The Test

I was cornered and I didn’t like it.

​

“What do you want to do?”

​

The question hung in the air like the ringing of a distant bell, insistent yet faint. I had been asking myself the same thing for months now, but coming from Dr. Lambert, it felt more urgent. 

​

Lambert’s office was a curious contradiction. For a man whose name echoed through halls of academia, the space was understated to the point of austerity. A battered wooden desk and filing cabinets competed for precious space with a seemingly endless supply of books. 

​

“They all write with such confidence,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the one of the books on his desk. “But in the end, it’s just a load of crap.”

​

Lambert tilted his head, maybe amused, probably annoyed. He plucked a book from the top of the stack, turning it in his hands, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages with something like reverence. “Renato Rosaldo,” he began, his voice softening. “It’s a cornerstone of modern anthropology.”

​

I shook my head. “They all talk in circles,” I said, “it’s like they stayed on the Ferris wheel and forget to get off.” I was trying for a grin but settled for a grimace.

​

He didn’t laugh. Today he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was tired of solving. “Your father pulled a lot of strings to get you into this program,” he said. “And you’re doing everything you can to disappoint him. Why?”

​

I shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the scuff marks on the floor. “I want to do something, not just read about it.”

​

Lambert glanced to his left, as though he were listening to hidden voices behind the bookshelf. When his focus came back to me, the folds of skin under his eyes were twitching. “What if I gave you another chance?” he said finally.

​

I straightened. Now I was listening.

​

“Fieldwork, you could call it.” His voice lowered and softened. “You complete the task I give you, and I’ll revise your final grade.” he said, his sky-blue eyes fixing on me with intensity. 

​

“What’s the catch?”

​

“The catch is,” he said, leaning forward, “you’ll have to take it seriously. No shortcuts. And it might even be a little dangerous.”

​

For the first time in months, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t expected: curiosity.

​

“I’m in,” I said. It sounded better than Rosaldo.

​

Lambert’s smile was slow and deliberate. “Good. Let’s see if you’re ready to become the man your father would be proud of.”

 

 

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                                                     ***********************

 

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​

 

I pulled up to the docks under a bruised sky, the air thick with the smell of salt. The Jaguar XJR stood out like a brand-new television at a yard sale, its polished surface gleaming under a sputtering streetlight. A group of longshoremen shuffled by; their eyes raking over the car, as if we were a misplaced exhibit in a museum.

​

Amber’s expression made me think of a bad smell. “Why are we here?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. Her blue eyes barely hidden behind a scowl.

​

“I need to pick up a Chinese candy box,” I answered. “It’s called a chuen hup... dates to the Ming Dynasty.” 

​

“Chuen hup translates loosely to tray of togetherness,” Martin chirped from the back seat. His perpetually disheveled hair could not be contained within the frame of the rearview mirror.

 

Amber threw the visor down and flipped open the mirror, checking her lipstick. “So, what’s in the box?”

​

“Lambert wouldn’t tell me.”

​

Tommy leaned over the seat. “I heard he drives a very sweet ride,” he said, scanning the parking lot as if he would find Lambert’s Ferrari parked among work trucks and rusted out hatchbacks.

​

“I’ll go in with Tommy,” I said, glancing at Amber and checking Martin over my shoulder. 

​

Martin’s frown deepened.

 

“You know my Mandarin’s a bit rusty,” Tommy added, his voice betraying uncertainty.

​

I cracked the door open and shot him a look. “Yeah, well, mine is nonexistent. Let’s go.”

​

I led the way down the cement path toward the docks.

​

“Let’s hope this isn’t like the beach party you threw at the frat house.” Tommy said; his tone was cutting.

​

“That was a blast,” I said, maneuvering between dock pilings and coils of rope.

​

“You weren’t the one who had to talk to the police about a missing truckload of sand. My fraternity nearly kicked me out.”

​

“Everyone loved it,” I answered.

​

He shook his head and followed without further protest.

​

The board walk path led us to a cluster of Quonset huts at the end of the wharf. The faint sound of waves slapped against pylons. I found our destination; the faded tin siding was streaked with rust, and its low-arched roof disappeared into the mist above.

