The Little Black Box Read online

  The tingling sensation and the odd rush of blood to her head subsided. She regained a little bit of control. Taking a few slow breaths, she steadied her pounding heart.

  An unwanted tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She wasn’t going to go there. Not now. Not ever.

  She pushed on the gas and headed toward downtown. She needed a drink.

  ***

  “Whiskey, on the rocks.” Paula sat at the bar at her favorite watering hole, The Bull’s Eye. At the other end a rowdy crowd of college students cheered the early plays of the Monday Night Football game playing on the TV.

  The bartender returned a frosty beer mug to the cooler next to the taps. “Something different, eh?”

  “Just bring the drink, Ed.”

  The liquor went down smooth and fast. Days like these she did a lot of drinking. Days with more bad memories than any one person should have. She took another gulp and then swished the ice around in the glass.

  “Hey, sweetie, what are you doing here on a Monday night? I thought our standing drink date was Friday, after closing time.” Her best friend, Lark Michaels, slid one of her tattoo-covered arms around Paula’s shoulders, then took a seat next to her at the bar.

  “I had a bad day.”

  Lark tucked a lock of dyed black hair behind her multiple-pierced ear. “Was it your brother again?”

  Ed brought over a bottle of beer, snapped off the cap with one hand, and set it in front of Lark.

  “Someone committed suicide today on campus. There was an ambulance and the gurney. I saw them wheel the body down the drive.”

  Lark’s face clouded over. She picked nervously at the thick leather bracelets she wore on each wrist. “Oh.”

  “I just couldn’t deal with that—”

  “I know.” Lark touched Paula on the arm. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

  A look passed between them. After a few seconds, Paula broke eye contact.

  “So, I’m here with Greg and the gang.” Lark gestured at her fellow tattoo artists who sat in a booth across the room. “You want to join us?”

  Paula looked over at Lark’s bear of a boss, Greg, and the rest of her co-workers. “Nah. I wouldn’t be good company.”

  “Are you sure?” Under all the goth trappings and tattoos, Lark had a soft heart—especially where Paula was concerned.

  “Positive. But we’re still on for dinner?”

  “Tomorrow night. Your place. I bring the Chinese. You buy the beer.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Lark tipped her bottle in Paula’s direction and headed toward her friends from work. As much as Paula wished she could enjoy a couple of drinks with Lark’s friends, her mind was in a different place. What she didn’t tell Lark is how close she came to losing control tonight. It grew harder and harder for her to keep her secret under wraps. The drinking helped. It quelled the tingling and the odd rush to her head, made her feel more normal and less like a freak.

  She took in the different groups of people in the bar. If only everyone in this quiet little bar knew the secret she carried. They would stare. They would point. Some of them even might scream in terror.

  She took another sip of her whiskey. Alcohol was the best way to control it. After a few drinks, she could shove it down inside her and keep it from getting out.

  When she finished another drink, she got up from the bar. She needed to call Craig about the equipment and go home. Do some more work. Bury herself in transcripts.

  Once she was outside, Lark appeared at her side. “Greg’s being an ass. He said he wanted to buy a round, but then when it came time to pay up, he said he forgot his wallet. We had to pay for his drink. Can you believe that?” She pulled out the keys to her Suzuki Katana.

  When Paula didn’t answer, Lark pressed her, “Are you sure it was just the suicide? It seems like there’s something else weighing on your mind.” She forced Paula to face her. “Is it work? I know you really wanted this job, but they work you to the bone. How much are they paying you again?”

  “More than McDonald’s was willing to shell out,” she answered with a cynical smile. Lark had no idea how close she had come to flipping burgers. At the last minute, the assistantship had come through. To get the job in the department had been a lucky break, but today she didn’t feel so lucky.

  “I gotta get going, sweetie.” Lark put on her motorcycle helmet. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Paula lied. “I just need to get some sleep. You go on home and I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”

  Lark gave her a wave and started up her bike.

  Paula made her way around the corner to her car. The dampening effects of the alcohol had started to wear off, and the image of the EMT wheeling the body bag to the ambulance flashed in her mind. This time, though, the ambulance wasn’t in front of the fraternity house, but next to a smashed-up Buick on a dark and rainy highway.

  Oh, God. Why can’t I just forget?

  She sagged against her car. To keep herself from losing control, she dug her fingernails into her forearm. The pain replaced the memories and forced them out of her mind.

  Her tears were quiet and intense. No matter how much she wanted to stay in control, sometimes the tears came pouring out. She sniffled, rubbed the edge of her sleeve across her eyes, and expelled a heavy breath.

  Once inside her car, she pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. Not too bad. A few streaks of mascara, a reddened nose, and too-bright brown eyes were the only signs of her tears. She wiped at the black smudges under her eyes with her thumb.

  Get a grip. This is ridiculous. There’s work to do.

  She picked up her cell phone and pawed through the contents of her purse, looking for the sticky note from Dr. Pritchard.

  She unfolded it, smoothed it out on her thigh, and dialed Craig’s number at the bottom.

