Chapter 9 Kaye #2
The prodigal son died a few years ago. Alexander. Somehow Charade ended up in his house. What was it he said? A friend of the family?
The first few pages provide a brief overview of who Alexander was at the time.
It seems to start just after he began attending college.
It was one of those old money, Ivy League type private places.
He hated it on sight. He wanted to attend NMU where many of his friends decided to go, but the benefits of Wellcromby University were undeniable.
It could afford the best professors, offer state-of-the-art systems to its students, and educated some of the most brilliant minds in history.
Under the influence of one of his favorite professors, Alexander enrolled in the Experimental Sciences program with an emphasis on Genetics and Pharmaceuticals.
Although he had been a social kid in school, he soon withdrew into the rapture of his studies.
He took classes during the day and signed up for extra college credit online at night.
A social life apparently didn’t matter. Neither did sleep. Not when he could change the world.
And then he met Moira.
I saw the girl of my dreams today. Her hair is silken gold with the craziest near-black streaks in it.
Her eyes are warm and lively, an arresting shade of hazel.
I looked into those eyes and her smile lit up with wattage strong enough to jump start my heart.
She asked me to sign a petition. I don’t even know what it was for, but I raced to add my name to the list, along with about a dozen others.
I guess that would be a great conversation started for Friday. We’re getting coffee.
Moira made him break out of his shell. Her warmth was infectious, and she cared about the world and the people in it. Before he knew it, Alexander had a network of friends around him and he belonged to about a dozen different clubs, even a notorious secret society on campus.
I grab the next book from the desk, but they must be out of order. Alexander is older in this one. He just finished his PhD and he and Moira are engaged to be married. Planning a spring wedding.
Alexander details his work with the kind of precision and care I would expect from someone in his field.
He has been funded to find the Holy Grail in both science and medicine—a remedy that would speed healing.
Cure any sickness. He hypothesizes that the answer might lie somewhere with New Malcolm’s superhero population.
Why is there such a huge concentration here compared to our surrounding cities? Is it a genetic defect in the families that settled here? Something in the water? Or do they come here for safety—bigger city equals easier to hide?
From the little I can gather, none share the same background or source. Some are born with abilities while others don’t develop them until their teens—sometimes well into adulthood. The only connection I can find is New Malcolm.
He puts out an open call to Supers willing to undergo an examination for a little extra cash. He’s surprised when so many apply, but there was a huge factory strike and subsequent mass layoff around this time. People needed to eat more than they needed anonymity.
The factories are the lifeblood of New Malcolm and have been for hundreds of years. The work is hard, the safety laws growing lax as more factories established at the edges of the city. It’s not unusual to see someone sitting on the curb on Main Street who has several fingers missing, or worse.
Another fifteen today. Ages varied between 18 and 55. Most in excellent health overall. The trend of young mothers continues.
Check into hospital records and consult OBGYN.
What effects will this have on the children?
And further down there’s this nugget:
The nature of the abilities offers an interesting prospect for research.
Some powers seem to work together, those with mental-based connectivity.
Is it possible that power connection could magnify certain skills or are they limited to the individual?
Testing would be difficult even if any of the participants were will to do it.
None of them want to show their faces to other members of the group.
A creak echoes down the hall, then the unmistakable sound of footfalls on the stairs.
Shit.
I push the pages into what was their original place.
A shoe clicks on the tile at the top of the landing, and the heady lightness of panic begins to take control.
My only exit is cut off. Spinning around, my eyes flashing to the gap between the couch and the wall.
The seat is extra deep with a relaxed velvety back for sinking into.
The material might give a little. If I turn my body sideways, could I fit?
The echoes of footfalls mimic the pounding of my heart. Sliding the journal in first, I stuff myself inside.
“Left the light on again.”
Charade.
Gulping down a breath, I press my back into the wall as the couch starts to move. The gap inches further from the wall as a weight drops on it. I don’t dare to move.
Then his breathing softens, slowing into the regular rhythmic pattern of sleep.
My immediate reaction is one of relief, but it’s only a temporary reprieve.
My knees ache from the landing, elbows digging into my rib cage hard enough to bruise.
My tense muscles prickle and will soon be numb.
So I inch out of my hiding spot and pray to whatever gods are listening not to be caught.