Lobec turned to see a car pull into the parking lot. It was a red Mustang.
CHAPTER 6
Kevin threaded the Mustang into his usual slot beside one of the parking lot’s islands, pulled through one space, and lurched to a stop in the second, the car facing away from the apartment building and shaded by an oak. He sat there for a minute, turning his face back and forth through the refreshing blast of the air conditioner, trying to soothe his still-pulsating hangover. Ready to face the heat, he killed the engine and reluctantly opened the door to the humid air that seemed to suck the coolness from the car. He was sweating by the time he reached his apartment.
He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and walked through the tiny living room to his bedroom. After cranking the thermostat to full cool, he glanced at the answering machine. The light shined steadily. No messages.
Kevin ran his fingers through his oily hair and realized just how nasty he felt. He peeled off his sticky clothes and removed the contacts from his dry, itchy eyes. Kevin spent the next twenty minutes in a steaming shower, letting the hot water massage his aches.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, the newly cooled air of the apartment met him. He felt refreshed. With a towel wrapped around him, he put on his glasses and went into the kitchen to open a can of Diet Coke. As he passed through the living room, he hit the power key on his Mac and leaned over to turn on the TV, which he normally had on while he worked.
He stopped when he didn’t see the remote on the coffee table. He searched for a minute and finally found it under the couch. How did it get there? He tried to remember the last time he watched TV. After a second, he shrugged, picked up the remote, and flipped on the TV. It was on Headline News as usual.
After taking a gulp from the soda, he felt even better. He put the can on his desk and returned to the bedroom, where he put on workout shorts and a South Texas University T-shirt. The pair of beat up slippers he slipped into completed his typical Saturday outfit.
As Kevin sat down at his desk, an anchorman was telling viewers what they’d be seeing when the news resumed at the top of the hour. He switched on the modem, adjusted the keyboard and mouse to their correct positions, and clicked the email icon.
Waiting for the connection, he thought he should start getting ready for the appointment with Dean Baker on Monday. In the desk were copies of his original financial aid forms. He started thumbing through his file drawer, which also contained all of the research articles he had copied over the years, then abruptly stopped.
The files were all there, but something was wrong. What was it? And then he knew.
He filed his folders alphabetically by the first author of the reference, with the stapled end up so he could grab and replace the references easily when he was working on his dissertation or writing a paper. It was a habit he had developed from years of research. Today, the articles were in the exact order they always were, and the four file folders were in the correct order. But in every one of the folders, the stapled end of the article was at the
As he put the articles back in their correct orientation, Kevin didn’t know what to make of it. Just another strange thing on an already odd morning, he thought.
A flashing icon on the computer told Kevin that the connection was successful. He entered his ID and password, taking him into the school’s e-mail system.
A line blinked on the screen to alert him that three new messages were in his box. He downloaded the messages so he could work off-line and closed the modem connection, freeing up the phone line.
Two messages were on the current page, the third was on the next so he couldn’t see who it was from. The first message was from the American Chemical Society student chapter. Probably asking for dues. He skipped it.
He smiled when he saw who the second message was from: Ted Ishio, his best friend since coming to grad school. Ted had joined the program two years ahead of him and had just graduated this summer to accept a teaching position at Virginia Tech. When Kevin last saw him, Ted and his wife, Janice, were leaving to move to Blacksburg. Kevin had only heard from him once since he left. Now he obviously had his e-mail account from the university. Kevin opened the message eager to read the news.
He was disappointed when he saw how short the message was.
Kevin, I’m sorry I’ve haven’t called in a while, but as you might guess it’s been a madhouse getting ready for the semester. I’ve got three classes to teach, not to mention the ACS conference coming up next Wednesday. Five days in Minneapolis. Janice is going with me because she has some family there, so it shouldn’t be too bad.
By the way, the lab is looking great, and the equipment they’re giving me is incredible. That’s about all. I’ve got to go. My presentation isn’t done yet, and I only have the weekend to do it. Talk to you later.
Ted.
Kevin exited the message. He’d send a reply later.
He paged forward to the last message and raised the Diet Coke to take a sip. When he saw who the message was from, he stopped, the can hovering in front of his face.
It was from Michael Ward. Sent at 5:43 PM the day before.
Kevin placed the can precariously on the edge of the desk, feeling strangely repulsed that one of the last messages Ward had ever sent was waiting for Kevin to read. Nevertheless, he had to read it. He opened the file.
Kevin was unprepared for the message he found. His heartbeat tripled as he read and reread the short message.
Kevin, no time for details. The same men who killed Stein are after me. Irene and I are leaving Houston. I think we’ll be safe where we’re going, but I need your help to be sure. NV117 wasn’t a failure, and Clay wants it. The details are in a notebook. I’ve recorded everything you’ll need and put it in a safe place. DA483H3 is the
Questions filled Kevin’s mind. Who was Stein? Where were Ward and his wife going? Who were these men he was talking about? They must be connected to Clay, whoever that was. And what did he mean NV117 wasn’t a failure? Of course it was a failure, a huge failure from Kevin’s standpoint.
NV117 was a routine investigation into high temperature superconductivity. They’d been conducting experiments like it for months with little success. Then the routine was shattered when it almost blew up in their faces. The damage to the equipment had been extensive, or so Kevin had been told. Ward hadn’t let him back into the lab after the accident. Even if the experiment had turned out to be a success, the results they were expecting would have been interesting, but certainly nothing revolutionary. Nothing worth killing for. It didn’t make sense.
Maybe the message was a joke, Kevin thought. He shook his head and dismissed the idea. No one he knew would have done something this bizarre. Not when Ward’s house went up in flames hours before. The only other possibility was that Ward actually sent the message. If that was true, why write a message to Kevin? Why didn’t Ward just call the police?
He looked at the last sentence, which made it seem as if Ward had been interrupted. Or maybe he’d been drunk and didn’t realize he hadn’t finished. He’d heard about smokers getting drunk and falling asleep with a lit cigarette. Maybe that’s how the fire started. He cringed at the thought and studied the beginning of the cut off sentence.
What was DA483H3? It looked familiar, as if Kevin had seen it before, but he couldn’t place it. A license plate number? Or maybe the model number of one of the lab’s equipment? It could be anything. Without the rest of the sentence, Kevin might never know.
The phone rang. Kevin let it ring. He turned on the laser printer and selected the print option. The page fed in as the answering machine clicked on and played the announcement.
