Exit (4 page)

He pictured the Harvard police surrounding his foxhole, guns drawn, demanding that he put his
"…weapons down and step out of the foxhole."
Suddenly two plastic vials of eye drops would fly out of the foxhole and land on the grass.
Thump, thump
. Then Tim Crowe would slowly emerge from underground, expensive Vigamox pouring out of his eyelid, hands in the air, pleading,
"Don't shoot. I'm unarmed and my vision is blurred."

Fortunately he saw no one, nor heard a sound. He climbed back down and sat by the window. Then he recalled dropping his vial of Atropine through the grille. Maybe, just maybe, that was the least important of his three drugs. Could he count on that? Could he possibly be that lucky? Or would the lack of Atropine result in his eyeball exploding? Perhaps he needed an additional drug to quiet his imagination. A heroin overdose, for instance. He pictured the campus police discovering a corpse, a Mad Doctor Without Borders with rigor mortis, pressed against the Harvard Law Library window, a blue gas bubble in his eye, a cell phone in his hand, mouthing the word
Rayne
. They could pull him out by the ankles. He'd be stiff as cardboard…

No, this has to stop. Please, please, please focus.

He needed to sleep despite the chill. He had to steal out of his foxhole by sunrise.

To where, he did not know.

But he was on the frontline now. Some vague, surreal battle was shaping up. A war on home ground. Homeland insecurity. Homeland insanity. He was simultaneously far from home and in his hometown of Cambridge. Far from Rayne and in a boatload of trouble. A shit-load of trouble. Enough shit to fill an oil tanker. He flashed on his picture on TV tonight. This city was allegedly under siege from domestic terrorism, and somehow he'd become a terrorist. From high school substitute teacher to public enemy number-one.

He thought of Rayne Moore, brought her comforting image to mind. He pulled out his cell phone, a link to his previous life. An out-of-service lifeline. Holding it gave him cold comfort. He imagined a conversation with Rayne:
"Honey, you sitting down? Listen, you'll never guess what happened tonight."

His thumb lightly skimmed over the numbered buttons while he watched the sky. Then he noticed it from the corner of his eye. Off in the distance, left to right. Heading away from Harvard Square and up Mass Ave. Perhaps it was a spaceship, or a giant bird sailing over trees and rooftops, flying in slow motion under the stars. An unidentified flying object floating through the air above this unlisted area code.

Tim hunkered down, muscles tensed, as if the thing could see him in his hideaway. His thumb moved in a geometric pattern. Beneath the sound of the wind, a small, robotic voice in his lap said yet again:
"…Please check your area code and try again."

Tim Crowe whistled through his teeth, collar up, his hands tucked inside his jacket pockets. He decided on a foolproof plan, an airtight strategy. In a few hours when the sky went from black to gray, he would definitely hit the…

EXIT.

Somehow he managed to doze off in the pit.

In those dark early hours of morning, he dreamt that he was not alone in his cement foxhole. He huddled against the window in his field jacket, the chill air ensuring a light sleep. Then his cramped environment changed. Something briefly joined him. He vaguely recalled itching the corner of his bad eye, crusted with dried medicine drops. It was probably the blue gas bubble that he saw. Nothing more. He dreamt—what? That an object descended in slow motion into the foxhole. Small as a yo-yo running down its string, floating in the air a few feet from his face.

It must have been the gas bubble. His eyelid closed. He returned to his restless sleep.

Later, birdsong woke him. Morning's soundtrack. He opened his eyes and guessed that it was about 7:00 a.m. The first gray light of day painted the sky, with clouds the color and shape of rumpled bed sheets. He tilted his head back and drew a deep breath of crisp air, hearing a gust of wind, looking above his concrete foxhole and seeing brown leaves swirl in the air. He squeezed the rectangular lump in his pocket, the cell phone.

Looks like I won't make my doctor's appointment today. I should call the hospital, tell them that something has come up.

Tim didn't know if he should laugh bitterly or scream.

Hello, Doctor Wu? Yo, it's Tim. I have to cancel. I'm in a parallel universe. Public transportation is not an option.

The rising sun would soon shed light on all of his problems, beginning with his physical features. Televised face. Televised blond hair. Televised squinting eye. Anything else? Oh, the law library would be opening soon. Maybe he could linger a bit longer down in the bunker, until the librarian arrived. She could see the hideous one-eyed creature plastered to the window, and scream,
"A fucking jumper from a parallel universe has invaded Harvard!"

Given the horrific events of the last twelve hours, Tim could easily see that scenario unfold. Well, he'd have to postpone his pity party. He needed to move before witnesses arrived. He pulled out his sunglasses, which he'd been using all week whenever he went outside. He climbed the ladder on the wall opposite the library window, and peeked over the top, his eyes level with the grassy ground. He scanned the yard and saw no one—yet. He had to climb up, and over the metal railing, fast. If anyone spotted him, he couldn't concoct a reasonable explanation for his action.

