Noise. Behind him.
Streng spun, only to see something impossibly huge coming up the stairs.
Dr. Ralph Stubin scratched his dry, bald scalp, squinted at the algorithm on his computer screen, and reached for his cup of coffee. It was empty, and had been the last three times he’d picked it up. On this occasion, he actually raised it to his lips before he noticed.
“Mathison! How about some coffee?”
Alan Mathison Turing sat next to the coffee machine, his tail testing the warmth of the carafe by poking it. Mathison screeched. Stubin recognized it as capuchin monkey language for not done.
“If I don’t have caffeine in my mug in the next ten seconds, no beer for you tonight.”
Mathison screeched again, and Stubin knew he was being called the monkey equivalent of assface. But rather than pout, Mathison leapt over to the laboratory cabinets, grabbed a 60-cc bulb syringe, and stuck the pointy end into the still-percolating coffeepot. He extracted 30 ccs, walked on two legs over to Stubin, and injected it into the doctor’s cup.
“Thank you, Mathison.”
Mathison dropped the syringe and hopped up onto Stubin’s shoulder, his tail curling gently around his neck. He weighed less than five pounds and sat there so often Stubin barely felt him. The doctor kept his eyes on the computer but reached up to scratch Mathison on the belly. He missed, his fingers tracing the surgery scar along Mathison’s scalp.
The monkey screeched, tiny paws pushing him away. Mathison retained his sensitivity about the scar. Not the feel of it—it had healed over a year ago. But its appearance. Stubin had been to four plastic surgeons, but none were willing to work on a monkey for purely cosmetic reasons. They didn’t believe a primate could be vain.
Mathison was more than vain. Mathison was a grandiose narcissist. And even though he had a stellar success rate with the females and was universally loved by all who encountered him, both human and primate, the circular scar remained an issue for him.
“You’re too self-conscious,” Stubin said.
Mathison climbed off the doctor’s shoulder and pointed at the Lakers hat Stubin always wore when out in public to hide his baldness. Stubin had been losing hair since the sixties.
“Fair enough. I could get a hat for you, if you like.”
Mathison put the baseball cap on his own head. It was so big it covered him to the chest.
“Yours would be smaller, Mathison. I’d have it custom-made. It would be the same as mine but would fit you.”
Mathison used the assface screech again.
“It doesn’t have to be the Lakers. It could be whatever you’d like.”
Mathison picked an empty Budweiser can from the garbage and hooted, a sound not unlike a howling ghost. He used that hoot only for things he really liked, such as females and beer. Stubin wrote down Bud cap for Mathison on a dry erase board, since there wasn’t a scrap of paper in the lab.
Stubin’s cell phone rang.
“Can you grab that for me?”
Mathison held the can over his head and howled again. Stubin sighed, swiveled his chair over to the table, and picked up the cell.
“This is Dr. Stubin.”
“USAVOIP 6735,” said the computer voice in its usual soothing manner.
Unlike General Tope, Stubin immediately knew what the code meant. When he hung up the phone he whispered, “It’s happening, Mathison.”
Fran knew every inch of the kitchen at Merv’s and probably could have found the candles with her eyes closed. But Al and his keychain flashlight provided great comfort to her as they made their way to the storage area.
“Kind of snug back here.” Al pointed the tiny light down the aisle, showing the scant distance between the grill and the fryers. “I’m surprised Merv can fit.”
The kitchen was laid out like a long hallway, to allow for maximum customer space in the dining area. Oven, cooler, sink, storage, and finally a tiny desk at the end. Above the desk was a filthy window that they never opened; it led to the alley and their Dumpster, along with its accompanying smells.
Besides being the owner, Merv was the cook, and he didn’t put anything on the menu that he didn’t personally enjoy. As a result, Merv weighed well over three hundred pounds. It was a pretty tight squeeze. The darkness made the space seem even smaller, and Fran fought to keep her breathing under control. Thinking about her breathing made it worse, and she felt her palms go clammy and her chest tighten up.
Panic attack. Since the accident Fran had been having them on a weekly basis. The symptoms—hyperventilating, increased heartbeat, sweating, shaking—were trivial on their own but contributed to an overwhelming psychological response. During an episode, Fran felt as if she were dying.
She’d tried psychotherapy, medications, relaxation techniques, but nothing helped. When the attack came, it took over no matter what she was doing. Yet another reason she didn’t date. How awkward would it be during sex if she suddenly froze up and began to cry in terror?
Fran forced herself to talk, but it came out croaky. “The candles should be on one of the racks here.”
She took the last six steps to the storage area at a jog, her hands reaching out for the wire shelving. Fran looked past the large cans of tomato paste, past the containers of pasta, and shifted a box of paper napkins to reach for the candles.
Then the flashlight went out.
The darkness hit her like a slap. She uttered a small yelp, then gripped the steel support bars on the shelving unit and waited for Al to put the light back on.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
“Al?”
Fran’s voice was so faint she could barely hear it herself. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“Al? Did you drop the flashlight?”
A shuffling sound, from Al’s direction. Was he teasing her? If so, it wasn’t funny. The whole town knew about her tragedy. Al couldn’t possibly be that cruel.
The silence stretched. Fran heard scratching, like claws on the tile floor.
“Al?”
The power in her voice was surprising, considering how scared she was. But Al didn’t answer.
Fran went over some scenarios. Maybe he just dropped his keys. The keychain light probably worked by keeping pressure on the button. But Fran hadn’t heard the jingle of keys hitting the floor. The batteries? If they’d died, why wasn’t Al answering? Had he suddenly gone deaf?
Perhaps he’d fallen. Or had a heart attack. Or a stroke. That made more sense than Al playing games. Fran probably needed to get to him, to help him. He might be dying.
Fran tried to let go of the shelf, but her hands wouldn’t open. The bones in her legs turned into rubber, and she had a hard time keeping her balance.
Then the flashlight came back on.
A sound escaped Fran’s mouth that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. She squinted at the light, roughly ten feet away from her, and it brought her more pure joy than she’d felt as a child on Christmas morning.
“Al, what—”
The light went off again. Fran waited for an explanation, an apology.
None came.
“Al?” she squeaked.
He didn’t answer. And once again the darkness pressed down on Fran, suffocating her, making her feel trapped and alone and without any hope. Her breath came faster, shallower, and she felt the blood leaching out of her head, the edges of unconsciousness closing in.
And then the flashlight was on.
Then off.
Then on.
Off.
On.
What the hell was Al doing? The light hovered at chest level, so he hadn’t fallen. But he wasn’t making any attempt to come closer, wasn’t speaking, wasn’t doing anything but pointing the beam at her face.