He decided that talking about the different types of drainage patterns would be more appropriate. He had just covered dendritic and centripetal patterns, and was about to launch into the finer aspects of radial drainage, when Dr. Ford pulled over several houses down from the Sinclairs’.
“It looks like Marian and Peter are home. That’s unfortunate. They’ll probably want to chitty-chat, and I need to get back to the college and find Sanome. Perhaps you could just run in and collect the maps for me and bring them out. No need for me to disturb them. I know they’re busy with the whole resignation thing and all. We wouldn’t want to trouble them, would we? Since they’re being so kind about putting you up?”
Mark stared up at the Sinclair residence. Sure enough, the blue van sat in the driveway and the kitchen light was on.
Mark opened the door and eased his way out of the vehicle.
“Don’t forget to bring back my maps. I know you were interested in the larger map. I might be able to find a copy of it for you once I get back to campus.”
*****
“Mom says Mark is home. Simon’s home too. And we’re to stay right here. Dad is coming to get us—immediately. She didn’t sound very impressed,” Abbey said. “At least Mark is there. She seemed to believe me about us walking Sanome with Sandy, and Sanome getting hurt. I told her we got on the wrong bus and ended up at the hospital and were just waiting for the next bus and didn’t want them to worry. I’m not sure if she bought any of that last bit. But anyway, we’re not to get on the bus. We’re to wait.”
Caleb glanced at his watch. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Abbey surveyed her broad-shouldered twin. Even with the day they’d just had, he still maintained a look of sunny insouciance, which made the grimmer Caleb she had met in the future all the more, well, grim. “Probably not.”
“We should go and see Mrs. Forrester while we’re here. Dad’s going to take at least fifteen minutes to get here.”
“I don’t know, Cale. Mom was pretty emphatic that we should stay put.”
“We are staying put. We’re staying at the hospital.” He headed off, forcing Abbey to follow.
“How is seeing Mrs. Forrester going to help us?”
“It probably isn’t. We should go by and say hi though. Be neighborly.”
“Well we’d better hurry; we don’t have much time.”
Mrs. Forrester had been moved to a lower care ward, and Abbey and Caleb wound their way through the maze of equipment and bodies in the hall, trying not to gape at some of the elderly, slack-jawed patients in hospital gowns who had been wheeled out to occupy the corridor.
Mrs. Forrester was staring out the window of her room, but turned as they entered and lifted her lips in a faint half-smile, her hand emerging from beneath the covers to take Abbey’s. Another elderly woman with flame-red hair slumbered in the bed next to Mrs. Forrester’s.
“Hey, Mrs. Forrester,” said Abbey. “How’s it going?”
Mrs. Forrester squeezed Abbey’s hand.
“Mark is doing fine,” Abbey said. “But you probably already know that. Sandy also looks like she’s adapting well to being back at home.” Abbey decided not to mention the blood in Dr. Ford’s office, the fact that Dr. Ford was missing—and probably up to no good—Simon’s likely trip to juvie, or Sylvain’s unfortunate finger injury.
In fact, as she thought of all the things that she couldn’t tell Mrs. Forrester, the tears collected in the corners of Abbey’s eyes, and she had to sniff really loudly to contain herself.
Caleb cut in, his red hair a flash of color in the drab room. “So, we can’t stay for very long, Mrs. F. But as you can probably guess, there are a lot of strange things going on. Everyone seems to be looking for something—files, maps, trees, parallel universes, fingers… Any guidance you could give us? ’Cause things are getting a little, well… exciting.”
And dangerous, Abbey thought. But hadn’t Mrs. Forrester’s advice led them straight to Dr. Ford last time? Should the woman really be trusted? Yet with her soft white hair all around her on the pillow, her pink cheeks and kindly smile, how could they not trust her?
Mrs. Forrester squeezed Abbey’s hand twice, and there seemed to be greater urgency to her squeezes this time.
