Indefinite Renewal Page 2

  “Who’s there?” Nick started getting up but a sudden wave of nausea countered that notion, and he settled for leaning forward and adjusting his glasses in an attempt to take in more detail. “Where am I?” was his second question, followed quickly by “What’s going on here? What do you want with me?” and, at the last, finally registering what the voice had said, “What do you mean, ‘don’t fight it’?”

  A face appeared above the chair, and although Nick had been watching for movement he still jumped. The features did nothing to reassure him—chiseled cheekbones, silvery hair and a close-cropped dark beard, with sharp, predatory features and glittering eyes that locked onto him and held him half-entranced. A portion of his brain realized that the face was too high for the man to be sitting, meaning he must be standing behind the chair, but the rest was trying desperately not to get up and run—the face was so much that of the typical Devil that Nick could almost see horns sprouting above its forehead.

  “Questions, questions,” the voice purred, and with Nick’s blurred vision it seemed the man’s lips hadn’t moved at all, as if the sound were radiating from some other source entirely. Then the eyes blinked and the mouth curved in a slight smile and the fear receded, as the visage became clearly just a man standing in the shadows.

  “Questions are good,” his mysterious companion continued. “They show an inquisitive mind. That is always an asset—as long as it is not taken too far.” For an instant the brow tightened and the face assumed a sinister cast again, but that passed quickly.

  I wonder if he ever found whoever he was looking for, Nick found himself wondering for no apparent reason, but he banished the stray thought by studying his strange new surroundings.

  “Would you like a little light?” The face rose—its owner had been perched on the back of the chair, Nick realized belatedly—and bobbed around to the side, a shadowy form slowly appearing beneath it until Nick could just make out a tall man dressed all in black and moving almost silently across the floor. He paused after a moment, glancing back, and then there was a faint click and Nick’s world exploded again, in a sea of yellow and white.

  “Ahhh!” Nick shielded his eyes and blinked furiously, struggling against the sudden change of light—he guessed the man had opened a window but the curtains must be thick and he hadn’t been prepared for the sudden onslaught. Whoever this guy is, he definitely has a flair for the dramatic, Nick decided as he blinked back tears.

  At last his vision cleared. As he’d suspected, he was sitting on a deep couch in an elegant sitting room, the kind rich old men sipped expensive brandy in. The walls were dark-stained wood, the floor polished hardwood covered by a deep red Oriental carpet, the furniture dark and comfortable with carved feet and ornamental knobs—exactly like some old-fashioned men’s club. There were several armchairs facing him over a small table, and the man was still standing by the window, toying with a tasseled curtain tie. The bay window beside him showed the lake, and those new high-rise apartments in the distance. Judging by the sunlight streaming in, and the slight haze that blurred the blue sky outside, Nick guessed it to be sometime in early morning, probably around seven or eight.

  I’ve got to be at practice by seven-thirty, came a thought—we’ve got a game on Monday, and I need to go over the cheers.

  “Get out of my head!” Nick muttered to himself, and cautiously raised himself from the couch, using one arm to brace off of the couch-back. His vision swam a little, and he swayed slightly before finding his balance again and straightening up. Now that he could get a better look, he guessed the man to be in his mid-forties. He was tall and powerfully built, and dressed in an expensive pair of slacks and a turtleneck.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Nick tried to collect his thoughts, but too many things were happening at once—he felt like he was losing control, like the time his sister had convinced him to take her to the liquor store and had turned out to be meeting a bunch of guys there and she had had to go with them because she was driving and they . . . THOSE AREN’T MY MEMORIES, Nick screamed to himself. I DON’T HAVE A SISTER!

  “Just ignore her, Nick,” the man suggested gently. “It will go away, with time.”

  Nick turned and glared at him. “What will go away? How do you know what I’m thinking? Who are you? And how did you know my name?”

  That received a sigh in response. “It is always hardest with the first one—you’ll get used to it.” The man gestured at himself with a long-fingered hand. “You can call me Daniel—I know your name, Nick, because while you were unconscious I took the precaution of checking your wallet to find out more about you.”

  Hearing that, Nick’s hand went immediately to the front left pocket of his jeans. The familiar bulge of his wallet was still there, however, and he didn’t have enough money to be worth stealing, anyway. The thought set off several warning bells in his head, however, and one of them wasn’t his own. . . .

  “Excuse me, miss, can you help me? I’m a bit lost—I’m looking for Nichols Hall.”

  “It’s this building right up here to the left—I’m heading there myself.”

  “Really? How delightful! Brian Carruthers is the name.”

  Nick shook his head violently to clear it, and then took a step toward Daniel.

  “What gives you the right to go poking through my pockets like that? And what am I doing here, anyway? Where exactly is here, for that matter? And what happened to Amy?” PAINTHIRSTSUFFERINGHE’SKILLINGMEDRAININGMEDRY “What’s happening to me?!”

  “Get a hold of yourself, lad!” Daniel’s voice cracked across him like a whip, but Nick was too overwhelmed for the command to quell his increasing panic. “You’ve got to fight it! Don’t let her take control!”

