Chapter 6

"He is no longer employed by the university," Dr. Stonely reported.

Daimon stopped unzipping his backpack. "When did that happen?"

"I believe it was last year," the Dean considered, looking up at a corner of his office. "Yes, last year. May I ask what your business is with Dr. Morlin?"

The office suddenly felt smaller, as if the deep brown bookcases were falling inwards. Strange, despite the numerous shelves, there were very few books, mostly framed photographs and inspirational quotes.

Daimon resealed his backpack. "I wanted to show him something. It's for a project. What happened? Where did he go?"

Keeping his head raised but lowering his eyes to meet Daimon's, Dean Stonely did not speak at first, making Daimon suddenly feel like he was being interrogated. When Daimon had attended New Purley University, he had seen Dr. Stonely a handful of times but had never spoken to him. From a distance, the man looked amiable enough, but close and in person, the man was intimidating. He was not large or brutish; in fact, he was a little bony, but when he smiled, it came across duplicitous, like he was hatching a dozen plans in his head while simply tolerating the company of those around him.

"It is not university policy to discuss its retention practices to the public," he dodged, his voice monotone.

"That's...fair, I guess. What about his current address? Does he still live in the city? Is he teaching somewhere else?"

"I would think that if Dr. Morlin wished to be contacted by his friends, they would already have his information. I don't believe he would want me to give out personal information to strangers."

"I understand, but I'm not a stranger. I took his physics class, which is why I value his opinion. I don't mean to bother him. In fact, if he's too busy, I'll be happy to walk away. But I'd like to ask him first."

Dr. Stonely stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "I'm sorry. It is not university policy to give out former employee personal information. Now, I do apologize, but I have a meeting I must prepare for."

Frowning, Daimon stood and slipped his backpack on once again. "I see. Thanks for your time."

Daimon saw himself out and walked lazily down the Science building hallway. It looked practically the same as it did when he had taken classes there. One student, whose head was covered by a hoodie, was actually napping on the same bench Daimon used to. Perhaps Daimon should have continued his education, but his educational goals were as unfocused as his next steps. He had no idea what to do with his life, and he was clueless as to what to do next with the jacket. Mr. Morlin was apparently unattainable, and from what Eric said, relying on the police for information was a gamble.

Just then, he bumped into a student who was walking in the other direction. Stopping, he apologized and turned to face her. The recognition in her face mirrored his. "I've seen you before, right?" Daimon said.

"You look familiar. Did we have a class together?"

Suddenly, he recalled the last time he saw her: at the bar. "I think so. Sorry I don't remember your name."

The girl stuck out her hand. "Deanna."

"Daimon," he responded, shaking her hand.

"Are you taking classes here?"

"No, I'm working for an insurance company. It sucks, but it's a job, I guess. So you're still here."

Deanna nodded. "Yep. Doctorate. It takes a while. What are you doing here if you're not taking classes?"

"I'm actually looking for a teacher, but I just found out that he doesn't work here anymore."

"Dr. Morlin?"

Stunned, Daimon said, "Yeah. How do you know?"

"I took some of his classes. There were a lot of upset students when he left."

"You wouldn't happen to know where he went, would you?" Daimon asked, bending down to reclaim a book that had fallen from Deanna's arms when they had collided.

"The rumor is he retired. I think he just lives at home. Same place he's lived for years."

Daimon picked up her textbook and handed it to her. "That's awesome. I should be able to just look it up, then." As Deanna took back her book, Daimon noticed the course number on its binding: PHS618. He could not help but release a little laugh.

"Thanks. What's so funny?"

"Uh...nothing. Your course just looks...confusing," he said. "Not sure I could handle it."

"It's definitely rough," she confessed. "Well, I hope you find him. If you do, let him know that I wish him well and that he should come back to replace Dr. Egelstein."

"I will. Thanks."

~

Jennifer's eyes opened slowly, and with the light, a dull pain in her arm grew.

