Ruin Falls (16 page)

“
Extraordinary
things,” Adoring Girl said.

“He’s inspired me in a way nobody else ever did,” said Jake.

“He’s just so damn smart,” added the second boy. He rubbed his head, trying to flatten the bristles. “Remember that whole unit on how water’s going to be this century’s oil?”

“Embargoes,” Jake agreed. “Water cartels.”

“But the really brilliant part is he knows what to do about it. That filtration system he found—”

“His desalination theory—”

Liz felt a scream building inside her. If she couldn’t put a stop to this, she was going to do something a lot worse than desecrate their image of Paul.

“I know all of that,” Liz said. “Most of it anyway.”

Her words were lost in an excited brew of memories and ideas.

“Listen!” she cried.

The chatter continued.

“Goddamnit, I said listen!”

A shocked silence finally fell. Liz opened her eyes and took in the entire earnest ring of them. “I was there for all of that. And more.”

They were looking at her now with a blend of fear and interest.

“I remember the good old days before global warming when the energy crisis was just about fuel shortages. Paul’s father refused to wait on line, and Paul learned to run a car on ethanol they grew and distilled themselves. It was great. It’s all just great.” Liz held up a hand before the admiring clamor could begin again. “But Paul’s done
something a lot less noble now,” she went on over the protests she could see mounting. “And it’s deprived me of my children.”

The faces that gazed back at her were as blank as a rolled-down shade. Even Lia refused to meet her eyes.

Liz felt the solid wall of their obstruction, and her body sagged in the chair. She knew this particular brand of unwillingness, borne of the disbelief that Paul could be anything besides the image he presented. She’d bought that image for the better part of two decades. Nobleman, thinker, provider, chief. A Robin Hood, taking bounty from the greedy lords of capitalism and spreading it out amongst the people. A visionary who would lead those people to a better day. These students weren’t resisting her only because she threatened their idea of Paul. Liz was threatening the entire world they stood to inherit.

“Is there anything?” she asked in a whisper. “I know this must all seem hard to believe, but is there anything that Professor Daniels was teaching—or talking about—last year that might give you an idea of what he’s doing now?”

Matching faces met her gaze. Heads shook at an identical pace.

“Sorry.”

“No, nothing.”

Liz dropped her head. Scuffmarks and scratches formed a frazzled pattern on the floor.

“Would you like some tea?” Sara asked. “It’s herbal, from right around here. Professor Daniels doesn’t allow coffee or real tea, of course. The miles traveled are far and away the worst. Except for maybe pineapples. Or non-hearty kiwis.”

“The mix is made at Mrs. Daniels’s farm,” Lia said to the others. “She knows its carbon footprint.” She turned to Liz, having the grace to look uncomfortable. “Would you like some?”

Liz’s response emerged brokenly. “No. No tea.”

She struggled to rise, but fell backward into the chair. Jake jumped up to help her, and she held out a hand, warding him off. He flinched, and Sara guided him into her reach while Liz finally got to her feet and pushed past all of them, feeling their breath and their heat and the pent-up energy inside them as she made her way out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T
he students may not have known anything, but Liz had gotten something out of the time she spent in that small, airless space. Only Paul Daniels could stick a bunch of kids into a column of closet and make them think that he was Superman.

Still, the place had been a repository of password possibilities. Paul’s students were the fastest ticket to whatever he was thinking about these days.
Water cartels, embargoes, filtration systems
, and
desalination
. Liz had glanced at the screens on each tablet to catch key words.
Closed-loop farming. Humanure. Rooftop-ready soil
.

Liz was headed down the hall when she noticed the secretary’s door standing open. She backtracked to the department, then crossed the wide corridor.

“Marjorie. Hi.”

Marjorie had filled this position since Paul had been a student himself, and she wore her seventy or so years well, mostly by not trying to hide them. Her steely hair fell in a neat bob, and her eyeglass frames were fashionable.

“Mrs. Daniels! I thought the family was on vacation,” Marjorie cried, rising from her wooden seat. Paul imposed upgrade-free living on the department as a whole. Marjorie’s desk was the same gun-metal gray as her hair, its gouges rusted, and whatever pattern had once been on the rug was no longer detectable.

