Summer Session (27 page)

Nobody said anything; they stared at Anna. Or at the cake.

‘Well, it’s his birthday. Somebody should remember it.’

Harper was worried that Anna might collapse; she was breathing shallowly and fast. ‘That was thoughtful of you, Anna.’

‘I brought plates.’ Anna reached into her book bag and pulled out a steak knife, paper plates, napkins, even plastic forks. Harper watched, half expecting favors and party hats, too.

Terence eyed the cake, licking his lips. ‘What is it – vanilla? I love vanilla.’

Anna shook her head. ‘White chocolate. Graham’s favorite.’

Harper spoke cautiously. ‘I suppose it’s fitting that, especially on his birthday, we take time to remember Graham. To celebrate his life. And, given what else has happened, we should take some time to think about our other lost classmates, too.’

Anna paused, crumpling plastic wrap. ‘Other lost classmates?’

‘Girl, haven’t you heard?’ Shaundra was amazed. ‘You don’t know about the murders?’

Anna turned to Shaundra, then to Harper. Then to the cake. ‘Murders?’

Oh God, Harper thought. Anna didn’t know.

Shaundra replied, ‘Monique and Larry? They’re dead.’

Harper stepped to Anna’s side, ready to catch her. Anna’s eyes drifted slowly.

‘Terence, come over here. Now.’ Harper used her best command voice, and Terence hopped to attention, not questioning why. Anna’s pale skin had become ashen; her eyes rolled upward.

As the other students gaped, Harper grabbed hold of Anna’s arm.

‘Somebody killed them,’ Shaundra continued.

‘Damn.’ Anna frowned. Then she keeled over into Terence’s arms.

‘Oh God. Is she dead, too?’ Cathy gasped.

‘I told you – it’s a curse.’ Esoso’s eyes widened.

‘Should I call nine–one–one?’

‘Everyone relax,’ Harper ordered. ‘Anna’s fine. She just passes out easily.’

The class gawked as Terence helped Harper carry Anna to a seat, positioning her head gently on to the pillow of her book bag.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harper continued. ‘Anna has a condition. Narcolepsy. She falls asleep when she’s upset. She’ll be up again in a little bit.’

The little class settled down, but the mood remained gloomy.

‘Look, everyone. Remember what I said before. If you know anything about those stolen drugs, tell the authorities. And, whatever you do, if you come across unidentified pills, do not take them.’

Blank eyes watched her, needy, waiting. She recognized the look, had seen it before, in the war. The kids needed guidance.

‘So. Let’s take a moment. Does anyone have some words to say about Graham, Monique or Larry?’

A sniffle. A cough. A throat being cleared.

Finally, Terence spoke. ‘They died too young, man.’ He shook his head.

‘That girl really liked pink,’ Jeremy offered.

Dustin stood, pivoting, angry. ‘This whole thing’s messed up. What’s the point of saying anything? They’re dead. I mean, DEAD. What the fuck is happening? This is supposed to be college, not some slasher movie. It’s frickin’ fucked up.’ He started toward the open window. Oh God.

Harper moved, positioning herself between him and the sill.

Silence.

‘May they rest in peace,’ Esoso said gently, head bent.

‘Amen.’ Terence began to hum ‘Amazing Grace’. A few others joined him, standing in a loose semicircle, Shaundra leading with a stirring soprano. After that, nobody said anything. Gwen was crying. Dustin stared out at the quad.

When Harper was sure that Dustin wasn’t going anywhere, she went back to her desk.

‘You’re right to be confused. And angry. And sad. I wish I had an explanation or something wise and comforting to say. But I don’t.’

More silence.

‘Can we have some cake?’ Terence’s voice was sheepish.

Harper smiled. That was exactly what they needed to do. ‘In honor of our lost classmates and Graham’s birthday. Yes, let’s have some cake.’

Picking up Anna’s knife, she began to cut.

In seconds, most of the cake had been devoured. Sugar and buttery icing revived the class, distracted them from the tragedies.

‘Do we have an assignment?’ somebody asked.

An assignment? Harper had to remind herself what the class was actually supposed to be about. Oh, right. Archeology. She hadn’t been following the lectures. Hadn’t even thought about them. ‘Yes. Review Chapter Six. Somehow, next week, we’re going to get back on track.’

