Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar by Gray Cavender (red scrolls of magic TXT) 📗

This was a serious stairwell with unusually wide, high steps. Between that and her fast walk from the ASU PD, she was winded when she reached his floor.

Jillian opened the stairway door and was just orienting herself to the hallway when she saw a man entering the elevator. She’d only caught a glimpse, but thought that it might be Professor Roberts. “Professor Roberts,” she called…twice, as the elevator doors closed. “Maybe the guy didn’t stop because it wasn’t him, or maybe he didn’t hear me,” she thought.

She was torn as to what to do next. Was she even sure that it was Professor Roberts? She thought so…maybe…possibly…but maybe not. Maybe she should get his office number from the directory, and go knock on his office door. But if that was Roberts who had entered the elevator, he was getting away.

Jillian decided. She wheeled back into the stairwell and headed down…fast. She held to the rail on the right for balance. At the bottom, she literally jumped the final two steps. She opened the stairwell door and was in the lobby. She stopped and looked around because the guy—Roberts or whoever—could have gone anywhere. She looked hurriedly but carefully from left to right, taking-in both the lobby and the mall area outside.

“Got him,” she said aloud, and it was Roberts. He’d exited the building and was walking briskly to Jillian’s right, headed generally toward the MU. She exited, too, and fast-walked after him. He had a lead of a good 40 yards. She called, “Professor Roberts. Professor Roberts.” He kept walking. She was certain that he must have heard her because several people turned toward her as she called.

What happened next happened so fast that at first it caught Jillian off guard. Professor Roberts stooped down, as if he’d dropped something, but then lifted a manhole-type cover and literally disappeared down it. This was a tunnel entrance near the MU.

A couple of people looked surprised. Someone even yelled, ”Hey,” but Jillian didn’t have time to deal with them. She ran to the cover, opened it, looked down, then bent to her knees and looked again. When she didn’t see him, she descended.

Jillian faced the ladder, watching where she placed her hands on the rungs—literally inches from her face. She was careful with her feet, too. At the same time, she constantly craned her neck back left and then right, just in case…

When she reached the last rung, she stepped down from the ladder, although she was still holding it with her right hand. She took a couple of seconds to orient herself. A gate was about ten yards ahead. At first, she thought it was closed, but when she reached it she could see that it was slightly ajar. Jillian opened it and entered the tunnel.

She had not been in this tunnel during that other trip down, but this one was pretty much what she remembered from before. Everything was a grayish brown color: the walls, the floor, the ceiling. There was an industrial sense to it, like you were in the bowels of a large building, maybe a hospital. There were big pipes stacked atop one another and running along the wall on her right. Warning signs read: DANGER HOT.

The tunnel here was large: Jillian could easily stand upright, and it was wide as well… you could have driven a small car through at this point. Still, it was claustrophobic because she was underground and enclosed…in a tunnel. Last time, she’d been with a group and everyone was excited and laughing. OK, maybe it was nervous laughter, but still… This time felt very different. She had no flashlight, but the fluorescent lighting was working, although it gave the place a spooky feeling.

Jillian walked slowly for maybe 15 yards. She stopped and listened. Nothing. She walked on, but soon stopped again and listened. Nothing. The dimensions remained the same although as she walked on, here and there, she saw signs of the workers, gone for the day: some tools, a stool, a bucket, even a hard hat with a name on it in cursive: ‘Ricky.’

As she stopped and looked at the hard hat, a noise—a deep, metallic thud—startled her. It seemed unusually loud because otherwise everything was so quiet. Jillian couldn’t tell where it had come from or how far away it was because a weird tunnel effect distorted any sense of direction or of proximity.

Frozen and on high alert, Jillian held her breath. She quickly looked left, then right, then up ahead and even behind her. Nothing. No further noise. Still, she didn’t move for what seemed like a long time.

Then, she exhaled a nervous breath and walked on. She walked only a few yards before she stopped again to listen. Nothing. She walked on.

There were no side paths to other sectors, although now there were a few slight turns in the tunnel—sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. When she encountered these, she slowed even more. Then, she walked on.

Jillian had no idea how far she had come. She was walking slowly and stopping frequently, so she figured maybe…

Then he was on her. In her face.

Jillian had rounded a slight curve and he stepped out of the blind spot and came at her, the arc of his overhead stabbing motion already at its apex. For an instant she thought he had a knife, but in that same instant realized that it was a very large, long screwdriver. The screwdriver was starting its downward motion. He was on her so fast that there was no time to think. She reacted.

Jillian stepped slightly forward with her left foot, and blocked his downward thrust with the meaty portion of her left forearm. She then extended that arm to push the screwdriver as far from her head as possible. Simultaneously, she maneuvered her right hand in a kind of backhand motion, placing it against the outer part of his right elbow, her palm out. She pushed against Roberts’ arm with