Phase Shift (33 page)

I shush him. I hear voices. Together, we
listen to what's being said. It sounds like Schliemann’s
introducing himself to someone. There's more to the conversation,
muted behind the closed bedroom door, and a brief moment in which
Palmer and I exchange a look, and then the two of us race out of
the bedroom toward the front door.

Schliemann’s crammed into our foyer with
four other men. Each of them is dressed similarly in black suits,
narrow black ties and white shirts. Cliché, but one of them wears
Ray Bans. The Men In Black. Government agents whose sole purpose is
to show up whenever something paranormal or extraterrestrial
occurs. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m wearing my
shoulders hiked up around my ears.

"—I'm a friend of the family's," Schliemann
says.

"A very old friend,” Palmer says. Mindful of
the formality of the situation, he says, “I'm Dr. Palmer
Richardson." He shakes each of their hands as they introduce
themselves: agents Jonas Down and Marshall Savant from the U.S.
Department of Homeland Security and Fred Poston and Luther Thomas
from CSIS. As if having the American federal government show up on
your doorstep isn’t disconcerting enough. This can't be good.

"That makes you—"

"Molly McBride," I say to Down. I show them
my bandaged right hand and stave off another round of
handshakes.

He asks me about my relationship with
Stanley. I’m scared, reticent, but Down is insistent. I choose not
to challenge that they could have easily gotten my statement from
the police. Better not to draw attention to the fact we're telling
a skewed version of the truth. He forces me to retell Stanley's
death, forces me to relive it. I find my arms folding over my
sternum as I speak, and my hands begin to fidget on my shoulders
and neck. I force them to rest, still, behind my back instead.
Better to keep my posture open and to appear relaxed with the
questioning process so as not to draw suspicion.

I glance at Schliemann, ire rising in tandem
with his amusement at the spectacle. The process is torture for
both Palmer and myself, as neither of us has yet to come to terms
with the guilt we share in the scripting of this atrocity. Palmer
insists his role in this tragedy is that of The Enabler. He says
that, were it not for the part he played in charging the modulator,
I would still be locked away in my office pondering the validity of
Prescott's work and Stanley's final act would have years, decades,
to pen itself.

Though I would like nothing more than to
place the blame on someone else, I can’t do it. Call it self-pity,
call it wallowing, whatever. I own sole responsibility for our
current situation, I accept this. The sooner Palmer can do the
same, the sooner we can both turn the page and move on.

"Ms. McBride, Dr. Richardson," Thomas says,
"our American counterparts are concerned. The Space Flight Center
in Goddard? Down there in Maryland? Well they've been tracking a
series of small radiation blasts. They've traced them to us and
we're bound to investigate. According to the coroner's report, Mr.
Hume's body exhibited abnormally high radiation levels." Thomas
performs magic, pulling a Geiger counter from thin air. "We could
clear this up very quickly. I propose we sweep the house. If there
are no abnormal readings, then no harm done—"

"No," I insist, near panic. "This is our
house. This is where we live. You can't just come in here and—"

"It's okay, Moll," Palmer says, sounding too
calm. He rests an arm on my shoulder and pulls me close. "We have
nothing to hide."

I crane my neck to look up at him, but he
refuses to meet my gaze. I can’t bear the thought of giving
strangers free reign in my house. I’m afraid the modulator might
still emanate enough radiation to lead them straight to it,
besides. "Palmer, no,” I say, “It's not okay. It's an invasion of
our privacy. They can't just come in here and rummage through our
things."

"It's fine," he tells me.

"If there are no abnormal readings," Thomas
offers, "then we can rule you and your husband out as suspects, Ms.
McBride. You will no longer be a part of this investigation."

"Go ahead with your radiation sweep, Agent,"
Palmer says. "Like I said before, we have nothing to hide."

"Do you have a cellar?" Agent Down asks.

"Right this way," Palmer says. He takes a
step toward the basement door.

"If you don't mind, sir, I need you to wait
here until we're done."

The men begin to explore the house. The
steady beep of the Geiger counter fades as they move down the hall
and into the basement. They've left silent Agent Savant, still
wearing his sunglasses, to baby-sit.