  “What do you mean, her?” Nick screamed back, and lurched closer to the window. “Where is she?”

  “She’s dead, you fool!” Any trace of patience or compassion had vanished, and Daniel’s face was a taut mask of contempt. “You should know—you killed her!”

  “NO!” Nick launched himself at the older man, hands outstretched to smash that smug look from his face, the world fading to a red haze and that superior glare. But even as he closed the gap between them Daniel spun to the side and one hand shot out to clip Nick across the jaw. Nick’s world tilted crazily, fresh pain exploding along his face and behind his eyes, and the floor came rushing up to meet him in a wave of red soon enveloped again in darkness.

  “What a pity,” he heard Daniel mutter as the light dimmed and numbness spread from Nick’s face down through his chest. “I guess he’s just not ready yet.” Then the calm wrapped around him again, and he let it carry him away.

  “Well?”

  “Well what? You saw—he’s not ready yet.”

  “Perhaps if you hadn’t come on like a sledgehammer. . . .”

  “Shut up. I can handle this.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “He’ll come around. I’ve planted the seeds—now it’s up to our young scientist to water them. You’ll see.”

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, man, wake up! Come on, bud, it’s time for lunch!”

  “Hunh?” Nick slowly levered his head up off his arms and squinted toward the source of the voice beside him—a source that resolved itself into Gordo, gesturing melodramatically at his watch.

  “What are you talking about, Gordo? Go away.”

  “Come on, Nick, rise and shine—it’s already almost noon, and if we don’t hurry we’ll miss Hil and the others.”

  “Noon?” That was enough to get Nick to straighten up and frown down at his own watch, which only danced for a moment before obligingly showing him that it was, indeed, five to twelve. The date read Friday the fourth.

  “What the hell? How did it get to be so late?” He’d planned to work all morning—hadn’t he?

  “You must have fallen asleep while grading.” Gordo didn’t seem terribly concerned. “But it’s noon on Friday, and you know what that means—l
unchtime!”

  “Right, right.” Their regular Friday get-together with Hillary and a few of the other grads in the department—it had started after class last semester and had become a tradition. But he still didn’t understand how he could have slept away the entire morning. Had he really fallen asleep grading? That didn’t sound right. Hazy images wandered through Nick’s head as he tugged off his glasses and polished them on the edge of his shirt. He’d finished grading, hadn’t he? Yes, he had, and he’d started for home. Then there had been that weirdness in the stairwell, and that strange guy in that equally strange room, and the guy had hit him, and . . . that was all he remembered. Had it all been a dream?

  “Come on, sport, we’re going to be late,” Gordo reminded him, waiting anxiously by the door. He always looked like a desperate puppy when he was in a hurry, ready to bolt at any moment. Some of Nick’s students got that same way at the end of class, unlike . . .

  Amy! Amy had been there. . . .

  “Excuse me sir, are you all right?”

  “Ah!” Nick tensed up, squeezing his eyes shut against a flash of pain as it all came back to him. That man—Daniel—had accused him of killing Amy! And in his dream, he had! At least, he thought so. It was so hard to remember!

  “Hey, are you okay?” Gordo came a little closer, sounding concerned, but Nick waved him away.

  “Yeah, I’m fine—just a headache. Probably from sleeping in this stupid chair all night.” His friend smiled—they often complained about the quality of the furniture the grad students got for their offices. “Listen, I just remembered some more books I need for Carmichael’s project. Tell you what, you head on down and I’ll be along soon—I just need to write these titles down before I forget them.”

  “Sure thing—if we’re not still in line when you get there, we’ll be at our usual table.” Gordo was already bounding down the hall, and Nick listened to the sound of retreating footsteps and occasional curses and apologies as his friend barreled past people. Then he pulled open his desk drawer and hunted up the forms he’d made students fill out on the first day, desperately hoping Amy had been one of the few who actually listed their phone number . . .

  812-9013

  Damn it! He doggedly continued to look, and finally came up with Amy’s—sure enough, she had put her number down, and it was a perfect match for the one now running through his head. But perhaps he’d subconsciously memorized it, and thinking about it had brought it into his conscious mind? He grabbed the phone and dialed it, desperately hoping she would answer and prove it had all been some weird stress-related nightmare.

  “Hello?” The voice was young and female and utterly unknown—but at the same time all too familiar. Why does she always answer on the first ring? I hate that! I wish she’d learn to screen calls—there are all those weirdoes who call girls up and harass them, and once she’s answered we can’t exactly pretend we’re not there. . . .

  “Is Amy Feldmar there, please?”

  “No she’s not—can I take a message?”

  “Yes, this is her biology teacher, Nicholas Gordon—do you know when she’ll be in?” Damn Suzie . . . she kept pestering me until I told her his name, and now everybody on our floor knows I have a crush on Mr. Gordon. I hope he doesn’t find out—I would die!

  “Oh, Mr. Gordon—no, actually I don’t. I didn’t see her at all last night, and her coach said she didn’t show up for practice this morning. She never misses, too—is anything wrong?”