Before she could tell her students to take care over the weekend, before she could even dismiss them, the room erupted with the scraping of chairs and desks on the old wooden floor. Then they were gone, paper plates and plastic forks dumped haphazardly into or near the trash can. Harper wished that Esoso or Jeremy would come back and confide something about the stolen pills, but they didn’t. For a while, Harper sat alone with the remains of the cake, watching Anna sleep, listening to the inept rattling of the fan.

The minutes dragged on. Harper couldn’t leave Anna there, propped up on her book bag. But neither could she sit there and do nothing. The room made her uncomfortable with its empty chairs and stuffy heat. Its yawning window. If she looked at it, she would still see Graham, climbing over the sill. She didn’t want to revisit his death, so, diverting herself, she picked at crumbs of cake. Fingered dollops of white icing off the edge of the plate. Yum. Maybe she’d have a small slice.

The cake was moist, fresh. Incredibly rich. Cream cheese icing? Clearly not a mix. Harper had never had white chocolate cake before. It was too sweet for her. But Anna had clearly put some effort into making it. Obviously, she’d had serious feelings for Graham, remembering his birthday, baking him a cake. Poor girl wasn’t dealing well with his death. When she woke up, Harper would advise her to discuss Graham’s death with her doctors at the clinic so they could help her cope with the trauma. Then again, in Harper’s experience, doctors didn’t have incredible success in that area.

Harper checked her watch. Anna had been out for a little over ten minutes, probably wouldn’t wake up for another fifteen or twenty. Harper had to fill time. She checked her phone. Saw that Vicki had called yet again. Deleted the message. Went next door to the ladies’ room, dawdled at the mirror, frowned at the stress in her eyes. Came back to the room and saw Anna still sleeping. And the remnants of the cake still sitting there. Cut herself another sliver, then another. She was considering shaving off a wad of frosting when Anna woke up.

‘Oh God.’ She lifted her head.

‘No – wait. Don’t sit up too fast.’ Licking frosting off her finger, Harper went to Anna’s side. ‘Take it easy.’

‘They’re really dead?’ Anna picked up the conversation where it had stopped half an hour earlier. ‘Larry and Monique?’

Harper nodded. ‘Yes.’

Anna’s oval face became somber. ‘What happened?’

Harper didn’t want to go into it, didn’t want Anna to pass out again.

‘I heard you talking about the drugs.’

Oh, of course she had – during episodes, Anna could hear perfectly.

‘Were they the same drugs, Loot? The stolen ones we talked about? Did they overdose or something?’

‘Anna, really, I don’t want to upset you—’

‘I won’t collapse. I promise.’

Harper explained carefully that, while the drugs themselves hadn’t killed Monique or Larry, they might well have been the reason for their murders. And she mentioned that the stolen drugs could have dangerous side effects.

‘What kind of side effects? Like headaches?’

No, not like headaches. ‘The drugs can over-stimulate part of the brain, causing unpredictable behavior. Impulsiveness. Even violence.’

Anna’s eyes lost focus. She began to swoon. Dear God, Harper thought. Was the girl passing out again?

‘Anna?’ Harper cursed herself for upsetting her.

Anna blinked several times and stood, steadying herself. ‘No, I’m fine. It’s just too much to think about. You were right; we shouldn’t talk about it. It’s so hot in here. There’s no air. I’d better go.’ She grabbed her book bag, explaining that she had to get to the clinic for her appointment, and Loot shouldn’t worry about her. She’d see her on Monday.

Before Harper could respond, Anna was out the door, leaving her alone with the empty chairs, the rattling fan, the open window. And the remainder of the cake.

There really wasn’t very much left. Besides, Harper had a lunchtime appointment with Leslie, wouldn’t have time to eat. And it would be a shame to throw it out.

Wyatt was convinced that Ron’s numbers had nothing whatever to do with the stolen drugs. He was certain the Jennings woman had sent him down a blind alley, and Ron was, frankly, too turned on by her to see it. Wyatt would have to take charge and somehow find the drugs himself before more people died. If the cause of this mess were discovered, the Neurological Center, its research and his own career would be destroyed. For over an hour, he sat at his desk, making lists. One list of employees, patients and others who’d had access to the drugs. And another of people who’d known about the drug’s effect on learning and memory. A third of women Ron Kendall had been involved with since his latest divorce. Who knew what he’d told them?