​

Definitely not the yacht club.

​

I knocked; the sound echoing dully against the metal.

 

Finally, the door creaked open. A man’s face appeared, half-hidden behind a mop of greasy hair. His dark eyes glistened with suspicion as they flicked between us.

​

“Who’s this?” he asked, nodding toward Tommy. His thick accent clipped the words like fingernails at a spa.

​

“I don’t speak Mandarin,” I said.

​

“I’m speaking English, dumbass,” he snapped.

​

“Is that what that is?”

​

The door swung wider, and a gun barrel filled the space between us. “You funny, college boy.”

​

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                                                  *************************

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We stepped into the darkness of the warehouse where shadows danced on the walls, cast by the faint glow of work lamps. Rows of crates covered most of the floor, and somewhere deeper in, men worked methodically, their movements precise as they unpacked small packages from a single shipping container.

​

“What have you gotten me into, Brian?” Tommy hissed, his voice barely audible as we followed the path carved between the crates.

​

The gunman jabbed my shoulder, directing us toward a metal staircase that climbed to a second-floor office. “Up there,” he ordered.

 

The office was grimy, with a large glass window overlooking the warehouse. A battered desk stood beneath it, flanked by a stack of heavy wooden containers. We sank into the mismatched chairs in front of the desk.

​

The door behind us opened and a man entered, his movements smooth. His Asian features were framed with bleach-blond hair and a face that was both handsome and unnerving. Stylish jeans and a leather jacket completed his look, but it was the cold intelligence in his eyes that made my stomach knot.

​

“Lambert told me his students were smart,” he said, his voice low and mocking. He slid into the chair. “You didn’t follow his instructions.”

​

“I brought Tommy to translate,” I said quickly.

​

His gaze sharpened. “And the two others in the car?”

​

I hesitated, the truth suddenly feeling like a terrible idea. “My friends,” I admitted.

​

“So, is this just another party for you?”

​

The last time I made a comment, I ended up with a gun in my face.

​

The man sighed, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a pistol, its boxy frame and snub nose unmistakably real. Its large magazine gave the impression it could carry an endless supply of bullets.

​

He placed it on the desk and spun it lazily, the barrel carving odd shapes in the grime. When it stopped, it was pointed at Tommy.

​

“I could kill your friend,” he said conversationally, lifting the gun and sighting it on Tommy before swinging it toward me. “Then kill you.”

​

My hands went up, sweat trickling down my temple.

​

With a flick of his wrist, he holstered his weapon and produced a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapping the box to cough out a single, and bringing it to his lips. With his free hand, he snapped open a silver lighter and sparked a flame, drawing a deep drag. He savored it for a moment, then offered a long puff of smoke toward me, right into my face.

 

The man smiled, a predator’s grin. “But then I’d have to explain why the son of the third-richest man in America ended up dead in my warehouse. That’s a hassle I don’t need.”

​

He leaned back, his gaze boring into mine. “Tell Lambert we’re done. There will be no shipment. Now get out.”

 

 

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                                                 *********************

 

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​

 

Star Light theater was nearly empty. A drunk. Two other students. Me. And this guy.

 

Halfway through the movie a teenager had dropped into the seat right next to mine. 

 

“Dude, you got the whole theater.”

 

He said nothing but gave me a nod.

 

He looked like a walking advertisement for Quicksilver. A bright green graphic t-shirt peaked through his unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt. He rolled his skateboard under his seat.

 

I slid forward, attempting to move.

 

“Stay here,” he whispered, his hand wrapped around my forearm.

 

His eyes were bright and crisp with inquisitiveness.

 

I pulled back. “Who the hell—”

 

“Enjoy the show,” he said, sliding back into his seat and tipping his trucker hat over his eyes.

 

The flick was some classic from 1939. Beau Geste. It was the story of three brothers who join the French Foreign Legion to escape the rap for the theft of a precious jewel back in England. The movie ended with a burning fort and the sacrifice of two of the brothers.

 

The punk beside me pinned my arm to the sticky chair as the credits rolled. The kid was stronger than he looked.

 

“Stay here a minute,” he said, craning his neck to scan the theater.

