The Boy in the Tunnel

Fall 1997, Chapter 20: Chet

Chet couldn't stop staring at the painting. It was hanging on the wall behind the desk in Ron Marston's office – a less grand and imposing room than Chet had expected, given the general aura of awed terror that always accompanied mentions of his name, but this was just a basic, smallish University functionary's office, tucked away in the warren of Student Activities offices on the first floor of the Student Union. It didn't even have a window.

The painting was grand and imposing enough by itself. It was a portrait, really, of the official variety, the kind that presidents and kings had installed in national galleries. It depicted a man from the waist up, about one a half times larger than life size. The man wore a gray flannel suit with a white shirt and a skinny black tie, like a businessman from the fifties or sixties. His face was long and thin, the skin scored with lines and furrows and stretched tight over the prominent bones of his skull. His lips were almost nonexistent, his mouth a straight line. The hair, absolutely saturated with something slick and oily, formed a thick black wall atop his forehead.

Whatever skill the artist possessed, which was considerable, it did not extend to the man's eyes. They were dull and lifeless, creating a void at the center of the image that Chet found almost irresistible. They sucked him in like a black hole. Between the dead eyes, the straight line of the mouth, and the crown of hair, Chet thought the man looked like a human version of King Milo.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Ron Marston entered the room in a cloud of Brut, underscored by notes of sweat and McMuffin. He squeezed his beer gut and his briefcase past Chet's chair and plopped down behind the desk. His blazer was just a bit too tight, as if it had fit perfectly a few months ago. "And sorry to make you come out to the Union. They stuck me in here while they do some, uh, renovations on my office. I brought a little bit of Wintertree with me, though." Marston pointed at the painting behind him. "I noticed you admiring Stanley."

"Stanley?"

"Stanley Wintertree. Director of University Housing, 1955 to 1972."

"Wow. Some coincidence with the name."

"Ha!" Marston literally shouted the word "ha." "No, Wintertree Hall was his pet project. His legacy." Marston ran his hand over his precisely mowed putting green of brown hair, the kind of haircut usually found on ex-Marines. His palm came away damp, and he wiped it on his blazer. "Stanley was a, uh, pioneer in the field of student housing. I was lucky enough to be one of the first residents of Wintertree."

"Cool." It was eight in the morning on the last Friday before classes started, and Chet had gotten about four hours of sleep. Marston seemed like a much more relaxed guy than he was expecting, but any trips down memory lane could only extend the waiting time before Chet could crawl back into bed. "So, Julian said--"

"Right. All business! I like a man who's direct." Marston pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and studied it for a second. "Julian briefed me on your situation."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's such a minor thing. I didn't think he was going to send it all the way up to the Director."

Marston waved the suggestion away. "I take a personal interest in matters of resident security. If University Housing can't provide safe, secure spaces for our residents, then what good are we?" Marston smiled, like a friendly cartoon bear. "So I understand you weren't able to provide the correct answer for the security gate on Tier 3, Inner Arm 5?"

"Right. You know the Handbook says to always answer 'Yes' to the questions, but Ben said those were the wrong answers. So I started answering 'No' for a few questions, but then those were wrong too."

"Weird. The Handbook can be a little, uh, tricky sometimes." Marston studied the paper again, harder this time.

From above and behind him, it looked like Stanley Wintertree's dead eyes were studying it too.