“Certainly,” Igor the Terrible declared magnanimously. He said to Corrigan, “We’ll talk more later.”
“Sure,” Bain responded.
Archie grabbed Corrigan by the elbow and led him to an open area at the edge of the garden. “Mr. Bain,” he began, “Do you know what I am about to ask you?’
He looked bemused. “Yes.”
“I thought you might. How far into the future can you see, precisely?”
* * *
“It’s not nearly as clean as all that,” Corrigan was saying. He and Archie had retired to his study, a room in the back of their home that afforded a view of the garden and of the guests, who were now officially on autopilot. Veronica seemed to have reached some sort of cognitive dissonance regarding her importance to the continued entertainment of the partygoers.
Archie had been attempting to liken Corrigan Bain’s foresight to catching a television show as it aired live on the East coast, then calling a friend on the West coast before it aired there. He was really just looking for some parameters.
“All right,” he began, “let’s get after the basics. Right now, at this very moment, can you hear me speaking this sentence to you?”
“Sure.”
“And this moment is the present.”
“If you say so.”
“You’re hedging. Explain.”
Corrigan leaned back and gave it his best shot. He did not seem to be a man who put a great deal of thought into how things worked.
More of a doer, Archie reflected.
“The point where you just stated we were in the present, that happened a good five or six seconds ago. When you said it, I also heard my response, your counter response, and part of the explanation I’m now in the middle of. All at the same time.”
“My Lord,” Archie said. “How do you function?”
“Cause-and-effect, mostly.”
“But that doesn’t explain how you ended up at my party.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What is the mechanism behind that?”
“I don’t know. I just know to turn up at certain places at certain times.”
“But you don’t know why, or how that information arrives.”
“Nope.” Corrigan stuffed a shrimp puff into his mouth, finishing off the last of the plate he’d brought into the house with him. Archie was hungry himself but planned to ignore the pangs until each dish had been scoured thoroughly for traces of nuts.
“Do you at least wonder?” Archie asked.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “As much good as wondering can do.”
Archie changed tactics. “All right, so you were here, and you saw that I was about to eat something that had peanuts in it.”
“Yeah. Too bad about that, by the way. Must be tough.”
“I just learn to read ingredients very carefully,” Archie said. “Let me ask you this, did you see me eat the food in the future?”
Corrigan nodded. “And then you started choking and grabbing your throat. It was either that the food was lodged there or you had a bad allergy. I guessed the second.”
“But you stopped me.”
“Yeah . . .” Corrigan didn’t appear to follow where this was going.
“Then what happened to the future you saw?” Archie asked.
“It disappeared.”
Archie leaned forward. “Think carefully. Did you see only one future, or did you see different futures contingent upon your actions?”
Corrigan smiled. Actually, he was smiling before Archie asked the question. When the professor would replay this conversation later, he would reflect that Mr. Bain could be rather eerie at times.
“I only see one future,” Corrigan said. “And it’s the one where something bad happens. My actions are completely off the script.”
Archie smiled. “Of course. You would have to.” This for once piqued Corrigan’s curiosity.
“Why is that?”
“It couldn’t be one of those Path A or Path B problems. Given five or ten seconds you might end up looking at dozens of potential outcomes that would be noticeable on a macroscopic scale. And with each second, those dozens of outcomes might spawn a dozen more apiece. You would easily become so confused as to be rendered insane.”
“Well. That’s not good.”
“No,” Archie mused. “So let’s say you see only one future. But as I said, dozens of possible futures present themselves every second of every day throughout the entire universe, and they are all contingent upon what is happening in the now. The question, then, is not why do you see only one future, but why do you see one particular future?”
Corrigan just smiled. “You think too hard,” he said.
“It’s my calling.”
“Fair enough. But my calling has me showing up about ten blocks from here in another twenty minutes.” He stood. “So, I’d better get going.”
Archie stood as well. “Is there a way I can contact you in the future?”
“I’m in the book. Why? You planning on eating a nut sometime soon?”
“I may have some more questions for you.”
“Maybe you should give me a chance to get drunk first next time,” Corrigan said. “You got my head spinning too much as it is.”
They shook hands, and then Archie let Corrigan show himself out. His head was spinning, too, but for different reasons. He had an idea.
I’m going to need a mathematician and an experimentalist, he thought. For although he was quite proficient in the high-level mathematics required for probing the concepts now bouncing around in his head, he was not a gifted mathematician. And when it came to designing experiments, he couldn’t imagine anyone worse than himself.
Fortunately, Michael Offey was both of those things. And he was still standing in Archie’s garden.
It looks like I finally have something worth talking about at one of these damn things.
Chapter Five
Now
Corrigan snapped his eyes open at five in the morning, fully awake and wishing he weren’t. It was one of the quirks of his existence, this phenomenon wherein he transitioned from totally asleep to completely awake immediately, whether or not he even wanted to be awake.