 

The students wandered out. The drunk was snoring.

 

“Who the hell are you?” I hissed.

 

He said nothing. Just watching the door. 

 

The credits kept rolling.

 

“So, you got to meet Chin?” he asked. His eyes still scanning the dark theater.

 

“Whose Chin?”

 

He eyes landed on mine, locking in. A human lie detector. “Blond hair. Smokes a pack an hour,” he said, smiling. “He likes to carry a Mac10.” 

 

My eyes jerked to meet his. “Who are you?” I asked. 

 

“Something you’re in short supply of these days.”  

 

I studied him carefully. “I don’t know you,” I said. 

 

 “I know that you need a small box to give to Professor Lambert, which you do not currently possess,” he said.

 

I studied his face. My eyes betraying my guilt. “How do you know that?” I said, standing to my feet.

 

He returned my stare with a smirk. 

 

“Dan Welker, FBI.”

 

“FBI?” I asked, half laughing. “You look like you’re twelve.”

 

“All I need,” he said, fishing out a piece of paper from his pocket, “is for you to go back and get that box.”

 

I glanced at the paper. It was torn from a spiral notebook. The only writing was a phone number scrawled in chicken scratch diagonally. My eyes shot upward and locked onto his. “Go back?  To Chin, or whoever he is?  He’ll kill me.”

 

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take,” he said.

 

“With my life?”

 

“I can make it worthwhile.”  His white teeth flashed in a bright smile. He reminded me of the surfer dudes I would see at the beach. 

 

“How?”

 

“I can make sure you pass all your classes,” he said nodding toward the door. 

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“Meet me in the alley in ten minutes.”

 

 

​

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                                               *********************

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​

 

I found him sitting in a folding lawn chair next to a dumpster. He was sipping a beer. In the other hand, he held a single piece of paper. A case of Budweiser lay on top of his skateboard at his feet. 

 

I pulled up an aluminum chair with faded blue plastic webbing. 

 

He dropped the paper in my lap and cracked open a new can, handing it to me.

 

I sipped as I skimmed the page. Something about legal immunity and academic support. 

 

“I don’t need support, I just need to pass.”

 

“You will.”

 

“You can guarantee that I’ll pass all my classes if I go back to Chin and get that box?”

 

He nodded, taking another sip.

 

“How come this page doesn’t say that?”

 

He crushed the can and tossed it into a pile of trash nearby. “It’s intended to offer maximum flexibility.”

 

“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re looking for Chin. You don’t care about Lambert and you sure as hell don’t care about me.”

 

He shrugged. “I can’t guarantee you won’t screw it up next semester,” he said, leaning back, taking in the scenery. 

 

I dropped the paper back into his lap. “I need something more than maximum flexibility.”

 

He raised his index finger beckoning me to wait, and with the other hand unsnapped his thigh pocket producing a mini recorder. He held it up and pressed play.

 

The sound was scratchy and muffled, like someone was breathing heavily into a coffee can.

“Your kid screwed the deal.” The voice was low, punching the words out with an unnerving rhythm. “I was getting ready for a refrigeration unit –“  

 

Welker clicked the pause button. “You know what that is?” he asked.

 

I shook my head, no.

 

“It’s Chin’s own special method of disposing bodies at sea.”

 

A new voice filled the recording. It was a smooth, deep voice with a hint of a New England accent. “So, buy the unit. I don’t care.”

 

“Do I need to send my lawyer to your office to remind you of the terms of our agreement?”

 

That gave the smooth voiced one pause. I could hear his breath again. It was weighty, as if he had climbed a set of stairs. “I’ll get another.”

 

“Make it quick.”  

 

With those final words, the line went dead. The other party had hung up.

 

Welker dropped the mini- recorder into his cargo pocket and folded his arms. “I estimate you’ve got about twelve hours for them to process their current shipment.”  

 

“No way,” I said forcefully. “I’ll take the F.”

 

He nodded, considering my words. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He spoke to the dumpster as though he were thinking out loud.

 

He stood and dropped the Budweiser onto my lap. Flipping his skateboard into his hand, he gave me a nod.

 

“Don’t mention our conversation to Lambert...”  

