain and dripped from her palm, where she’d cut herself on the broken glass that was lying on the hallway floor. It hadn’t been a flimsy fixture, but thick, foggy glass. Someone had broken it on purpose.

She realized the kitchen light was on, and her body was making a shadow against the curtain that anyone outside could see. She dropped to the ground, quivering, and didn’t move until the morning light cast its rays through the cracks in the curtain.