Joan Kilby - Spencer's Child

“Of course,” Spencer said, taking a seat beside the bed. “How’d you land up here, anyway? Eat too many cheeseburgers? Or was it too many run-ins with Ashton-Whyte?”

“Don’t talk to me about Ashton-bloody-Whyte,” Doc growled. “The only good thing about this infernal place is his absence. As for the stroke... I was divin’ for abalone with my grandson. We were in the water for hours and I got hypothermia, for God’s sake. That set off cardiac arrhythmia. A blood clot formed in my heart, traveled to my brain. Next thing I know, I’m in here, providin’ free entertainment to the nursing staff who love nothin’ better than sticking a thermometer up my bum.” His blue eyes twinkled at the pretty young nurse who was currently strapping a blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm.

“You’re a disgusting dirty old man,” she scolded with a smile. “The sooner you’re out of here, the happier we’ll all be.”

Spencer turned to Doc. “What about it? Will you be back at the university after Christmas? You know I’ve applied to Bergen, but I don’t want to let your students down.” One in particular.

“I’ll be back. Got research to finish.” Talking suddenly seemed an effort and Doc paused to take a deep breath. “But I’m glad you’re here, lad. First chance you get I want you to check the stationary hydrophone I’ve got positioned in Trincomali Channel. Lee tells me it stopped broadcasting.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Lee is a good lad. I hope you’ll keep him on.”

“Of course. He’s analyzing the data you and he collected over the summer. Good thing you got him on the payroll before you checked into the hospital, though. Randolph isn’t giving me a bean more than he has to.”

“That bloody...!” Doc’s face turned red. “He was nosin’ around here the other day, tryin’ to read my chart. Just because he’s a vertebrate physiologist, he thinks he’s a bloody doctor. He works with hamsters, for cryin’ out loud—last time he did any real research, that is.”

“Now don’t go getting yourself worked up, Dr. Campbell,” the nurse admonished, letting the pressure off the cuff. “Time for your tablets.” She handed him a paper cup containing pills and another cupful of water.

Doc took them with a growl and shot a glance at Spencer. “They’re feeding me rat poison!”

“Warfarin is an anticoagulant,” the nurse explained with an indulgent smile. “Take your pills like a good boy.”

Doc gulped down the tablets and tossed back the water. A little of it dribbled out the paralyzed side of his mouth. The nurse had moved on and Spencer had to stop himself from leaning forward to wipe it away.

“How’s Meg?” Doc rasped. “Weren’t you two friends years ago?”

Spencer shrugged noncommittally. “She seems fine.”

“Has she decided on a thesis topic yet? We only talked in general terms when we met in June.” Doc gripped Spencer’s hand. “She’s keen as mustard. Make sure she’s got a project she can get her teeth into.”

Spencer squeezed Doc’s hand. It was hard to see someone who’d always been full of piss and vinegar brought so low. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Good lad.” Doc’s eyelids flickered. He seemed to tire suddenly and he slumped back against his pillows. “When Lee’s finished doing the stats on those recordings, he can start writing up the paper. And for God’s sake, keep Ashton-Whyte away from here if you possibly can. He mustn’t find out...”

“What?” Spencer leaned closer. “What shouldn’t he find out?”

“My age.” Doc’s eyes closed again. “He’ll force me to retire.”

“He can’t do that...” Spencer began, then realized Doc had fallen asleep.

Gently he replaced Doc’s hand on the coverlet and went around the end of the bed to peruse the chart hanging there. He scanned the vital statistics.

Age: seventy-two. Spencer blinked and looked again. Unbelievable but true. He would have sworn Doc wasn’t a day over sixty.

“Be a good lad and alter the numbers for me, son.”

Doc’s sudden request made him drop the chart with a metallic clatter against the bed rails.

“Thought I was asleep, did you?” A feral grin played around one side of Doc’s mouth. “Caught Ashton-Whyte that way.”

“How come the university doesn’t know your correct age?”

The good side of Doc’s mouth curved into a smile. “Years ago when I was getting close to retirement age, I cultivated the acquaintance of a verra’ obliging lassie over in Records...”

“Doctor Campbell, I’m shocked.” Spencer grinned. “But your secret’s safe with me.”

Spencer didn’t know which was more surprising—that Doc looked so young for his age or that he hadn’t had a stroke before now, given his temperament and his frequent contact with Ashton-Whyte.

SATURDAY MORNING, Meg was parked in front of her parents’ house. It was already later than she would have liked and Davis was in one of his obstinate moods, refusing to get out of the car.

“Come on, Davis,” she said. “It’s time to go inside.”

Davis picked at a tear in the fabric seat cover. Meg could feel a pain start to throb in her temple. She glanced at her watch, then down the curving driveway. Empty—so far.

Straightening, she threw her father an apologetic glance.

Roger frowned. “Doesn’t he want to stay with me?”

“He’s really excited about it, honestly.” She took a bottle from her purse and handed it to him. “Give him one tablet after lunch. No matter what he says. He might not be very hungry, but you should try to get something into him.”

Roger tucked the bottle in his pocket “Are you okay, Meggie? You seem nervous. Is your new honors supervisor some kind of ogre or something?”

Meg pulled her father away from the car and lowered her voice. “He’s Spencer Valiella.”

Roger’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown and his jaw jutted forward. “Spencer Valiella is not welcome on my property.”

Meg put a hand to her damp forehead. “We can’t talk about it now. He’s due to arrive any minute. I want to get Davis inside. They can’t meet. Not yet.”

“Damn right they can’t meet!”

Which only made Meg want to argue on Spencer’s behalf. Ridiculous. She went back to the car. The passenger door was open. Davis was on his knees in the gravel, staring intently at a bug crawling through the stones.

“Come on, honey.” She bent and took his hand. “I bet Grandpa would like to show you the fish in his aquarium.”

Davis jumped up. “Does he have any new ones?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“You ask him.” The boy pressed against her side, darting a glance to Roger. Roger smiled and Davis turned his face into her waist.

“Let’s go ask him together.” Meg knew trying to hurry him was fatal, but the pace was excruciating. She glanced over her shoulder at the driveway again.

“Hello, Davis.” Roger bent and extended his hand. Davis shook his head, and looked at his mom.

“Go on, honey, shake,” Meg said. She turned to Roger. “He could hardly sleep last night he was so excited.”

“So you said. Don’t worry about it.” Roger dropped his hand.

Davis touched Roger’s pant leg. “Did you get a new fish?”

“No, but I’ve got a new castle. The Siamese fighting fish like to swim through the archway.”

Meg heard the roar of a mufflerless car turn into the driveway. “Why don’t you go see, Davis? Quick, before they get tired.”

Davis rolled his eyes. “Fish don’t get tired of swimming.”

The car was still out of sight behind the box hedge but was getting closer by the second. She didn’t need to see the driver to know it had to be Spencer. None of her parents’ friends, or even their children, would drive something that sounded like that.