 

I provided a dumb stare in return.

 

“...Or I’ll make sure the next school you attend has the words city college in its title.”

 

 

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                                                     *******************

 

 

 

I arrived at Amber’s dorm just after noon two days later. Monday was our day to “study” together. The building had been remodeled from its original footprint, adding a new wing to accommodate growing enrollment. As I trailed around a large tree, I looked up to a fleet of police cars lining the driveway on the other side. 

 

A blond co-ed was coming out the front door, a light blue backpack slung over her shoulder. 

 

“What’s all this?” I asked as I held open the door. 

 

“Some girl crashed her car,” she said with a serious expression. “I guess it was bad.”  

 

I climbed the stairs to Amber’s floor, nodded at her RA and made my way toward her room. Amber’s door was open, so I just walked in.

 

“Who’s the chick who crashed –“

 

The room was empty. Amber’s bed was unmade, her sheets pulled to one side, laying partly on the floor. No roommates, no Amber. Weird. I followed my footsteps back to the RA’s room. 

 

“Have you seen Amber?”  I asked.

 

She stepped back into her room and started to close the door. “Talk to them,” she said, pointing toward the end of the hallway, then closed her door in my face.

 

I looked in the direction she had indicated. At the far end of the hallway, two female police officers were speaking with a group of girls in hushed tones, scribbling on tiny notepads. 

 

Amber was not among them. Maybe I walked, maybe I ran. I pushed my way through the group and found one of the cops. Her gold-colored nametag read Gonzales. 

 

“What happened to Amber?” I blurted, positioning myself between Gonzales and the girl she was interviewing.

 

“Who are you?” she asked.

 

“I’m Brian Frost, we’re dating.”  

 

She gave me a hard look. “Amber’s dead.”  She continued to study me, then added, “I’m sorry,” It was almost an afterthought. 

 

A shriek engulfed the hallway and I turned to see Amber’s fashion designer father standing amid the gaggle, speaking to the other female officer. 

 

His eyes jerked in my direction. “You!” His expression melted from shock to hostile. “It’s all your fault!” He was struggling to break free from the young officer’s grip. He was swinging his arms, as if he could swim through the crowd to get to me.

 

There was a strong grip on my shoulder, spinning me around and moving me in the opposite direction. It was Gonzales. “Let’s go talk to the detective.”

 

 

 

                                                   **********************

 

 

​

Amber’s father stepped out of the dean’s office and didn’t even offer me a glance. He drifted down the hallway as though he were in a daze, led slowly by the female officer and a woman I did not recognize.

 

Gonzales appeared at the door. “Okay, Frost. You’re next.”  

 

I stepped through the door, right behind my father’s attorney. He arrived just in time; it had taken him under thirty minutes to get to campus. 

 

The office was smaller than I had expected, probably a file cabinet’s width larger than Lambert’s. It was crowded too. There was Gonzales, my attorney, me and a man whose girth amply filled the wooden desk chair. 

 

The detective looked like a serious guy with serious B.O. 

 

“Where did you last see Amber?” he asked without introduction. 

 

I glanced at my father’s attorney, who nodded slightly.

 

“We went to the beach on Friday. She asked me to drive. When we got back, I parked her car in the garage on campus, then I walked back to my dorm.”

 

The detective made a point of flipping through his notes, licking his thick index finger and pulling at the pages. 

 

“Are you sure you went to the beach?” he asked.

 

I nodded.

 

“That’s interesting. Amber’s father told me that she called him late Friday night and mentioned an excursion with you and two other boys out to the docks. She claims that you looked scared after you came out of the building.”

 

I looked at my lawyer who was shaking his head.

 

“I haven’t had a chance to speak with my attorney yet.”

 

“Okay, let’s move away from where you were. Do you usually drive her car?” the detective asked.

 

“She’s not a very good driver. This is her third car since she got her license—"

 

The attorney was making a slicing gesture across his throat. 

 

He cut in. “How is this relevant, detective?”

 

The large man leaned back in the wooden chair that creaked like a screen door after the thaw. He gave the lawyer a hard look. “It’s relevant because we believe this might not have been an accident.”

