Mr. 8 Read online

  The world around him seemed to float. His heart was seized by ice. Of all the options open to him, he had chosen to be irrational. Although, he had an idea—a plan. There might just be a way to confirm his fears and hopefully lay them to rest.

  Denton drove to an old internet cafe a few blocks from campus. It had been a popular place with students before the age of Wi-Fi and smart phones. Now, every time he drove past it, he wondered how it managed to stay in business. U-Brew drew large crowds from Milton, but JavaNet sat empty and deteriorating in a strip mall next to a carpet store.

  The sign on the wall said that the rate was five dollars an hour or ten for three.

  Denton fished a five dollar bill out of his wallet and paid the bored looking kid behind the counter sitting next to a pot of stale coffee.

  “You can use terminal eight.” The boy pointed to a desk at the end of the first aisle.

  “Of course.”

  If the clerk were curious about Denton’s tight lip remark, he didn’t show it. He just entered the keystrokes to unlock the old PC.

  “Can I get some water too?” When the kid didn’t move, he added an impatient, “Please.”

  The clerk took a small Styrofoam cup and filled three quarters of the way with lukewarm tap water.

  Once seated at the station, Denton took the vial of pills out. The one he had taken earlier had barely done anything to ease the pain that racked his body. He popped two in his mouth and emptied the cup.

  The first thing Denton did was access his e-mail account. He sent Linda a short message saying there had been a problem and he couldn’t make it to dinner. He told her he’d be home in a couple of hours. As he typed out the words, he hoped he wasn’t lying.

  Next, he logged into the Milton Student Information System. Two minutes later, he was walking back to the car with Stephan Kaling’s address on a piece of paper.

  Stephen Kaling was the litmus test. Maggie Biscamp had been his girlfriend. If there were a contagious virus, he should be infected. Perhaps he was drawing eights in his apartment at that very moment. If he were, Denton would have his answer. And if he weren’t, Denton might have the chance to make a different choice.

  Chapter 27

  A Loss of Symmetry

  MILTON’S DIRECTORY HAD LISTED an address for Stephen Kaling on Keats Street, only two blocks from where Maggie Biscamp had lived. When Denton had first read that, he couldn’t help feeling that there was something suggestive about it, as though the proximity of their apartments hinted at the closeness of their relationship. But really, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Most students lived within the same five blocks of town.

  The address led to a distinctive redbrick Georgian colonial. Being on Keats Street, it must have been a family home at one time, but it looked more like a school or a factory. It definitely had an industrial quality to it and there were odd details that threw off its otherwise symmetrical design. Two separate doors faced the street. One was just slightly off-center and the other was at the very end on the right. The sloped roof had two large chimneys and two diminutive dormers. Their placement made it feel like there should be a third dormer to the left of the first chimney. Without it, there was a strange blank space, and Denton found it impossible to keep his eyes from being drawn to it.

  The roof was becoming blanketed in white. The gentle snow that had greeted the evening was falling fast as the storm rushed in. Each time the windshield became covered, the wipers would make a slow, squeaking pass, bringing the building back into view.

  Six windows ran along each of the first three stories. Most had decorative shutters, some didn’t. There appeared to be some logic behind it, but the rationale eluded Denton no matter how long he examined them.

  People moved behind nearly every window. Like a fluid mass, they churned behind the glass. Silhouettes flickered revealing motion and activity. There were too many people and too much commotion to be normal. On a hunch, Denton shut the radio off. Faint music could be heard—garbled pop music. There was a party going on.

  Denton rested his forehead against the driver’s side window. The cold slowly penetrated the bandage and brought soothing numbness to both the cut and his throbbing skull. He was losing track of the pain in is his body. The medication didn’t actually relieve it. Instead, it seemed to hide it—moved it to the shadows of his thoughts—so it was always just somewhere off in the periphery.

  Instead of the pain, his mind was flooded by a parade of Christmas parties from years gone by. The one at the dorm his freshman year, the one at that place by Washington Square right after he got engaged, last year’s New Year’s Eve in Bernadette Cadham’s stately home. They all began to jumble in his brain. He was standing on the landing outside his room clutching the wooden banister that had been worn down by the hands of a thousand students. Sheryl Crow was singing Blue Christmas on a tinny speaker. Richard Blakely said, it’s just a beer, Dent. Live a little. Bernadette said, my, what a lovely sweater. Linda joked to her friend Mary-Beth, I hope getting him to the wedding won’t be as hard as it was getting him here. She jerked her thumb back at him, as he shifted uncomfortably in the crowded room—too much furniture and too many people. His nose filled with the rich aroma of coffee and spiced rum cake. Old Paul Cadham carried the tray with shaking hands. He’s going to drop it, he thought. Denton took a step backward in the narrow kitchen and bumped against a table. A precariously placed glass fell and shattered on the living room floor. Richard laughed.

  He pushed the door open and dragged himself out into the cold. Walking up the path, he filled his lungs with deep breaths of fresh air and snowflakes. He struggled to shake of the sudden feeling of claustrophobia that had overcome him in the car as he walked up the path to Kaling’s apartment.

