Crosstalk (38 page)

“Wading right into the middle of them,” she said, panicked all over again at the thought. C.B. was right. She wasn't ready for that, if she ever would be. There was no way she'd be able to locate a specific voice, even C.B.'s, in that raging torrent of sound.

How does he do it?
she thought wonderingly.

“I didn't when it first happened,” he said. “All I wanted was to get away from the voices, just like you. Speaking of which, we need to get back to work. Before we leave, I want getting to your safe room to be something you can do without even thinking, so we need to practice.”

She nodded and started back to the table. “No, no, sit down,” C.B. said. “We can do it here, where it's closer to the fire. And warmer.”

She sat down on the sofa, and C.B. pulled one of the wing chairs over closer and sat down in it, knees apart, hands clasped together. “Okay,” he said. “We're going to do the same thing we did with the perimeter.”

“Do I need to get a book to read?” Briddey asked, looking over at the bookcases.

“No, we can just talk like we've been doing, and then I'll say, ‘The voices,' and you get inside your courtyard as fast as you can. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and gripped the arm of the sofa, her eyes on the blue
ristra
-hung door, poised to take off for it.

“No, I don't want you ready to run. I want you relaxed and focused on other things. Did you ever decide where we should go for our honeymoon?”

“No,” she said, and thought,
We need a less dangerous topic.

“So, if you can hear people who are nearby or whose voices you've heard,” she said, “that must mean you're able to hear everyone at Commspan.”
And you know what the Hermes Project is working on.

“Just because I'm able to hear them doesn't mean I listen to them,” C.B. said, “particularly since all they think about is how to get promoted, whether they're going to get laid off, and what they're going to have for lunch. I only listen to find out where they are, so I can avoid— The voices are coming.”

Briddey leaped for the door.

“Not fast enough,” C.B. said. “We need to try it again. What were we talking about?”

“How boring everyone at Commspan's thoughts are.”

“Oh, it's not just Commspan. It's everybody. Listening to cows grazing would be less stupefying.”

“You can listen to
cows
?”

“No, just people, more's the pity. Think how nice it would be to hear your dog telling you about his unconditional adoration,” he said, but she was secretly relieved. She didn't have to worry about hearing lions or tigers—

“Or bears,” C.B. said. “Or flatworms, though sometimes with people it's hard to tell the difference. Do you know what people spend the majority of time thinking about?”

“I suppose you're going to tell me it's canoodling.”

“Nope, except for the under-twenty-five set. For everybody else, it's the weather. Is it going to rain? Is it going to stop raining? Is it going to snow? Is it going to warm up? They think about it constantly. That, and money and how much they hate their jobs. And thank-you notes.”

“Thank-you notes?”

“Yep. Or rather, the lack thereof: ‘Why didn't I get one from my nephew? What kind of manners is his mother teaching him? I'm not sending him another present till I get a thank-you from him—and not an email or a phone call either—a proper handwritten note!' ” C.B. clutched his head. “On and on and on for hours. It's worse than the sex and the rest of the griping. And the bodily functions. That's another thing people spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about. Belching and fa—”

“I get the picture. So you're telling me there's no one fun to listen to?”

“No, kids are great. I'm crazy about—” He stopped.

“Crazy about what?” she asked.

“Three and four-year-olds. The way they think is amazing. It probably goes for babies, too, but their thoughts aren't verba— The voices are coming.”

She was faster that time, though still not fast enough to suit him. He took her through the drill again and again.

“How many times do I have to do this?” she asked. It felt like they'd been at it for hours.

“Till it's completely automatic,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Sorry. I—”

“Had a roaring dose of fear-produced adrenaline—no, make that two doses, counting the storage room—and now they've worn off, so you're crashing. Besides which, it's”—he glanced over at the clock—“three
A
.
M
. No wonder you're yawning.” He pointed at the sofa. “Why don't you lie down?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, looking longingly at it. “But I'm afraid I'll fall asleep, and you said we needed to practice—”

“We do, but we've got loads of time. The library doesn't open till eleven on Sundays. And a nap might actually be a good idea. It'll give your brain a chance to process the stuff it's learned and put it into long-term memory. Go ahead, lie down.” He walked over to the table and turned off the lamp.

“
Thank
you,” she said, suddenly so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. She lay down—and immediately sat up again. She'd forgotten about the voices. Her barricades worked because she was visualizing them, and if she fell asleep—

“You don't hear them when you're sleeping,” C.B. reassured her.

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Maybe because people's brain chemistry alters during sleep. Or maybe REM sleep involves a fundamentally different kind of thought. Whichever it is, you can't send or receive messages while you're asleep.”

Thank goodness,
she thought. “But what about while I'm falling asleep? And when I first wake up?”

“Those
are
the times you're most vulnerable,” he admitted, “but only till your defenses become fully automatic. When they do, they'll kick in the second you wake up.”

“And how long will it take for them to become fully automatic?”

“A few days,” he said, switching off the Tiffany lamps at either end of the sofa, leaving on only the one between the wing chairs. “But don't worry. I'll stand guard till then.”

“How?”

“With my trusty Victorian sword,” he said. He went over to the bookcase and pulled out a thick volume. “How does
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
sound?”

“Boring.”

“Agreed. But the fall part should keep it from being too boring.” He put the book on the table next to the wing chair and came over to the sofa. “Now lie down,” he ordered, and covered her up with the cashmere throw. “Close your eyes and forget about everything else but your nice, adobe-walled, impenetrable safe room.”

“I will,” she said. “But if it's going to take a couple of days for my pre- and post-sleep defenses to automatically kick in, when will
you
sleep?”

“While you're awake. So the sooner you get to sleep, the sooner you'll wake up and I can take
my
nap. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said doubtfully.

