Tuesday was the hottest September day on record for Chicago. Jessica should have been at the library, writing—or at least at Blind Faith, staring at a blank computer screen. Instead, she was schlepping her backpack to the biology lab on the other side of campus. Her face was flushed and hot, and her bangs were sticking to her forehead. The air was so heavy it was hard to breathe. She longed for the dry alpine air of Glacier Park and wished she were in Montana, not staring into the brutal noonday Chicago sun.
With this murder investigation, she’d never finish her dissertation or get her degree. And if she got kicked out of the program, she would be unemployed at the end of the semester. She should have jumped at Nick’s job offer. She thought of the lock of chestnut hair always falling onto his forehead, and her breath caught. Why did he have to come back into her life, so beautiful and loving, and then be taken from her forever? It was so unfair. Everyone she loved was ripped from her life—her father, her cousin, and now Nick. She thought of Jack sitting in a prison cell. At least he’d be out soon . . . and then what? Could their friendship survive that kiss?
She picked up her pace to escape the heat. The air was still, and even the trees looked wilted and tired. The usually gorgeous green quad was turning brown, and the rose garden around the fountain was crispy. As she approached the science and medicine campus, the buildings got bigger, brighter, and newer. Like a stray dog sniffing around the dumpster of some posh restaurant, the humanities always got shorted when it came to resources. Nietzsche said art was the only antidote to the tragedy of life. Judging by the shiny new buildings in the science complex, the administration did not agree.
Jessica sucked in the hot air, desperate for a Coke . . . or even a drink of water. When she pulled on the heavy glass door to the biology building, a blast of air conditioning greeted her. It felt like diving into the cold water of Whitefish Lake in June. She marveled at the high ceilings, elegant curved receptionist’s desk, and giant mobile hanging in the foyer. The philosophy department was a dump compared to this. She approached the desk, where a tidy woman sat tapping on a keyboard.
“Is there a soda machine around here?” Jessica panted.
“Around the corner.” The receptionist pointed toward a sign for the restrooms.
“Can you direct me to the pain research lab?” She sat her heavy backpack on the desk for a breather.
“Third floor. Do you have an appointment? I don’t think that lab is open to the public.” The receptionist tapped away. “Would you like me to call up for you?”
She’d hoped to surprise Gary the Geek, but it seemed that wasn’t in the cards. “Sure. Can you tell Gary . . .” She scrunched up her face, trying to remember his last name. “Calloway—Gary Calloway—that Amber’s friend Jessica is here?”
The receptionist gave her a skeptical look. “Amber’s friend Jessica,” she repeated.
Jessica nodded.
The receptionist picked up the telephone receiver and waited. “Gary Calloway has a visitor. Amber’s friend Jessica.” She examined her short, manicured nails while she waited, then turned to Jessica. “He says to come up to the lab.”
“Thanks.” Her first stop would be the pop machine and then on to confront the mouse torturer. She thought of Jack, in prison for freeing the mice in Professor Granowski’s lab. Three years seemed a stiff penalty even if he’d destroyed years of research. Poor Jack. And it was all my idea.
She slid two dollars into the vending machine slot and pushed E8 for a plastic bottle of Coke. Ahhh. Nothing like that first sip on a hot day, unless it was from a cold can . . . or, better yet, a frozen glass bottle. She’d guzzled half the Coke by the time she reached the third floor, where she followed signs to the Pain Lab at the end of the hallway.
She pushed an intercom button and Gary the Geek appeared on the other side of the glass door. He buzzed her in. The sterile white-countered lab looked like something out of a science fiction movie—Gattaca, maybe. Two young men wore green paper suits and face masks. They stuck their gloved hands through holes in a glass box, manipulating something Jessica was sure she didn’t want to see.
“What do you guys do in here?” she asked.
Gary pointed to the green guys. “Crick and Watson, as I call them, are working on gene drives.” He chuckled.
“What are gene drives?”
“They’re like ice-nine in Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But instead of freezing all the water they touch, gene drives spread fast and copy themselves as they go. We can use them to genetically modify mosquitos so they don’t carry malaria, or wipe out diseases in whole populations, or make humans resistant to pain.”
“Wow. Amazing.” She sat her backpack on a chair. “Do you work on gene drives, too?” Something about his tone irritated her, and she was raring for a debate.
“I do pain research. I’ll show you.” He pointed to the bottle in her hand.
She tipped it up and downed the last of her Coke. The last sip left something to be desired. She dropped it into a trashcan outside the lab entrance.
Gary led her across the lab to a large tank full of little black-and-yellow frogs. So, she thought, he’s a frog torturer, not a mouse torturer. “These little guys are deceptive. They look cute, but they’re poisonous.”
“How does that help you study pain, besides cause a lot of it?”
