Madeleine & the Mind

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Dr. Steven Faraday hurried down the hallway, his eyes watchful and his ears attuned for peril. At each tap of his Italian loafers against the glazed Moroccan tiles, he drew one step closer to a place of security.

He remained focused on his vigil as he passed several empty rooms, each of which offered various leisure activities. Such distractions appealed to the scores of international personnel who made the Institute their home, but not to Dr. Faraday. He didn't have time for such things.

As he reached the next door, he paused long enough to read the nameplate then glanced behind him.

No one had followed.

The welcome silence brought him around with a satisfied sigh.

He ventured inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Rarely did one find this room unoccupied, but lunchtime drew all the personnel to the bottom floor. He relaxed his clenched fists.

Where should he begin?

A tableau devoid of human life stretched around him, several deep armchairs in the Institute's usual shade of maroon, artfully arranged beside tables and tall tropical plants to provide an idyllic ambience. Against one side of the room, a long table offered room for work or study. But the greatest attraction to visitors, wall upon wall of books and magazines in almost every language and topic, offered little to draw Dr. Faraday away from his lab and technical manuals.

He took a step and reached out a faltering hand. Far too many choices lined the shelves of the pristine library. Which would be suitable?

On the third shelf, a row of gilded books, still glossy and unused, beckoned for attention. He reached for a likely candidate, something pink and garish. As he lifted the cover, the binding creaked. Brand, spanking new.

With one finger, he traced the list of contents. Love sonnets. A grimace twisted his even features. Never in a million years would he consider reading such drivel. It seemed ideal.

He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his white lab coat and slid them under the dust jacket. With bated breath, he folded the edges of the book together and considered the results. No sign remained of the precious stowaways.

He breathed freely, glancing about the room again, though he knew no one had witnessed his deed. This was one of the few rooms in the Institute that didn't utilize security cameras.

He replaced the slender volume and stepped back to study the shelf. It appeared as untouched as before.

Now to get back before anyone caught him away from his work. He slipped out of the library and walked briskly to the room where he spent many twenty-hour days.

Peering through double-thick, bullet-proof glass walls, he noted the gloomy interior lit only by small desk lamps, the stainless steel countertops littered with chemicals and beakers, the state-of the-art computers and imaging machines, but no humans. He'd arrived before the others.

After performing a sequence of security measures known only to himself, the Institute director, and four other scientists, he stepped inside and flipped on the lights. The fluorescent gleam brightened the room, reflecting off the many glass and chrome surfaces at each work station.

He took slow steps forward, scrutinizing each counter and crevice for anything unusual. Nothing appeared out of place.

Was he wrong? His eyes blinked rapidly as he reviewed the events which precipitated his unorthodox behavior.

He shook his head. Most certainly, someone had moved his notes after he'd gone to great lengths to hide them.

He took a deep breath but couldn't escape that gnawing feeling of eminent disaster. He dropped to the chair and leaned over his desk, staring at the blank wall where he'd kept his earliest designs.

It didn't matter now. He'd hidden them all. His solutions were safe until he could get in touch with…

A heavy thud barely registered in his ears as his eyes shuttered. His body slumped over the chair then fell to the floor quite suddenly, increasing the size of the knot already forming on the back of his head.

The urgent peal of the smoke alarm went unnoticed by the scientist. Thirty seconds later, the sprinkler system activated.

Dr. Steven Faraday lay oblivious to the water spraying over his lab and to the acrid smell of sulphur as flames ran down the counter.

A test tube shattered. Then another. Flames licked the station dividers.

The outer doors flew open. "Steven! Are you in here? I can't see a thing. Do you see him?"

"Not yet. Dr. Faraday, where are you?"

A fit of coughing attacked the would-be heroes as they pushed through billows of smoke.

"Over there…on the floor."

"Get his feet."

The two men dragged the limp figure of the fallen scientist down the hallway until frenzied footsteps interrupted their progress.

A fireman peered down at them, ascertained the uneven breathing of the prone man in their grasp, and gestured toward the smoke-filled room. "Is anyone else inside?"

"We don't know. There shouldn't be."

Paramedics rushed toward the unconscious man as the fireman hefted a fire extinguisher and stepped gingerly into the smoky haze.

Dr. Faraday coughed then choked as the medic shoved an oxygen mask over his face. Under the watchful eyes of his two rescuers, his breathing steadied.

The fireman dashed out of the lab. "The flames are under control. I didn't see anyone else, but we'll need a count of everyone in the building right away."