“Do you need your paper and pencil?” Abbey asked. Mrs. Forrester nodded, and Caleb grabbed the notebook and pen on the bedside table and passed them to her. Mrs. Forrester took the proffered items and scrunched up her forehead, staring at the blank piece of paper in concentration. Abbey pulled out her phone to check the time. 3:20. Their dad would be arriving shortly, and when he did, they had better be in the lobby.
Mrs. Forrester made some initial lines on the paper, frowned, scratched them out, and turned the page in the notebook. She tried a second time, but again seemed unhappy with the result and proceeded to scribble it out. Caleb wandered over to the window, presumably to watch the parking lot for the arrival of the van. Abbey tried not to get too antsy. She looked over Mrs. Forrester’s shoulder at the failed attempts, but all she could see was a bunch of closely spaced short parallel lines.
On Mrs. Forrester’s third attempt, Abbey started to get panicky. They had to get downstairs. She considered saying something but didn’t want to upset Mrs. Forrester, who seemed to be trying her hardest.
The red-haired woman had woken up by now and was watching the proceedings with interest. Her flamboyant makeup and hot pink bed dress matched the brilliance of her hair.
The fourth piece of paper ended up crumpled up beside the bed, and Mrs. Forrester’s face was scrunched with frustration. Even Caleb had started to dart looks over his shoulder as if he was concerned about the time.
“She has a hard time thinking of the words,” the woman in the bed put in. “She can think of things related to the words, but not the words. Sometimes it helps to give her something to look at.”
Abbey grasped for anything she could give Mrs. Forrester to look at, and her hands fell on the card that Ian had given Caleb the night before. She pulled it out of her pocket and thrust it in front of Mrs. Forrester. “Does this help you at all?”
Mrs. Forrester’s eyes widened a bit at the card and then swiveled back to her notebook. Abbey wondered if she could read the numbers that Caleb could, or just the one that Abbey was able to read.
With her brows knitted in concentration, Mrs. Forrester moved the pencil across the page with great determination.
Caleb approached. “We better go. I saw the van on the highway just before the exit to the hospital.”
Abbey glanced at Mrs. Forrester. She was still working away determinedly, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth between her teeth as she drew.
“You go down,” Abbey said. “Stall. Say I had to use the bathroom. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Roger!” Caleb replied. “That’s thinking, Ab. We’ll make an operative out of you yet.”
Caleb sauntered out, and Mrs. Forrester worked interminably on her drawing.
“You look an awful lot like your brother, dear,” the woman from the other bed said, interrupting Abbey’s efforts to view the drawing from the side.
“We’re twins.” Abbey tried to smile nicely at the woman.
“No, not him. Your older brother.”
“My older brother?” Abbey repeated, dumbly. Had Simon come to see Mrs. Forrester? Abbey and Simon looked nothing alike.
“It must be your beautiful red hair,” the woman said. “Much like my own.” She patted her elaborate hairdo and let out a cackle. “Except a little more natural of course. He’s in here a lot—such a kind boy. I’m assuming you’re Francis’s grandchildren?”
Abbey’s phone vibrated. A text from Caleb flashed on the screen.
< come now can’t stall much longer >
“I have to go, Mrs. Forrester. We’ll try to come back soon!”
Mrs. Forrester ripped two pieces of paper out of the notebook and thrust them at
Abbey, who grabbed them without looking as she ran out of the room and down the stairs as fast as she could go.
Her brother… with red hair? Had the woman meant Abbey’s dad? Old people often thought middle-aged people were young. Or was it someone else?
In the stairwell, Abbey risked a quick look at the first drawing. The short parallel lines formed a ring, to which Mrs. Forrester had added a nose, eyes, feet and a tail—a porcupine? And next to it was what appeared to be a ladder. A porcupine and a ladder?
She reached the door that swung out into the hall next to the lobby, folded the drawings, and stuffed them in her pocket.
