by Barry Klemm
But Felicity already knew that. And he had been good enough to call her and tell her he was leaving.
She had hurried to the rehab centre where he made his home for the present but it was hard to say why she should be concerned. This was what she expected, the way she expected it. Everything was happening normally—still she found she fretted. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?” she asked, leaning on the door jamb, her arms folded in front of her.
Kevin Wagner threw a casual wave as he blew the dust off his spare shoes.
“Thataway. West. Australia, I guess.”
“How will you get there?”
“Fly. I do possess a current pilot’s licence, you know.”
“You mean, fly yourself?”
“Sure. I can hire a plane. No problem.”
“I don’t think your medical condition...”
He stopped her with his winning smile. The deep lines either side of his mouth, the lights in his eyes, the kindness in his voice, all soothed her such as that she could feel it physically.
“My medical condition is absolutely excellent,” he was saying, “thanks to your skills, Felicity. And you know it.”
It was true. When fully clothed, there was no trace of his injuries to be seen, except a slight limp and a scar across his chin. And the suddenly white hair. And the deep seated sadness that he subtly exuded despite his bright outlook on life. He was ready for adventure, to test himself out against the world and she knew she should have been delighted.
“I was thinking about the state of agitation that seems to accompany your present condition. Surely it won’t sit well with piloting a plane.”
“Felicity, I know what to expect. We’ve been through it, studied it from every direction. I know my limitations and for a pilot, that’s the ball game.”
The bag was packed, he was gathering wallet and watch and glancing in the mirror with a quick sweep of his hand through his hair. “I’ll drive you to the airport,” she suddenly proposed.
He picked up the bag and stopped in front of her, moving toward the doorway where she stood, blocking his way. “Don’t be silly. I know you’re up to your neck with patients as usual. There are cabs waiting at the rank right outside. Don’t worry.”
He even pecked her cheek. Just like a real husband, except Wendell never kissed her lightly.
Now she backed off to let Kevin Wagner through. “You’ll call me and let me know where you are,” she insisted.
He waved his mobile phone at her. “Every day. Count on it.”
He walked down the steps and went out into the early morning haze.
Felicity remained, leaning on the wall. Her apprehension was immeasurable. But he was right—she did have work to do. Heaps of it. And all the more because of this occurrence. She watched Wagner all the way to the cab—he did not look back or wave. She gave him a bewitching wrinkle of her nose to make him disappear.
She walked slowly back toward the main building, as if deeply contemplative, but in fact she was busy shutting out thoughts and doubts because this was all as planned, and she knew exactly what she had to do next. She passed by casualty to assure herself that chaos had not ensued the moment her back was turned and then took the elevator to Barbara Crane’s office. It was after six, Barbara and her staff had sensibly gone home but by prior arrangement, Felicity had a key and let herself in.
She turned on the computer and brought up a special file of names, addresses and telephone numbers that she had prepared in advance for this moment.
She dialled the number for Lorna Simmons and got no answer but that was hardly surprising—it was just after six in Auckland. Christine Rice was not at home either. Wasn’t she supposed to be married by now? She would try them again later.
Next, realising it would be after three in Perth, she called Fairhaven Hospital and was informed that Mr Joseph Solomon had been discharged a week ago. There was a number for his brother and she tried that and had her first success. “No, he isn’t here, Doctor. I put him on the train to the east coast a couple of hours ago.”
“East coast where exactly.”
“He said he’d decide that when he got to Adelaide.”
“When are you expecting him back?”
“He cleared all his appointments until late next week.”
“He’s back in his practice then?”
“Oh yes. Got a new ground floor office and put ramps all over the place and he’s doing fine.”
She left a message for a return call and hung up.
The next contact number was for a Mr Tierney in Brisbane who was Andromeda Starlight’s manager. The paging service made the connection to a number further afield.
“Mr Tierney, I am trying to contact Miss Starlight...”
“Sorry, love. Don’t handle her no more.”
“Oh, I see. Can you give me a number I can call her on?”
“She don’t have a phone. She don’t live nowhere. She’s run out on me one time too many and I’ve had it with her.”
“Do you know where she was going?”
“Don’t know and don’t care.”
And he hung up. Felicity smiled to herself as she dialled the final number.
Judy Carrick remembered her and they could chat freely—it almost came as a blessed relief. “No, I’m sorry doctor. He’s gone walkabout again.”
“You mustn’t worry yourself, Judy. It does seem to be normal for someone in his condition.”
She was startled by what she was willing to call normal these days.
“They were going to lock him up. There were charges laid last time because he stole their truck but he just got a bond. First offence. Now he’s pinched another truck and gone again.”
“He’ll be back—within three days if my information proves correct.”
“There was talk about putting him in a home.”
“A psychiatric institution, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s right. What do you think, doctor?”
“I should think that to be completely unnecessary, Judy. Apart from these brief periods of restlessness, he ought to be fine...”
“He isn’t.”