  While she waited for him to pick up, she wondered if she’d even be able to stop by tonight for the equipment. The whole frat house was probably grieving the loss of a friend. At least she could give her condolences and find a more appropriate time to return for everything.

  She heard a click on the other end and a voicemail message. “Craig, this is Paula from the Paranormal Sciences department—”

  The phone clicked again. “Hello?”

  “Craig?”

  “Um, Craig can’t answer—that is, he’s—well—”

  “Can you just give him a message for me?” Paula asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  The phone almost slipped from her fingers. A chill riveted through her insides. With a sweaty hand, she regripped the phone. “That’s not possible. I just spoke with him. I have—”

  “He’s dead, okay? Dead. He can’t call you back because he’s not coming back. Got it?”

  Click.

  Craig was dead? When she went to the frat house — the body bag.

  Oh, God. It was him. He was the dead body.

  Chapter Five

  Will, sporting a mustache only a 70s porn star would wear, walked into the office Tuesday morning carrying his ratty backpack and a white box. A warm, yeasty aroma drifted into the room with him.

  “Jelly or chocolate?” He whipped open the box with a flourish.

  A half-dozen fresh donuts glistened temptingly inside. Paula, cracked coffee mug in hand, snatched a jelly donut from the box. “So, what’s with the ‘stache?”

  Will played around with his facial hair—Miami Vice stubble one week, full-on beard the next, and every variation in between. The heavy mustache was a new twist.

  She poured him some coffee from their small four-cup machine. The Garfield mug wasn’t quite his style, but she noted he favored that one out of the small collection they’d inherited from last year’s research assistants.

  Will took the offered mug and stroked his mustache. “Like it?”

  She took a bite of her donut. As he stood there posing like Burt Reynolds
in a 1978 wall calendar, she gave him an assessing look. “Do I have much of a choice?”

  He gave her a wry grin, yanked down his knit cap on his unruly brown hair, and took a sip of coffee. “Ah, French Roast. Let’s hope I don’t burn a hole in my stomach before noon.”

  The clock on the wall behind him caught her attention.

  “We’re late!” She plopped her donut next to her keyboard and checked her watch to make sure.

  Will appeared unfazed. But he didn’t have to explain to Professor Pritchard a subject was dead. “Let’s go then. You ready?” He revealed a neatly-stapled stack of papers—his statistical report for his presentation today, Paula guessed.

  How could it be possible such a slovenly man could create such organized work? He dressed like a hobo, had the messiest desk she’d ever seen, and sported the haircut of a hermit, yet he was meticulous about his assignments.

  Paula grabbed her notebook and followed Will to the department conference room down the hall.

  “What’s with you this morning?”

  “Bad night,” was all Paula would confess to. He didn’t need to know she tossed and turned so much last night she hardly got any sleep.

  “I’m hoping you have some good news for me today, Paula.” Professor Pritchard was right behind them.

  She flashed hot and then cold. Her mind scrambled for a coherent reply.

  Will gave her a curious look, but when the professor caught her by the arm, Will slipped inside the conference room without her.

  “I have news, but it might not be exactly what you were expecting.” Paula’s stomach soured.

  Candace, a mousy Asian girl in an oversized lab coat, interrupted them. “Professor, would you mind looking at this diagnostic report? I’m not certain why we’re seeing this type of output after the adjustments we made last week.” She pushed between them and whipped out an iPad. She tapped on the screen and tipped it in the professor’s direction.

  Professor Pritchard grabbed the device and squinted. “I’ll talk to you after the meeting, Paula.” He waved her away.

  Paula gladly left them in the hall and entered the claustrophobic conference room. Because the room only held half as many seats as needed around a rickety oval table, a small cluster of research assistants crowded up against the wall.

  Professor Pritchard took the cushy, high-backed chair at the head of the table. No one dared sit in his seat. Dressed in a crisp navy blazer with a bright white shirt underneath and no tie, he stood out from the group of sloppily dressed grad students.

  “Today, we’re at the halfway point with the AIM project. After many weeks of data collection, we’re getting closer to showing the world that auras do, indeed, exist. These auras can help us in our everyday lives. Early reports are showing eight in ten subjects have reactions that match their activities and emotions. With some fine-tuning, I think we can get that to well within nine in ten subjects.” He held up a black box. “This box is only the first step towards proving auras can be used as a vital resource in the government, in the courtroom, and, possibly, even in our own homes.”

  Paula had heard some of this speech before. But today, Professor Pritchard seemed reinvigorated about the project. More than he had in recent weeks. The results must be much more definitive than he had hoped.

  “Because of these recent results, I want to announce that I managed to secure a new source of funding for the AIM Project.”

  All ears in the room perked up at that statement. Research money for Paranormal Sciences was much harder to come by than the more traditional sciences. Not a lot of government sources or businesses were really interested in the supernatural.

  “This funding should allow us to continue on to the next phase of the project. Details will be forthcoming on the scope of that phase. I’ll start interviewing those who are interested in continuing on with the AIM Project at the beginning of next month. A sign-up sheet will be available at Ms. Caldwell’s desk next week.”

  An excited buzz filled the conference room.