 

My lawyer was shaking his head. He flipped his thousand-dollar lapel over his two-hundred-dollar tie and stood up. 

 

“I need to see her,” I blurted.

 

“Look kid,” the detective said, leaning forward. His neck stretching his already loosened tie across his open collar. “You don’t want to do that. Her car caught on fire after it collided with the ground from a third-floor parking garage. We’ve got a shrink with her father now. We don’t even want him to see her. Believe me, it’s pretty bad.”

 

The detective flipped through his notes, testing the chair once again. 

 

“Was Tommy Shen one of those boys with you and Amber in the car?” he asked looking at me with dumb eyes.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

I glanced toward my lawyer. His face was an expressionless mask. 

 

“I think we need to table this conversation until I have a chance to speak with my client,” he said.

 

The detective shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I think you should know he’s dead.”

 

“What?”

 

“He took a header off a fifth-floor balcony downtown. Forensics will run a tox screen and we can get a better picture once the results come in. Eyewitnesses claim that he appeared drunk.”

 

“Shit!” I whispered out loud.

 

The detective remained perfectly still. The only thing moving was his eyebrows. “So, it would behoove you greatly son, to let us know who the fourth person in that car was.” 

 

I stood up. The room was too small. Absently, I pulled my fingers through my hair.

 

My lawyer jumped in. “Look detective, I would like to know the status of my client. Is he a witness or a suspect?” 

 

The detective shot a sideways glance at the lawyer. “He’s a little of both until we can sort this out.”

 

“Then we are done here,” said my attorney. “If you want to question my client further, we will do it in a private setting and not without my presence.” He flipped his business card onto the desk.

 

“Suit yourself, hotshot,” said the cop. Looking at me, he added, “You can help your friend here, Brian. Just give us his name and we can protect both of you.”

 

I burst out the door without hearing anything else he had to say.

 

 

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                                           ********************

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I found Martin outside the physics building, his home away from home. He was sitting on the 

stone stairs. Paramedics had come filtering through the door pushing a stretcher just as I arrived. A crowd of students had gathered around to see what happened.

 

I sat down next to Martin and waited in silence. The crowd was beginning to clear. “What happened?” I whispered.

 

“I switched my lab slot with him.”  He shook his head. “That should have been me.”

 

I nodded, still processing all the information. 

 

“It was a low voltage test.”

 

“Martin,” I said seriously. “We have to go.”

 

“Brian, I really cannot –“

 

I cut him off. “Tommy and Amber are dead. The man at the docks is tying up loose ends and that leaves only you and me.”

 

“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands. “Both Amber and Tommy are dead?  How?”

 

“The police are saying Amber accidentally drove her car off a parking garage downtown. They say Tommy was drunk and fell off a high-rise balcony.”

 

“Tommy doesn’t drink,” he observed.

 

“I know.” 

 

Scanning the quad, the crowd was now gone and we were the only ones left on the stairs. 

 

“Look Martin, we don’t have time, we need to leave.”

 

“Brian, you know I can’t leave. I have too much work –“

 

Martin stopped in mid-sentence. His face melted; like a bowl of cream of wheat thrown at a wall. 

 

I turned around in time to see one of Chin’s guys approaching us. It was the man who greeted us at the door of the warehouse. He was wearing a leather jacket and smoking one of those Chinese-brand cigarettes. We could run back inside the building, but he would only shoot us in the back.

 

“The place is crawling with cops,” he said quietly as he approached us. “Let’s go.” 

 

I looked down to see the barrel of gun. I couldn’t tell a Beretta from Colt, so I couldn’t identify the make. It was large and black. He motioned for us to start walking.

 

“What have you done, Brian?” Martin’s face registered with betrayal.

 

“Come on boys, we can chat later.”  Chin’s guy was prodding us from behind. “There’s a car waiting in the lot up ahead,” he ordered.

 

We walked slowly toward our destiny. I could tell Martin was furious. 

 

We moved between the vacant buildings slowly. It was almost as if the student body could sense danger and fled. At the far end a black Mercedes purred, parked in the fire lane.

 

“Martin, I’m sorry.” 