"Jen?" Eric asked, angling closer so that she could see him. "It's me. Everything's going to be alright."

Her mouth felt dry and foreign, and her words were quietly ragged. "What happened to your face?" she asked. "It's all blurry."

"It's so no one gets sick when they see it.” Eric smiled. “The doctor said that it would be awhile before everything's clear."

"And my hearing?" she asked, noticing the muffled sounds of the room.

"He's unsure about that. Your eardrum ruptured. You have some minor burns and a couple broken bones. Everything else is fine. You'll be back in Jason Statham form in no time."

She tried to raise her wrapped appendage. "It's not my gun arm. That's good. Marilyn?"

Smiling again at the return of his fiancée, Eric continued. "Mom is fine, but Excel got away."

Jen cursed quietly and sighed, shifting her body slightly to get more comfortable in the hospital bed. "I thought a shot to the arm would've given us a chance, but he bounced back too soon. Jackets might be bulletproof. Anybody question you?"

"Not yet, but they're bound to. What should I say? It didn't sound like you trusted anyone from the force."

Jennifer swallowed painfully. Eric fed her some water from a clear plastic cup that had been sitting on a nearby tray. "Tell them we were visiting your mom. You don't need to say more than that. We heard noises from upstairs. It was Excel. They blew up the house. I don't think the entire force is compromised, but let's be careful for now until I can be sure of who we can trust."

Just then, Eric's phone rang, the Indiana Jones theme; it was Daimon.

"600 Pine Street," Daimon said.

"What?"

"It's Mr. Morlin's home address. I'm heading there now. Apparently something happened at the university, and he doesn’t work there anymore."

"Okay. Just be careful."

"What if he asks where I got this jacket from? I can't very well say I made it myself if I don't know how it's put together."

"I don't know Daimon. Think of something."

"Sage advice as always. I'll call you when I know something."

"In that case, Pitts, I won't hold my breath."

~

A strange feeling washed over Daimon as he hung up the phone. He was very close to the address he had found online, and he recognized this part of the city. He could only shake his head when he parked along the street in front of the house, the very street on which he had hit something earlier. Daimon could even see the two black skid marks on the asphalt. He still had no explanation for the crash, and the fact that it had happened so closely to Mr. Morlin’s home befuddled him.

"What the hell," he whispered to himself.

Grabbing the bookbag, Daimon exited the truck, still sporting the unexplained dent in its bumper, and he walked slowly up to the house, a cyan nondescript single story building with a sidewalk bisecting its tiny front yard. Daimon looked over his shoulder at the location of the accident once more before knocking. After a few moments, a dark-haired woman opened the door timidly.

"Yes?" she inquired, with the hint of a suppressed accent.

"Hi. Is this the Morlin residence?"

"It is. Can I help you?" Her tone was kind, but cautious.

"I’m a former student of Mr...Dr. Morlin. My sister-in-law...well, soon-to-be sister-in-law is working on a project, and I was wondering if he could help me out with it. It involves a strange kind of metal, and I think he'd be interested."

Mrs. Morlin's brown eyes saddened. "I'm sorry, but I don't think he can help you."

Sensing rejection and knowing no alternate routes, Daimon felt desperate. "Look, I don't mean to be a bother, but it's kind of important. I am really sorry to intrude."

"I'm sorry as well," she responded, "but he really cannot help you." She opened the door completely to reveal the living room behind her, which was decorated in deep, bright colors reminiscent of India. In the corner close to the kitchen sat a man in a wheelchair. It took a few seconds for Daimon to realize that the man was Mr. Morlin. He looked transformed; his face sagged, and dead eyes stared ahead of him like a blind person. His glasses clung so far on the end of his nose that Daimon wondered why he should wear them at all. Mr. Morlin was not old, maybe in his forties, but whatever accident had caused him to end up in a wheelchair had aged his appearance. Though he still had only a few grey hairs, his face and posture suggested an elderly person.

