Part 17 (2/2)

”Why not? Like I said, someone's gotta do something.”

”That's what we humans do best,” Chance said, grinning. ”Something.”

I pulled the Shepard's index, a large dusty tome, from the shelf. We found Creighton v. Worley. We pulled the volume and scanned down to the list of citing cases.

They were identical to the ones on the Internet.

But in the margin, someone had added a few more.

My heart started pounding. I saw Chance's face light up.

”I totally underestimated you,” he said.

I read the first case out loud.

”Michaelson v. Mitch.e.l.l.”

”Holy s.h.i.+t,” Chance said.

”What?”

It was exciting, but I didn't feel like we knew anything helpful yet.

Chance said, ”Those are buildings on campus.”

I stared at him.

”They are?”

”Michaelson. The Michaelson Chemistry Labs. Mitch.e.l.l. One of the freshman dorms.”

”Where?”

”We need a map,” Chance said. He was buzzing now. I saw a glimpse of the old reporter, the one who must have existed seven years and a thousand joints ago.

We grabbed a campus map from the information booth and marked the buildings: Creighton, Worley, Michaelson, Mitch.e.l.l.

Four dots.

”Check the rest,” he said.

I recognized some of the names. Chance recognized all but one. Each pointed to a building on campus. My heart was racing. We charted nine points on the map.

Chance took the pencil and drew a line connecting them. It started in one part of campus and snaked lazily--but purposefully--toward another.

My fingers were starting to tingle.

But it was incomplete.

We stared at the last case.

”Zimmer Kettle Corp. v. Industrial Steel, Inc. Hmm . . .” Chance tapped a pencil on his forehead. ”Kettle is Kettle Hall. That's easy. But Industrial Steel . . .”

He shook his head.

He tapped the pencil relentlessly. It was starting to drive me crazy. I was about to s.n.a.t.c.h it away when a smile spread across his face.

Then, with the flourish of an artist drawing the final stroke of his masterpiece, Chance put one last dot on the map and circled it.

”Industrial Steel,” he said, shaking his head with admiration.

I looked at his dot. It fell right on our path, completing it. It landed smack in the middle of a rectangular building.

”That's a dorm, right?”

”Indeed. Embry House.”

”I don't get it.”

”Of course not. Only someone who really knew this campus would. That's why they saved it for last. That dot,” he said, pointing to his final mark, ”sits, give or take, on a famous room in Embry. The only room on campus, in fact, to allow ten people to live in one s.p.a.ce. Party central. The waiting list is out the door. But it always seems to go to legacies. And not just any legacies--like tenth generation, 'my ancestors were on the Mayflower' legacies. You have to hold your liquor to live in that room.” Chance gave me a proud look. ”That's why they call it the Steel Man.”

He beamed, either at his own cleverness or the V&D's.

”You think the V and D meets in a dorm room?” I asked sarcastically.

Chance shook his head, unfazed.

”No,” he said, smiling at me. ”I think they meet below it.”

19.

Chance and I made a pact. First, tell no one. Second, meet tomorrow night, under cover of darkness, to see where our trail might lead.

The thrill of discovery got me home and into bed, and then reality broke through. I tried to press away thoughts of hospital rooms and half-limp balloons. But her face kept coming back to me. Her strained, scratchy voice: GET OUT.

I had terrible dreams. I saw a room filled with a thousand baby angels, plump and dreamy, the kind Raphael imagined. They had slow, doll-like movements. There were shafts of light from tall windows. The angels were eating. Their chubby little hands brought spoons up and down, up and down to their mouths. When I entered, all thousand of them looked up at once and started screaming.

I woke the next morning, sweating, raw. I felt alone and lost, sick in my stomach. I reached for the phone in the darkness and dialed.

”Twice in one week? What is this, Christmas?”

”Hey Dad. Is Mom there?”

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