Phase Shift (26 page)

"Implantation?"

"Think about it, Palmer. Why would someone
born on Gaia need a modulator to stay on Gaia?"

"Maybe there is a more down to earth reason
for the implants—if the scar is evidence of such. If we explore the
congenital defect route, maybe it's something more like a pace
maker that's been implanted."

"If that were the case, wouldn't someone
like a first prefect know the technology existed?" I lean forward
in my seat, prop my elbows on the table, rest my chin on my hands
and say, "These people haven't a clue as to how they got their
scars. They think they're born with them. They believe so many
people born with the exact same scar in one of three exact
locations points to proof of God."

"So?"

"So why did that woman—that Trozai—want me
to investigate similar scars on Earth if she didn't think there was
a connection? What if there's something more sinister at work here?
What if their EMFs match mine because the devices creating the EMFs
are the same? Same or similar devices utilized for the same
purpose—to keep a person on Gaia."

"Again I ask,” Palmer says, “why would
someone born on Gaia need a modulator to stay on Gaia?"

"A person born on Gaia doesn't need a
modulator to stay on Gaia, Palmer." Having proven my point, I relax
back into my chair again.

"A person born on Gaia doesn't need a
modulator to stay on Gaia," he repeats.

"But a person born on Earth—" I
continue.

"A person born on Earth does," he says. I
can't believe we’ve come to this conclusion. The idea is
brilliant.

And then it hits me, "Oh my God," I say.
"Cecilia Mubari. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure I saw
her on Gaia. At the prefecture. And Palmer? She had a crescent
scar. Right here." I point to a spot on my neck near the
jugular.

Palmer leans forward in his chair. “So
you’re saying that Reyes suspected the integrity of The Pact had
already been broken.”

I nod. “The similarities between the
Geo-link handset and modern pocket PCs like the iPhone, and the
data display on the handset and the World Wide Web prove, to my
mind, anyway, that trade between Gaia and Earth has been ongoing
for at least half a century, maybe more.”

Palmer leans back in his chair looking as if
he’s been gut-punched. “I don’t know, Moll,” he says. “Trade in
goods and services is one thing, I can see that happening. Look at
the drug trade, for example. The fact dealing is illegal hasn't
stopped any number of enterprising persons from turning a tidy
profit.

“Inanimate contraband is one thing, but
trading for people?”

He reaches for the phone."What are you
doing?" I ask.

"I'm going to notify the police."

"And tell them what, exactly? Cecelia Mubari
is alive and well and living on another world? Good idea.
Especially if you never want to consult for them again."

He relaxes his hand and we exchange a
look.

"If it were my child, I'd want to know," he
tells me.

"If it were my child, I'd want to know, too.
If it were my child I wouldn't rest until she were safe in my arms.
But that's not going to happen. Cecelia can't ever come home."

"Why not? You have a modulator. You know
where she is. You can go back for her."

"She can't come back, not if she has an
implant. The implants are placed near major arteries in the body
for a reason, Palmer."

He nods. "To make their removal impossible.
Life threatening at best."

"Reyes already suspects trade between the
worlds hasn't ended. Maybe he can do something to prevent it from
continuing in the future."

We sit in silence for a while. Then Palmer
says, "Where does your friend Sam fit into all this?"

"If you can regress Sam to see what he
looked like as a child, if we can match his picture to a database
of cold child abduction cases from fifteen or twenty years ago, if
we can prove he was born on Earth—"

"That's a lot of 'ifs'," he says.

I don’t know what to say. He’s right. The
odds are astronomical, at best.

"And let's say you find Sam's picture in the
database. What then? What would you do with the information?"

"I don't know, Palmer. One step at a time, I
guess. Do your magic with the picture first and we'll take it from
there."

‘One step at a time’, my newfound
mantra.

He agrees to do Sam's regression starting
tomorrow, but only if I promise to go to bed and try to get a good
night's sleep.

Reluctantly, I agree.

At the foot of Stanley's driveway. In the
rain. Police offer me hot drinks and dry blankets. Refuge from the
drizzle in a cruiser. They think they're helping. Won't help take
the chill off.

