Chapter 6
[Gray Afternoon]
The following morning, Professor revived the girls again. Only briefly, and without full consciousness. The same as the earliest trials.
Professor found no change in Blossom or Bubbles's half-awake behaviors. Further, they didn't seem to have any recollection of their time spent conscious. Blossom, in particular, seemed to have no idea what "full moon" meant. At least, he wasn't able to coax anything out of her stream-of-consciousness responses.
This led him to consider exploring memory itself, wondering whether it was a symptom or a cause. Perhaps the inability to form new long-term memories had caused the mania. His enthusiasm for this theory was slightly dampened by Ashley's new behavior.
Unlike the other girls, there was a marked change in her short-term trials. Professor was thus far unable to pinpoint a reason for it, but was happy she no longer seemed full of rage and hate. Unfortunately, anger was simply replaced by a different extreme emotional state.
Ashley was still uncooperative and unresponsive to questioning. In fact, she seemed largely unaware of his presence. She simply writhed and cried, shaking her head as if refusing something. It was almost as if she were having a nightmare from which she couldn't wake.
Professor pondered and jotted down notes while sipping coffee. Ashley's form lay still on her gurney, and there was no rush to return her to the small inner lab area with the other girls. Prior to the "big revival," Ashley had been full of rage. Later, she was convincingly lucid from the moment her eyes first opened. Now, she seemed less present than she had before the whole mess. Why?
His reverie was interrupted by the furious ringing of the doorbell. The sound startled him, and as he jerked his hand he sent a small splash of coffee over his notes. Cursing under his breath, he zipped over to Ashley's gurney to store her and then realized she was still connected to the monitoring equipment. Cursing again, he tried and failed to gather his thoughts in the face of the repeated ringing of the bell.
He ran up the stairs, closing the laboratory door behind himself and running to the front door. He peered through the peephole, wondering who insisted on making such a rude appearance.
It was Mister Morbucks. Princess's father.
Professor's eyes widened, overcome with sudden concern. They were not close. Not friends. But they shared something. Professor had last seen him the morning of Princess's death, and both fathers understood the loss each had suffered, as few others would.
He unlocked the door and flung it open, only now seeing the ostentatious black limousine taking up a swathe of street as long as his house was wide. A driver stood patiently beside it, but Morbucks alone stood at Professor's doorway. Briefly.
"Mister Morbucks," Professor greeted breathlessly. He'd intended to further ask what was the matter, but no sooner had he opened the door than Morbucks barged inside, closing the door behind them.
"Did you know?" he asked dangerously.
"Kn—know what?" Professor stammered. Surprised by the brazen entrance, he'd barely backed up enough for Morbucks to enter. Now he took a few more steps back, finding the man's puffy red face closer than was comfortable.
Morbucks sighed, some small measure of anger diminishing. "Your daughter. Bubbles. Did you know she was a murderer?"
"Wh—what?" Professor stammered again. Between his initial worry, subsequent surprise, and current fear, he held his eyes so wide for so long that it was a wonder they didn't just fall out.
"I didn't want to believe it at first. I suspected. Oh, believe me I did." Morbucks strode past Professor, pacing back and forth behind the living room couch with great thumping sounds the carpet barely managed to dull. "My people found a drink bottle in my dead daughter's room. With faint traces of your Bubbles's blood. Now, how it got there I couldn't fathom. Yes, blood sometimes mingled with her tears, but what on earth was there to cry about? And how'd it get in there?
"Or that Princess's personal assistant Ruby passed away so soon after? A supposed texting and driving accident from a woman so...so..." He sighed again. "So precise. So...Ruby." The fires were quickly stoked again, as if they'd never diminished. "Along with one of my daughter's laboratory staff, Kevan van der Schmidt. He was an ambitious man, but surely the loss of my daughter and thus his position on her payroll was no setback worthy of suicide. Do you know what he was investigating in the weeks before his death?"
Professor shook his head, afraid to speak.
"Mojo Jojo. One day, my daughter gets it in her head to have her people investigate his disappearance, then she shuts down everything and Kevan's salary doubles. She then orders her people to destroy so much of the equipment they had researched and developed over the years—power suits, weapons, battle vehicles. And with an inordinate amount of haste. And then—then—do you know what happened then? She invited your daughter over for a slumber party.
"And do you know what else we found?"
Again Professor could only shake his head, this time swallowing a lump in this throat as well.
"Forensics show my daughter was strangled to death. Before she was cut—practically ravaged. The blood, you see," he said with some significance and a calm that was unnerving in the aftermath of his ire. "It seeped. Not pumped. Seeped. And on her throat were bruises. The kind left by hands. Small hands."
For several uncomfortable seconds, only Morbucks's breath could be heard, pumping through his nose like bellows. "And I still refused to consider it. In any case, by then your daughter was dead, wasn't she? Even if she were responsible, even if she were the Harvester, what good would it do now? Either way the Harvester is dead, isn't that so? Although no body has been found."
