Long Way Down by Michael Sears Page A

on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.
    “You being helped?” a deep masculine voice said just over my shoulder.
    I turned to find a black-bearded, ponytailed man in his late twenties wearing the uniform of his generation—checked flannel shirt and knitted watch cap. His eyes flicked briefly across my face and he looked away.
    “I’m looking for a professor, but no one seems to know him.”
    “Who’s that?” he said, looking over my shoulder.
    “Dr. Benjamin McKenna,” I said.
    “That’s funny.”
    “Why is that funny?”
    “
The Man Who Knew Too Much
. Hitchcock. 1956. James Stewart and Doris Day.”
    “Sorry. Don’t know the flick,” I said.
    He seemed disappointed. “No biggie.”
    “So you don’t know him,” I said.
    “Somebody told you to look for Ben McKenna?”
    He would not make eye contact. Was it Asperger’s? Or did I detect fear? Or both? It felt different from the Kid’s fear—and I was glad he didn’t spring the bulging-eye look on me.
    “I guess I made a mistake,” I said.
    “What’s your name?”
    Definitely not Asperger’s. His fear was bordering on aggression. “Jason Stafford. A mutual friend said to look him up.”
    He nodded, his head bobbing many more times than was warranted.
    “Are you a TA here?” I asked.
    He was still nodding. “This mutual friend? What do his friends call him?”
    We were playing an odd game. “Spud.”
    He handed me a scrap of paper and quickly walked away. The note was brief and neatly typed.
    GO TO STARBUCKS. GET A COFFEE. DON’T LOOK AT ME.
    The instructions were clear, even if nothing else was. I went back up to the admin office and got directions to the nearest Starbucks. There was one in the Student Union, just past Dodge Hall, the Humanities building.
    “Just a small black,” I said.
    “One short,” the girl called out. “Anything with it?”
    Everything in the showcase looked good. The blueberry scone looked particularly good. It had blueberries. It was practically a health food. It was also about forty-five minutes of laps around the track at the Y.
    “Just the coffee,” I said, feeling almost saintly. I took a small table away from the window, with a view of the front door. I only had to wait a few minutes.
    The bearded man came in and went directly to the bar, where he ordered a grande something-or-other. He took his time with the sugar and half-and-half before taking a seat on the far side of the room. I tried to look like I was not looking at him and found that it was easier just to not look at him. A moment later, my cell phone rang.
    UNKNOWN CALLER . “Stafford,” I answered.
    “Mr. Stafford? This is Ms. Sharp calling. Can you hold one minute for Dr. McKenna?”
    It was not the voice of the Lydia Sharp in the admin office. It wasthe same voice that I had heard twice before when trying to reach McKenna. I risked a look across the room.
    “Mr. Stafford? Are you there?”
    The man was speaking into the microphone on his plugged-in earbuds, which were connected to a laptop, and through it, to a cell phone.
    “Holy hell, that’s you,” I said. “How do you do that?”
    “It’s an app,” he said in his own deep baritone.
    “Impressive,” I said. “But why all the spy stuff?” I thought it was more Maxwell Smart than James Bond. “Can’t we just have a conversation?”
    “I checked. You weren’t followed.”
    “That’s comforting.” I would have been quite surprised to find out anything but.
    “Spud says that I can talk to you. What do you want?”
    “How about we start with names? You know mine. Is McKenna your real name?”
    “I have no name.”
    “Well, what would you like me to call you? ‘Spud’s friend’?”
    “Joy is my name.”
    I was beginning to wonder if Spud was taking revenge on me for some unknown slight on my part.
    “Fine. I will call you Joy.”
    “You may call me Dr. McKenna.”
    I counted to ten. “How about Ben?” I said, just to get one shot back at him.
    He paused. “No. Dr.