Three police cars. Two fire engines. One
ambulance. Yellow police tape on the property line. Surreal. Like
I'm on television. A TV crime show. Waiting on the coroner. Where's
Palmer? Time passes in waves. Folds in and around itself.
Inconsistent.

A woman approaches. Uniformed. Tries to get
me into the back of the ambulance. Wants to talk. Her attempt is
unsuccessful. Can't move. Need to stay where I can see Stanley's
front door. In case he comes out. In case it's all been a mistake.
Waiting on Palmer.

Palmer pulls up. Parallel parks. I blink.
He's out of the car. Blink again. Halves the distance. Blink once
more and he's behind me. His hands rest on my shoulders. He
squeezes. "You okay?" I hear him ask.

"Stanley's dead," I tell him. He already
knows. Told him earlier. When I called. "I called 9-1-1." He knows
this too. His idea. Told me to. Once I had hung up with him.

"I know," he says, voice a gentle caress. He
kisses my forehead. "I know." He shudders and pulls his overcoat
collar tight. "You're chilled to the bone." He states the obvious.
"Why haven't they offered you shelter?"

Hard to speak. Police have been good. Kind.
I want to tell him. Can't.

I let Palmer lead me to the nearest cruiser.
He opens the back door and sets me inside. Leaves. Comes back.
Brings me a blanket. I discard the old one. Momentary chill. He
drapes me with the blanket. "You okay?" he asks again.

"Yeah, fine," I mumble. Body is numb. Brain
is numb. Can't think beyond present. Interwoven with the past.
Folding in and around itself. Inconsistent. "Fine." Palmer's gone
again.

Time passes. One minute, one second
indistinguishable from the next. I look up. Palmer's in a huddle.
With three constables. More time passes. Two figures materialize in
front of me. Two men. One of them is Palmer, the other a police
constable. 'Detective Constable Allard', it says on his name
tag.

Palmer squats on the pavement in front of
me, his face at my eye level. He reaches out. Squeezes my shoulder.
Twice. "You okay?"

I nod. He rubs my shoulder, a gesture more
seen than felt beneath my heavy, woolen cape. "They want to ask you
a few questions," he says softly. "Because you're the one who found
him." He speaks slowly. As if contemplating each word before he
speaks it. As if he doesn't want to upset me. His voice is cloaked
in kid gloves as if handling damaged goods. "I told them it was
okay."

I nod.

"Do you think you'll be okay to talk to
them?"

I nod. It's all I can manage. I try to say,
"Yes" but the word gets lost somewhere between my throat and lips.
I almost forget why I'm here. Then I remember: Stanley. Dead. Done
with him. Once and for all. The thought makes me sick.

Allard is at least as tall as Palmer. He has
sandy hair, which pokes out from under a hat with yellow brocade.
It’s covered with a plastic shower cap. He wears a clear, plastic
raincoat over his uniform. "Ms. McBride?" I hear him say. "My name
is Constable Allard."

Again I nod. I'm not ready for this. Please
don't make me talk. Not about Stanley. I just want to go home.
Change my clothes. Get into bed. Stay there. Forever, if need
be.

"Ms. McBride, can you tell me how you knew
Mr. Hume?"

"I told you," I hear Palmer answer for me,
"he was an acquaintance of my wife's."

"If you don't mind, sir," Allard admonishes,
"I'd like to speak with your wife directly."

Palmer nods. Blinks rapidly. Gives Allard
the go ahead.

"Ms. McBride?" I hear Allard ask.

"Like Palmer said. An acquaintance. I was
doing research for him. Some artifacts he found while gardening. I
came over to tell him what I'd found."

"Artifacts?" says Allard. "Can you give me a
for instance?"

"Some things he found in his backyard. A
photograph, a coin, a cigarette case. Stuff like that."

Palmer smiles uncomfortably. He was probably
expecting something a little further from the truth.

"And so you came over to tell him what? The
results of your research?"

"Uh-huh," I say. I nod. My knee insists on
bouncing the balls of my feet on the door runner enhancing the
general sensation of nervousness. Stops when I think about it.

"And when you came over the door was
open?"

"I guess he was expecting me." Invited me in
his voice mail. Said he needed someone to bear witness.

Arrived mid afternoon. The door closed but
open. No answer at the bell. I tried the knob. It turned and
opened. Like he was expecting me. Like he knew I'd come.