“They secrete batrachotoxin, a fantastic tool for figuring out how nerves conduct electricity. So, I’m studying the role electrical impulses play in the sensation of pain.”
“Interesting.” Not. Why was Amber in love with this nerd? They seemed so ill-suited for each other—Amber was a Rescue Remedy junkie, and Gary was as boring as a week without electricity. Maybe they both have their heads in the clouds, just on different planets.
“Yeah. But that’s not why you came to see me.” He stared down at his Hush Puppies. “You came about Amber.” He glanced up at her with sadness in his eyes.
“Amber’s in trouble. Her tea bags have been found at three murder scenes.”
“I know.” He shook his head. “But she’s the gentlest person I know. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“That’s why we have to find out who did it and exonerate Amber.” Jessica wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. “Is there someplace we can talk?” She glanced around the lab.
“We can go into my office.” He gestured toward the door. “This way.”
Gary the Frog Torturer’s office was small and windowless. Even Jessica’s shared office in old, creaky Brentano Hall was nicer than this. Her windows were warped and yellowed, but at least she got some natural light. And unlike his shoebox office with its functional furniture, Brentano’s antique light fixtures and chipped wooden desks had character.
Gary sat behind the metal desk, and Jessica took a chair on the other side. She felt like a student bugging her professor during office hours. She thought of all the grade-grubbers she’d had to put up with and envied the sciences, where tests were more cut-and-dried.
Gary pulled the chain on a banker’s lamp. “You want to flip off the overhead lights? They buzz in A-flat and it drives me bonkers.”
She reached around and flipped the light switch.
“The joys of perfect pitch,” he said.
She sat her bag on the floor at her feet. “Does it seem like Amber is acting weird to you?”
“It’s that job.” He got that hangdog look on his face again and stared down at his shoes. With his shaggy brown hair and round, rosy cheeks, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. “I told her not to go to work in the development office. Those rich people are evil. But she thought she could do some good and persuade donors to support worthy causes. I think there are better places to spend your energy than the development office at a posh university if you want to help people.”
“Your paycheck comes from this posh university.” Jessica’s gaze was unflinching. “Does torturing frogs actually help people?”
“I don’t torture frogs. And, yes, my research will actually help people.” He smirked. “You’re a fine one to talk—a philosopher. How do you help people?”
“I help people think.” She shifted in her chair.
“People can think just fine without your help.” He returned her gaze. “Not thinking is much harder to pull off.”
“Is your life more important than the life of one of your frog’s or those poor mice? Is mine?” She knew she should get back on track and ask about Amber, but she couldn’t let this slide. Sure, it was abstract. Maybe it didn’t produce anything tangible . . . but without it, life was as empty as a mailbox on Sunday.
“A skin swab from one of my dart frogs might improve quality of life for millions of humans. A few frogs for a few million people? I’d say that’s worth it.”
“I doubt the frogs would agree.”
“I think we have a long way to go in learning how to treat each other before we start worrying about frogs.”
“And I think the way we treat frogs says everything about our attitudes toward each other.”
“Frogs are people, too?” He chuckled. “That’s right. Your friend, Jack, is in prison for his animal-liberating ways. If you folks were as concerned with poor people as you are with stray dogs, the world would be a lot better place.”
She had to admit he had a point. There was more empathy for homeless dogs than homeless people. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” She thought of Jack, in prison for freeing those poor tortured animals. A pinging in her chest told her she was looking forward to seeing him . . . maybe even kissing him?
“Perhaps you’re right and there are enough resources to go around. Life isn’t a zero-sum game. But unless the 1 percent are forced to give up their greedy, corrupt, exploitative ways, they will continue playing one group off another until everyone loses.”
“Maybe.” Jessica remembered the clause in the documents found in Nick’s dad’s hotel directing his donation to Russian refugees. She knew Amber worked with refugees. “Do you work with refugees, too?”
“Amber volunteers at Girls First. We both volunteer at Refugees Now. My great-great-grandfather was a refugee from the Irish Potato Famine. He escaped starvation only to die in a mining accident. He was just a teenager.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“My grandfather and dad both worked in the mines. My dad died last year. Coal worker’s pneumoconiosis—black lung.” He tapped a pencil against his desk.
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes. It was. If I can help others avoid that kind of pain and suffering . . .” His gaze was intense, and the tapping picked up speed. “I’m going to do everything in my power to help, in the lab and out.”
Jessica stared down at her backpack, wondering how her own research helped refugees, or miners, or poor people, or anyone else. Maybe Gary the Frog Torturer was right. Philosophy wasn’t going to cure black lung or rescue refugees. Had she done everything in her power to help anyone? Wait a minute . . .
“Everything in your power,” she repeated.