*****
Mark sat on the couch next to Simon while Ms. Beckham scurried around in the kitchen fixing Simon some soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Things had calmed down considerably since he had first arrived back at the house and rung the doorbell. He didn’t know why he had done this—normally he just walked in—but perhaps he had thought that ringing the doorbell would somehow alert Ms. Beckham and Mr. Sinclair to the gravity of the situation. An extremely agitated phone call had been underway between Ms. Beckham and, Mark guessed, his sister Sandy as to the location of Abbey, Caleb, and Mark, but when Mark arrived, the phone had been immediately hung up, and Mark had been grilled instead. Of course Ms. Beckham had asked him about the whereabouts of Abbey and Caleb, to which he could only answer that he didn’t know, which caused even more agitation. Mark had been forced to sink to his knees and cover his ears until Mr. Sinclair told his wife to calm down and just call Abbey and Caleb. But then Abbey had called herself and announced that they were at the hospital.
Mark had then been escorted to the couch and told to stay put while Mr. Sinclair went to get Abbey and Caleb. So here he was, sitting next to a quiet Simon, who was playing a game on his phone, while pots and pans and plates banged around in the kitchen.
He wondered if Dr. Ford was still waiting down the road, if Mr. Sinclair had seen him, and how much trouble he would be in if he didn’t show up with the maps, which were still stuffed in his shirt.
He really ought to go downstairs and continue examining them. But he was afraid to move.
He excused himself to use the bathroom. Simon just squinted at him with a raised eyebrow. Mark was very careful to shut the bathroom door loudly so Ms. Beckham would know that was where he was. Then he cranked open the bathroom window and stared out.
Dr. Ford remained parked on the side street where he had dropped Mark, but the funny man with the beret who had called off the dog now leaned in Dr. Ford’s window. A few seconds later, the engine on the Sidekick fired up, and Dr. Ford sped away.
Mark tried a few deep, cleansing breaths. He was home. But now Dr. Ford would be angry with him. And he no doubt still wanted the maps.
Mark closed the window, flushed the toilet, and removed the maps carefully from his shirt, flattening them on the counter. He focused on the third map this time. The map he had previously not been able to see anything special on. He ran the water and examined the map until his eyes hurt and he was sure Ms. Beckham would come looking for him. Then he exited the bathroom, still clutching the maps, and returned to his spot across from Simon. The Sinclairs were all used to seeing him holding maps.
Farley drifted by slobbering and panting. Mark lifted the maps in the air in alarm, holding them well out of reach of Farley. He put the first two maps down on the end table beside him and continued to hold the third map up in the air. He still saw absolutely nothing of interest on it. It was exactly the same as the other maps, but with no unusual markings.
Mark bowed his head to think.
“You know there’s a watermark on that map, right?”
Simon’s voice startled Mark. He jumped and very nearly crumpled the map again. Then he stared at it.
“Maybe you can only see it from this side,” Simon said. “The light’s shining through it.”
Mark stood and flipped the map around, holding it up to the window. Sure enough, there on the back of the map was an oddly shaped letter M. He flipped the map around, and now that he knew where it was, he could make the letter out. It had been disguised by the hachures and other texturing the mapmaker had used to show relief.
M… Mark racked his brain for the name of the mapmaker that the map librarian had given him when they were on the other side. But as with emotions, he had a hard time with names, as they attached a more unique identity to people than he was readily capable of. Which was why he knew them as the bad man (Sylvain), the very bad man (Dr. Ford), and the very, very bad men (those men in black with dogs). He had the names Abbey, Caleb, and Simon down now. And he was working on Ms. Beckham and Mr. Sinclair. But the unknown mapmaker? He had nothing, except a strange feeling that his name started with the letter M.
Then the van pulled into the driveway and Abbey and Caleb spilled out, and Ms. Beckham went to greet them and there were some words exchanged in a tone that did not make Mark altogether comfortable, but then everyone hugged everyone and it all seemed okay, except nobody was smiling. So Mark continued to sit on the couch until everyone disappeared into the kitchen and he felt okay about slipping down to his room at last.