I sit, mute, on the coffee table in the
living room, hunched over and staring at a spot on the carpet just
in front of my feet. I can feel Schliemann, Palmer, and Savant
watching me. Schliemann takes a breath as if to speak, and I look
up to see Palmer scrunch his eyebrows and shake his head at him. He
makes himself comfortable in an easy chair across the room.

After what seems like an eternity, the trio
of agents returns. "The house is clean," Down tells Savant. He
turns to Palmer and says, "Your turn, Dr. Richardson." I look at
Down, horrified. I feel faint. Palmer smiles, and nods—things will
be alright—he’s trying to tell me. It doesn’t work. How can Palmer
maintain such a calm façade when I’m freaking on the inside? He
holds his arms out. Down runs the Geiger counter up and down
Palmer’s body, both in front and behind. When he's done, he nods at
Savant.

"Your turn, sir," he says to Schliemann.
When he's done, he nods; another clean reading.

He takes a step toward me. "Ma'am?"

I look at Palmer. Beads of sweat form on my
upper lip. Palmer nods at me and smiles, as if trying to alleviate
my fright before it degrades to downright panic. Down sweeps the
Geiger counter in front of and behind me like he did the others. I
hold my breath, but it's another normal reading. Once more, Down
dips his head to Savant.

"They're clean," he says.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Thomas
says. "Just one more question before I go, Ms. McBride." I look up
at him, in response. Any relief I might have felt at the clean
reading is lost. "How did you injure your hand?"

"My hand?" I ask.

"Yes. Why is your hand bandaged up like
that?"

"I burned it," I say. I look at Palmer to
save me.

"She did it on the stove. Turned on the
wrong burner and then put her hand on it."

Thomas nods. "Might I see it?" he asks.

I can't for the life of me imagine why.
Maybe he hopes to find a secret message branded into the skin. I
look to Palmer for direction. He nods and I unwrap my hand to
reveal a large, water-blister on the surface of my palm. Smaller
blisters have formed on the lower and middle joints of most
fingers. It begins to sing the second it is exposed to the air.

"That's one hell of a burn, alright," Thomas
says after a prolonged grimace, "one that looks like it needs
medical attention."

"We'll do that. Thanks," Palmer tells him.
Thomas shakes his hand and then Schliemann’s.

"We'll be in touch if we need anything
more," Thomas says. He pulls a thin, engraved, pewter case from his
jacket pocket and hands Palmer his card. "Please don't hesitate to
call if you remember any more about that evening."

Thomas sees the other agents out before he
turns and says, "Good day, sir."

I hear the front door close as I head for
the bathroom and slam the door behind me. Before I do, I hear
Schliemann say, "And I thought settling down would be boring," and
then I begin to retch.

I hear Schliemann question Palmer between
coughs. Once my stomach settles, I sit with my back against the
tub. Though their conversation is muffled, I can still make out
what they are saying.

"What's this?" Schliemann asks.

"Directions to a hotel. You need a place to
stay tonight. Anyplace but here.” Palmer takes a beat then says,
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you need to go. I need to speak
with Molly and you need to go."

Schliemann begins to protest, but Palmer
cuts him off and then I hear the front door slam.

My head is swimming, my stomach churning.
Bile rises at the back of my throat. Saliva pours into my mouth.
The tub porcelain is cool against the small of my back. If I turn
my head far enough and lean against the tiled backsplash I can feel
the same sweet relief at my temple.
Concentrate. I am not going
to throw up. I am not going to throw up. Not again.

Two quick raps at the bathroom door. It's
open. Palmer comes in. He dampens a face cloth and hands it to me
without saying a word. I use it to sponge away the sweat from my
face, and the nape of my neck, and hand it back to him. He takes
it, dampens it once more, and passes it to me. He joins me on the
floor with a groan.

"Where's Schliemann?" I ask.

"He's gone."

"For good?"

"I sent him to a hotel," he says.

"It doesn't matter," I say, holding the
folded face cloth to my forehead. "I don't care anymore."

"Yes, you do," he says.

