The Soul Continuum (29 page)

“They won't let you through,” a voice shouts from the lobby.

Whoever it was seems to be correct. Forchester is stopped when we round the corner that would take us to Withering's private lounge at the end. Five men are outside
the door hushed in conversation, all of them barring entrance.
I glance behind me and notice that only Underwood is with me.

“Where's Edith?” I ask.

“Downstairs.” He nods. “I saw her stopping to talk to Carlisle.”

“Are you going to tell us what's happening in there?” Forchester demands of the men. “I'm hearing some nasty rumors.”

One of the men breaks from the pack to face us. He is of Middle Eastern descent, middle-aged, tall with a pair of thin framed glasses resting on a crooked nose. I believe his name is Amal.

“We have had to call the police,” he says. “I am afraid there has been an accident.”

“How can you call that an accident?” one of the other men says. “Just look at the poor devil.”

“What is it?” Forchester insists, trying to barge past them. “What's happened?”

The others say nothing but part to allow the bullish Forchester through, and I follow in his wake. I sincerely wish I had not. I have never seen a dead body before, and now that there is one directly in front of me, I cannot stop looking at it. The shock of it makes me stagger as giddiness and tunnel vision threaten a swoon. It is Withering's eyes that I will never forget. Those eyes that so often remained hidden behind his dark spectacles are now bulging, staring, bloodshot, pleading. Though obviously lifeless, they have somehow captured the last few violent seconds of his life, regret and terror straining outward. The tongue, partially revealed between his pale blue lips, is dark brown, and dried froth is present in the corners of his mouth. The smell of excrement sticks at the back of my throat.

I cannot imagine he wanted to end it like this, but the position of his body, suspended by the neck in a tied-up bedsheet, suggests suicide. He had tied one end to the wooden beam of the ceiling and made the length of it a fraction too long, for where the tips of his toes graze the floorboards, there are smeared patches of grease and dirt where Withering must have struggled in vain against the strangulation, kicking and fighting for several minutes. His hands are clenched into fists and now that I notice that small detail, the image of his struggle is embedded in my mind, even more horrific than his eyes. Did he change his mind at the point of committal? What could have driven him to do this?

I turn, cupping my hand over my mouth as I leave the room. Forchester's hand presses into my shoulder as he steadies me. He says nothing, but as I glance at him, I wonder if I look any paler than he does. Underwood's expression is tight and tense as we pass him to make for the stairs. His eyes fill up as he blinks repeatedly, and with Collins's notebook clutched hard against his breast, I feel sure he must be considering the deaths she recorded within its pages, wondering if Withering's demise heralds the same fate for Borealis University as the one inflicted on the archaeological dig.

Underwood grabs my arm before I can get any farther. “If Withering has gone, how much more time do you suppose the rest of us have?”

Forchester screws up his face, confused at the comment, and I decline to answer, preferring to concentrate on getting as far away from this ugly scene as possible. In the shock of such a brutal and tragic event, Underwood's warnings of doom and paranormal portents suddenly seem like ridiculous fantasy, or like the inappropriate ramblings of a drunken vagrant at a funeral service. I remove myself from his grip and from Forchester's supporting hand and head back down the stairs toward the lobby, trying to locate Edith. She will surely want to know what has happened.

“Brighty, why the devil did you go up there? You're as white as old bones.”

The observation came from Carlisle upon my reaching the bottom step.

“You were talking to Edith,” I say. “Where is she now?”

Some of the younger students crowd in, no doubt hoping to catch some tidbits of information about what is concealed
in the room.

“She hurried off a moment ago. Now listen, Brighty—”

“Where did she go?”

“Listen!” he insists, then shoots a stern glance at our audience to shoo them away. “We need to talk,” he whispers, taking me by the elbow to lead me to a less crowded part of the lobby. His eyes pierce me with expectant intensity, and as if I am not disturbed enough already, I realize that this might be the only time I have ever seen him act so seriously.