*****
Abbey pushed her chicken around on her plate. Despite Simon’s return home, dinner wasn’t proving to be a festive affair. Simon’s arraignment hearing was scheduled for the following week, and Gretchen Leer had been appointed as interim mayor, which neither of her parents were happy about. And even though Simon had given Abbey’s fingers a squeeze when she’d hugged him earlier, he’d lapsed into a stony dark silence by dinnertime. The adults in the house paraded about the kitchen wearing stern and grieving expressions.
Caleb decided to spend the evening watching a movie with Simon, which left Abbey to her own devices. As soon as she was excused, she retreated to her room, grateful to be away from the gloom in the kitchen.
They had told their parents little about what had happened at the college that afternoon—just that they had gone to get the map, Sanome had gotten hurt, Mark had opted to go home, and they had gotten on the wrong bus. Basically a whole bunch of outright lies. Yet after all the day’s other events—Mom resigning as mayor; Simon’s subsequent release; the shock of coming home to find their children missing—their parents seemed too stressed to handle anything more. Abbey knew her parents were keeping secrets, and of course she, Caleb, and Simon were keeping secrets. They were one big secretive family, and it made Abbey’s stomach hurt.
The pieces of paper that Mrs. Forrester had given her lay on her desk. The first sheet showed the porcupine next to the ladder. Mrs. Forrester’s rendering seemed almost cute. Except Abbey was sure that it wasn’t some sort of warning to watch for adorable porcupines in the woods. The second sheet contained even less information. Just five short parallel lines.
She opened up Facebook and checked Sam’s status. Today, instead of a quote, Sam had done a drawing of two stick men embracing: one was labeled “Sam” and the other was labeled “antimatter Sam,” and the subsequent drawing showed the complete annihilation of everything. Sam was known for his diagrams depicting famous physics problems, and Abbey almost laughed. He was obviously illustrating the quote about time travel from Paul Gott in his book Time Travel in Einstein’s Universe.
“Sam can help” the text had said. But what would she ask him: How do you get to a parallel universe? What does phi mean to you? How about a porcupine and a ladder? She had to start with something.
She wrote six drafts of her message before she finally decided on: “Hope you are doing well. Loved your antimatter Sam. I’m doing a paper on parallel universes, any suggestions regarding articles? Like don’t go researching anything. Just if you know any off the top of your head.” Off the top of your brilliant head, Abbey thought, but then she spent a little more time thinking about Sam’s sky blue eyes than she should. She pressed enter before she could chicken out.
The next morning, well before the darkness of the November sky h
ad lifted, Abbey heard the faint clatter of the front door opening and closing. Farley remained silent, which meant it had to be someone from within the household. She shifted out of bed in silence and tweaked open one of the slats of her bedroom blinds. In the pool of streetlight, Abbey could just make out her mother ascending Coventry Hill. Farley bounded ahead of her gleefully, his otter tail aloft.
So. Her mother was still using the stones. For what? For medical treatment? Or something else?
It took Abbey a long time to fall back to sleep.
10. The Rat in the Room
Abbey awoke for the second time to hear her mother speaking in harsh tones in the office. She leapt out of bed in alarm, but realized that it was almost nine o’clock and that her mother was fine. She was calling for Abbey’s father to come and look at something.
“I can’t believe she’d do this,” her mother said in a loud voice.
Abbey emerged from her room to see her parents huddled around the computer in the office, staring at a document on the screen.
“What’s going on?” Abbey said, rubbing her eyes.
Her father turned around. “I’m afraid our new mayor has added an item to the agenda for the council meeting tonight that your mother’s not too happy about.”
“What?”
“Allowing for development sites on Coventry Hill.”
“Oh.”
Her parents exchanged more grim looks that implied that there was a lot that Abbey didn’t know, and would unlikely be told.
“It still has to go to second and third reading, Marian. Then they have to post a rezoning notice, and approve it, and then someone actually has to buy it. Nothing is going to happen any time soon,” her father said.
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