Seconds later, the notorious jumper jumped over the railing.

He followed a tree-lined path between buildings, feeling naked without a disguise. He didn't know where to go; all directions being equal. So he simply reversed course from last night, and followed the same path. Soon a familiar building came into view, and the spot where he had read the Boston Herald. And then it happened. He spotted a familiar face: the drunken student from last night, the wine bottle bomber. The bomber exited the building, heading in the general direction of Harvard Square, still wearing his baseball cap.

Tim quickly fell in behind him, walking fast but silent in his sneakers, remembering how the prick had tried to piss on him from the third floor window. He quickened his pace, got right behind the scholar. The scholar was slightly taller than Tim.

"Good morning," Tim said.

The scholar slowed his step, half turned. "Who…"

"Remember me?" Tim moved in fast, swung, burying his fist above the scholar's belt buckle. The scholar's face flushed and his knees buckled. As he sank to the ground, Tim plucked the baseball cap. "Public urination is against the law. Indecent exposure, although what you exposed was shockingly small. Your penalty—one hat." Now he needed to buy a little time to escape. As the kneeling scholar strained to get a breath, unable to shout for help, Tim reached around and took the wallet from the scholar's hip pocket. He opened it, removed the scholar's driver's license and credit cards, and threw the wallet, which landed in the grass by a tree. Then he quickly walked away in the opposite direction, throwing away the license and plastic cards one by one. The scholar would have to hunt down his belongings in the grass, which would kill some time, before he alerted the campus cops.

Tim put on the cap, kept moving and never looked back. He cut across the side street dividing the campus, hustled past a building, and fell out of view from the scene of the assault.

He adjusted the cap, jammed his yellow hair into it as much as possible. Not the best disguise, but better than nothing. After assaulting a student, he knew the campus police would soon be searching for him. He zigzagged between buildings, left the campus, and stepped onto Mass Ave.

Once again, he had to think fast. The early morning traffic, car and pedestrian alike, would soon increase. Anyone could see the man in the hat and sunglasses. Sooner or later, he needed to return to Harvard Square. Ultimately, his world revolved around the Gateway Theater. Somehow he had to reverse course. Enter this Gateway, steal back inside, and hopefully reappear in the other building back home. But reaching that rear door would be a challenge with the city looking for him.

His disguise needed another layer. What to do? He forced himself to walk slowly, look calm and unhurried. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning for ideas. On his left side, he passed a grassy lot between two campus buildings. He continued toward the Square, then stopped. He got an idea and turned around. He stepped back onto the campus, moved into the shade between the buildings. Workers had left some landscaping equipment overnight. Leaning against the building were shovels and rakes. A bed of freshly turned soil was nearby.

Tim stood next to a shade tree and quickly removed his jacket and long-sleeved shirt, stripped off his green, v-neck t-shirt. He put his shirt and jacket back on. He took the bottom of the v-neck collar and pulled it over his forehead from behind, letting the rest of the collar slide down the back of his head. The shirt itself hung halfway down his back. The overall effect, he guessed, approximated a nun's headdress, a workingman's veil covering the sides and back of his head. Finally he put the baseball cap back on. Then he grabbed a rake and got the hell out of there, a landscaper with an improvised head bandanna. Blue-collar chic.

He turned back onto Mass Ave, crossed to the other side and away from the campus, and turned right at the first corner. He needed to kill some time. The Square would be too empty right now for him to blend in. The landscaper tilted his rake on his shoulder and walked a few blocks to the Charles River. He found an empty bench facing the water, near some shrubs, and sat down. He leaned the rake against the bench. Across the cold Charles, gray clouds hung over the Boston skyline. Yesterday he woke up as an aspiring screenwriter; today a fugitive. Tomorrow? Maybe an incarcerated jumper awaiting execution.

He concentrated on staying alive. Step by step, hour by hour, improvising as he went. Focusing on this task was the glue that kept him from freaking out, from being overwhelmed. From simply stopping in his tracks and screaming in a moment of self implosion. He was scared, to be sure, but he wasn't suicidal.

Concentrate, Crowe. Concentrate.

He forced himself to smile a cheerless smile, and pulled out a plastic vial. He held the bottle up, as if a toast, and said in a hollow voice, "Rayne, see you soon."

Then he squeezed an anti-inflammatory drop into his left eye.

He sat for a while, then lay down on his side on the wooden slabs, his feet dangling off the end. He felt too tired to sit, and too anxious to sleep. He closed his eyes, which, if nothing else, blocked out the depressing view of a river that wasn’t really the Charles—it was a sick, horrid imitation. Soon his thoughts drifted away from the riverbank, and focused on Rayne. Wherever she was right now, she was awake and worried and strategizing. He knew her, not entirely, but enough to know that she was searching for him at that very minute. And she wouldn’t stop, no matter what.