Liz should’ve been used to the sinking feeling by now, the jolt her knees gave, her body loosening against the door frame. How did no one—no matter how close to them Paul had been—know anything about this? Tim’s statement about it being hard to hide came back to her. Paul Daniels didn’t do covert. He was in-your-face, larger-than-life. At least he was right up until the night he had vanished.

“Mrs. Daniels? Are you all right?”

“Paul isn’t going to be here to teach,” Liz said abruptly.

Marjorie frowned. “Oh no. Has he gotten sick?”

Liz barked a laugh. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

The secretary frowned.

Liz straightened from her slump. “I don’t know where Paul is. He could be sick, but I rather doubt it. He’s made off with our children. I’m guessing you don’t know anything about that.”

“Your children!” Marjorie’s gasp was genuine. “Mrs. Daniels, that’s—”

“Crazy. I know.”

“I was going to say, not like Paul at all.” Marjorie paused. “Here.” She guided Liz into the office, shutting the door. “Now, what do you mean, he’s made off?”

Liz recounted the story soliloquy-style. The horror was that she was growing used to her speech, like an actor who had learned her lines. Except that in reality, her whole life with Paul had been an act, and now she was
un
learning them.

Marjorie shook her head back and forth, tsking her tongue. “I don’t know what to say. I just can’t imagine Professor Daniels doing anything like this.”

“I know,” Liz said when the secretary fell silent. “I couldn’t either. I suppose I’ve had a few days to wrap my head around the flip side to Paul’s greatness.”

The secretary looked up, and Liz waited for a display of outrage, the electrified defense. But perhaps Marjorie had also left the Church of Paul at some point because she didn’t say anything. Her nails, polished clear, clicked against the surface of her desk.

“I wish I knew what to say, Mrs. Daniels.”

“I wish you did, too,” Liz said quietly. “Well, at least now you can make arrangements to cover his classes.”

Marjorie was staring into the hall as Liz took her leave.

Liz wound down the halls, searching for the set of doors she’d come through, but she had gotten twisted around. There was a shortcut through the gym and Liz took it, coming out by the pool. The sight made her turn her head, seized by a surge of yearning. Reid had never looked back after his near-drowning in toddlerhood, and it was both children’s favorite treat to come swim at the school. Ally also loved exploring the ornamental gardens, although she maintained that she preferred the naturalistic borders of Roots: its swaying meadow of wildflowers from which flower shops and event planners might one day purchase stock.

What were Reid and Ally doing now? Was being in Paul’s comparatively rarefied care a bonus, or were they unhappy every day? Liz hoped fervently for the former. Please, let Paul be doing something that the kids would characterize as fun. And let him have come up with something to tell them, an explanation that made sense. The idea that Reid and Ally thought Liz wanted this—was okay being apart from them—turned her clutch of longing into a chokehold.

Shouts and jeers, boys trading insults amidst laughter, came from behind a locker room door. Liz swerved in the other direction, hunting an exit. Filtered sunlight shone down the hall, and the yellow bars glinted off a glass case along one wall. Liz paused. Inside the case were a few faded green pennants with gold lettering on them and twin trophies from back-to-back years. There was a row of newspaper articles, the usual rah-rah stuff about local boys, coach honored, money raised for new this or that. One story on faded paper was tacked up front and center, its headline blaring.

EASTERN AG SLATED TO TAKE DIVISION

Which division? Liz wondered wryly. Twenty?

Next to the piece was a slightly blurred photograph that erased all traces of wryness.

In addition to the older man beaming in the shot, probably the coach, there were two boys, arms slung around each other’s bulked-up shoulders, grins as wide as their pads.

One of them was Paul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he helmet and uniform in Paul’s closet at home. Even the ticker-tape of games that had been scrolling along one of the last pages Paul had open on his computer. Liz had assumed he had been looking at course rosters, but what if the football schedule had been his focus?

Why had she never heard about Paul’s football career?