He usually didn’t. Many times—every day, really—he made an honest effort to go back to sleep, but it simply never worked out; he was awake, and that was that. As he reluctantly climbed out of bed, he reflected that at least on this night he didn’t have any dreams.
The condo’s lone bedroom was almost exactly opposite, floor plan-wise, to the living/dining area. It was a bit smaller than the living room but had a nicer array of windows, said windows facing northwest and thus not catching the first sunlight of the day. That feature alone meant the place cost an extra fifty thousand, because nobody outside of pharmaceutical commercials actually liked waking up to sunlight on their face.
Walking naked to the window, Corrigan pulled aside the curtains—which came with the apartment, as it would not have occurred to him to purchase any—and took a look at the world. At this time of day there wasn’t a lot to see. Cambridge Street, which would morph into Memorial Drive further down, was largely empty, as was Storrow Drive across the river. Beyond Storrow lay Boston in all its crowded and confused glory, a patchwork collection of buildings varied in age from two hundred years old to just last week, depending on the block and sometimes on the street number. Later, hundreds of cars would be speeding along both sides of the river in a reckless fashion, but at this moment the city looked like a peaceful place to be. Which was probably why he often found himself staring at this view at this time for quite a while.
The bed groaned and made a lip-smacking noise. He glanced over and took note of the tousled mane of copper-red hair sticking up out of one end of his comforter. Maggie spent the night, he remembered. Further evidentiary proof of this lay on the floor in the form of female-shaped undergarments and a pair of slacks that would definitely not have fit Corrigan. He smiled and briefly considered hoppin
g back into bed for a while after all. But no, he had to get to work.
He headed out of the bedroom and into the study, which was just one door down the hall. It was meant to be a smaller second bedroom, but as it had only one window and was barely half the size of the main bedroom, Corrigan had never seriously considered it anything except a study. And he had no need for a second bedroom anyway.
He turned on his computer and an adjustable desk lamp that was directed at the wall. Taped there was a large map showing Boston and the suburbs, with dozens of red dots marked on it. These were the places he’d already been in the past six months. Time for a new map again, he thought.
The computer beeped for attention. He ignored it and stepped up to the map. It was time to go to work.
Standing an arm’s length away from the wall, he closed his eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths and then raised his right arm, opened his eyes, and moved his hand slowly across the map. To someone peeking in, he might have looked like a blind man trying to read Braille graffiti. That he was doing it naked might have taken more explaining, but the simple answer was that he just hadn’t seen the need to put anything on. You get used to a lot of things when you live alone.
The map was cool to the touch as he first ran his hand along the top of it and worked his way down with the practiced route of a Zamboni, finding no reason to pause after his first pass. For a second the thought crossed his mind that he might get a day off, which was great news for someone who had a girl in his bed. But on his second try, he hit upon something warm. He backtracked. Yes, definitely. Something was going to happen there. He circled the spot with his index finger, whirling tighter and tighter, until the finger stopped moving.
“Ready. Corner of Myrtle and Irving,” he announced slowly and clearly. The computer beeped emphatically and recorded the information for him. Resting his palm over the spot on the map, he closed his eyes again and concentrated on the intersection. And waited. Finally. “Ready. Three twenty-seven.” The computer beeped again.
It took him a couple years to cobble together the programs he needed, but now it worked beautifully, taking the voice commands and turning them into map coordinates, then noting the spoken time, and when he was finished, putting it all together and creating an itinerary. Once that was set all he had to do was ask it to plot the trip for him and send it to the printer. Most days he didn’t have to touch the keyboard at all, which was good, as he’d never gotten past two-finger typing.
With the first appointment recorded, he stepped back into first position and began sweeping the map again. Ten more minutes of searching yielded two additional appointments, and then he swept the map for another five minutes before he was completely satisfied he hadn’t missed anybody. “Done,” he announced for the record. The computer chirped twice, the hard drive whirred appreciatively, and the printer woke up and started cleaning itself. Corrigan wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, marked the new spots with his red marker, and headed for the bathroom.
The shower was already running.
“Good morning,” he said, letting himself in. The condo’s bathroom was much larger than one would have expected, given the overall square footage, at least large enough that someone on the toilet might not feel like they were intruding overmuch on someone in the tub.
“Morning,” Maggie said from in the shower. “I didn’t want to interrupt the divining session.”
“It’s not divination,” he said whilst peeing. And peeing.
“Sure,” she said. “Call it what you want. Still freaks me out.”
“Me, too.”
“You ever wonder where it comes from?”
“All the time. But wondering about it doesn’t seem to change anything.”
“Still. If I were a religious person . . .”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that theory.”
She laughed. “I’m trying to picture you with a pair of wings.”
“That’s so hard?” he asked as he finished his duties at the toilet and flushed.
“After last night? Maybe a couple of horns and a tail would fit better.”
She shut off the shower. Corrigan elected not to watch her emerge from the bath and started instead to brush his teeth. He liked to think they were familiar enough with one another by now to share a bathroom without gawking.