"No, I don't," I say, feeling angry. How
dare he tell me what I think, what I feel?

"He's here because you invited him."

"Well, now I uninvite him."

"At any rate, I don't think he'll go after
tonight's performance."

My stomach does a flip-flop. I re-fold the
face cloth in an attempt to find a spot that's still cool, and then
readjust my position, hugging my knees close enough to rest my
forehead on them. "I feel sick," I tell him.

"It's not every day one has upper-echelon
law enforcement in her living room."

"I just want to go back to a time before all
this," I say to the floor, "before Stanley and Reyes."

"You know what they say..." he says,
"'Ignorance is bliss'."

"That's not what I meant," I say, angrier
than I had intended. "I know all about global warming. I know the
planet's dying. I just don't like knowing when."

Palmer puts an arm around my shoulders and
squeezes. "You say you saw Reyes today?" He says after a pause.

"I went to Gaia today." I say, feigning
pride. "Goshan Prefecture, on the mass of Nemea, wherever that is.
They lost a building the size of a small city because of a random
phase shift bubble yesterday. It was like beaming into the middle
of a war zone." I stop short of describing the sounds and smells in
detail. I've smelled enough of that smell, that burning flesh
smell, to turn me off bar-b-que for a lifetime.

"Any idea what caused it?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen the news
lately. I've been kind of busy being suspect in a murder
investigation, you know how it is."

In response, Palmer slaps his thighs and
slowly stands, one hand pressing into the small of his back for
support. Once on his feet, it takes a moment or two for him to
unfold to full stature.

"Where are you going?" I say glaring up at
him.

"I want to hear all about what happened to
you today, but I can't do it while sitting on the bathroom floor."
He holds out a hand to help me up, and I can't help do anything but
stare at it. I'm not ready to leave the quiet, insulation of this
room, not yet. Finally, Palmer shrugs and withdraws the hand. "I'm
going to order a pizza."

"I'm not hungry," I say, distractedly.

"Maybe by the time it gets here—"

"I don't think so."

"Look, Moll," he says. He expels air as he
squats to meet my eye level. "You can't do this to yourself."

I shake my head. "Homeland Security and CSIS
were just at our door. I'm a suspect, Palmer, in a murder
investigation. And believe it or not, that's the least of my
worries. The fate of the worlds—not one, but two—may rest in my
hands. If the Gaian posits are correct, the worlds are going to
end. And they've appointed me their saviour. Lucky me." I take a
breath and continue on a calmer tack. "It doesn't matter. The fact
is Cataclysm is going to come. Who am I to think there's anything I
can do to stop it?"

"Wars have been won or lost on the actions
of a single man, Moll—single person." He shakes his head. "You know
what I mean." He takes a breath. "Look, the Gaians chose you—"

"Like getting a job because you were the
only one to submit a resume is being chosen—"

"The Gaians can come to Earth at will; have
been able to do so for some time now. They could have chosen anyone
at any time in the past, present or future. They chose you because
they believe in you, and so do I. And believe it or not, so does
Joey."

"Joey," I say, resentfully.

"Now," he says, forcing himself to his feet
once more. "How about that pizza?"

There's still enough natural daylight to
flood the room. My face, especially my cheeks and the tip of my
nose, is bright crimson. Almost the same colour is the skin around
the circumference of my palm. It rings a large water-blister, a
rosy membrane on a sheet of single-bubbled bubble-wrap. The
onion-skin-like derma appears thin. At some point in the future,
maybe a day or two, possibly three from now, the blister will pop.
The skin will dry and peel to reveal a new layer of skin, roseate
and shiny, a constant reminder of this juncture in time. I poke at
the bubble a few times, daring the taut, alien, outer carapace to
break. When it does nothing but yield to my touch several times
over, I rinse it with cold water, pat it dry, and re-dress it.

Burst blood vessels, pomegranate pin-pricks,
ring my eyes. A thin layer of foundation powder would dull the
effect somewhat, but what's the point?

My hair needs attention. With the elastic
out, it looks as if I've just woken up. The brush feels awkward in
my left hand. I manage to brush out most of the tangles and re-tie
it into a passable bun.