  Inside, the security door was propped open with a text book wedged between it and the floor. Three boys were standing around the lobby, which was little more than a space at the bottom of the stairs. They were drinking beer from cans and talking loudly.

  “No way, you didn’t?” the tall wiry one said snorting in amusement.

  “That’s why he’s da’ Monkey Man,” said the shortest of the three raising his drink in salute. His dark, black stubble making his tanned skin look pale.

  The third one, big and brawny, started waving his beer can around and making chimpanzee sounds.

  Despite the athletic appearance of the men, the scene reminded Denton of children at a playground. Their stark immaturity was threatening.

  When they saw him staring at them, they glared back suspiciously and stopped their talking and animal impersonations. But they didn’t move aside.

  Denton mumbled, “’Excuse me,” and shouldered his way past. As soon as he was on the stairs, their drunken jabbering started up again, and he began climbing.

  On the second floor landing, a door was open. Light from a red lampshade and the heavy, vegetal smell of marijuana floated out into the hall. A pale girl with bloodshot eyes, stood leaning against the frame. She stopped Denton with a gentle hand against his chest.

  “What happened to your face, mister?”

  Music and voices could be heard from deeper inside room. A girl’s high pitched laugh from down the hall drowned out everything for a few seconds.

  “Cut myself shaving,” he said dryly.

  She didn’t break a smile. She just looked at him with her blank, watery eyes. Her hand stayed pressed against him, not so much to detain him but for support. He took it in both his hands and placed it by her side, as if he were giving it back to her.

  “You should go back to your room and rest until you feel better.”

  “Sure,” she said. The first syllable was slow and slurred.

  “And lock your door,” he said from halfway up the stairs.

  The words rang in his head. His only thought had been concern for her in case she passed out. He had read the statistics; an inebriate
d girl at a party such as this needed to be careful. But when the words echoed around him in the stairwell, they sounded more ominous. They sounded like a dire warning. What hell was he about to unleash?

  Kaling was in room 3E. Denton knocked.

  “Coming,” someone said. The word was muffled by the door and nearly lost to the surrounding noise. Stephen Kaling seemed puzzled that one of his professors was there, but he greeted Denton warmly and invited him in.

  Denton surveyed the tiny apartment. It was all one room, except for a small bathroom and a curtained off alcove. The side of a refrigerator poked out from behind the beige drape. By the only window there was a desk with a swivel chair. The rest of the room was dominated by a neatly made bed. Next to it was a dresser and an arm chair.

  The door behind him clicked shut, and Denton recoiled at the sound.

  “Are you alright?” Stephen asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “This?” Denton ran two fingers along his jaw without thinking about it. “I had a bit of an accident earlier in the week.”

  “I heard.” Stephen squeezed passed him and went over to the chair. He grabbed a stack of folded laundry off of it and placed it on the bed.

  Were those clothes there when he came in? They must have been.

  Stephen turned back and said, “It was all over the Internet. But is that the only problem?” His voice held a strong note of skepticism, as he looked Denton over. “You don’t seem yourself.”

  “Just tired,” he said. “First day getting back into the swing of it, you know how it is.” Absently, he picked a few blades of yellow grass off the front of his coat.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Stephen said with concern and an ushering motion.

  “Thanks.”

  Denton fell into the chair harder than he intended. The springs were flat, and the seat sank beneath him. Stephen sat down on the bed.

  “So what did you want to talk about?”

  Where to begin? “I wanted to say how sorry I was about Maggie. I heard you two were close.”

  “Thank you.” He looked down at his hands. The old mattress creaked with the shifting of his weight. “It was quite the shock. Did you know her?”

  “No. I’m sad to say, I didn’t.” The words lacked the sympathy that he felt. He had trouble getting them out, while examining the room at the same time. His eyes meticulously traveled over every surface, but his mouth moved slow and mechanically.

  “Too bad you didn’t get to those guys sooner, huh?” Stephen said with a strained smile.

  There were no eights. Not one. On the dresser, there was an old-fashioned alarm clock with two little bells on top. The dial only had lines marking off the hours—no numbers. The walls were all a clean white. Nothing was scratched into the furniture or into the floor.

  I really am losing my mind. There is no virus.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that.” Stephen seemed uncomfortable with the pause. Perhaps he took Denton’s silence as offence at his earlier words. “It wasn’t your job to stop them. I just meant—I just meant, it’s too bad things didn’t go differently.”

  The dull music playing from some stereo on the lower floor erupted, as someone spun the volume knob to the first strains of a current pop hit Denton vaguely recognized. A chorus of hoots and cheers from throughout the building followed.

  “It’s quite the party going on. You’re missing out.”

  “The last party of the year,” Stephen said matter-of-factly. “It started around two. But I’m not in much of a mood for parties these days.”

  This room reminds me of that night in the spring of ’97, or was it ’98, hanging out with Brad Kendall and talking through the wee hours about Jung. He was so convinced that a man could only achieve self-actualization by opening up to the female side of his unconscious.

