Rift (13 page)

“I don't want it.”

“Are you hungry, then?”

I intend to answer no, but instead say nothing. She correctly interprets my silence.

“What about something to eat instead of money?”

“Really, I appreciate your help, but . . .”

“A meal and a hot bath? Come on. What do you say?”

Nothing. I say nothing. Pride mutes me.

“I just live a few blocks away.”

The river on me stinks. A film of dried mud cakes much of my exposed skin. I can't even begin to imagine how good a hot bath would feel right now.

“Are you serious?”

“There's a guest room above the garage,” she says. “You can bathe there, and I'll bring you something to eat.”

I look back at the Star Mart. The vigilante has gone back inside. Right now the only car parked in front of the store is a silver Nissan Maxima, which I assume to be hers. It's a slow morning at Texaco.

“You don't even know me.”

“I'll be fine,” she says. “My father was a policeman. He taught me how to defend myself, and we have a gun in the house.”

I don't know what to make of that, but how can I refuse such an offer?

“Okay,” I say.

A Chevrolet sedan pulls into the parking lot as we head back toward her car, and a brief shot of electricity zips through my body. From this angle the driver bears a striking resemblance to my pursuer, Ivan. I stare at its windows, transfixed, until a traveling salesman type gets out and dispels the illusion.

“Someone looking for you?”

“No,” I lie. “A friend of mine drives a car like that.”

“Oh.” A pause. “What's your name, by the way?”

“Cameron,” I tell her. “Cameron Fisher.”

She walks to the driver's side of the car, and I head for the passenger side.

“I'm Nicole Shepherd.”

We are about to get in the car when the vigilante bursts out of the Star Mart.

“Ma'am?” he says. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

He looks at me, the distrust in his eyes plainly visible, then back to Nicole.

“I don't think you should let that man get in your car. He might be dangerous.”

“I think someone who tackles and punches a decent man is the dangerous one.”

“I'm sorry about that. But he—”

“Please leave us alone. Unless you'd like me to call the police and have you arrested for battery.”

The vigilante looks at me again and sneers. Not that it matters, but I've made an enemy of this man.

“Fine,” he says. “I hope you're not sorry.”

Nicole doesn't answer. She gets into the car, and I follow her lead.

“What a moron,” she says.

“He's just looking out for you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

         

Nicole's house is typical desert luxury fare and appropriately large. A long driveway curls around to the backyard garage. The rectangular swimming pool is framed by a wooden deck, several covered tables, and a built-in charcoal grill.

“That's the guest room,” Nicole says, pointing toward a door above the garage. She shuts off the Maxima and pulls a key from her ring. “This will get you inside. There are plenty of towels and soap. Please take as long as you like.”

I take the key from her and open the passenger door.

“What would you like to eat?” she asks.

“Anything will be fine.”

“My husband and I ate Chinese takeout last night. We ordered way too much. What do you think about broccoli beef and a couple of egg rolls?”

“My stomach is already growling.”

“Good. I'll heat it up in the microwave and bring the whole works to you in a few minutes.”

She opens the garage with the remote and hurries inside. For the first time, I notice dirt on the back of her suit jacket. I suppose she wants to change clothes and take a bath herself. Wash away the smell of me.

They've set the place up like a hotel room. Less sterile, of course—the phone isn't marked with written instructions and nothing is bolted down—but the accommodations include one queen bed, an end table, and a television. A vanity stands at the end of the room, beyond that a separate small room for the toilet and shower. I suppose they put guests like the rebellious brother or the unseemly cousin in here. Safely away from the rest of the house.

I draw a hot bath and strip off my grimy clothes. Carefully, I lower myself into the tub and sigh as my feet, my legs, as my everything is enveloped by the heavenly liquid heat. The steaming water dissolves grime from my skin like an alchemist's elixir, expanding pores, replacing dirt with sweet, fragrant soap. The sensation is orgasmic. I guess this is better than bathing with wet naps after all.

So now that I've reached civilization, now that I have access to a telephone, what exactly am I going to do? Obviously, what I would like most is to call Misty and let her know I'm okay. But I have to assume NeuroStor has bugged my telephone line, which means any contact could put her in danger and also help NeuroStor pinpoint my own location. Besides, I'm not due back in Houston until noon today. She won't miss me before then.

So if I can't talk to Misty, what? Probably I should call all the hospitals in the area to find out if Tom has been admitted anywhere. Or I guess I could try his cell phone. I have to believe he is alive, because I just can't imagine those goons murdering my best friend.

But after that, what am I going to do about me? The most obvious thing I can think of, because this always happens in the movies when a big company slights the little guy, is to contact the media. Unfavorable press is surely the last thing in the world Batista wants, reports that his fantastic invention is flawed. But how exactly am I supposed to do that? Just pick up the phone and call NBC? Assuming I get through to someone—and that's a big assumption—what's the first thing they're going to want? Proof, of course. First that this transmission machine actually exists and then details of the way it has adversely affected me. Of course I have no evidence whatsoever of the machine itself, unless Crystal could help by showing me the way to her Internet information. This must be why Tom wanted me to call her. But even if I could somehow provide details about the machine, what proof can I provide regarding my personal experience? All I have at the moment is a faulty golf game and bruises from my swim in the river. If I go to the news media with that, they'll laugh in my face.

Normal people would contact the police. That's who you call when you're in trouble, right? When people are endangering your life? I suppose I should call the police. But aren't they going to want the same sort of information, the same sort of proof that the news media would want?

What, then? What do I do? I can't call home. I can't go home. I can't go back to Tom's house, and I certainly can't stay here.

