Neuropath Read Free Page A

stone-age mind.
    He thought about the previous night instead.
    He was just screwing with me… Wasn't he?

    Thomas emerged from the oily humidity of the subway onto Broadway and 116th. He leaned against the railing, overcome with what his father had always called 'jelly belly'. Fucking shooters. Why had he agreed to do shooters? The New York march of cars and people soothed him for some reason.
    Columbia was surprisingly busy, given the school year had yet to begin. Dozens of students sat on the steps along the Low Plaza, cradling books and coffees and the ubiquitous palmtops. Thomas always enjoyed the walk to Schermerhorn Hall: the cobbled courtyards and bricked gardens, the contrast of grass and old stone, the humble academic grandeur. He passed through the shadow of St Paul's Chapel, and it seemed he could feel the morning cool radiating from its hunched walls. For all its logistical drawbacks, Schermerhorn was an ideal home for the psychology department. Apparently Columbia's designers had a yen for interior spaces, enclaves within enclaves. It seemed proper that the Schermerhorn should be hidden, just as it seemed proper that it should be old, the stone leached, the walls settling on uncertain foundations—a place built by men who could still take the soul seriously.
    Perhaps because he was hungover, Thomas found himself pausing before the entrance, gazing at the latter half of the inscription above.
SPEAK TO THE EARTH AND IT SHALL TEACH THEE
    A laudable commandment, he supposed. But what if humanity had no stomach for the lesson?

    He ducked his head into the psychology department office to check his mail.
    'Oh, Professor Bible,' he heard Suzanne, the head administrative assistant call.
    Hanging sideways in the doorway, he smiled at her. 'Make it quick, Suzy; I'm feeling woozy.'
    She grimaced and nodded toward three suits, two women and one man, loitering outside the department head's office door. They seemed to be watching him with peculiar interest.
    'Can I help you?' Thomas asked. Their scrutiny felt vaguely offensive.
    The dark-haired woman stepped forward and held out her hand. 'Professor Bible? Thomas Bible?' she asked.
    Thomas didn't reply, convinced that she already knew who he was. Something about their demeanor said they had glossy photos in their breast pockets, and dossiers in their palmtops.
    'I'm Shelley Atta,' she continued after an awkward moment. 'This is Samantha Logan and Dan Gerard.' Logan was tall, blond, and implausibly attractive. Despite the crisp professionalism of her suit, something about her demeanor spoke of tongue studs and ankle tattoos. With blue eyes and gallic brown hair, Gerard had the look of a washed-out football captain: packed with low-density muscle, indifferent to the faint mustard stains on his lapel. The kind of guy who made monkey faces when he peed. They seemed an unlikely pair.
    'Is there someplace private where we might speak?' Atta asked.
    'Preferably someplace with a BD player,' Logan added.
    'What's this about?' Thomas asked.
    Shelley Atta's eyes narrowed in irritation. She had a dense frame that could seem matronly or imposing, depending on her expression. She suddenly seemed imposing. 'We're with the FBI, Professor Bible… As I said, is there someplace private where we can talk?'
    'My office will have to do,' Thomas said, turning on his heel like the busy man he was.

    He demanded and studied their identification on the way to his office. He felt like a moron afterward. They certainly looked at him as if he were a moron.
    Thomas distrusted 'law enforcement' in all its multifarious guises, for many small reasons. A cop with the NYPD had been his neighbor once—a total asshole. Narcissism. Borderline personality disorder. You name it. Then there was the shakedown he had experienced driving through backwoods Georgia years back. Somehow the local sheriff had clocked his crippled Volkswagen—which could manage what? sixty-four or sixty-five floored?—doing ninety-seven.