“I’ve spoken to his local doctor and rehabilitation officer and they said he was fine.”
“Well he isn’t.”
“Could you explain how...”
“He used to be a good man, hard-working, devoted to his family and thoughtful. Now he’s just a layabout and doesn’t care about anything.”
“Oh. I see. Judy, I’d like to look into this matter, if I may. Can I call you again?”
“If you want.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch. And in the meanwhile, don’t worry. There are a number of others with his condition that I know of and none of them have come to any harm. I should think Brian will be fine.”
“What is his condition exactly, Doctor?”
“That is what we are trying to work out. I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your frankness, Judy. Goodbye.”
Felicity Campbell leaned back in Barbara Crane’s chair. She had told a lie. She had said that none of them had come to any harm when in fact she knew no such thing. But even at this distance, she could sense Judy Carrick’s stressed condition and knew instinctively that a palliative was needed if they were to get through this. There was one more number on her list and she dialled it immediately, without dispensing with her worried look. She had no idea what time it was in America and didn’t care.
“Professor Thyssen please.”
*
Jami Shastri sat huddled and blinked like a creature unfamiliar with daylight, but that, Harley Thyssen knew, was just his imagination. When he called her and instructed her to report to his office immediately, she asked him: “Is it day or night out there?”
“It’s an hour before that great supper I’ll buy you at Kandinsky’s if you tell me what I want to hear.”
“Harley, I only ever tell you what you want to hear. It’s faculty policy.”
“Ma
ke haste, girl. I’m finally giving you your freedom.”
“Define freedom.”
“You go where I tell you and do what I say. Glen is taking over down there.”
“Oh great. I do all the footslogging and just when we’re ready to get to the interesting modelling stuff, you take it away from me.”
“Glen is better at modelling than you are. But he would never have worked as diligently gathering the data as you have. Why do I need to explain the obvious?”
“I thought somebody said that slavery has been abolished in this country.”
“It’s not slavery—it’s exploitation of unemployed youth. Come on, we’re in a hurry here. The way out is down the corridor on your left.”
“I’ve been living the lifestyle of a cockroach, Harley. Freedom will require a period of adjustment.”
“Get your cheeky Hindu ass here now. And bring all the data.”
“All the data is on the network.”
“I know it is. But I want you to bring all the stuff you don’t want anyone else to see as well.”
He gazed at the window thoughtfully as he hung up. As she trudged across the campus, she would surely notice the darkness and desertion—it was way past midnight and Kandinsky’s would be closed.
When she appeared in his office ten minutes later, he had made her coffee as a bribe. She walked in with her hands pressed into the pockets of her jacket, looking like she was just off the set of West Side Story. One of those pockets, he hoped desperately, contained scraps of paper on which she had made private notes.
“Black and two sugars. How sweet of you to remember.”
Thyssen managed to smile as he gazed across the desk at her dark face. She looked desperately tired. Thyssen remembered the skinny little girl with no friends, shy and bewildered by advanced civilisation, as she was at the time her brilliant intelligence had first caught his attention. She had come a long way from village life since then, and seemed to have taken on all the worst that America had to offer—fast food, substance abuse, alienation, and with no defence except a fierce line of aggressive retorts.
Now, her somewhat blotchy colouring plainly indicated the diet of fast food she had lived on throughout her manic hibernation in his basement. She might have been hopelessly insecure but she was the best student he had ever produced and the way she bluffed and blustered her way through life suggested that she had little grasp on the extent of her own brilliance.
“What have you got for me?” he asked as he sat down.
“It’s all there,” she said, gesturing toward his computer terminal.
“No it isn’t. A prediction of the next occurrence of the Shastri Effect isn’t to be found there anywhere.”
She pouted and threw a shrug at him. “Insufficient data to make any such prediction. Christ, Harley, there have only been three instances.”
Thyssen nodded. He offered her a cigarette and they both lit up in bland defiance of departmental regulations. But at this time of night all of the departmental toadies had gone home. As had anyone else with any respect for their own wellbeing.
“Naturally. Now make a guess.”
“I’m a well trained scientist who would never make such a conjectural leap.”
“Assume I have thrown you to the floor and twisted your arm up your back.”
“Somewhere about ten thousand miles northwest of here, next week maybe.”
“My data says Monday,” Thyssen smiled.
That threw her. She gave the sort of frown that he liked best—the moment when the outstanding protege realises that the master is still the master.
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t know that?”
“No. But I can guess it.”
“How?”
“I’m the boss. You have to explain your guess first.”
From her pocket, she produced the scrap of paper he had been hoping for. “There is a sequence developing of some kind,” she said, rotating the tightly folded sheet until it was right way up. “For instance, Ruapehu was 6.3 on the scale, Gran Canaria was 6.5, Terra de Fuego was 6.7, so we could possibly assume 6.9 this time.”
“Let’s assume. What else?”
“Location is impossible. There is no recognisable relationship between the angles or the distances associated with the three points. All we have is an irregular triangle.”