Tim thought of the tiny, blue letter “A” tattooed on the palm of Rayne’s left hand. Just over ten years ago, Rayne and her high school friend Anji Nance had worked part-time at the East Shore Animal Shelter. Together they’d take the subway to the shelter across town, and commute home together. Rayne got along well with dogs; her people skills were sometimes unpredictable. But she loved working with stray animals, abandoned dogs. Rescue dogs. Anji had left work one late autumn evening, alone, when darkness comes early, and had never returned home. Rayne had been taking care of her ailing father when the police came to the door and asked questions. Soon the Crimes Against Children Unit got involved. Nothing changed. A dead end. Anji had disappeared. Weeks passed. Months. No body was ever found; no contact ever made. Gone.

Just like the title of the movie at the Gateway.

Tim knew that incident had darkened forever Rayne’s view of the world. How could it not? She rarely spoke of it, but he knew it was always simmering under the surface. Even now, a decade later, he’d see her sitting at her computer, Googling Anji’s name, searching websites that focused on unidentified bodies or remains, usually found off the side of some godforsaken stretch of highway. That was Rayne; never surrender, never give up. Maybe years ago she had taken care of a bloodhound at the shelter, and picked up a few pointers on tracking.

So he knew with drop-dead certainty that Rayne, in that other world, was now on his trail. But even she would never find him here. She was bright, resourceful—okay, stubborn—but there was no way in hell she could pick up this trail and find him.

No way.

He had to save himself. Somehow.

Hours later, when the sun climbed high into the sky, the landscaper left his secluded spot and walked east alongside the riverbank, his rake handle resting on his shoulder like a rifle, then turned left and headed into Harvard Square. When he looked above the trees and rooftops, he saw something so surreal it nearly took his breath away. The word
invasion
came to mind.

Machines were filling the air.

Steel vultures.

Drones.

CHAPTER 4

October 31, Halloween

A city bus rolled by and stopped directly across from her, its air brakes wheezing. Across the side of the bus, a purple, rectangular panel ad read:

EXPERIENCE THE INDESCRIBABLE

Rayne was sitting outside at a sunny table in a half-filled courtyard, her back to Au Bon Pain. She could see late morning traffic go by on Mass Ave. Across the street was an arched entrance made of bricks and a black iron gate, which led to Harvard Yard. The sidewalks were plugged with pedestrians at lunch hour—students, shoppers, buskers, spare-changers, professors, skate boarders.

"So Tim never showed up for his doctor's appointment," Alex Portland said.

The three words on the city bus held her attention. The ad was promoting
Blue Man Group
, a theatrical show in Boston. She stared at the words, the pithy promise with the purple background, and had a ticklish feeling that she couldn’t identify. Somehow, the panel ad had a double meaning, as if the bus had pulled up at the bus stop, at that exact moment, released a commuter, and also delivered a secret message meant for Rayne Moore. A challenge: can you see the underlying meaning? Inside the bus, a face of indeterminate age and gender turned toward a window, gazing at her with a blank expression. Rayne imagined the observer as a member of Blue Man Group, without the makeup. Eerie, otherworldly. Again the bus wheezed.

Experience the indescribable
, she thought, and watched the bus roll away.

"Uh…Rayne?"

"Sorry," Rayne said. "No, he never showed. I called the hospital's desk and spoke to someone. He was scheduled this morning for eight-thirty at Mass Eye and Ear, Pod C. But he never arrived, never called. Nothing."

Alex, aspiring moviemaker maestro, sat across from her at the small table in his leather jacket and wrinkled denim shirt that covered his pot belly. His large, basset hound brown eyes behind glasses, and neatly trimmed mustache and beard created a cerebral aura. No one mistook Alex for a teamster. He held her gaze with his sleepy eyes, then looked up at the semi-cloudy sky as if for answers. A thin briefcase of soft brown leather sat on the table between them. He covered his mouth and stifled a yawn. Her phone call had clearly woke him less than an hour ago.

"When you saw him yesterday, did he mention anything?"

She shook her head.

Rayne noticed a young woman sitting at a table nearby, holding up her cell phone at different angles, taking selfies.
Click, click
. Each picture was a digital disappointment. She continued to pose from different angles with surgical precision.
Click
. Rayne fought the urge to steal the phone, throw it onto the roof of Au Bon Pain like a hand grenade.
Click, click
. Rayne hated selfies. She hated the infantile term. Too often, selfies were for insecure people unable to afford plastic surgery; after 500 self-portraits, you're bound to find one that doesn’t give you acid reflux. Her contempt for cell phones increased with each passing day—a horrendous device that encouraged nonstop blather and selfies, while it microwaved your brain. She anticipated a near future when people would be diagnosed with cooked brains from its microwave technology. Why, she wondered, were billions so eager to pop their brain like microwave popcorn?