"And how would he know you were coming?"

"I spoke to him first," I say, "at least, I
tried to speak to him first. Like I told you: we were
acquaintances. I wouldn't feel right just showing up on his
doorstep like that."

"But you didn't speak."

I shake my head. "I called him, but there
was no answer."

"But you came over anyway."

"His message sounded urgent." More like
manic. Call came in during my classes. Couldn't get there 'til
midday. It was tantamount to suicide, pushing the button. Why
couldn't he see that? Voice mail recording final last words,
preserved immemorial. He had led a boring life, he'd said, had
accomplished nothing. This would put him on the map, so to speak,
make his life, and quite possibly his death, seem worthwhile. If he
succeeded, he'd be hailed as the first in a new breed of explorers.
Discoverer of new sciences. If he failed, people would remember his
sacrifice.

Almost missed the message. My computer takes
forever to boot. Serendipitously, I got bored waiting and checked
my voice mail in the interim. Might have already been too late.

I waded through my spam and tried Stanley
again. Still no answer.

Decided to go over and check on him in
person. Don't know why. Last time he'd contacted a lawyer.
Threatened me with the police. I was hoping he'd wait for me. He'd
waited until morning to call. What was a few hours more?

"So the door was open when you arrived?"
asks Allard.

I hesitated before ringing the bell. Then I
listened. Waited. Nothing. No movement from within. No creak of
warped joists. No banging footsteps. Only silence. Eerie.
Foreboding.

Another ring. Then three quick knocks on the
door. Still nothing. No Stanley. More banging. This time with open
palm, calling his name. Ear pressed up against the wood. Nothing
but silence.

I tried the knob. It turned and opened. Like
he was expecting me. Like he knew I'd come.

A quick nod to Allard.

"Okay. So the door was open and what? You
just went inside?" asks Allard.

"Like I told you: he was expecting me. I
went inside the house and I immediately noticed the smell of
something burning. Like meat." Inside was smoke-filled. Smoggy.
Like someone had bar-b-qued indoors. The smell not unpleasant. Like
burnt roast.

A man marries a woman. She's a gourmet cook.
Husband doesn't appreciate the mealtime effort. One day she falls
asleep with the oven on. Burns dinner. Serves it anyway. Hopes
hubby won't notice. Man tastes food. Satisfied. Commends wifey.
"Just like mother used to make," he says.

Sick. I stifle a laugh.

"Burnt roast," I say. Thick bile threatens
to come up. I swallow.

A hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
Squeezes. Palmer. I shrug him off. He’s way too close. I may barf.
He's wearing Hush Puppy loafers. Nubuck is the most difficult
material to clean.

Gas comes up instead. Relief.

"Constable...Allard, was it?" Palmer
interjects. "Can't we do this another time? My wife is having a
difficult time with this."

"No," I say. Knee starts up again. Bouncing
uncontrollably. Nervous. Like I have something to hide. I make it
stop. "I'm okay. Let's get this over with." I close my eyes and I'm
there again. Transported back.

I go through Stanley's kitchen. I call
him.

No answer.

I find him in the parlour. What's left of
him.

I have enough presence of mind to think,
"There but for the Grace of God..." and then I'm running. I make it
to the bathroom in time to expel lunch.

"He was in the parlour," I tell Allard.
"Smouldering. Like he'd burned from the torso out, toward the
extremities, only the fire ran out of fuel along the way. All that
was left were his arms below the elbows and his feet." I close my
eyes and breathe. Deeply. The air smells of worms and dirt. A lump
forms in my throat. I swallow it. "One leg ended mid-calf," I say,
voice monotone. I can see him now, what's left of him. As though it
were for the first time. Gruesome vision unfolding in front of me.
I open my eyes hoping the film will stop running. "The other leg
tapered off about an inch above the ankle.

"Oh, God," I say. I shoot out of the back of
the cruiser. Push through the men, the cop and my husband. Cough up
bitter bile. Spit between the trunks of Stanley's shrubbery in
front of my feet. I wipe my mouth. Use the back of my hand. Return
to my seat.

"Sorry," I say.

Palmer flashes a smile. Brief.
Reassuring.