I carefully scrub my filthy body, turning the water more and more brown. Before long the tub begins to resemble the river, only here the current has been reduced to a shallow, tepid pool of stagnant water. This image convinces me to drain the tub, rinse the bottom, and start again.

A knock at the front door startles me just as I begin to shampoo my hair.

“Come in!” I yell.

“Sorry it took so long,” Nicole says. “Had a quick shower myself.”

The aroma of Chinese food drifts into my little room. My second bath is going to be a short one.

“I brought you something to wear,” she says. “There's no sense in taking a bath if you're just going to put dirty clothes on again. But unfortunately I think my husband may be a little taller than you.”

“I really appreciate your help, Nicole. I'll be glad to send you money for the clothes when I get home again.”

She knocks lightly on the door and pushes through a clean, neatly folded Polo shirt and khakis.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Don't forget these.”

Next she hands me a pair of laced boat shoes with beige crew socks stuffed into them.

“Really, Nicole, this is too much.”

“You can't go around barefoot,” she says.

I towel dry and put the clothes on. They fit well, though the pants are indeed long. I roll up the ends and revel in my cleanliness.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Nicole is sitting on the bed in front of a TV tray. Mine is beside hers, holding a plate piled high with beef and broccoli over rice. She's also poured me a tall glass of soda and filled another with cold milk.

“Wow,” I say.

“Sit down. Your food will get cold.”

Her clothes are different, of course. She's now wearing a white Arizona Cardinals T-shirt and a pair of red shorts. Her feet are in sandals and her toenails match her shorts. Her hair is damp from the shower.

“I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful,” I tell her, “but I'm not exactly sure why you invited me here. If my wife invited a dirty stranger into our home, I'd think she'd gone nuts.”

She washes down a mouthful of food with a swallow of soda.

“It wouldn't exactly make sense for you to steal from me,” Nicole says. “At least not after that guy in the convenience store stared you down. And your clothes tell me you aren't as destitute as you look.”

This is an invitation to talk about my situation. Curiosity, in part, drives her kindness.

“I know you were in the canal at some point. I could tell by the smell.”

“I nearly drowned in it last night. I climbed onto a bridge down the road yesterday and somehow slept until this morning.”

“Did you fall in?”

Nicole knows I'm weighing my answer carefully when I don't answer right away.

“If you're going to lie to me,” she says, “just don't bother.” She drops the fork onto her plate and starts to get up from the bed.

“Don't leave. You've been so nice to me.”

Nicole pretends not to hear. “You deserve this much for helping me when you did. Please keep the clothes. Matt doesn't wear them anymore.”

“I didn't fall into the river. I was sort of pushed in.”

“Why?”

I pause again, and this time she folds the legs under the TV tray and heads for the door.

“Nicole, wait.”

Out the door she goes. I stuff my mouth full of rice and then follow her.

“Nicole!”

She turns into the garage, but by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs she has disappeared through a door into the house. There are no other cars in the garage. The door is not all the way shut. Does this mean she wants me to follow her? I push the door farther open.

“Nicole!”

If she answers, I don't hear it. Through this door is the utility room, home to a washer, dryer, and a large, industrial-type sink. Another door ahead also stands open, and beyond it I see cabinetry and a stove. The kitchen.

“Nicole!”

The house is pin-drop quiet.

For a moment I consider going back upstairs to finish the Chinese food, but then something unexpected occurs to me: What to do about NeuroStor.

Crystal, I remember, gave me her e-mail address. Twin peaks something . . . no,
two
peaks. That's it: [email protected]. What if I send her a message and explain in detail exactly what happened? The golf and the river and that I'm in a house somewhere near that river. If she could write back with some directions on how to get the Internet information, that would at least give me somewhere to start. And, conspiracy theorist that she claims to be, perhaps she could come up with other ideas on how to proceed as well.

I push the door all the way open and step through. Past the washer and dryer to the next doorway. The kitchen is empty, and there are two directions to go: through another doorway into what looks like a formal dining room, or through a large archway that connects the kitchen to a great room.

“Nicole?” I call again. “Where are—”

“I'm here,” she says from the great room. The overhead light isn't on, and she stands in shadows. Pointing something at me, I think.

“Look, I'm sorry I was hesitant back there.”

“I don't like it when people lie to me. Especially a total stranger who I let into my house.”

“I didn't lie.”

“Saying nothing is the same as lying. If you can't tell me what's going on, then I want you the hell out of my house.”

So now I'm supposed to tell her about the transmission, about Ivan and Ed, about the gunshots fired at Tom. I wonder how long it will take her to kick me out when I try to explain “transmission.”

“Do you have a computer?”

“We have two. Why?”

“Do you use America Online?”

“My husband does. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“I'll tell you what happened, why I jumped into the river and everything, if you'll let me send an e-mail with your computer.”

She thinks about this for a moment. “Forget it. Either you tell me what's going on right now, or I call the cops.”

I just stare at her. I'm pretty sure that's a gun she's pointing at me.

“I'm not kidding,” she says.

“I don't even know where to start.”

“Why don't you tell me about yourself,” she suggests. “Where do you live? What do you do?”

“I'm an accountant for a company in Houston called NeuroStor.”

“How in the world did you end up in a canal in Phoenix?”

“My boss in the Houston office, who through some strange corporate hierarchy also happens to be NeuroStor's president, tells me that he doesn't need me to work there anymore. Only he doesn't want to just fire me. Instead he would like me to perform one last . . . task, I guess you could say, before I leave. And I will be paid well for it, enough that I can pretty much retire if I want.”

“What's the task?”

“Well, NeuroStor is supposed to be in the business of developing new forms of flash memory technology, but it turns out that isn't the entire truth.”