CHAPTER 19

“Harry!”

The aged professor, plopped in his chair, slumps over the desk, folded, like a soggy towel. The old man twitches. Doesn’t he? Hard for Jeremy to tell. Too dark. Lights off, shades down.

Without taking his eyes from Harry, Jeremy reaches behind him on the wall, feels for the light switch. Turns it on, gets a blast of red and terror, an image of Harry turned into a jigsaw puzzle, wounds to neck, and chest, back. A weapon, a knife, protruding from his shoulder.

Jeremy turns off the light.

“Harry. Jesus. Harry.” Quieter this time, self-conscious. The only light now from between the shade slats covering a window over the cot across the small room. Wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, a scattering of folders and files, some in stacks, a tomb of wisdom and learning. And Harry.

The old man twitches again. Jeremy feels something sticky under his shoes. Blood. Horrified, he lifts a sticky foot, nears the desk. Sees Harry’s head is flopped in the other direction, looking away. He touches Harry’s shoulder. No movement now.

Jeremy pulls out his phone. He swipes the screen, tries to, can’t steady himself.

Harry lifts his head, turns to Jeremy, drops his head again.

“Harry. Hang on, Harry. I’ll get help.” Jeremy reaches for the knife. Pauses. Will it do more harm than good?

“L …” A sound escapes Harry.

“Harry?”

“Lo …” Sounds and gurgles. Blood trickles from the professor’s lips, his eyes glazed and intense, determined.

Jeremy lowers on his haunches. He rests his chin on the edge of the wooden desk. Looks into dull eyes.

“I’m getting help. Who did this, Harry? Say a name.”

Harry swallows. Jeremy fingers 911. The touchscreen phone takes only the first number. The sweat, nerves, momentarily locking up the screen. He wipes it against his shirt.

“Is it Evan?”

He dials 911. “Andrea? What are they up to? Why?”

Jeremy looks around, for some sign, some explanation. A neat desk, office intact, the phone knocked from the hook, Harry’s near-lifeless elbow, a protruding knife.

The knife.

Jesus.

He knows that knife. The riveted black polymer, the fat carbon-steel blade.

“They’re setting me up, Harry.”

“Emergency services.” It’s a woman’s voice.

Jeremy says: “Um …”

“Hello. Is everything okay?”

“Ambulance. Hurry.”

“Calm down, sir. Is someone hurt?”

“A stabbing. At Dwinelle Hall.”

He doesn’t say: a stabbing with my own knife. Just like the one someone stole the night before from Jeremy’s apartment.

A look of excruciating pain crosses Harry’s face, like he wants to say something but can’t make words; distant, forever eyes.

Jeremy reaches around and into his backpack. Does he have anything? Water? He yanks off his backpack and plops it onto the desk. He rummages inside. Shit, didn’t he have water?

Across the desk, Harry, eyes intermittingly closed, taps his finger. Tap, tap, tap. Jeremy wonders: is it Morse code? Another tap, tap.

He looks down where Harry taps. A desk calendar, stained by Harry’s life. Where Harry taps, something scrawled. Words? Letters?

He wants to turn on the light. Doesn’t want to. Can’t. Looks at Harry. If he pulls the knife out, what? The blood pours out? He saves Harry? Kills him?

“Are you there? Sir?” The emergency operator.

“Ives, Harry Ives. In the basement.”

Jeremy puts the phone in his pocket, but doesn’t hang up. They’ll find him, trace the signal. Within seconds, be here in minutes. Harry taps again, twice urgently, once slowed. Jeremy walks around the left side of the desk to see the calendar from Harry’s vantage point. He makes out an image. It’s a V, or an upside-down triangle without the line connecting at the top.

On each point, there’s a number. At the top left of the symbol, “972.” On the top right, 970. Along the right side, more numbers: 7, 41, 212. Along the left side: 986, 86. At the bottom, more numbers still, and then the numbers trail off, leading to Harry’s index finger, shaking.

Bloody scrawl, lowercase, running together. Jeremy clenches his teeth. Begging his brain to make sense of it.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Lo …”

“A victory sign?” Jeremy says, exclaims: “Will there be war?”

“Logca—”

Harry tries to shake his head. “Logcab—”

“Log cabin?!” Jeremy blurts.

Harry blinks.

“The argument at the log cabin? V for victory. You … what does it mean?”

Harry sucks in a labored breath. His beard quivers. Jeremy puts a hand on the old man’s back. Withdraws it to the knife handle, wondering whether to pull it, feels the sensation like it’s submerged in Jell-O. Feels hot tears in the corners of his eyes.

Harry spits something, a word. Jeremy leans down. Harry repeats: “You.”

“What? Harry, what about me?”

Harry doesn’t react. It’s not what Harry means or not clear what Harry means. Jeremy’s inches from his face.

“Please, Harry. Please tell me what to do.”

Harry’s eyes suddenly open. It’s an adrenaline burst, perhaps unknown to him in this moment why: his dying body recognizes that Jeremy, his proud protégé, his unyielding son, is begging, near tears.

Harry wheezes: “AskIt.”

“What?”

Harry extends a finger, points to the backpack sitting on the desk.

“Ask it? Ask the computer? Harry, I’m supposed to ask the computer?”

Harry reaches out and grabs Jeremy’s hand. Jeremy recoils, leans back in. He hears footsteps coming. Nearing, nearing, entering the anteroom. The ambulance?

A voice from outside. “Dr. Ives?” A woman.

“What?” Jeremy implores. “Harry.”

“Peace. Peace …”

The thick fingers squeeze Jeremy. Hold them on to the calendar. Harry catches his eye. “Beware Peace …” He flinches, jerks, his eyes open quickly, then begin to close.

Jeremy looks up. In the doorway. A woman, drops the book in her hands, screams.

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