Sabotage (8 page)

Austin flushed scarlet. At 6:55 p.m., he had been sitting across from Malcolm Clare. The professor hadn't used his laptop to send any emails during their conversation.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.

Austin slung his backpack over a shoulder and left the building. Unlocking his bike, he raced east along Serra Mall, the street running perpendicular to the picturesque Palm Drive. He dialed his roommate as he pedaled. Ichiro answered after a few rings.

“Hey. You sound out of breath.”

“I'm biking,” Austin said. “Itchy, quick question. Did you know Malcolm Clare has a daughter?”

Ichiro burst out laughing. “You may be obsessed with the hard to get, but, my friend, some are downright unattainable.”

“So you know her.”

“Sure. We're in the same math program. She's in my differential geometry class and kind of hard to miss. Apparently you think so, too.”

“I'm not looking for a date. I've never met her.”

“Uh-huh,” Ichiro said with a purr. “Victoria Clare's a knockout.”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“You sound frazzled. What's up, roomie?”

“Do you know anything about her schedule?”

“Ah, so Casanova
is
looking for a date!” Ichiro needled. “Helpful hint: Stalking won't get you any warm and fuzzies.”

“Before yesterday, I didn't even know the girl existed,” Austin said. “Help me out.”

Ichiro heaved a sigh. “Sorry to disappoint. We only have one class together, which she seems to be doing exceedingly well in. That's all I know of her schedule. She probably has plenty of secret admirers you could ask for a play-by-play of her routine. I'm not your man. Although I did just see the ice queen in question at the Axe and Palm five minutes ago.”

Austin pedaled faster, steering south around the history corner.

“Austin, I don't know what you're after, but be careful with this one. She's kind of a loner, has a reputation for being an antisocial bookworm. My feeling is she has a massive superiority complex, and from what I hear, no interest in playing the field. If it seems at all like you're coming on to her…”

A dial tone interrupted his admonition.

“Suit yourself,” Ichiro said.

 

SIX

The Axe and Palm was the closest thing Stanford had to a burger joint. Austin surveyed the room. Most students were congregated around tall tables, chatting, nibbling, waiting for food. He ordered a dish of crepes and scanned the crowd for Clare's daughter, spotting the most likely contender sipping a smoothie.

She sat alone at the counter, and looked to be about twenty-three. Shiny aviators left her eyes to Austin's imagination as he struggled to decide whether she more closely resembled a Bouguereau portrait or a creature from the untamed tropics. Panting from his bike ride, he studied the planes of her face. They were soft and still, gilded by past summers and tanned to a burnished glow. Her lips were restful, sphinxlike, perhaps even stubborn. A jacket of black Italian lambskin was zipped over the curve of her chest. Its color matched the obsidian of her hair, which was full and draped in layers over a straight shoulder line. White linen slacks concealed her legs, which Austin envisioned as long and firm and copper-colored.

He admired her conservative, self-styled brand of chic. Days ago he hadn't known this prodigy existed, let alone as the daughter of an aeronautics legend. Gathering his composure, he pulled out a chair beside her.

“This seat taken?”

She took an unhurried sip, contemplating the question without comment. Nor did she glance at him, apparently preferring to receive strangers by sound of voice.

She replied at last. “It is now.”

Austin detected a subtle whiff of perfume, clean and oceanic, and resisted the temptation to lean closer.

“My name is Austin Hardy. I'm a student in your father's class.”

“Victoria Clare. Apparently you knew that.”

“Not until yesterday. Your dad mentioned you. But … no one has seen him today.” He expected her to say something. She didn't. A waitress delivered his crepes. He tasted a spoonful of sliced bananas smeared in melted chocolate. “Any idea why?”

“No.”

She sounded American, though he detected hints of her father's posh British intonation.

“I realize I'm a stranger to you. But I've come to alert you to something potentially worrisome.”

A gleam of amusement shone through her apparent boredom.

“Oh?”

“Maybe you could answer some questions.”

“Why is that?”

“You'll see why.”

There wasn't a speck of curiosity in her reply.

“Shoot.”

“Have you spoken to your father recently?”