"Oh my God. What happened?"

"There was an accident. I'm sorry you came all this way to be turned down, but as you can see, he is in no shape to help anybody, let alone himself."

A wild thought entered Daimon's mind. Had he run into Mr. Morlin with the truck and just not seen him? No. The accident was too recent, and it did not look as though the handicapped man had suffered any physical harm, whatever this "accident" was.

"I'm very sorry," Daimon apologized, backing away, feeling foolish, and, despite his self-acquittal, a little guilty, too.

"Have a good day," Mrs. Morlin responded, pushing the door quietly until it clicked shut. Daimon stared at the closed door, at a loss. He had expected answers, not only to the jacket mystery, but, once he saw the location of Mr. Morlin’s home, to the 618 mystery as well. And now, though the street behind him moved indefinitely in both directions, Daimon had hit a dead end. He turned, defeated, and started to walk away.

"Excuse me!?" Mrs. Morlin's voice suddenly pled from the opening door.

Confused, Daimon looked back at her. "Yes?"

"Uh...Might you come in for a second?"

"Suuure?" he agreed, confused. Was he being turned away or invited in for cards?

Mrs. Morlin encouraged him to come in, gesturing to the couch. Sitting and sinking unexpectedly into the cushion, Daimon flopped the bookbag on the carpet.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Water?"

"I'm fine. Thanks. What is it you want?"

Mrs. Morlin seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "He...um...rarely speaks anymore. My husband. It takes a lot out of him to do so. When he does, it is usually important. "

"Did he just speak?"

"Yes, just after I had shut the door."

"What makes you think it has something to do with me...other than the timing?"

"I do not, unless you know something about what he said. He really was...is a genius. I do not pretend to understand everything he says."

"What did he say?"

"Numbers: six, one, and eight."

His heart skipped a beat, and Daimon stood up. "What the hell is going on?!" he demanded.

"I...I do not know what you mean."

"Six one eight. It's been chasing me for days. Why? Does he know?" Daimon asked, walking over to Mr. Morlin. "Do you know what it means?" he asked the catatonic man.

Mrs. Morlin put a hand on Daimon's shoulder. "Please, calm down."

Daimon knelt, his face slightly lower than Mr. Morlin's. He positioned himself directly in the man's line of sight. "Do you know what it means?" he asked Mr. Morlin loudly, searching for any sign of life behind the brown eyes, glazed over as though hidden behind a scrim.

Mr. Morlin's bottom lip quivered, sending a single droplet of drool falling onto his lap.

"Get," Mr. Morlin managed, his voice creaking like a door. "Get."

This time, Mrs. Morlin kneeled beside him. "Yes, dear? Get what? Your water?"

"Me. Out."

"I think he wants out of his chair," Daimon said, looking at Mrs. Morlin.

"He cannot walk or stand," she rebutted.

The index finger of Mr. Morlin's right hand twitched toward his wife. "Out. Of. There."

Mrs. Morlin looked pale.

"Out of where?" Daimon asked, sensing that she knew what her husband meant. He looked around at the room, trying to locate where Mr. Morlin had pointed, but it looked like he had indicated the couch, or perhaps the floor.

Mrs. Morlin sat herself on the couch and breathed slowly and deeply. "What...What is your name, young man?"

For a moment, Daimon considered giving her a false name, though he did not know why. However, if he wanted honest answers, he felt obligated to give honest ones himself.

"Daimon Camano."

"You were a pupil of his?"

"Yes. I took Physics with him."

"He no longer teaches at the college."

"Yes, I know. I found that out today." Daimon resisted the urge to point out the obvious: that no man in Mr. Morlin's condition could work anywhere.

"Daimon, the accident that caused Mr. Morlin's condition was very peculiar. Perhaps you should sit down again. That is, if you are interested."

Daimon pulled a chair from the dining table. "I'm all ears."

Mrs. Morlin began her story, avoiding Daimon's eyes the entire time.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7