7
Back in the saddle, Jack thought as he strolled up Central Park West. For only a short ride, true, but it felt good.
When he reached the museum he stood aside to let a horde of school kids crowd through an exit door in a brownstone arch and swarm toward their idling yellow buses. Once they were past he headed for the museum offices. The receptionist remembered him and passed him through.
On the way up the stairs he checked his watch. A little after four. The prof had had almost three hours with the Compendium. Jack knew he was going to face pleas for more time but he'd done his good deed for the day-week-year-whatever. Time to collect his book and go home.
Again came the thought about letting the old guy keep it longer, and again he pushed it aside. He'd needed the Compendium once. Never knew when he might need it again.
He knocked on Dr. Buhmann's door, then opened it—and froze on the threshold.
The prof sat slumped forward in his chair, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his right cheek against his desktop.
Jack leaped to his side.
"Doc!" He shook his shoulder. "Doc, you okay?"
But he wasn't okay. The chair rolled back and the old man would have tumbled to the floor if Jack hadn't caught him.
"Christ!"
Emaciated though he was, he was still dead weight. As Jack eased him to the floor he noticed he was still warm. And when he stretched him out on his back he saw him take a breath.
Still alive.
But what had happened?
He did a quick search for a wound or a bump on the head but found nothing. Then he noticed how the right side of the prof's face sagged, compared to the left.
Stroke?
He jumped up and dashed into the hallway.
"Hey! Anybody here? We've got a problem!"
An elderly woman stuck her head through a doorway. "What's the matter?"
"Doctor Buhmann. Something's wrong with him."
"What?" She hurried toward him. "Where?"
Jack stepped aside to let her see. "I think he's had a stroke."
"Oh, dear!" The woman jammed her hand against her mouth. "I'll call nine-one-one:
f"
As she hurried back into the hall, Jack dropped to a knee beside the prof.
Yeah. Still breathing.
Eye level with the desktop now, he glanced across it. He saw a couple of sheets of paper, but no book.
"Oh, hell!"
He jumped to his feet and searched the desk and the area around it. No Compendium, but he did find a couple of Xeroxed sheets. One was filled with the squiggles they'd seen earlier, the other showed a strange design surrounded by its own squiggles.
What was it? Some sort of spider? But it had only six legs.
As he stared at the figure, a strange feeling stole over him. He was sure he hadn't seen this thing before, but it seemed familiar. It triggered an odd twinge inside, as if something he hadn't been aware of, something sleeping within him had stirred.
Then he realized what these sheets meant.
"Oh, hell!"
The prof had promised no copies, but obviously he hadn't kept his word. Bad enough. But what had he done with the damn book?
Or had somebody stolen it?
He checked the prof again and found no sign of injury. But no sign of the book either.
Jack folded and pocketed the sheets, then waited for the EMTs to show.
What had happened here?