“It'll be fine. I'll be right here. Well, not
right
here. A nice, safe distance away,” he said, walking over to the wing chair on the far side of the fire and plopping down in it. “So you don't have to worry about me attacking you.”

“I'm not—”

“Yeah, well, just in case. Besides, I can concentrate better on
The Decline and Fall
from over here.” He grinned at her. “I won't let anything get in, I promise.” He opened the book. “Now go to sleep.”

That was easier said than done. She kept thinking about what would happen if C.B.—

“I won't nod off,” he said. “This chair is too uncomfortable. And this idiot girl keeps talking.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. She curled up under the soft cashmere throw, closed her eyes, and concentrated on going into her courtyard, pulling the door closed behind her, lowering the heavy wooden bar across it, fastening the latch. Shutting the voices out.

But they weren't the only thing she had to worry about. There was also how they were going to get out of here in the morning without getting caught. And what she was going to tell Trent. And Maeve—

“Want me to tell you a bedtime story?” C.B. asked.

“Yes, please,” she said, tucking her hand under her cheek.

“ ‘The Pannonian army was at this time commanded by Septimius Severus,' ” he read aloud, “ ‘who had concealed his daring ambition, which was never diverted from its steady course by the allurements of pleasure, the apprehension of danger, or the feelings of humanity.' ”

My feelings are that this cashmere throw is really warm,
Briddey thought,
almost as warm as the blanket C.B. brought me in the hospital,
and fell asleep.

She woke to darkness. She wondered drowsily where she was, and then remembered, and felt a rush of sheer panic.
The fire went out!

No, that's not possible,
some rational part of her brain insisted.
It's a gas fire.
And she could feel its heat. In a moment her eyes would adjust to the darkness, and she'd be able to see the reddish orange glow from the flames.

Unless C.B. turned it off,
she thought.
If he did, I'm in the dark. With the voices. And they'll…C.B.!
—and then reassurance as she felt him lying beside her, her hand clasped in both of his and held tightly, safely, against his chest.

She knew she should be angry with him for not keeping his distance, but she was too relieved. And too filled with gratitude that he was there like he'd promised, shielding her, keeping the voices at bay. And she could hardly accuse him of putting the moves on her. He was sound asleep. She could hear his even breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her captured hand, hear his heartbeat.

C.B.,
she thought tenderly, and heard a murmur from across the room that made her sit up in the darkness. She'd been right about the fire, because she could see C.B., lit by its ruddy glow, sprawled in the wing chair, his head resting against the back, his hands dangling over the arms as he slept.

She looked down in surprise at her own hand, not clutched in his after all, and must have made some sort of sound because his head came up, and he murmured sleepily, “What is it?”

“Nothing, it's okay. I must have been dreaming,” she whispered, lying back down and putting her hand under her cheek again to show him everything was all right. “Go back to sleep.” Though telling him that wasn't necessary. He hadn't ever been awake. He leaned his head back against his wadded-up flannel shirt, where it had obviously been all this time, and immediately began to snore.

He looked utterly exhausted. She shouldn't be surprised. He'd had to rescue her twice tonight, and before that once—no, twice—in the hospital, and in between he'd raced around taking her home, and to the Marriott to get her car, and finding them places to hide. And, she suspected, listening to her every moment in between, watching for signs that she was starting to hear the voices, guarding her, protecting her. And he was still doing it, even in his sleep.

She smiled at how vulnerable he looked, lying sprawled there in the wing chair, his face flushed from the firelight—and how young. He'd said the voices had started when he was thirteen, only four years older than Maeve. What must that have been like for him?

He'd spoken lightly of his attempts to stop them, to discover what was going on, to devise barricades, but it must have been terrible. School would have been a nightmare, and college out of the question. And most jobs. He'd been lucky to find Commspan, with its no-coverage sub-basement.

Movies would have been out of the question, too, and going to graduation and weddings and funerals and football games and the mall. Which probably went a long way toward explaining his clothes. And his ancient car. Virtually every aspect of normal life would have been a struggle.

And that was
after
he'd erected barricades and a safe room. Before that, when the voices first appeared, it must have been beyond terrifying. How horrible to have had that tidal wave of thoughts and emotions crash in on him without any idea of what was causing it—and without anyone to rescue him or reassure him he wasn't going crazy, or teach him how to build defenses! Or to hold his hand safely to their heart while he slept.

What if this had happened, and I hadn't had C.B.?
she thought, and knew the answer. She wouldn't have survived. She'd have gone insane. Or committed suicide.

It was amazing that C.B. hadn't, flung as he had been into a world of wrath and lasciviousness and malice before he was ready for it, exposed to the full vileness and viciousness of the world without any filter at all, a helpless victim of, and witness to, how many things he had no way of dealing with?

And with no one to help him, or explain what was happening, not even anyone he could tell—and everyone around him thinking he was a freak.
Just like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
It was a wonder he hadn't become a rapist or a serial killer.

But not only hadn't he become a monster, he'd figured out how to defend himself against the voices' unending onslaught—and reached out to help her when the same thing happened to her. He could have simply stayed silent. He'd had plenty of reasons to do that, not the least of which was her own kicking-and-screaming response when he tried to tell her, accusing him of everything from bugging her room to blocking Trent.

But he'd helped her in spite of that, and risked having his secret exposed in the process. And that was probably the most remarkable thing he'd done, because everything he'd said about what could happen if people found out he was telepathic was true. Suki would tweet the news instantly, the press would descend, and Commspan would probably fire him for making them a laughingstock. Or worse, they'd co-opt him as a corporate spy and demand he tell them what Apple's new phone had on it, and it would be no good trying to explain that it didn't work like that, that the voices couldn't be searched like a database for information. They wouldn't believe him. They'd be convinced telepathy would give them a business advantage, and they'd invade his lab and interrogate him.