Blood Pact

through the hum of machinery and the sound-deadening properties of the box itself. She used it to pick an end of thread from the tangled mass of memory.

    She had a daughter.

    There was something she had to do.

Eight
    Unable to remain still, Vicki paced the outer office, uncomfortably conscious of Mrs. Shaw's damp and sympathetic gaze following her every move. She didn't need sympathy, she needed information.

    All right, so she hadn't reacted particularly well to being presented with a box of her mother's personal effects, but that was no reason for Mrs. Shaw to assume anything. If the last notation in the date book hadn't been, Call Vicki, she would've been fine.

    "Would you like a cup of coffee, dear?”

    "No. Thank you." Actually, she'd love a cup of coffee, but she couldn't face using her mother's mug. "Will Dr. Burke be long?”

    "I don't think so. She just had to check on one of her grad students.”

    "Students? What does she teach?”

    "Oh, she doesn't actually teach, she just takes a few of the grad students under her wing and helps them along.”

    "Medical students?”

    "I'm not sure." Mrs. Shaw reached for a fresh tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "Your mother would know. She was Dr. Burke's personal secretary.”

    My mother isn't here. Vicki tried not to let the thought show on her face, given that the accompanying emotion was annoyance not grief.

    "Your mother really respected Dr. Burke," Mrs. Shaw continued with a wistful glance across the room at the empty desk.

    "She sounds like a person worth respecting," Vicki broke in before a flood of teary memories began.

    "She's got, what, two degrees?”

    "Three. An MD, a doctorate in organic chemistry, and an MBA. Your mother always said hiring her to run this department was the smartest thing the university ever did. Most academics are not particularly good administrators and most administrators are completely insensitive to the needs of academia. Your mother called Dr. Burke a bridge between two worlds.”

    Why the hell does it have to keep coming back to my mother? Vicki wondered, as Mrs. Shaw fielded three phone calls in quick succession.

    "Yes, Professor Irving, I'll see that she gets the message as soon as she comes in." Mrs. Shaw dropped the receiver back into the cradle and sighed. "That's how it goes all day. They all want a piece of her.”

    "I guess she doesn't have much time for lab work.”

    "Lab work? She barely has time to grab a bite to eat before someone needs her again." Patting the pile of memos, already impressive before the addition of the latest three, Mrs. Shaw's voice grew sharp. "They've got her running from meeting to meeting, solving this problem, solving that problem, burying her under forms and surveys and reports, annual this and semiannual that and biweekly the other . . .”

    "And God only knows how I'm going to dig myself out without your mother's help.”

    Mrs. Shaw colored and Vicki turned to face the door.

    "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Nelson." Dr. Burke crossed the room and held out a hand for her memos. "But as you've already heard, I'm quite busy.”

    "No problem at all, Doctor." Something about that sturdy figure in the starched white lab coat had a calming effect, and Vicki followed her gesture into the inner office feeling more under control than she had in days. She suddenly remembered her mother describing her new boss, just after Dr. Burke had taken over the department, as being so completely self-assured that the urge to question anything became lost in her vicinity. Vicki'd laughed at the time, but now she thought she could see what her mother had meant. She'd felt a bit of the effect herself, earlier in the week. It had been Dr. Burke who'd grounded her and sent her to the hospital morgue and Dr. Burke she'd turned to for a eulogy.

    Before they'd discovered a eulogy would be unnecessary.

    As Vicki settled into one of the almost comfortable wood and leather chairs, Dr. Burke moved around behind the desk and sat down, dropping the dozen or so pink squares of paper into a tidy pile. "I'm not usually in quite this much demand," she explained, shooting an annoyed glare at the pile. "But it's end of term and bureaucratic nonsense that could have been taken care of months ago has to be dealt with immediately.”

    "You can't delegate?”

    "Science and Administration speak two different languages, Ms. Nelson. If I delegate, I end up having to translate. Frankly, it's much easier just to do it