The Pattern

by JT Kalnay

  “It was us,” Craig said slowly. All color drained from his face. His gaze wandered back over the cliff.

  “We don’t know that,” Tim argued.

  “Come on. Days after we release the vaccine? It had to be us,” Craig said. “Didn’t Jane say people sometimes GET polio from the polio vaccine? Don’t people GET a rash from a TB shot? We killed them….. I killed them.”

  “Calm down!” Tim ordered. “It might have been us. It might not. It might be the death throes of the virus. What we’ve got to do now is get to Jean’s and figure this thing out. Don’t jump to any conclusions. Maybe there’ll be more news by the time we get to Jean’s. And we know she’ll be looking into it. Now in the meantime, get it together.”

  Craig shook his head slowly. He scuffled a rock on the side of the road. Suddenly he kicked it and sent it arcing down towards the ocean. He watched as it disappeared farther and farther down the cliff. It seemed like the tumbling rock crystallized his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He took a step towards the guardrail.

  “CRAIG STOP,” Tim screamed. "STOP.”

  Craig slowed. Tim Ford moved towards him and pulled him back from the guardrail.

  “You say it wasn’t us. It might not be us. But your first reaction said otherwise. You yell for me to stop the car and then you jump out and yell some more. Now you try to tell me you didn’t think it was us? It had to be us. You know it,” Craig said.

  Tim released his hold.

  He hung his head.

  “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

  They slowly headed back to the car.

  September 9, 1994

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Assembled From Wire News Reports

  NTSB officials today announced the recovery of the flight recorder from the wreckage of US Air Flight 427.

  Chapter

  September 10, 1994

  Seattle, Washington

  “How’s he doing?” Jean Bennett asked Dr. Jane Brady.

  “I gave him something to calm him down, keep him quiet,” she said. “He’s really lost it though. He might need more than I can give. I mean, help that we can’t give.”

  Jean shook her head in understanding. “I feel so bad for him. I mean can you imagine how guilty he must feel?” Jean asked.

  “It was too soon,” Jane said.

  “Too soon for what?”

  “To get involved with him,” Jane answered.

  “Did you?”

  “In a way. I thought he might be able to understand what I’d been through. And what he’d been through. But it was too soon. He’s not over Stacey. Not really. When we went to Stinson Beach he was totally with me, and I saw what a great guy he could be. We had so much fun together. It was a moment in paradise. Then on our last walk, we walked all the way to the south end of the beach. There were some people climbing on some big old boulders down there. And that was it. He was gone. I guess she used to rock climb or something. It got him thinking about her. After that, it was like I wasn’t even there. I haven’t felt so empty in such a long time. And right after one of the most beautiful days and nights of my entire life. He really was okay until then. I really thought he wanted to be with me. I even thought I wanted to be with him. But it all went away so quickly. Just some kids on a rock and it was like I never existed. When we went to Yosemite he was so distant. He just hung out with his friend Rakesh and pined over the climbers. I don’t think he even minded that I stayed behind for a few days. He didn’t even say good-bye. He just left while I was spending the day watching people climb. And now this. I don’t know if he’ll ever make it back. If he wants to be back. If he’ll ever want me. Nobody might be there to stop him next time. And you know I couldn’t go through that again.”

  Jean walked over and embraced her friend. She felt her quiver and soon also felt her soft sniffles. Jean took Jane’s head on her shoulder, and held her like the child she momentarily was.

  September 10, 1994

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Assembled From Wire News Reports

  NTSB officials today announced that flight data from the black box flight recorder from US Air Flight 427 revealed no system malfunctions prior to the crash. Officials refused to confirm or deny reports that pilot error is now their primary theory for the crash. Airline officials “emphatically denied” earlier reports that the pilot and co-pilot are being investigated for allegedly drinking in an airport lounge two hours before their flight. NTSB officials did report that preliminary tests revealed no evidence of an explosion.