 

We crossed the small lot and approached the car when a door popped open in the back. The guy behind us jammed the gun into my ribs. “Get in,” he ordered.

 

I stood at the open door for a long moment and turned around.

 

I felt the barrel against my ribs. His breath was sour and hot. “Get in, college boy.”

 

A flash appeared in the corner of my eye. Instinctively, I pushed the gun away, throwing a punch, connecting solidly with his ugly face.

 

“Pop, pop, pop!”  It wasn’t loud, but it was close and I expected I had been hit. I felt a swish of motion in front of me. I turned to see the black gun skitter across the pavement and Chin’s guy lying flat out on the ground. Dan Welker was standing over him with his skateboard in one hand and gun in the other. 

 

I checked my body for holes and blood; somehow, I got lucky.

 

On the other side of the Mercedes was a female that I recognized. The co-ed walking out of Amber’s dorm. She was firmly planted in a firing stance, pointing her weapon at whoever was in the back seat of the car.

 

“Hands, show me your hands!” she shouted.

 

Eventually, a mound of blond hair pushed through the door, his hands stretched out in front of him.

 

 

 

                                             ***********************

 

 

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

My father was a busy man, so I didn’t want to waste his time.

 

I shrugged. “Maybe the French Foreign Legion,” I said with only a little sarcasm. 

 

My father scowled. “You don’t have the discipline.”  Shaking his head, he pointed toward his desk. “Do you know how much it took to build this company?” he asked.

 

I scanned the décor in his designer office. Wood paneled walls, tastefully lined with shelves for all his conquests. Original sculptures in bronze and stone graced the entire landscape like trophies. Some were purchased; most were gifts. 

 

“I can’t do this college thing any longer, dad.”

 

“Sure you can, you just don’t want to.”

 

I studied my father. This was it. Hell, it might even be the last time I ever saw him. 

 

“Did the FBI talk to you?” I asked, channeling his attention away from me. 

 

“Lawyer said that the police found Lambert dead. It looks like it was suicide. At least that’s the official version.”

 

The weight of the news was like another brick added to the ton I was already carrying. 

I studied his office again when a flash of wood carving caught my eye. I stood up and walked to its source on top of the credenza. 

 

“Where did you get this?” I asked, pointing to a small box resembling the one Lambert instructed me to pick up from Chin. 

 

My father turned to see where I was pointing. “Oh that?”  he said, swiping the air like he was shooing flies off a pie. “The university gifted that to me last year after my rather large donation.”

 

I picked up the piece, about the size of a music box. An intricate carving of a dragon with its wings flared and an open mouth danced menacingly on the lid. 

 

“It’s called a chuen hup. It’s a Chinese candy box dating back to the Ming Dynasty,” he explained.

 

The piece was solid and heavy. “What’s inside?” I asked.

 

“Nothing,” replied my father. “It was originally built to be used to hold candy or gifts. Now, it’s just a hundred-thousand-dollar decoration piece.”

 

I brushed my fingers over the lid. The carving gave a three-dimensional appearance to the dragon. I felt a protrusion and saw that the eye of the dragon was raised from the surface of the carving. I reached for a pen from my father’s desk and using the ballpoint, I pushed on the dragon’s eye. I heard a small pop from the back side of the lid.

 

“What in the world…”  My father stood and came closer to investigate.

 

It was a wooden tray, about the size of a stick of gum, and maybe just a few millimeters thicker. 

 

Gently, I pulled a wooden tray out of the lid of the box. On it was a miniature transistor and electronic components so tiny, it would take a magnifying glass to see all the connections.

 

I removed the electronics from the tray. 

 

“Is this your technology?” I asked, holding up the piece.

 

His face grew pale. My father reached for the box, then gawked at it in silence for a long moment. 

 

“That’s been sitting here in my office for over a year…”  he began, studying the lid. “I was wondering why we were losing contract bids.”  

 

I made my way to the door. My father was still standing there, slack jawed, holding the open candy box when I found the handle.

 

He looked up to make eye contact one last time. “If you leave now Brian, you will no longer have a place here.”

 

I nodded. The test was over. “I’ll call you from Europe,” I said with only a little satisfaction.