“How is that relevant?”

“He didn't teach today. The TA said he'd left on a sudden research trip, but he hadn't mentioned anything to me.”

“Does my father usually share his travel schedule with you?”

He tried not to let her chilliness peeve him, and wondered if there was any mirth behind the reflective aviators. “I know more than you might think, Victoria.” As far as he could tell, she was an emotional desert. “Your father confided in me. He told me you and he never feel truly safe in this world.”

She leaned back against her chair, but said not a word.

“Why not talk to me?”

“To answer your question, I haven't spoken with him recently.”

“Did he tell you he'd be taking any research trips? Any idea where he is?”

“No.”

“Does he vanish frequently?”

“He's done it before.”

“Does he usually tell you first, or does he just slip away?”

“Sometimes he tells me. Sometimes not.” She sighed in reproach. “Mr. Hardy, I wonder why you sat down.”

“Hang with me. There's something weird I'm getting at. I was in your father's office yesterday, and I didn't leave until after seven. The TA said he received an email from him at exactly six fifty-five p.m. Not possible. I was with him at the time. He wasn't sending emails. Strange, no?”

“No.”

Her patent lack of concern staggered him.

“You're serious?”

“There are things about my father that you'll never know. His affairs are none of your concern. I know nothing about you, whether you have his best interest in mind, or whether you cooked up a sham to get laid. Excuse me. I'm busy.”

“You really think that's what I'm after? God. I've never met anyone as self-absorbed in my life.” She remained motionless, no evidence of surprise—no evidence of anything. He let the silence linger a moment before continuing, his tone less confrontational. “I'd like to help you, Victoria. I saw a problem and came straight to you. The least you can do is hear me out. Evidently you're not interested. If you change your mind, here's my number. If you'd rather find me in person, I live in Escondido Village. Think it over. More importantly,” he paused, “try reaching your dad.” He jotted his digits on a napkin and slid them to her.

He trashed his remaining crepes and mounted his bike outside. Sour thoughts consumed him as he pedaled toward his dormitory on the east side of campus. If there were a way to the professor, it would be through his daughter, but he was far from earning her trust.

He steered onto a path between the post office and the bookstore, climbed a slight hill, and coasted down around Meyer Library. A breeze calmed him, distracting him from the day's puzzle. He slipped into a dispassionate state of problem-solving.

Slowly his initial pang of dislike for Victoria dissolved into understanding. Malcolm had warned that his daughter kept to herself, that she lived under the constant threat of some unnamed danger. By the sound of it, she spoke with few people and trusted even fewer. It shouldn't have surprised him that she'd turn away an unfamiliar face. Victoria Clare had to know her looks were a powerful weapon, but for someone living under threat of some unnamed peril, attention had drawbacks. Beauty was incompatible with anonymity, and Austin figured it was anonymity she desired most.

He sighed. No wonder she'd brushed him off. Chances were he was just another drooling male, or worse, a threat to her safety. Dropping her guard could mean inviting an enemy closer.

The sun retired. Stars peeked through an indigo canopy that faded to the horizon's blue pastels.

Austin coasted along Escondido Road. Before he reached his apartment complex, he had an idea. If Dr. Clare were still around, there was one place worth checking. Austin swerved across the road, biked through a parking lot, and headed northwest.

A shortcut took him around Branner Hall, a large freshman dormitory. Named for the university's second president, John Casper Branner, the hall originally built to ease a campus housing crunch now gleamed after recent renovation, its buttery, cream-colored walls and enhanced woodwork giving the impression of historic grandeur. Outside, students played games around a birdbath centered in a magnolia-shaded courtyard.

Austin cut into a parking lot, his path feeding into a street that ran before a palatial building one might expect tucked away in the Catalonian Mountains. This was Toyon Hall, a Spanish-villa-style dorm that housed sophomores, and a smattering of juniors and seniors. Beyond the dorm's manicured lawn, an archway framed a trickling fountain in the inner court, around which winding staircases coiled up to higher levels. To Austin, Toyon's architecture had more charisma than that of any other dorm on campus.