  Chapter

  September 11, 1994

  Seattle, Washington

  “I think we may have had something to do with it,” Tim Ford announced. Jean Bennett and Dr. Jane Brady looked up at him from Jean’s dinner table.

  “Why do you think that?” Jean asked.

  “It’s the network pattern. I found a spike like those before Charlotte and Nagoya and Fairchild. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s fairly conclusive,” Tim said morosely.

  Jane and Jean looked at each other.

  “Sometimes people have reactions to vaccines. It’s inevitable with so many different genetic possibilities. We could have caused it,” Jane agreed.

  “But that doesn’t mean you were wrong to launch the vaccine,” Jean said.

  “It means we killed one hundred and thirty people,” Tim said.

  “To save a million more,” Jean answered.

  “That might help later Jean. But it doesn’t help right now,” Tim said. “And it may never help him,” Tim said. He pointed to the bedroom where Craig lay in a fog of guilt. The three fell silent.

  “Have you seen anything else?” Jean asked.

  “No. But I’m going to keep looking,” Tim said.

  “So am I,” Jean said.

  “What do you mean?” Tim asked.

  “I’ve got people at AirCom doing what you’re doing. If they find any pattern they’re to report it to me immediately. They probably assume I’m trying to find a hacker, or a terrorist or something. Thank God terrorists haven’t figured out how to hack our planes yet,” Jean said. “Any time, day or night, they are supposed to call me. I finally had to give in and get one of these things,” Jean said. She held up a brand new pager.

  “I’ve also got one girl going back as far and wide as she can, looking through every network log she can find, to see if there’s any records with the pattern.”

  “She find anything?” Tim asked.

  “Yeah. She found a record in a Mexican system two days before a Lear Jet from Mexico crashed in Virginia. The pattern was almost a perfect match. And I did some follow up. One of the guys at the charter company in Mexico plays the game about six hours a day while he watches the phones and the counter.”

  “Damn,” Tim said.

  “There’s more. Two days before the crash, Stacey sent an email to that company.”

  “Shit,” Tim muttered.

  Jane stood up from the table.

  “I better go check on him,” Jane said suddenly. She abruptly left the room.

  “How’s she doing?” Tim whispered. He slipped into the chair beside Jean.

  “Craig losing it like this has really thrown her. Her first husband killed himself. He found out he had cancer and then killed himself. Blew his head off with a shotgun. Left a note saying he couldn’t face the chemo anymore and he hated being a freak. It’s why she switched from practice to research. She couldn’t see one more patient hurt the way her husband did. That was four years ago. Craig was the first guy she’d said more than hello/goodbye to since he died.”

  “Jesus,” Tim muttered.

  Jean lightly lifted her hand and gently placed it over Tim’s on the table. She looked into his eyes. A small smile, an echo of longing, and a moment of silent reflection on her good luck drifted across her face.

  “Jesus,” Tim repeated.

  #

  Dr. Jane Brady held Craig Walsh’s wrist with her f
ingertips. Her deep brown eyes focused on her watch.

  “How do you feel?” she asked in a detached bedside manner.

  “Like I’m in a phone booth. Or maybe wrapped up in a blanket. Mostly I don’t feel anything. Which I guess is good. And when I do feel something, I feel ashamed.”

  “Shame?” Jane asked.

  “Shame. I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. Of the pattern. Of the game. Of what I tried to do. Of everything.”

  “I understand,” she said. She gently placed his wrist across his chest, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She reached up and felt his forehead.

  “I’m no good for you,” Craig said.

  She removed her hand from his forehead, and her brow furrowed.

  “I’ll never be any good for you,” Craig added.

  She slowly stood, said nothing.

  “I think I need to be alone,” Craig said.

  She took a step back from the bed. She examined his face closely, and took a deep breath, knowing and hating what he was doing.

  “Fine. I’ll be in the next room with Jean and Tim if you need anything,” Jane said.

