The Faculty Club Part 25

"It's just not a part of it."

"Come on, there must be something."

There was a strain in my voice. This was our last thread. Our only remaining clue. And it was unraveling before my eyes.

"What about zombies?" I tried. "That's a way to bring people back from the dead, right?"

"I told you, forget about zombies."

"Do they exist?"

"That's Hollywood stuff. It's not part of the culture."

"But do they exist?"

Isabella pulled back. My voice sounded wild, plaintive. She sighed.

"I don't know. There are stories, rumors. Once, some Harvard scientists claimed to find chemicals in Haiti that would knock a person out and bring them back, sleepy and submissive. But you know the legend as well as I do. A zombie is mindless, empty. If I wanted to live forever, it wouldn't be like that."

A fair point. Running around with my tongue hanging out might be fun for a Sat.u.r.day night--but eternity?

"Please, Isabella, think. There has to be something."

Isabella closed her eyes for a moment. She filled the room with her warmth, her calm. In the fluorescent light her strand of gray hair seemed to glow. She appeared to be searching for an answer to my question. Then she opened her eyes and held her hands out to me. She rubbed the tops of my hands with her thumbs, like she was reading my fortune. Her expression was kind, but she shook her head.

"At some point, every culture has to choose between the circle and the line. The circle seeks contentment: the seasons, the tides, sunrise and sunset, birth to death and maybe even death to birth, who knows?

"The line . . . the line seeks progress: acquisition, mastery, refinement of the world around you.

"Neither is intrinsically good or evil. That's the thing most people don't realize. It's the balance that matters . . .

"But to live forever, as one person, through all time? To cheat the cycle? That's the line, Jeremy . . . that's the line out of control. What you're describing isn't voodoo. There's no magic, no belief to make that happen. I'm sorry, but I think you're looking in the wrong place."

I felt frantic. This was our last clue.

"But what if someone found a way to use voodoo--someone from outside the culture--in a way it was never intended?"

Isabella thought about it.

"Well, if that's the case," she said, with that magnificent, wry smile, "then my black half is very disappointed in my white half."

We left, with our final clue in shambles.

I was devastated for about an hour, and then I cracked the whole d.a.m.n thing wide open.

26.

"Why don't you tell him the joke?" Humpty Dumpty said. "Maybe he'll thank you."

"Enough," Bernini snapped. "Remember your deal."

I kept turning those words over and over in my head. We were missing something. Something that was right there, hanging in front of us.

I couldn't shake the feeling that we had everything we needed to save ourselves.

Miles was spread out on the comforter of the shabby bed in our shabby motel room. He was mindlessly twisting his Rubik's Cube--scramble, solve, scramble, solve. Miles wasn't quite what they called a speed cuber, but he did go to a few conventions in high school, where math nerds, sci-fi fanatics, comic book collectors, and other of our fellow virgins would commune to break international cube-solving records. The fastest people today could solve a scrambled cube in fifteen seconds or less. Amazing how the world changes--it took Erno Rubik, the Hungarian mathematician, an entire month to solve his own cube for the first time.

"Why don't you tell him the joke? Maybe he'll thank you."

Why would I thank him?

Miles was the only action in the room. We were holed up, stuck in a holding pattern. Scramble, solve, scramble, solve. His fingers were large but nimble.

Sarah was watching him too.

"How do you do that?" she finally asked.

Miles looked up, surprised, as if we'd woken him from a particularly deep dream.

"This?" He held up the cube.

"Yeah. How do you do it so fast?"

"It's not that hard, really. The secret is the middle square. It never changes. Once you see the middle square, you know what color that side has to be. Everything else turns around that. From there, it's just pattern recognition, clockwork."

That's when it clicked. The whole thing.

Why don't you tell him the joke?

What was our middle square?

It had to be the dead professor who wasn't dead. Everything turned around him.

It occurred to me: what if we had the wrong middle square? What if our clues didn't fit together because everything flowed from the middle square--and we had the middle square totally backward? We saw red and thought it was blue . . .

The whole puzzle fell into place, like water molecules snapping into ice.

"Oh my G.o.d," I said, and they looked at me. I told them everything. I couldn't see my own expression, but I saw it reflected in their faces.

I saw fear.

Immortality was one thing.

But this?

For our sake, I hoped I was right. And so help me, I hoped I was wrong.

There was only one way to find out.

I hadn't been to Nigel's apartment since the night of his dinner party, and that felt like another lifetime. I walked up the steps to his brownstone. It was almost four in the morning, and the cold was so intense, so harsh, that my nose and throat burned every time I took a breath. The streets were perfectly still. I hadn't seen a soul on my way over. And believe me, I was looking--for any shadowy figure that might be in the vicinity.