“The police are on their way,” he says quietly, “but some of us suspect foul play and I'm worried, very worried, that there may be a murderer in our midst.”

“A murderer? What makes you think so?”

“Is Amal still up there?”

“Yes, I think so, why?”

“I think he was the poor soul who found the body, but he noticed something a little odd about the circumstances of the alleged suicide.” Carlisle glances around him to make sure nobody else is listening in. “I don't suppose you noticed Withering's suicide note on his desk.”

“No, I didn't. Why? Do you think it was faked?”

“No, but he may have written it under duress.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, Amal noticed a peculiar thing. It may be nothing,
and I suppose the police will pick up on it, but it looks like Withering was drinking before he wrote his note; there's half a bottle of scotch next to his blotting pad. Thing is, there's a coaster right next to it with a wet ring on it, but no glass, not anywhere in the room. It's as if someone took it. Why would someone want to do that?”

“And you suspect murder based on that? That's a bit of a leap, don't you think?”

“Then explain the missing glass.”

I am sure there is a simple explanation for Carlisle's puzzle, but I am not given the opportunity to think on it. A new disturbance has started in the lobby. A group is huddled by the double doors to the common room, and they're acting differently than the other groups murmuring about what has happened to Withering. Their conversation is more animated, carrying a greater urgency, and several others converge on them to find out what the issue is. Before I can do the same, my pulse skips when the breathless voice of an old man speaks beside me.

“I believe I may be able to help you with your mystery, Doctor Arken-Bright.”

He seems to have come from nowhere. Small and hunched, dressed entirely in black, he could masquerade as the grim reaper himself. But instead of a scythe, he holds a gnarled cane in one hand and a battered doctor's bag in the other. I have never seen a face so hideously ravaged by age, and although I do my best not to appear shocked, I am unable to prevent a small gasp when I realize who this is. It is my shadow man. The impossible watcher in the gentlemen's club. Despite standing directly beside me in the flesh, he seems twice as impossible now, if it were possible to be such a thing. His very presence feels utterly wrong to me, like a living and breathing optical illusion . . . like a nightmare made real.

Carlisle seems equally disturbed but is able to find his voice before I am. “You have some insight into the professor's death?” he asks, incredulous.

The old man's lips curl back and I am reminded of the death grin one sees on a rotted corpse. “I have insight into every death,” he says.

Carlisle glances at his bag. “Because you are a medical man?”

The corpse man continues his attempt at a smile. Carlisle and I know that he means something else entirely, but neither of us dares to acknowledge it.

“I don't believe we've had the . . . pleasure,” I say to him without holding my hand out. “You seem to know my name, but I don't know yours.”

“My name is Keitus Vieta,” he says and slowly tilts his head in greeting. “I have no wish to be rude, but I came here with a purpose—namely, to see you. I believe you have something of mine that was taken from me.” Something deadly flashes in his eyes. “I should like to have it back.”

Carlisle coughs and pulls out a handkerchief to dab at his lips, as if Vieta's presence disagrees with him. “Sir, you are obviously not from these parts, but please take a look around you.” He waves a hand to indicate the groups in the lobby who are now moving with purpose into the common room. “You find us in the midst of a terrible tragedy, so I hope you will understand when I tell you that your possessions, or lack thereof, hold considerably less interest to us at this time than the reasons for the death of our chancellor. So please, if you have something to share with us about what happened to him, perhaps you had better tell us.”

Vieta tilts his head again. “I have the professor's glass,” he says.

Carlisle and I glance at each other momentarily. “
You
have it?” I set aside the motive for the moment. “So were you the last person to see him alive?”

“Yes. Alive,” Vieta says, “and then dead. I watched him.”

I am awash with cold dread as I allow the words to sink in. “You . . . saw him commit suicide and you did nothing?”

“Did you kill him?” Carlisle asks flatly.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Vieta says. “Though it was not a deliberate act. He was afraid, you see. Afraid of what might happen if I came for my jewel. When he heard I was coming, he decided to kill himself rather than face me.”