Marjorie had worked at the college back when this photo was taken. The last time, it seemed, that Eastern Ag had had a winning season.

A couple of boys, wet from the shower, ran past her, sneakers drumming.

Liz quickly outpaced them.

The secretary was already gone for the day, the department door locked. These were the last meandering days of summer, and Marjorie had been good to come in to get things ready for Paul, but working long hours went above and beyond even that call.

A click of heels sounded along the adjacent hall, and Liz ran. Marjorie hadn’t quite reached the exit yet. Liz called out, and the secretary turned, frowning as she headed back. The two of them met in the middle.

“I feel terrible about what’s happened,” Marjorie said.

It seemed a strange way to put it, as if Marjorie were somehow responsible.

“I hadn’t realized that Paul played football,” Liz said in reply.

Marjorie’s back sagged, and she suddenly looked every one of her seven decades. “I hadn’t realized that you didn’t realize that.”

Now it was Liz’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

Marjorie checked her wristwatch. “Do you have a few minutes? The library should be open.”

Liz felt her brow pucker again.

The secretary turned, leading the way.

It was Eastern Ag’s oldest building, a noble stack of bricks. Marjorie pushed one of the heavy doors open, twisting a filigreed knob. The air inside was cool to the point of chilliness, and a deep hush lay over the space. Dust twirled in the sun shafts beneath a skylight, and shelves of books soared. Not even the dimly glowing bank of computers could detract from the sense that by walking through the doors, you had entered a bygone age.

Marjorie strode past the front desk, and a curving stone staircase. A couple of sharp turns brought them to a less majestic section of the library: vinyl tiles on a narrow flight of steps. Liz raised her eyebrows doubtfully, but Marjorie was already descending at a good clip. She waited for Liz at the bottom, then led the way between a narrow length of stacks. Marjorie came to a stop by a shelf that held a row of green volumes with letters stamped on them in gold.

Yearbooks.

After some study and running of fingers over dates, Marjorie pulled one out. The cover looked muted, a little less bright, compared to those from more recent years. Marjorie paged through the volume to the athletic team photos in back, then held the book out flat for Liz to see.

Liz was unprepared for the fury that settled over her as soon as she glimpsed Paul’s face. Like a young buck he was, head-tossed and proud. Liz reached for the glossy sheet with his image on it. The edge of paper sliced the tip of her thumb and Liz sucked in a sharp, hissing breath. She had no idea why Marjorie had brought her down here. The list of names beneath the team photo didn’t mean anything to her, aside from Paul’s. The candid shots were equally lacking in information,
besides the fact that Paul had been captured several times in concert with a teammate named Michael Brady.

Marjorie turned the page.

The next one was filled entirely with a photo of Michael Brady.

In Memoriam
read the words underneath.

Liz looked up, then down again.

Michael Brady had been a good-looking boy; a unique brand of fiery vigor had been preserved in the shot. The photo caught him leaping toward an opposing player, the look on his face like one you might see on a lion about to tear apart a gazelle.

“What a tragedy,” Liz murmured. “He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or -two.”

“He would’ve turned twenty that year,” Marjorie said.

Liz shook her head. “Paul’s teammate?”

“Paul’s best friend.”

“Oh no.” Liz set the yearbook back on its shelf. “Best friends? Paul never mentioned him. He didn’t even really tell me that he’d played football.”

Marjorie peered at her. “He was the quarterback. You never knew that?”

Liz looked down. “You know, it’s funny. As much a part of Paul’s life as Eastern Ag is, he hates to talk about his connection to the school. I used to ask him sometimes how he could work here, yet not enjoy reminiscing, talking about the glory days. I never got a good answer.”

Paul would change the subject to the here and now, something he was teaching, or doing in the department.

“He stayed because of Michael Brady,” Marjorie said. “Because Michael never got to leave.”

The skin on Liz’s arms prickled. “What happened to him?”

Marjorie frowned, wrinkles appearing like canyons on her brow. “There was a car accident on Wicket Road. That’s a mean road—curvy as the devil’s tongue. Trees hang over it like beasts. Paul was driving, and he had been drinking some, according to the police.”