I was surprised to see a light already on in Nigel's window. The doorbell echoed through his apartment. Lights flipped on from room to room, closer and closer, and then footsteps came my way. Nigel opened the door. He was fully dressed and didn't seem at all surprised to see me. That, I think, was the moment I knew just how stupid I was. Why didn't I just chain myself to the bell tower in the center of campus, with a sign that said hey secret evil club: come and get me! But this was the only way. We had to know. I told myself that and heard another voice, that cla.s.s clown in the back row of my brain, calling out obnoxious comments. It was Arthur Peabody's voice, and it said: Now or later . . . they'll get me.

There you go. Now or later. Let it happen.

Wise words from the late, great Humpty Dumpty.

"Jeremy," Nigel said pleasantly. "Come in."

We pa.s.sed the dining room to the last door in the hallway, the only one I hadn't been in before. On one end of the room was Nigel's bed, a canopy with four elegant spiral posts; at the other was an oak desk, next to a limestone fireplace with a roaring fire. Behind the desk were rows of books. I sat in the leather chair he indicated and started scanning the bookshelves. I found what I was looking for easily enough--it was part of a set--the antique he'd shown me on the first day of school, a leather-bound collection of political essays. The one he'd wanted to give Daphne in his crazy quest for her affection. The one I'd talked him out of giving her, back when I was giving love advice to Nigel even though I wanted Daphne. Back when altruism and friendship seemed like virtues to me. Well, the book was there, anyway. At least he listened. I also saw, perhaps too late, that the phone on his desk was off the hook. It was an old-fashioned phone with a rotary dial and a vertical shaft like a lamppost that cradled the receiver. But not now. Now the receiver was sitting facedown on his desk, and the first thing he did when he sat down was lift it up to his mouth.

"I need to go now," he said into the phone, looking at me. "Yes," he said. "Yes. Quite." He smiled. "I will."

He hung the phone up.

"Who was that?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"No one," he said, smiling back at me.

The clock had started. Fine. f.u.c.k the clock. f.u.c.k whatever was waiting for me on the other end of that call. Right now, it was just me and Nigel. I couldn't rush this. It was a dance. A magic trick, even. And I wasn't going to get caught with a rabbit halfway out of my sleeve. Not tonight.

I was going to take my time, because that was the only way.

Nigel stared at me, waiting for me to say something. I stared back. His desk was covered with books, and he appeared to be writing a paper or even a book in longhand. There were stacks of handwritten pages, with cross-outs, marginal notes, insertions, all in the same urgent script. Not a computer in the room.

Stress is an amazing thing--an hour ago it was bringing out the worst in me, and now it was bringing out the best. When I spoke, my voice didn't crack. It sounded deeper and stronger than it had in weeks.

"Is it everything you hoped it would be?" I asked him.

Nigel didn't flinch.

"Is what everything I hoped it would be?" he asked with a straight face. "Law school, you mean?"

I reclined in my chair without taking my eyes off his. I aimed for just south of angry and repeated, very clearly: "Is it everything you hoped it would be?"

He gave me a dead-eyed stare, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," he said. "Everything and more."

"I'm happy for you."

"What do you want, Jeremy?"

"Nothing, Nigel. I don't want a thing."

Take it slow.

"So why are you here?"

"I think you know."

Easy, I thought. Less anger, a little more hurt.

"We used to be friends . . ."

Nigel sighed. His guard went down just a hair. But not the coldness that was just behind his eyes. The people on the other end of that call were still coming, and he knew exactly what they'd do to me when they got here. And he didn't care.

"I know," he said. "We were."

"I helped you. That's the part that kills me. I helped you."

He rubbed the dome of his head.

"What do you want me to say?"

Okay, swipe one: "That night in the library, you were a mess. Didn't even know how to read a case. I helped you. What a fool I was!"

Let it sit.

Reel him in.

"Did you come here to insult me?" Nigel said, pushing away from his desk. "Tell me I'm stupid? That I don't deserve whatever it is you think I have?"

Good. Keep his eye off the ball.

Then the wagon jumped the tracks.

"I got you something," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I ordered it a while ago. It just came. I was going to give it to you at school. But since you're here . . ."

He gave a little sarcastic shrug.

I needed to get him back on track. Time was running out. They were coming. And he was stalling me. But I couldn't show fear. I couldn't let him see what I was up to.

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just take it."