Another fireman ran forward, but the first officer shook his head. "Fire's extinguished. Open the outer windows and let the fumes out. Break one if you have to. Those burnt chemicals are extremely toxic."

"That won't be possible," said one of the men. "That room is secure. There is, however, a fan system created for just this purpose."

The fireman nodded. "Turn it on."

The paramedics lifted Dr. Faraday on a gurney before wheeling him toward the elevator.

The fireman gazed after them, his brow creased. He took a step toward the two men still watching the retreating gurney. Each wore the same white coat as the victim, each equally ruined by dampened black soot.

"How did you discover the fire?"

They turned blank faces to stare at him.

Several seconds passed before the taller man shook off his stupor. "We were headed this way when we heard the alarm. We meet Dr. Faraday each day after the noon meal."

The fireman looked up sharply. "Always? Does everyone in the building know this?"

"Well…not everyone. We have a large staff. What are you saying? Someone deliberately set that fire?"

"Did you see the bump on his head? He wasn't meant to wake up."

Madeleine opened her eyes and tried to concentrate until pain ricocheted through her skull. The bright lights overhead bored into her brain, and strange voices mumbled around her. She closed her eyes. It required too much effort to think.

Hours later, her eyes popped open again. The bright lights and the voices were gone. She attempted to lift her head. The throbbing pain remained.

What's more, she smelled detergent or soap or...

"Oww," she mumbled, reaching for the source of her discomfort.

"Senorita…"

Her eyes darted toward the sound, and she tried to raise her head again. Plain white walls, rails on her bed, and an I.V. in her arm. Add that to the antiseptic smell, and she had to be in a hospital.

"What?"

A tall, bulky man in a plain dark suit loomed over the side of the bed. "English? American?"

"American."

"What is your name?"

"Madeleine…Price. Yours?" Her voice slipped out in a choked whisper.

"Inspector Banderas, Madrid Policia." He handed her a bottle of water. "You are in hospital. Could you tell me, por favor…please, what happened?"

She took a long drink, staring at the bubbles in the sloshing water. What
had
happened?

"I was on tour. I mean…" She rubbed her head. "My head hurts. Can I have something? There's some Tylenol in my purse."

He shook his head and reached for a button behind her head. "I'm sorry, Senorita Price. You had no purse when you were found. I have sent for the nurse. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was on my way back to the tour. It was time to go to the airport." Her stomach lurched. "What time is it? I can't miss that flight."

"Again, I'm sorry, Senorita. You have been here for several hours. It is most probable you missed your flight."

He didn't sound sorry. Moisture filled Madeleine's eyes.

The inspector shifted on the vinyl chair, his eyes widening. Probably the last thing he wanted was a hysterical young woman on his hands, but Madeleine couldn't help the tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Senorita, please. Try to focus. What happened?"

"I…I went down this little street…to look. To take a picture of a cathedral. I thought it was a short-cut, but it came to a dead-end. Someone grabbed for my purse. I yanked back and ran. I guess he hit me on the head."

The inspector's eyes glinted. "You saw the person who hit you? Was he young or old?"

"About my age…roughly."

"Which is?"

"Twenty-seven…last May."

The door swung wide, and a diminutive dark-haired woman in white walked briskly into the room. She rattled off a spate of Spanish.

Madeleine's gaze darted to the Inspector. He answered the nurse before turning to Madeleine. "She is going to give you something for the pain. At what hotel is your tour group stopping?"

Madeleine went to shake her head then thought better of it. "We checked out early this morning. My belongings were sent to the airport."

"What did you have in your purse? Do you need to cancel credit cards?"

"No plastic…only traveler's checks. And all my identification was in that purse. I have no way to prove my identity and no way to get home if I missed my flight. It was a non-refundable, non- transferable ticket."

The inspector's frown deepened. "Perhaps a relative-"

"My parents don't have that kind of money. You're stuck with me." She rubbed her temple with both hands. "Who found me?"

"A boy. He probably saw the whole thing, though he denies it. What is the name of your tour agency and on what flight were you scheduled?"

"You want me to write it down?"

The inspector almost smiled as he handed her a small notepad and a black pen. "You might include the name of anyone who will notice your absence…your employment, friends.

Madeleine scribbled the information. Would her boss think it strange when a police officer from Spain called? She didn't want to lose her job, but the circumstances left her little choices. She added her parents' home address and phone number. "That's everyone. You'll need to call my roommate first. She'll be worried when I don't get off the plane."