Richard didn't know what to do for his son. Cris's pain was so obvious and so potentially destructive that his father was both angered and paralyzed by it, as if any false move might send Cris crashing down into a cavern of emptiness from which he would not return.
Richard kept hoping Laura would find a way to help. She and Cris had dated since high school. She knew him better than anyone, but Richard had noticed that she seemed to look at her husband now with something close to hatred. Cris's drinking was getting steadily worse. His son, whom he had pushed to greatness, who had been a hero, first on the football field and then the battlefield, had now chosen the coward's way out. He had chosen self-doubt, self-pity, and alcohol.
"Cris, pleaseCome downstairs."
Cris looked up at his father and finally nodded.
As it turned out, it would have been better had he stayed in his room. Cris got drunk, and while the combo played "Memories," he fell into the pool.
When they fished him out, his drenched uniform clung to him. It was easy to see he had lost quite a bit of weight.
Again upstairs in his room, Cris sat on his bed and cried. His father looked at him from the door, not sure what to do. "Son, you've got to get ahold of yourself. Kennidi's gone. She wouldn't want this. You've got to make a new start," Richard said.
When Cris looked up at him, Richard saw such hopelessness in his son's vacant stare that he was momentarily stunned by it.
"It's all gone. This whole thing is over, Dad," Cris said, as he waved a wet sleeve at his trophies. His voice was a monotone of despair. "I can't start over. It's in me. I'm poisoned by it. There's nothing left." The next thing he said chilled his father with its finality. "It's the end," the Golden Boy whispered.
Part One
STACY
Chapter 1
Wendell Kinney reached out and squeezed Stacy Richardson's hand for luck. "Just remember, take your time," he said. "It doesn't hurt to platform your answers. There's no time limit, but Courtney always likes to be done by lunchtime, so if we can be out of there by noon that'll help. Ninety-eight percent on your Written is impressive, so this should be easy. And don't worry about Art, I'll keep him on his chain."
It was eight A. M., Tuesday, and they were in the third-floor hall of the old Science Building at the University of Southern California, just outside of Dr. Courtney Smith's office. Stacy Richardson was about to take her qualifying oral exam for her doctorate in microbiology. She'd been existing on less than two hours' sleep a night all through her last review week; probably a mistake, because she needed to be fresh for the "Quals," but the backbreaking job of reviewing four years of complicated microbiology was mind-boggling.
She'd been on the phone late last night for an hour with her husband, Max, who was in Fort Detrick, Maryland. He'd talked her down off her narrow, anxious ledge, getting her back on the ground with sure-handed reason. He reminded her of her academic track record. Throughout her three and a half years of doctoral study, she had carried a 3.9 cumulative G. P. A. He promised her she'd be fine. There had been a moment during the conversation when she'd sensed from his voice that something was very wrong and had asked him about it.
After a long reflective pause he'd said, "This isn't anything like I'd expected. I don't think I belong here, and they sure as hell don't want me." He'd refused to say anything more, because he didn't want to distract her with his problems on the eve of the Quals. Her orals were the last hurdle and would determine whether Stacy would end up with a Ph. D. after her name.
Dr. Max Richardson was head of the Microbiology Department at USC. She had met him in her first post-grad semester. He ran an open lab on viruses and she had listened to his lectures, marveling at the intricacies of his scientific mind and the strong masculine shape of his personality, and okay, his body too. Their romance caused a furor in the department. Dating students was definitely not allowed. Before it became a full-fledged disaster they'd gotten married, legitimizing it, and everything had died down.
Six months after the wedding, Max's federal research grant came through. He'd been working in a new field of microbiology, evaluating killer proteins called "Prions." Max's research had won him a six-month sabbatical to study at the Army Medical Facility at Fort Detrick, Maryland, with Dr. Dexter DeMille, the leading U. S. microbiologist on Prion research.
They'd discussed the bad timing. With Stacy just months from her orals, Max had not wanted to be away, especially since Art Hickman, his mortal enemy in the department, was also on the Advisory Panel, which would be evaluating her. Max and Art had both been up for Department Chair. Max had gotten the job, and Art had been backbiting him ever since. In the end, Stacy and Max had both decided that the chance to work with Dr. DeMille at Fort Detrick was such an incredible opportunity for Max that he should take it. Stacy said she would just study her brains out so that Art Hickman would not be able to fault her performance.
Wendell Kinney was also on her panel. He was a rumpled old Microbiology Department lion and a great friend to both Max and her.
"Remember," Wendell said, bringing her thoughts back, "anything's fair in a Qual. These guys can and will ask you about everything. Courtney Smith loves her Sterilization and Disinfection discipline, so she's bound to ask you something on that. And Art Hickman will drill you on his damned arachnids."
"I wish he'd stayed in the bush with those fucking spiders," Stacy said, letting out a sigh that blew a wisp of her long, honey-blond hair up in the air in front of her. She grabbed the strand and tucked it behind her ear.
It didn't help that just about everybody felt that Stacy Richardson was drop-dead beautiful. Immediately after she enrolled in the doctorate program, Art Hickman had tried to become her mentor. He said he wanted to take her under his wing, but it was soon apparent it wasn't his wing he wanted her under. She had efficiently dodged him. Art had taken it okay until she'd fallen in love with and married his departmental rival. He'd been lobbing grenades ever since.
The door opened and Dr. Courtney Smith was standing in the threshold of her office. There was always at least one woman on the Advisory Panel when another woman was up for her doctorate. Choosing Courtney's office for the orals was another extension of that political agenda.
Courtney Smith was a mannish, Janet Reno-sized biologist who wore pant suits that were always several sizes too small, as if she was desperately trying to convince herself she was still a twelve when she had long ago moved into the "generous" sizes. The shoulders in her boxy suit were padded to try to give the impression of a waist, also a lost horizon. She was holding a sheaf of folders against her ample chest.
"Today's the day," Dr. Smith smiled, showing a grayish row of tombstone-shaped teeth.
"Yep. Hope I'm up to it," Stacy nervously replied, as she followed Dr. Smith into the small office.
Stacy had given up wearing skirts and dresses in favor of blue jeans and sweatshirts in an effort to disguise her figure. It was hard to be taken seriously while tenured department morons like Art Hickman referred to her as Max's "Hood Angel."
For her qualifying orals, she had chosen to wear loose flannel slacks, which did nothing for her, and a T-shirt under a blue blazer. She had her hair pinned up with a brown plastic clip and wore no makeup.
She looked fantastic.
The office was small and stuffy. It was April, but the Santa Anas had been blowing a hot wind across the L. A. basin, driving the temperature up into the mid-eighties.