"You think he's in trouble?"

Alex's voice snapped her out of the selfie sideshow. Rayne forced herself to turn back to Alex. "He nearly lost all sight in his eye. He had a choice: surgery or lose the eye. He wouldn't suddenly get reckless and blow off an appointment. Put his eye at risk. That'd be insane."

"Offhand, when I think about favorite body parts, I'd put the eye right up there with the penis. And probably the brain. Those three."

"No heart?"

"Expendable."

"Well, that certainly puts it into perspective." Rayne was tempted to ask how Alex would prioritize the three, but left it alone. She was not in a jocular mood today. She leaned back in her chair. She felt like hurling her cup of coffee at the plate glass window of Au Bon Pain. Just to relieve tension.

"Did you call the police?"

"Cambridge, this morning, just to check. Nothing. His name didn't register with any accidents or crime. The police told me to sit tight, wait, that maybe it's nothing." She shrugged. "What else could they say?"

"What can I do?" he asked. "I've got to meet someone nearby for lunch. Her company wants to hire me for a promo video. Ka-ching, ka-ching. But I'll be free later."

"I don't know yet. I just needed to see you, put you on the alert. Whatever is happening to Tim, time is working against him. He's got to see the surgeon." She glanced at the brown briefcase the color of tobacco.

He saw her and said, "The script." He posted both thumbs up in the air. "I really like the ongoing version of 'Up.'"

She nodded, said nothing.

"What an unusual crime story—murder on the astral plane."

Rayne and Tim had been working on the script in their free time. Tim had begun the story with a simple set-up. A couple has a heated argument in their apartment. The husband falls asleep on his couch and has an out-of-body experience. He wakes by the ceiling, and soon sees his drunken wife sneaking into the living room. A voice from another room says, "Do it!" The wife grabs a table lamp and smashes her husband's skull, killing him—in a sense. The husband, having an OBE, witnesses his own murder. And the wife's lover is the downstairs neighbor.

"And I can guess where you came in," Alex told her. "When I read it, I thought, yes, that's Rayne's hand."

"I added the next part."

"Yes, you're strange. Take that as a compliment. Your input pushes the story in a different direction. Tim is a 'table-lamp-to-the-head kind of guy.'"

Rayne recalled the recent night when she had paced back and forth and fleshed out her idea, then typed it into the computer as she went. The story's main character, the husband, will live forever in an astral realm, dispossessed of his corporeal self. Hence, he follows his ex-wife and her lover, monitoring them wherever they go. He floats over their heads, shadows them. Eventually they begin to suspect his presence when he devises an unusual way to communicate with them.

"You turned this bizarre story into a twisted tale of constant surveillance and the loss of privacy." Alex leaned forward in his chair, hands on the table, and smiled. "You are a wonderfully deranged individual with no hope of recovery. I'm really looking forward to this project getting off the ground."

"But first…"

He raised a hand as if being sworn in on a witness stand. "I know."

"Listen, there's something I need to check out. I'll call you later today no matter what, with or without any news."

"Maybe he'll turn up soon," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, "with an explanation so simple and obvious our eyes will roll."

She refrained from saying:
And maybe I'll get hit by a meteor on the way home
. Instead, she rose from the table, unable to sit still any longer. "I'll call you."

On the way out of the courtyard, she passed Selfie and said, "Magic mirror in my hand, am I the scariest in the land?"

She walked a few blocks on Mass Ave, passing the kiosk in the center of Harvard Square, and soon turned a corner. She stopped down the block in front of the Gateway. The entrance was locked at that early hour, the lobby dark. No sign of anyone inside. The empty ticket booth had a partially burned candle and a marble candleholder on the counter. She wasn't sure if Tim had been here last night, but thought it likely. Maybe it was just a hunch, but she could feel a visceral tension rising while standing in front of the booth.

Across the street was a small church. She walked over and sat on the steps outside. She took out her cell phone and called home. No messages. Now what, she wondered. From the steps she looked up at the wide marquee:
Gone.
Even the title seemed to mock her. She stared at the single word, seeing it now as verification of her hunch. Proof.

She concentrated on his recorded message, played it in her head for the umpteenth time. It was midday. The theater wouldn't open until later in the afternoon. She had nowhere to go, but couldn't sit still. She stood and adjusted her blue denim duster coat, getting ready to go. To wherever. She surveyed the area a final time. She visualized him here last night, and now he was gone. What could possibly have happened between the theater and her apartment? What would have deterred or prevented him from seeing his eye doctor? A car passed by in front of her. She thought of the city bus.

EXPERIENCE THE INDESCRIBABLE