“Which is meaningless.”
“True. However, we do have the sequencing relationship Southern Hemisphere, Northern, then Southern again so that possibly narrows us down to the Northern Hemisphere this time.”
“The situation improves immeasurably.”
“And the fact that all of the incidents occurred on or near islands located in the largest oceans, respectively, the South Pacific, North Atlantic and Southern Oceans, which suggests the North Pacific Ocean this time.”
Thyssen gave out a snort which might have been laughter. “Very iffy.”
“I know, but its the best we can do until we have a few more instances and Glen can develop the models.”
“Okay, and time?”
He was toying with her, and she hated it. He had said Monday. None of the numbers she had conjured could possibly add up to that. With a sigh of defeat, she continued. “The dates have a decreasing pattern. 23rd of June, 28th of September, 23rd of December. Periods of 97 days and 86 days. If the rate of decrease had been maintained, it would have been 75 days, Saturday March 8th, which was yesterday. The average is 91.5 days which is 25th of March. However, the first knowable date is the minimum, 86 days again, which is ten days from now.”
“Very good.”
“But you said tomorrow.”
“I did.”
“It’s not likely. Two of the three incidents already happened on a Monday. The third was a Wednesday. Another occurrence of a Monday is statistically improbable.”
“Let’s steer clear of superstition, shall we? It will be Monday.”
Jami grinned. Harley Thyssen did not usually commit himself to anything. If he proved to be wrong, her delight would be immeasurable.
“Okay. Your turn.”
“Our doctor in New Zealand, the delightful Mrs Campbell, was very thorough. On both prior occasions, her patient became agitated for thirty-three hours and then calmed at the moment of the incident.”
“Doesn’t prove much.”
“No. But the lemmings walked off the cliffs of the Canaries again thirty-four hours before Terra de Fuego.”
“Better.”
“And Doctor Campbell cites two instances each regarding two other patients—the one that escaped from the hospital in Perth twice and the chap who keeps stealing trucks in Melbourne. All between thirty and thirty-six hours in advance of an incident.”
“It does become interesting.”
“Indeed, and guess what?”
“They’re on the move?”
“All of them. The good doctor checked. All six of them on the move in the past couple of hours. Which means the event occurs in roughly thirty hours. Six in the morning, Monday, our time.”
Jami laughed. “Is that all?”
“Not enough for you?”
“We really don’t have much, Harley. Just a few vague guesses.”
“True, but since that’s all we have, let’s go with it.”
She shrugged a throwaway gesture. “Okay. Consider me persuaded. So what do we do?”
“Our subjects are on the move and so should we be. Pack your bag and grab your passport and be ready to go wherever the hit occurs. Get there, commandeer whatever and whoever you need—use my name for authority, whatever that may be worth—and do whatever is necessary to fill all the gaps in your data.”
“And where will you be?”
“I’ll be linking up with Felicity Campbell in New Zealand. I want to find out how these people are connected, where they are going, and why.”
*
The dun yellow and drab green of the Australian landscape stretched out beneath him, reaching toward a purple-grey
haze that obscured the horizon. He shifted the controls lightly, adjusting to the vibration caused as the rotor blades flapped against the thermals.
It was great to be flying again, to be testing himself, showing what the human spirit and body could do if it had to. Initially there had been disappointment when he had been unable to hire a plane in Wellington with the range to fly the Tasman Sea. He had plenty of money, but suitable aircraft simply weren’t available at such short notice. He had wasted a great deal of frustrating time arguing with operators and airport officials before finally resorting to the commercial airlines.
Qantas landed him in Sydney—far wide of his destination but there he was able to hire this nifty two-seater helicopter with enough range to get him to Albury where he refuelled. And now he was closing in on his destination—he could feel it in every part of his body.
He felt good. Felicity’s fears about his strength were completely unfounded. It was a fabulous sensation. They had smashed him to smithereens but the body fought back with everything it had and restored every part, as good or better than before. Well, almost. There were scars, everywhere. Great chunks gouged from his buttocks and grafted to his chest, right shoulder, back and both thighs. There was a problem with his liver that they had not quite resolved, which caused him to fart rather more often than was socially acceptable and one lung pierced by his shattered ribs would never again attain full function. But all that was minor. Sure, he’d never play football again and might have trouble scaling the higher alps or diving to the greater depths. But really, he was fine.
It was great to be reborn, reinvented, reconstructed, whatever. It made his past life seem as if it had never happened, or was a movie he saw once. He closed his mind with an effort that was almost physical every time the past tried to intrude. “You’re in denial,” the psychologist said. You bet he was. And he was going to keep it that way.
Occasionally, less frequently now, images of Sally, or the kids, would try to creep in from the periphery. He struck them away with actual physical movements, thrusting his mind into the present, the immediate. At night he dreamed about them but his dreams were all so painful that he awoke, sweating and terrified. Grimly, he would force them from his conscious. Only then would sleep return.