Mr. Morbuck's adjusted his suit. His rage had been replaced with stern calm. "In fact, there has been no public service for any of the girls who died under your care. Public media spectacles, to be sure." Professor involuntarily flinched, his face hardening against this assault on his grief. "But no visitations. No crying mourners at the caskets. The first burned to ash before you set foot in Townsville. The rest— God only knows. No record. Handled privately. When I asked my people to look into this yesterday, it didn't take long to make note of that."
He stepped closer. Dangerously closer. "Where is she? Where are they?"
Professor's face was firm. He blinked slowly. "My girls—my precious, precious girls—are dead Mister Morbucks. I think it best you leave now."
"I'm sure you do. And I think it best you not play me for a fool any longer, Professor Utonium. I am a very powerful man. And you, it seems, are not. Unless, of course, you admit to continuing to play god in your basement?"
"The results of my research are frequently published in several respected scientific journals. I could recommend a few subscriptions if you'd like to keep abreast."
Morbucks didn't reply. Instead, he shouldered past Professor, taking great, confident strides towards the basement door.
"Hey! Stop! You can't go down there. You have no right!" Professor followed after. Morbucks was already pounding down the stairs before Professor could so much as grab at his shoulder.
Morbucks slowed only after reaching the floor. He walked, cautiously now, towards Ashley's gurney.
"Is this her?" he asked, not even turning to face Professor. "Her voice did sound so small. So young."
"Her voice?" Professor asked, searching around the room in desperation. Sadly, he wasn't Mojo. His laboratory was not laden with traps and concealed weapons. Or any weapons, really.
"I received a call yesterday. Very strange. A small child told me 'she killed her,' and hung up. Just three little words."
"A prank call?" Professor said, walking past Morbucks and standing a respectable distance away.
"Nobody has that number. It has its own dialing prefix. Nobody outside the last three U.S. Presidents, Rupert, and the Pope have that number. And do I even need to say where that call came from?"
Professor was silent. He leaned against the counter, hands on the counter top behind him, trying to appear casual.
"I thought not. So tell me, Professor. Where is she?"
Professor drew a long, unsteady breath. Only after an uncomfortable silence, after Mr. Morbucks finally faced him, did he answer. "In there," he said, nodding towards the door to the inner lab. "Dead. Dead, but I'm trying. You understand, don't you? Would you do any less for Princess?"
"Indeed. I understand. And given the circumstances, you understand why I can't allow this to continue."
Professor sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment, Mr. Morbucks stepped around the gurney, towards the inner lab.
Professor quickly slipped behind him. Mr. Morbucks turned in response to the sound of sudden movement, but it did little good. Professor stuck the needle into his torso and pushed. "And you understand why I can't be stopped now."
Professor delivered his statement uncontested. Morbucks batted away Professor's hand, but the gesture became feeble in the span of a few heartbeats. Professor wrestled awkwardly with Morbucks's dead weight, lowering him to the ground as gently as he could.
Professor ransacked his own lab for a few extra needles, simultaneously rummaging through his mind. Wondering how quickly he could rush a little deep hypnosis.
The driver watched Mr. Morbucks emerge from the house, looking much calmer than he had entered. He and Professor Utonium exchanged some words he couldn't hear, then the two men gave each other a quick hug and pat on the back.
Professor earnestly shook one of Mr. Morbucks's hands, holding it in both of his. Morbucks patted Professor on the shoulder with his free hand and nodded. When he turned and headed towards the limousine, the driver noted he was smiling.
The driver dutifully opened the car door as his boss approached.
"Home," Morbucks said simply.
The driver nodded, closing the door and rushing around to take the driver's seat. He wasn't certain what the point of this trip had been, or what the cause of the agitation had been. It wasn't his place to ask questions.
Professor heaved a sigh of relief once he was alone in his house. Even so, his heart still pounded. Mr. Morbucks would be returning tomorrow, though only Professor knew it was for a more extended hypnosis session.
His legs seemed barely able to carry his weight as he shuffled into the kitchen. Along the way, he stopped, staring at the wall-mounted telephone. He glanced at the floor nearby, where Ashley had sat after running up the stairs, nursing a bleeding lip.
Professor picked up the phone, ignoring the dial tone. Examining it carefully, he noticed a small dab of dried blood on the edge of the mouthpiece.
Grunting softly, he thought of how many times the girls had teased him about having a landline in the days where everyone and their dog had a cell phone. Maybe it was time to get rid of it.
Downstairs, Professor planted his hands on Ashley's gurney, supporting himself as he stared down at her. Still. Inert. Dead. Utterly gone.
Yet somehow he felt her presence. Lingering somewhere just beyond sight and sensation. Looming.
"She couldn't have known," Professor said, muttering. Ashley had come and gone before the Harvester even existed, let alone killed Princess. "They were all acting strangely."
The words were comforting. The lingering uncertainty regarding how Ashley had apparently managed to dial a number known by only a handful of people was not.