  “Dent, we are not a complete person until we brace our Anima,” he had said.

  He was so intensely earnest. Wait, was he coming on to me?

  “Umm, do you want some tea? I’ll make some tea.” Stephen got up and went behind the curtain.

  Feeling restless, Denton pulled himself out of the chair and walked over to the window.

  “How have you been, Stephen? Have you been acting any differently?” Denton asked looking at the snow falling outside. His car was getting buried under it. “I mean, how have you been holding up since the memorial?”

  The funeral had been held in her hometown of Wolfeboro, but there had been a small service at the Milton Chapel on Tuesday.

  “Umm, okay,” Stephen said from the tiny kitchenette. Plates clinked, while he busied himself with his task.

  Denton looked down at the desk. Beside the computer was an orderly pile of books and papers. The book on top stopped him cold. He had seen that glossy cover photo a million times. The door half open, the closet stuffed with junk, a basketball threatening to roll off the shelf. The title stared up at him: What Your Stuff Says about You.

  Of course Kaling would have it. It was required reading for his first year class.

  He picked it up and held it to his chest like a talisman. His thoughts were too tangled to make sense of, but the feeling was: This is me. This is who I am.

  What a fool I’ve been. Is Linda still at the restaurant? I need to go to her.

  Tears began welling up in his eyes again, and he wiped them clear with his muddy sleeve. He didn’t need Stephen Kaling posting on Twitter that poor Professor Reed paid him a visit and had a breakdown.

  “I’m sorry about missing the exam. I’ll understand if you have to fail me,” Stephen called out to Denton.

  “Don’t worry about it. We can arrange a make-up.”

  He was about to drop the book back into the pile, when a notepad that had been under it caught his attention. It was a list and seemed to have been written in two different hands. The first several items on it were crossed out. A to-do list? No, names. He started reading from the top, trying to make out the scrawled words under the thick lines that struck them out. “Agatha Radcliff, Garry Meyers.” His eyes shot down the column. Third from the bottom in clear block letters was Cole Radnor.

  Denton reached out to the wall for support. The lights in the room seemed to dim and brighten with his trembling.

  What is this? Why does he have it?

  Could he have been in league with Danny and his gang?

  He went to pick up the pad, but his hand stuck to the wall before pulling away. He paused, his palm inches from the white, clean surface. He pressed his fingers to it again. It was tacky. He inhaled deeply and could smell it: paint. Fresh paint.

  As though he gained x-ray vision, he could see the scrawled eights marring the walls. Covered up and hidden. Just like Kaling was hiding his true nature. He wasn’t with the Bexhill Guerrillas. He was one of the infected.

  Quickly, Denton ripped the page from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. He placed the book back on top and went for the door.

  “What do you take in it?” Stephen asked, standing in the open curtain. The kitchenette was pristine behind him.

  “Sorry. I really should be going. Another time.” Denton stepped out into the hallway and didn’t look back.

  Chapter 28

  Something Wrong in Bexhill

  THE BUICK SKIDDED TO A STOP in front of Mansfield Hall. Getting out, Denton’s foot sank into the snow. Already a full inch had fallen. Except for the two rapidly vanishing tire treads, the parking lot was a pristine sheet of white.

  The wind found the gap between skin and coat and pushed icy flakes down his neck when he stood to his full height. Denton turned up his collar and trudged towards the Arts Building.

  The walk through the unshoveled paths was slow and he was glad for the thick treads of his hiking boots. Before today, they had barely been worn. He’d bought them years ago, shortly after the move, wi
th the good intentions of getting into shape and exploring the countryside. They were comfortable, but still he lamented the fate of his other pair. They had been expensive and purchased just the month before, but one of the first things he had done when he got home from the hospital was throw them in the trash. They were still damp from his hike to the lodge, but otherwise no worse for wear. They just needed to dry out and they’d be fine. But he knew he’d never put them on again.

  The overcoat almost went in next. He had it in his hands, ready to stuff in the bin, when he remembered the tailor.

  The elderly Italian man had barely spoken English. He was a relic from another era—a time when people went to tailors instead of malls. Denton could see himself standing in the full length mirror, the little man next to him with his wisps of gray hair plastered neatly to his head. He ran a hand over the front of the coat, smoothing out the luxurious wool, while looking into the reflection with Denton.

  “It will last you a lifetime,” he said.

  He had been so proud of his work. That was back in New York—back in another life.

  Passing by the security guard in the lobby, Denton said, “Hey, Wes. I left something in my office. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Wes nodded and didn’t ask him to sign in, letting protocol slide.

  With his office door closed, there was only the minimal light of his desk lamp and the soft glow of the snowy night from the window. Denton sat at the desk and carefully removed the list from his pocket and went through it reading each name slowly. At the top was Alfred Reynolds in a large neat script. Great care had been taken with it. The next several were hard to read, partially because there was a double line crossing them out and partially because they were done in a messy scrawl. Near the bottom the writing changed and the names were no longer crossed out. Maggie Biscamp’s name marked the transition, being both written with neat penmanship and crossed out.