“Why did you take the glass?” I ask.

“Why indeed?” Vieta sighs. “I merely come to collect the unseen residues of death. I keep the glass in the hope that I can recover my jewel before the residue dissipates, but alas, I may already be too late. The jewel is a temporary repository, you see. I need it back.”

Carlisle observes the old man with a mixture of naked disgust and ridiculing disbelief. “And what exactly do you do with this . . . residue when—?”

A minor panic from the common room spills into the lobby as several of the men stumble backward.

“It came from that way,” says one of the men.

“Well, what was it? Did anyone see?” says another, still backing away.

“I don't know,” a third man says. “It happened only a minute or so ago, right after that flash. I don't think anybody was in there. At least, I hope they weren't.”

“D'you think somebody's hurt, then?” says the first man.

I tap the closest man on the shoulder before he backs into me. “What's going on?”

He turns. “Jenner thinks he heard a woman's scream coming from the labs.”

It takes only a moment for me to jump to the logical conclusion. “Edith!”

I push through the small crowd to race through the common room, along the corridor, and on to my laboratory, only to come face-to-face with the impossible. If ever I needed proof of the supernatural, I am faced with it now. I would have to deny all my senses to dismiss it. The ground is shaking as if the university is suffering the effects of a minor earthquake. Though no smoke is present, the air tastes like it is burning, and a fierce white light causes me to cover my eyes before I can work out what is happening. I risk looking through a gap in my fingers, squinting at the unearthly spectacle stopping me from reaching the door. Like lightning in slow motion, electric blue feelers snake their way from the edges of the laboratory door, crackling and shimmering as they probe the walls, floor, and ceiling like living things. A palpable but invisible force prevents me from moving closer. I feel like a deep-sea diver helplessly pushing against an ocean current, except the temperature is steam-bath hot. But what terrifies me most is the contrast behind the door. The entire laboratory is a void so unnaturally dark it looks like the night of a thousand years has been compressed into one small space. The creeping feelers of light rippling at the door frame's edge reach around me into the corridor—a slow smear, like the gradual spread of water spilled onto a watercolor painting.

I call for Edith above a sound like an eerie chorus of growling beasts slowed to a rumbling bass, but I hear no reply. The shaking of the walls and floor increases and I fear the whole building might shake apart at any moment. Desperation drives me to push harder against the invisible barrier, and I cry out again, my face straining into the blackness. Even the sound of my voice is distorted now. A hand grasps my shoulder and pulls me back.

“Get away from it!” Carlisle yanks me again when I attempt
to go back.

“What is this? What have you done?” The whisper comes from Keitus Vieta, who has followed us. “This is understanding beyond your capability, and there is nothing on this planet that could generate the power required for time dilation.”

I could not care less about Vieta's opinion. All that matters is Edith's safety, and with redoubled effort, I throw myself into the slow-motion shockwave that bars my way. Whereas before the force showed no signs of yielding, now it is relenting, and I am able to push a leg forward as if challenging a heavy wind. I reach out and grab the door frame, ignoring the terrible burning of my fingers as I do so, and again I cry out, “Edith!”

Simultaneous relief and terror make me almost lose my grip when a distorted scream reaches me from the darkness. It sounds like someone calling my name, but I cannot be sure. If it is Edith, her voice has also been slowed so that it sounds deeper, almost masculine. Behind me, others are calling: Forchester, Carlisle, and Underwood, all begging me to come away from the darkness, but their voices are drowning too. Before me, a shape is forming. As if there was a mind behind this chaos, the electrical arcs that were exploring the corridor have reversed, stretching back into the darkness, groping like a thousand crooked claws to form
the outline of a person curled up where I think the floor must be, and suddenly I find that my efforts to press forward
are reversed as I fight with the door frame to prevent being sucked into the laboratory. The figure in the room is undeniably Edith, shuddering from whatever torture the wriggling
sparks of electricity are forcing her to endure.