“How’s your schedule?” she asked as she toweled herself off.
“Not bad,” he said through the toothpaste. “Three appointments, pretty spread out. Shouldn’t be a hassle.”
“You made any decisions yet? About the case?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m going to need an answer pretty soon. I am out on a limb for you here.”
His answer was to spit into the sink. Hers was to discard the towel and walk out of the bathroom. “I’m late,” she said as she went, while Corrigan watched her ass. Apparently he was not quite beyond gawking just yet. He rinsed and followed the ass back into the bedroom.
“My first appointment isn’t for another four hours,” he said, walking past her as she assembled her clothing on the bed.
“Yeah?” she said. “Nice job you got there. I have to get home for something clean and then make it to work by seven thirty. Have you seen my bra?”
“Under the lamp,” he said, lying back on the bed. “What you wore yesterday looks fine.”
She shot him a look that spoke entire paragraphs. The short version said, “No fucking way am I showing up in the same clothes and especially not after I told my boss whom I was going to be meeting.” The longer version had more swears in it and possibly a few remarks about Corrigan’s upbringing, but he got the idea. She fetched her bra from the nightstand and slipped it on with clinical efficiency.
“Can I ask you something without pissing you off?” Maggie asked. “Again, I mean. I know we’ve been through it before . . .”
“Maggie . . .”
“No, I’m not . . . I don’t want to push you. This is just me being curious here. No baggage. I swear.”
“Why don’t I quit,” he said.
“People have accidents every day, Corrigan. You said it yourself, you can’t save all of them. Not that it isn’t a noble cause. You’re just not . . .”
“A noble person?”
“Not what I meant. You don’t have to, is what I mean. The world will keep on spinning and all that.”
He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Honestly, I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel like something I can do right now. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” she repeated. “Sure.”
“Look, you said . . .”
“I know what I said. It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have asked.” She was now fully dressed except for the blouse and jacket, both of which were still in the living room. “None of my business. Sorry. Get back to me on the case, okay? I know what you think of Calvin, but you’d be working with me, not him. And I think it’d be good for you.”
“How so?”
“You look like you could use a change of pace.”
“I thought last night was a change of pace.”
“No, honey. Last night was business as usual for Corrigan Bain. Not that I’m complaining. Ciao.”
And with that she strolled out of the bedroom. It must have taken her only a few seconds to locate her remaining articles of clothing because a moment later he heard his front door slam.
He lay in bed for a while, wondering when he’d get around to really explaining his problem to Maggie. The truth was, a long time ago he made a promise to someone. That someone had been dead at the time the pact was transacted, but as far as he was concerned that didn’t change the nature of said pact. It just made it more difficult to get out of. And, of course, there were the nightmares.
“She wouldn’t understand,” he insisted to himself.
* * *
Maggie rode the elevator down to the garage and the car she’d left in the guest parking, and tried not to get angry enough to swear out loud,
or failing that, to at least wait until she’d gotten into the car.
Doing anything with Corrigan Bain was complicated—business or otherwise—and she’d already just doubled down on the complexity by hopping into his bed on the night she was supposed to be hiring him professionally as a consultant. And on top of that, she had to bring up The Topic. Again.
She chirped the car alarm off, slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and sat in the car and screamed for a few seconds, and when that didn’t help, she started the car and decided to take out her anger on the road instead.
Spending the night was never part of the plan. The plan was supposed to include a statement like, “I know we have this past and all, but I need to hire you as a consultant, so let’s shake hands and go to our respective homes.” She’d even practiced versions of it.
And if it had been a part of the plan, she would have had a change of clothing in the car.
She maneuvered the sedan up the narrow exit ramp and into the bright early-morning sun and squinted as her eyes adjusted. For some reason that was the part that always made her feel like she’d done something wrong, that flare of sunlight she had to cope with when coming out of Corrigan’s garage. It was as though she was being interrogated by the entire world.
Left onto Mem, onto Storrow and Soldier’s Field, and you’re good, she reminded herself. It was the shortest path between him and her Newton apartment, the path that ran against inbound traffic. She would still be late, but not so late she couldn’t blame it on fieldwork.
Her hand fell on the shoulder bag in the passenger seat, and her mind landed on the file in the bag she didn’t show Corrigan. Calvin, she thought. I could go see him on my way, write it up as a follow-up interview, and still walk in late.
It was a decent plan . . . except she had no new questions for Archie Calvin.
“You could ask him about Kilroy,” she said to herself. “Maybe he knows who the hell that is.”
* * *
Four Months Past
The sheet in Maggie’s hand was copied from the guest list at the wake for Professor Michael Offey. The list was huge. He was popular, and seemingly half the university had been at the service. Tracking down all the names and figuring out who needed to be talked to had taken much longer than it should have, but since she hadn’t been at the service, it was the only way to approach the matter.
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