  “Hm? Oh, no, I just wanted . . . she had asked me a question about something the other day, and I had an answer finally. If she . . . when she comes home, please tell her I called, and that she can stop by here on Monday, if she wants.”

  “Okay, sure—I’ll let her know.”

  “Thanks.” Nick dropped the phone back onto the receiver and leaned back in his chair, taking a great gulp of damp, slightly moldy recycled air to try and forestall the shakes he could feel beginning deep in his chest. She hadn’t come home! What if it hadn’t been a dream? What if he really had done something to her? DRAININGMEDRYKILLINGME

  No! He leapt out of his chair as if it were responsible for the thoughts flowing through his mind, and headed for the door. There was one more thing to check . . . he raced down the hall, dodging startled students and one older professor with a video cart and darting into the stairwell, taking the broad concrete steps three at a time. It had been . . . here!

  He skidded to a stop on the third floor landing, and grabbed the rail for support. Yes, he had been walking down here when he had been grabbed . . .

  —a hand reaching out from behind, and every ounce of energy leeching from his body—

  . . . and then he had fallen down to here—he bounded down the distance and paused again—and lain right about there. . . . Nick knelt down and scanned the floor for any clue that his vision had really occurred, but now his mind’s eye was confused by that double memory he had experienced earlier, of both lying there and seeing himself lying there, of touching and being touched, fading and revitalizing.

  A strange thought struck him then. He’d remembered the pain of having his energy pulled from his body, but as if it had happened then. Only, for him, that had happened a few moments earlier. But for Amy, perhaps, it had been then! And at the exact same time, he had felt suddenly and miraculously restored, all of his energy and indeed his youth returned. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Had they been on opposite ends of the equation, then? If his energy had gone, and then had returned, and at the same time her energy had faded—was he responsible, as Daniel had claimed? Had she been drained the same way he had—only this time, he had somehow been the one doing the draining?

  He shook off those thoughts and concentrated on the landing again. Time enough for speculation later. Right now he was seeking physical proof.

  What was that?

  He scuttled over a step, toward the corner, and studied the smooth, cold floor. Was that a trace of dust? It looked too pale for dust, and too substantial, more like . . . ash? He emptied his pocket across the concrete, startling an undergrad walking past at the time, and studied the contents thus displayed—a mechanical pencil, eraser, extra leads . . . aha! Grabbing up the little lead container, Nick pulled it open and tossed the leads on the floor, then squatted down and carefully scooped as much of the “ash” as he could into his makeshift test tube.

  No sign of the folder he remembered, but this might be enough—he’d run some tests on it. After lunch—he suddenly had a desperate need for companionship, the warmth and security of friends, and the familiarity of routine. Afterward, he’d find out whether there was any truth to this, or whether it had all been some crazy notion caused by too much late-night grading.

  So Nick made sure the lead container was closed securely, placed it carefully in his pocket, and headed down the stairs to catch up with his friends, trying to fight off the sudden image of a tuna fish sandwich and the sensation of hunger that accompanied it.

  He hated tuna fish.

  After lunch, Nick made a beeline for the genetics lab. He ran the mysterious sample through a number of tests but the results were less conclusive than he’d hoped. The substance was definitely carbon-based, and there wasn’t any way to tell for sure but it matched the necessary criterion for cremated human ash. He tried running a genetic scan on it with one of the department’s electron microscopes but the cell structure had collapsed, probably from intense heat—or severe dehydration—and couldn’t be identified. Still, it definitely wasn’t dust.

  The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully—it was Friday and he didn’t have to teach, nor did he have anything specific scheduled, so he went back up to the office and worked on his project for several hours before joining Hillary and Gordo for pizza and beer and a late movie at the student union.

  Unfamiliar thoughts still wandered through his head from time to time, mainly in response to something he saw or heard or thought, but when he concentrated on his work he was too focused to notice. The
alcohol also seemed to limit them, for which Nick was grateful. He and Gordo teased Hillary about her date, which she refused to comment on, and they all laughed about the latest antics of The Lemon, a favorite adversary. Neither of his two friends commented on the fact that Amy didn’t show up—she usually only came by after class, so her absence wasn’t that unusual. It bothered Nick, though, and every time the office phone rang he leapt for it, desperately hoping to hear Amy’s voice on the other end.

  Chapter Four

  The weekend was equally uneventful. Nick liked to keep his weekends unstructured or at least largely blocked out for recreation and friends, and he spent Saturday helping a friend move some furniture around. He got a free dinner in return that evening—and successfully resisted the urge to voice any of the numerous opinions on fashion and interior decorating that wormed their way into his head, drinking several beers to block any more intrusive thoughts from reaching him.

  Sunday he watched half of a ballgame, tried calling his mom and got her machine instead, then grabbed his keys and headed for the library to look up some early experiments that formed a precursor to his own experiments. Halfway there he spotted an open pay phone and impulsively grabbed it, fishing the requisite change out of his jeans. He didn’t even think about the number this time—his fingers dialed it automatically, and he had to repress a sudden urge to say “Hey Suzie, anybody call for me?” when Amy’s roommate answered the phone.

  “Hello?”