  “No. I mean I need to be alone. By myself. For a long time. Nobody around. Nobody leaving. Nobody loving. Just be alone,” Craig said.

  “Oh,” Jane said.

  “It’s all too much,” he said. “It’s Stacey. You know it. I know it. She still feels real to me. Sometimes when I sleep, which isn’t very often, I feel her. And then I see her in the wreckage, in the hospital. I don’t know why it was her, instead of me.”

  Jane looked at him and took another step back. “And you want to be alone with that?” she asked.

  Craig shook his head yes. His eyes avoided hers. The lie too much to bear.

  “From how much I know you, which obviously is very little, I think that’s a big mistake. I think you should be with someone. I think you desperately need someone to love, and to love you. For a little while at the beach, I thought it might be me. Obviously I was very mistaken.”

  Craig still looked anywhere but in her eyes.

  “I don’t need anyone,” Craig muttered.

  “So you want me to leave?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t take you back,” she said.

  “I know,” Craig answered.

  “You’ll think about me in Muir Woods. You’ll think about me at Stinson Beach. You’ll even think about me in your house, in your kitchen, in your bed. You’ll think about me and get all confused about whether Stacey will let you love me or whether you knew loved me before she left. Finally she’ll tell you it doesn’t matter either way, that it’s time to move on. And when she does you’ll want me back, and I won’t take you back,” she said.

  “I know,” Craig answered.

  “Ever,” Jane said.

  Craig tried, but could not look at her.

  “Are you going to kill yourself?” she asked.

  Craig didn’t answer. He stared off into an infinity of his own creation.

  “Fine. But me a man about it. Go away somewhere and do it by yourself. And don’t leave a mess for someone to clean up. You can feel as sorry for yourself as you want. It’s wrong but you can still do it. It’s wrong because you’ve still got so much to live for. And so much to give. People like you, and some people love you. Heaven help them. No matter what you’ve done, or what you’ve been through, people still love you. But you’re choosing not to see it. You’re choosing. It’s not something that’s happening to you. It’s something you’re choosing. Which is so stupid. Colossally stupid. Gigantically stupid. But it’s your choice. So, since it’s your choice, don’t make it someone else’s problem. I suggest a long leap from a tall cliff way far out in the woods. Let the vermin clean up after you.”

  #

  “What’s wrong?” Jean asked.

  “He decided there is no ‘us’,” Jane answered.

  “What?” Tim asked.

  “He told me to get lost. That he needed to be alone. Which is the last thing he wants or needs,” Jane said. Jean stared incredulously at her friend. Tim shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “He’ll want you back,” Tim said.

  “Like a spoiled child,” Jane answered. She got her jacket from the hall closet and reached for the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Jean said.

  “His loss,” Jane flipped. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Chapter

  September 18, 1994

  Seattle, Washington

  “Hi I’m home,” Jean Bennett called out. Late afternoon sunlight, a kind only seen in the early fall in the Pacific Northwest tickled in through the floor to ceiling west facing windows. Tim was propped near the side of the window in a thickly padded window seat. A faint breeze stirred the long, sheer, white gossamer curtains as he worked. No-one ever looked more peaceful.

  “Hi Jean. In here. Tough day at the office?” Tim Ford asked.

  “Tough. But good. Come here. I’ve got to show you something.

  Tim noted the excitement through the tiredness in her voice. Jean went to the chipped Formica table in the kitchen and spread out twenty 8.5 x 11 laser printouts of time line graphs.

  “Look at these ten,” Jean said. She pointed to one group. “Recognize that pattern?” she asked.

  “Yes I do,” Tim said. “It’s the game signature.”

  “Now look at these,” she said. Tim scanned through the next ten.

  “I see it,” Tim said. “What is it?”

  “Jane thinks it’s an immune response from the machines once they’ve identified the game,” Jean said.

  Tim leaned in closer to look. He laid one of the immune graphs over the pattern graphs and held them up to the light. He smiled.

