Part 8 (2/2)
”I've made several calls.”
”And I further a.s.sume that they have alerted the president and the Secret Service?”
My face flushed. ”No one will take my calls. It doesn't make sense. There must be some kind of . . .”
”Uh-huh.” Having made his point, the professor wheeled around and headed for the door. He called over his shoulder, ”A big hole, Mr. Austin.”
”I can't do that!” I shouted, library or no library.
He wheeled out the door. I was right behind him.
”I've got to stop them . . . whoever they are.”
This time when the professor turned to face me he did it so suddenly I almost ended up in his lap. ”There is nothing you can do,” he said. ”You can't stop them. They've been doing this sort of thing for millennia.”
His words. .h.i.t with paralyzing force. Those were the exact words Myles Shepherd used.
CHAPTER 7.
I stood in front of the library and watched Professor J. P. Forsythe coast expertly down the handicapped ramp. I'd come all this way for nothing. When a man doesn't want to talk to you, you can't make him, right?
Wrong. Something in my gut wouldn't let it end like this.
”What aren't you telling me?” I called after him.
He acted like he hadn't heard me.
I hurried after him. Didn't run. With cla.s.ses in session the campus wasn't exactly busy, but there was something about chasing after a man in a wheelchair that didn't feel cool. I closed the distance between us.
”What aren't you telling me?” I said to the back of his head.
”You don't want to know,” he replied.
”At least tell me what you know about Semyaza. The basics. A thumbnail sketch. Is he bigger than a breadbox?”
”Use an encyclopedia,” he snapped. ”If you look it up yourself, you'll remember it longer.”
He wheeled up a walkway toward double gla.s.s doors that opened to a wing of cla.s.srooms. I knew once he got inside I'd lose him to his cla.s.s.
”Professor . . .” I pleaded.
”A big hole, Mr. Austin. Find a big hole.”
He reached for the door.
I stepped past him and blocked the door from opening with the flat of my hand.
”That's it!” I cried.
”Step aside, Mr. Austin,” the professor said icily. ”I have a cla.s.s to teach.”
”I get it now-you're running, aren't you? You're scared and you're running. That's it, isn't it? All this talk about finding a big hole . . . you're advising me to follow your example, to hide under the covers and pray for morning. Heritage College is your hole, isn't it, Professor, your hideout from the scary things of the world.”
The professor yanked at the door. I held it closed. I was right. I knew I was right. ”You're hiding in the footnotes, down at the bottom of the page in six-point type, wanting to be the authority, but not wanting to be the target. You hand other authors the ammunition, content to let them fight on the front lines while you dwell safely in the obscurity of a little college n.o.body's ever heard of.”
He yanked hard at the door with surprising strength.
”What is it you're afraid of, Professor? What is it that scares you so much? What aren't you telling me?”
He released the door, backed away, and took off, I presume toward another door into the cla.s.srooms. Maybe he was heading for the security office. At this point, I didn't care. I wasn't going to let him go. I grabbed the grips on the back of his chair. There must be at least a half-dozen laws both civil and moral about restraining a handicapped man against his will, but I held on. His forearms bulged as he strained to break free. ”Is it Semyaza? What is it about that name that frightens you?”
”You don't know what you're talking about,” he said, his head down, straining like a dog on a leash. ”Semyaza isn't someone you dismiss lightly.”
”Someone. You said, someone. So Semyaza is a person. You've had dealings with him?”
”Not directly.”
His arms went limp. The grips no longer fought me. I stepped around the chair and faced him.
”But you know of him, Semyaza,” I said. ”He's not just a name or a legend. He exists. And he scares you.”
The professor's head snapped up suddenly, his eyes wide and glistening with tears. ”OF COURSE HE SCARES ME!” he screamed.
The ferocity of his response startled me back a step.
”Tell me . . . tell me what you know.”
”You don't want to know what I know.”
A moment of silence pa.s.sed between us.
”Is he an angel?”
The professor looked around. At first I thought he was going to make another run for it, but then he said, ”Over there.”
His arms limp and defeated inside the chair, he made no effort to wheel himself, so I pushed him to a cozy circular landing that overlooked the parking lot. A round cement table was ringed by three matching benches. The view of the valley was a modest one. A familiar breeze, which reminded me of my tennis days on courts less than a mile from here, kept the porch comfortable.
”You don't know what you're getting into,” the professor said. His words were measured. He gazed absently at the hazy view, but it seemed to me he was seeing not the valley, but scenes from his past.
I chuckled. ”That's obvious,” I said.
I do that. Laugh at inappropriate times. It's how I face fear.
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