  Professor Pritchard raised his voice a notch or two. “Be prepared for long hours, tight deadlines, and a lot of hard work.”

  Paula trembled. She didn’t want to deliver her bad news. He’d hoped she’d clear up this small issue for him, probably to impress the new cash cow, and she had to tell him that not only did no explanation exist for the black box malfunctioning, but the subject had committed suicide.

  Why would Craig commit suicide? It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t appeared depressed or upset when she talked with him yesterday. Plus, he’d wanted her to stop by that evening. Would he really bother to call her if he knew he wouldn’t be around?

  Will, who stood next to her, jabbed her in the ribs. She gave him the evil eye, then noticed the room had grown silent.

  “Ms. Crenshaw, I asked if you wouldn’t mind updating us on your progress?” Professor Pritchard gave her a withering stare.

  “Um, yes.” She flipped through the messy pile of papers in her hand. She had pulled everything together in the middle of the night while still an emotional wreck. “I’ve finished typing the transcripts and am now current. I received more journals this morning and will begin work on them today. I had a few messages about minor incidents over the weekend and those have been handed off to the appropriate team members.”

  Professor Pritchard gave her a pointed look, as if warning her to pay better attention. “And Mr. Dobson, what is the status of—”

  After Mike Dobson’s not-so-thrilling update on the mathematical matrices he created, Will presented his statistical report. He’d created a PowerPoint slideshow, graphs, handouts, even worked in a question-and-answer session that sparked some lively debate—which never happened in any department meeting she’d ever been to.

  Damn that Will! How did Mr. Birkenstocks manage to capture the attention and interest of the whole room? He could barely remember to take a shower in the morning.

  At the end of the meeting, a few grad students lingered to talk with the professor. Paula, although she wished she could slink out unnoticed, waited for her turn.

  Dr. Pritchard was tall and lean. He was in his early forties but had the vibrancy of a much younger man. Everything about him was large—his smile, his voice, his presence. Most of his female assistants adored him.

  When the last student left the room, Dr. Pritchard looked at her from across the table. “So, can you come to my office in a bit and tell me what happened with the anomaly yesterday?”

  “Um—” Undone by nerves, her chance slipped away. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him Craig was dead and that she had no explanation for the anomalies.

  He stood up and grabbed his briefcase. “I need to move up our meeting. Why don’t we say twelve o’clock? I have an appointment later this afternoon. I’m looking forward to hearing your report.” He strode past her and out the door.

  ***

  Paula waited outside Prichard’s office, black box in hand. Thank God Minerva Caldwell was out to lunch. She imagined the woman giving her patented look of disapproval.

  She couldn’t make herself knock on the door. What if her explanation wasn’t good enough for him? Would he fire her?

  Oh, get over it.

  She curled her clammy hand into a fist and knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The professor sat at his desk, his attention focused on his computer screen. Behind him a small picture window gave a view of the Engineering building on the other side of the quad. Neat rows of books, organized by color, lined a set of bookshelves on one wall. His desk was a study in anal retentiveness—sharpened pencils in a cup, a neat stack of unopened mail, a perfect fan of manila folders on one corner.

  The urge came over her to slide her arm across the desk and dump everything on the floor.

  She thought of her cramped office with Will’s mess of papers and folders. It might be a disaster, but at least it looked like human beings worked there instead of robots.

  “Have
a seat, Paula.” He gestured at a loveseat. When he noticed the black box in her hands, he frowned. With a flourish, he removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing sinewy forearms.

  She fiddled with the box.

  “So.” He rose from his chair. “Is there a reason why you brought that with you?” He nodded in the direction of the box. “What exactly happened during your interview with the subject yesterday?”

  “Craig.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “His name was Craig.”

  “Was?”

  “Yesterday, Craig—died.” The image of the body bag on the gurney popped into her head.

  “I see.” The professor picked up a manila folder from the ordered arrangement on his desk. “That does create a complication.”

  “A complication? A student just died, and you call that a complication?”

  “No, no, not at all. That was a terrible tragedy. The complication is that we have another subject with similar anomalies. I was hoping you would have some information for me that might help explain it.” He opened the file in his hands and read the name off the pages inside. “Sam Gunderson, junior. Lives in Westfield Dorm.”

  She wished the suicide of someone she hardly knew wouldn’t have hit her so hard. Most people would hardly give it a second thought. He was a stranger to her, after all. But she couldn’t help it.

  “I went over every entry during the times you marked on his file. I didn’t find anything.”

  “Did you inspect where he used the AIM during monitoring?”

  “It was in a separate room in the basement, nothing but a light bulb in there.”

  The professor unrolled his sleeves, one at a time. “Nothing but a lightbulb.” He buttoned each cuff and smiled to himself. “Yes, this is good. This is very, very good.”

  “Good?” Relief flooded through her. Thank the Lord she wasn’t going to be fired.

  He held out the file. “You need to go interview Mr. Gunderson. See if you find out anything similar between his and Mr. Peters’ accounts. If anything is similar—where they use the AIMs, the journal entries—you write it down and come back to me immediately. Oh, and you can just leave the box with me.”