  “Maybe this is what you’re looking for?” Jean asked. She passed over a sheet with the immune pattern and the game pattern on the same axis.

  “It’s the same initial spike, but then there’s this dip and a smaller spike and a smaller dip and then another smaller spike and so on until it reduces to nothing.”

  “What systems are these from?” Tim asked.

  “Autopilot systems in active airframes. We’ve been running some additional tracking code. None of these lead to any incidents, although one pilot reported that his plane unexpectedly tried to turn left on him for about five seconds.”

  “It’s working,” Tim said.

  “I think so too. And so does Jane.”

  “I wish Craig could see this,” Tim said.

  “So do I,” Jean answered. “Has anyone heard from him?”

  “No. Not since he left last week. God only knows what he’s done.”

  “We did everything we could. In the end, he just didn’t want our help,” Jean asked.

  “How’s Jane?” Tim asked.

  “She’s a little better. I can tell she misses him in some way. He really hurt her. But it opened her up. She feels again. She’s finally moving on, from everything.”

  Tim nodded his head in understanding.

  “She’s got a trip coming up. She’s going to give a seminar at the University of Colorado, in Boulder. And then hang out there for a while with some people she said she wanted to get to know better. I think there might be a boy she met at Yosemite living there. So, basically she’s taking a long overdue and well-deserved sabbatical.”

  “Cool,” Tim answered.

  “And get this. She said she wants to improve her Scrabble game.”

  “Scrabble?” Tim asked.

  Jean shook her head.

  “So what did you do today?” Jean asked.

  “I finished the paperwork the lawyer sent over so I can incorporate the business,” Tim said.

  “So you’re official?”

  “Pretty soon. As soon as he can get it all filed and stamped and whatever. He said it’d be about another week or so.”

  “Awesome,” Jean said.

  “I still wished you’d come into the business with me,” Tim said.

 
“We already talked about that. Remember? Let’s see how this ‘living together’ thing works out. One step at a time. We might make each other nuts if we had to work together too,” Jean said.

  “You’re right,” Tim said. He moved closer to Jean and gathered her into a tight embrace. “One step at a time.”

  Chapter

  The Same Time

  West of Granite, Colorado

  “One step at a time,” Craig repeated for the thousandth time that day.

  The fall sun was hanging low in the west. Cerulean skies stretched to infinity in all directions. The Sangre De Cristo Mountains peaked up to the south, Mt. Elbert blocked the view to the North, the Maroon Bells glistened to the west, and Pike’s Peak was an unformed idea in the east.

  Craig made the last step to the top of La Plata Peak. Eight hours of free soloing up the Ellingworth Ridge route had brought him to the peak. In the summer, maybe a couple of dozen hikers would have visited the peak, hiking up the tourist route. But now, after Labor Day, with snow up high, he was alone.

  “You would have liked that route Stacey,” he said. He spoke like she was right there. “I didn’t bring enough water, and I’m a little dehydrated, but it’s just a walk off the other side. I’ll be okay.”

  “What?”

  “No I am not trying to kill myself up here.”

  “My nails?”

  “Yeah, they’re a little blue.”

  “My underwear?”

  “Yeah, it’s a little wet.”

  “Hypothermia? Not me. What? Alright I’ll hurry.”

  Craig stripped off his wet under things, changed into a dry set he was carrying, and then sat for a moment with his back against a rock wall numerous hikers had piled up stone by stone. As the sun started dipping deeper, he reached into his pack and pulled out their Frisbee. The scratches still seemed fresh, and he drifted back to Ptarmigan Peak when she had given it to him. And where it had returned to him the day he'd spread her ashes.

  “I still have it,” he said.

  Just then a warm breeze riffled past, a little pocket of comfort in an otherwise cold day. Craig looked left, then right. Then he simply smiled. He dropped the Frisbee back in his pack then started down the other side of the mountain.