The list was long. Too long. Subjects in the study, for example. They didn’t know if they were taking placebos or the real medication. Or what dosages they were getting. Or what the drugs were supposed to do. But they knew the drugs were there, being tested. And some of them felt smarter and more alert after taking them. Due to lax security, any of the subjects – and there were currently hundreds – could have stolen them.

Wyatt crumpled up the list, tossed it into the trash. Finally, frustrated, he checked his reflection in the mirror, repositioned his hairpiece and wandered to the Sleep Clinic to do his rounds.

A nurse interrupted his reverie. ‘Beds three and seven are apnea. Four is somnambulism; six is insomnia. Two is narcolepsy.’ She handed him a stack of files.

Wyatt stared at them. Wondering how long he could keep up the facade of business as usual. How could Ron Kendall remain so unperturbed? Bodies were piling up. In the space of a week, there had been four. And, if the drugs continued to be taken in excess, their side effects would only increase in intensity. Four bodies this week could mean ten next, or twelve, and thirty the week after that. The only hope was that the imbeciles taking them killed each other off, with the last of them flushing the extra drugs. Fatigue washed through him. Good God, what was happening? He could barely breathe. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. Needed to. Couldn’t. But Ron Kendall – poring over his list of numbers as if they contained the damned secrets of the universe – Kendall seemed well rested, composed. And more than a little bit smug. Why? What was he up to? What did he know that he wasn’t sharing? Something about the drugs? About that Jennings woman?

He was porking her. Had to be. And those random numbers – it was possible they were just a ruse, a construct by Kendall to keep attention off the woman. In fact, Kendall and the woman might be conspiring, hiding the drugs to bring him down, so Kendall could take over the research and the clinic . . .

Well, he’d see to it that he didn’t go down alone. Kendall would go with him. He was as much at fault as anyone.

Oh God. Oh God. Wyatt put his head down on the nursing-station desk. How could this be happening?

‘Dr Wyatt? Are you all right?’ The damned nurse hovered over him. ‘Can I get you anything?’

He sighed and sat up, stretched his neck. ‘No, no. Please just carry on with your duties.’

Good God, couldn’t a man have some privacy?

Wyatt stared at the pile of folders in front of him. Of course, catastrophe wasn’t a given; there was always the possibility that Kendall had killed those two kids because he’d learned that they’d actually been the thieves. That they and they alone had known where the drugs were hidden. That no one else would find them. That the trials could continue and be completed without further ado.

Those were definite possibilities. Even probabilities. So, probably, nothing else would go wrong. The drugs would be approved. The clinic’s funding would continue. No, it would increase. Exponentially. As would its reputation. His reputation. His career.

Gradually relaxing, Wyatt became aware of phones ringing around him and banks of monitors recording patients’ brainwaves and heart rates. That nurse, asking an aide to check the man in bed four. The living bustle of the clinic. He straightened up, inhaled deeply and opened a file. He knew the case; she’d been here almost every day. It was that young woman, that narcoleptic.

‘So.’ Leslie rearranged her legs, curling them under her on the sofa. ‘Anything you want to talk about first?’

Harper shook her head, no. Not her marriage, not her childhood, not the murders, not the stolen drugs or the havoc in her house. Nothing.

‘Well, then, why don’t we begin?’

Leslie guided Harper’s vision rapidly from side to side as she instructed her to revisit the street corner in Baghdad, the morning of the explosion. Once again, Harper was there in the glaring sun and dusty, hot air. Her equipment weighed heavy, and she had bad cramps, but wouldn’t complain. Marvin chattered, Sameh approached with a smile. The boy dawdled, toying with a sack. The car came speeding toward them. Sameh stopped in the middle of the road, hesitating, looking back. Meeting Harper’s eyes.

Leslie stopped the memory before the oncoming explosion. ‘Well, two things are new. You never mentioned Sameh stopping before. Or said that the boy had a sack.’

Harper closed her eyes. She could still see them. If Harper had paid more attention to the car charging the checkpoint and ordered her patrol to fire at it, Sameh and the boy would still be alive.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I should have stopped the car.’