Dead Waters - Anton Strout [35]
It was strange seeing the professor alive again in one of my visions, this time old. Before, he had been young and lively, nervous in the face of battle; now he was simply an old man in professor mode.
I rewound through images of the events that had taken place in his office like searching through old newspaper records in a library. A variety of people came and went, and I ignored most of them. The bulk looked like the odd student here or there simply coming to their professor during office hours. I kept going through them until I caught sight of a group of lingering students in one long section of the vision. I drew my focus in on them and pulled my mind into those specific moments. The old man sat at his desk, holding court. Five students sat around his office, intent on every word he was saying. The last and most attentive was an eager young blond girl named Elyse who hung on his every word. A tall, black muscular guy with ear gauging, Darryl, took notes on a laptop while a chunky kid with a video camera and the unfortunate nickname Heavy Mike listened intently with a couple of other film school hopefuls—a punked-out blond Hispanic kid name George and a skinny brown-haired kid, Trent. Professor Redfield was busy regaling them with stories of the glory days or horror cinema, hearkening back to the extreme makeup that Lon Chaney used to wear.
The sway he held these students under was a bit creepy, but I watched as long as I could before I felt my blood sugar depleting itself.
When I came out of the vision, Connor was still seated at the professor’s desk. “Well?” he asked. “No luck on my end. If the professor’s spirit is lingering around here, there isn’t anything earthly that he’s attached to. What about you? Anything, kid?”
“Maybe,” I said. “From what I saw, it looked like Mason had a little posse. Film geeks doting on his every word, laughing at his every story. Whether it was grade grubbing or not, I’m not quite sure. The adoration bordered on cultish.”
“We should check it out,” Connor said. “Someone has to know something more about the professor. Who he hung with, who might have had it out for him. Did you catch names?”
“Only a couple of them,” I said. “There was an Elyse, Darryl, Trent. . . a big guy they called Heavy Mike. Subtle, right?”
“Anything more than first names, kid?” Connor asked. “It’s going to take a lot of wandering Manhattan going on just that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s the problem with reading Professor Redfield’s belongings. They’re his stuff. It shows me some stuff about him, but I can’t really dive into the past of the others unless they’ve handled his objects, too. Even then, it’s not a sure thing.”
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, then,” Connor said, getting up from the desk, “but not tonight. Despite this being the city that never sleeps, I doubt we’re going to get anything but drunken stragglers to question this time of night.”
“I can start asking around tomorrow,” I said, heading for the door. “Maybe I should hit that solo.”
Connor gave me a look. “You sure? Why?”
We stepped out of the professor’s office and headed through the deserted halls of the university. “If I bring you along all old looking with that white stripe in your hair, everyone’s going to think I brought a cop with me. No one’s going to talk.”
“Jesus, kid,” Connor said, stopping in the hall. “You make me sound like I’m a hundred.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean that. It’s just. . . look at you in your Bogie trench coat. You aren’t exactly college-age looking. I’d peg you for a cop.”
“Fine,” Connor said, heading for the doors to the outside world coming up ahead of us. “Have it your way. I can sleep in, then.”
“Now, Grandpa. . .” I said, starting after him.
Connor looked over his shoulder at me, shooting me with a look of pure hatred as he pushed out onto the streets of