He turned left at an intersection, heading toward the school's largest fountain, a column of water that would soon run a grisly crimson—symbolically, with Oskie's blood. Lapping water would kick up a layer of red mist through Big Game Week. Within a stone's throw, the iconic Hoover Tower, overlooking campus from soaring heights, would also glow an ominous red. In a night of tradition and lore, hundreds would soon rally at the foot of the tower before the football team waged battle for the Axe.

Beyond the fountain's circle, the street continued across from the main quad. A stretch of sandstone walls and Mission Revival architecture unfolded under the moon's glow. The courtyard inside was a serene and mystical place at night, the walls a stronghold for Stanford's spiritual sanctuary, Memorial Church. Austin admired the triangular Romanesque form of the church whenever he passed by. He often entered the quadrangle after dark to sit on the large, circular planters and marvel at the facade's mosaic. Sometimes he would lie on the grass and stargaze. Palms would stir under a gentle zephyr as he paid homage to the university's founders.

Tonight, choral echoes emanated from the sandstone archways. Sixteen tones blended as one, weaving the rumbles of the basses, the harmonies of the baritones, the melodies of the leads, and the high chimes of the tenors into rich textures. An a cappella rendition of
My Romance
resonated from a group of tuxedoed young men huddling in a circle.

A few hundred yards ahead, the sound of yet another fountain signaled that he had neared his destination. When he reached the engineering quad, Austin parked his bike in a rack, secured the frame to a metal bar, and tried the front door of the Gates building. As he had guessed, it was locked.

He trekked around the periphery, checking other doors, his mind exploring new conduits. Maintenance had secured the building. He tried the windows, most of them sealed shut. Again he circled, yanking the panes with greater force. When one pried open, he hoisted himself up and stole into a dark classroom. He cleared the window and offered his pupils time to adjust to the darkness. The halls beyond were lit. His jeans scuffed as he walked into the hallway. Distracted momentarily by his own noise, he snagged a foot on a stray chair and landed on his elbow, the pain in his arm not half the pain in his ankle. Bad time to be a klutz, he thought. When the tenderness subsided, he located the main lobby, summoned the elevator, and pushed the third-floor button.

When the doors opened, he considered removing his shoes; socks would mute the footsteps. He weighed the benefits against the risk of someone finding his abandoned footwear in the corridor. He kept them on and trod lightly. Rounding a corner, he passed a row of cubicles.

He depressed the handle to Clare's study, but it hardly budged. Everything was locked. What did he expect? He improvised by visiting the nearest cubicle and opening a drawer to find a plastic jar of desk supplies. He removed a heavy paper clip and bobby pin, unfolding the paper clip into an L-shaped tension wrench that he inserted at the bottom of the keyhole. Next he inserted the wavy side of the pin, and after minutes of raking, he fooled the lock into thinking the flimsy tool was a key.

Malcolm Clare's office was a new animal at nighttime. The model planes dangled without motion, ghostly craft in the shadows, formless but for the spectral outlines of their wings. Zeppelin silhouettes flickered under the light of a muted mini-TV showing the news.

Austin shut the door, lowered the window blinds, and flipped on the light.

When the room sprang to life, he noticed a collection of oddities. For all he knew, the television had been on for hours. The professor's briefcase lay propped against his desk; he hadn't taken it with him. A crystal flute rested on the desktop, its amber liquid tepid and deprived of fizz. Reading the label on the empty bottle next to the glass, Austin wondered why the professor would let a vintage champagne go sour. Maybe he had left in a rush.

Austin began snooping through the professor's sanctum for any indication of his whereabouts. A chrome-colored object beside the wheels of the professor's swivel chair caught his eye. Austin dropped to his knees and discovered it was Clare's cell phone.

None of it added up. If the professor had taken an extended trip, he'd have taken his phone and briefcase. Fastidiously neat, he would have also tidied his office before leaving. Austin pocketed the cell phone and began opening drawers. He found paper clips, rubber bands, a stapler, tape. In another cabinet he rummaged through envelopes, stationery, and other office supplies all neatly compartmentalized. Until reaching the last pullout, he found nothing of interest.