Down: Pinhole (52 page)

Arabel looked at the clock.

“Less than an hour,” Trevor said. “I’ll be back for you.”

“I’ve brought your change from the diner,” Arabel said.

Trevor smiled at her. “I’ll be back soon.”

The control room at MAAC was packed for what everyone acknowledged was the last time. Matthew Coppens had been prepping rigorously all week to make sure the fourth and final restart went according to plan. If it was a failure like the previous three, it wouldn’t be for lack of preparation and planning, but deep down he believed the chances of ever seeing Emily again were exceedingly close to zero.

Quint came down to Matthew’s work station, clicking his pen to Matthew’s obvious irritation. He whispered one last order. “Run it at thirty TeV as long as you possibly can before the final shutdown. The data we collect today will cement our position on the graviton. That will be our discovery, goddamn it. They won’t be able to take that away from us.”

Quint rejoined the group of VIPs seated in the top row. They were all there for the occasion: Leroy Bitterman and Karen Smithwick, the energy secretaries, Cambell Bates, from the FBI, and George Lawrence from MI5. Bates and Lawrence seemed to be primarily concerned with the lack of underground mobile phone coverage as both of them would have calls to make to the White House and Downing Street at one minute past ten o’clock.

“What do you think, Henry?” Bitterman asked Quint.

“I think we’ll have enough statistical power today to nail the graviton at five sigma, that’s what I think.”

“Actually, I was asking about Dr. Loughty and Mr. Camp.”

“We’ll have to wait and see about that, Leroy.”

At T-minus-fifteen minutes, with the magnet temperature stable at 1.7K, Matthew ordered the synchrotron to be powered up.

At T-minus-ten minutes a hush fell over the room when the doors opened and Duck was led in. Some of the dignitaries had never seen him in person and they stared and discreetly sniffed at him as the MI5 men and Delia took him down to the well.

Dressed in his favorite red nylon tracksuit and yellow trainers, he looked for all the world like a million other young men living within the MAAC circuit of greater London. But he was a different sort, of course, a very different sort.

An MI5 videographer was there for the occasion, following Duck down the stairs with his lens. Duck had certainly learned about video cameras and when he saw the man, he forgot himself and waved and called out, “’ello, I’m Duck.”

“Come on Duck, you know the drill,” Delia said. “Stand just there.”

“What’s that?”

He pointed at something new. A pair of steel loops had been bolted into the floor.

“It’s just a little something they wanted to do this time. As a precaution. Because of Woodbourne.”

One of the agents produced a pair of leg irons and proceeded to put them around Duck’s ankles.

Duck protested. “Why me? I can see ’im needing it but I don’t.”

The agent put the chain through one of the floor loops and set the lock.

“Not to worry, Duck,” Delia said. “We’ll have you out of them just as soon as the experiment is done. Then we’ll have a nice lunch.”

“’Ow ’bout a walk outside?”

“I think your walking days are over,” she said with a strained laugh.

The doors opened again, this time for Woodbourne.

Duck stiffened.

“Don’t worry,” Delia said. “See, he’s completely shackled.”

That he was. His ankles were chained and over his rumpled orange cotton jumpsuit, a straitjacket fixed his arms across his chest. He had violently fought his guards that morning and every restraint was deemed absolutely necessary. To top it off, there had been a consensus that placing a hood over his head would be prudent.

“Are we going to see his face?” Bates asked Lawrence.

“I believe so, at the last minute. For the videotaping mainly.”

“How many people did he murder again?”

“In the present innings? Let’s see—seven I believe.”

“It’s a good thing there was only one of him.”

“Indeed.”

Coming down the stairs, Woodbourne was preceded by Trevor and Ben who had been dealing with his outbursts all morning. He was flanked by two agents who held onto him and helped navigate the stairs. His large feet looking like small boats in plastic slippers. All the while he raged from beneath the hood, “Where the fuck am I? Take this hood off so I can look you bastards in the eye. Come on. Are you bastards afraid of me?”

When he made it down to the well, Duck stepped as far from him as his chain would allow.

While he was being shackled to the floor he sniffed loudly and said, “What do you know? Duck is here. You’re going to be a fucked duck when I get my hands on you.”

Quint called Trevor over. “His shouting is making it hard to conduct ourselves orderly. Can you do something about it?”

Trevor went to Ben and asked if any of his men had a gag and when he got no for an answer he removed one of his shoes and took off a sock.

“All right then,” he said as he removed Woodbourne’s hood and forcibly stuffed the sock in his mouth before putting the hood on again. “Not to worry, mate. It’s fresh as of this morning,”

Ben patted Trevor on the back. “First-class police work,” he said.

Delia drifted over and asked Ben if she might be excused.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to watch the end game,” she said.

“Sorry to see Duck go or scared he’ll still be here?” Ben asked.

“Both, I suppose.”

“I’ve got Emily’s sister and her kids in the staff canteen,” Trevor said. “Do you think you could keep them company till I come get them?”

“I’d be delighted. I enjoy spending time with them.”

At T-minus-five minutes Matthew was informed that the muon detector was online and that the synchrotron was at full power. He initiated the final four-minute countdown to particle gun filling.

Trevor found himself repeating this thought, over and over:

Come on John, you can do it. Come on, mate. Bring her home.

Emily had an audience.

Nearly everyone in the village was watching from either their windows or out on the road. One man, a rough-looking fellow named Alfred, started to get close to her and as John was in no condition to protect her, Dirk warned him off, waving a club until Alfred retreated, joining three friends yards away.

“I think it was here,” she said, making a mark in the dirt with her foot. “John, do you think it was here?”

He was holding onto her. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Dirk, can you get a chair or a stool for him?” she asked.

“Sure enough.”

He ran into his house and came back with a stool that Emily placed on the mark. She sat him down and mopped his wet face with her skirt, exposing way too much leg to the assembled men who began to hoot and holler. Alfred took a step or two closer and began to pull at his crotch.

“All right, all right,” Dirk shouted. “You’ve ’ad your fun. Settle down. Especially you, Alfred.”

Dirk approached Emily and John but she waved him back. “Don’t get too close,” she said. “You don’t want to get caught up in this.”

He abruptly stopped. “So if this works, Duck’ll come back to me?”

“That’s the theory.”

“When’s it going to ’appen then? You never know when the sweepers will be making their rounds.”

“Anytime now,” she said, crouching close to John.

She took his hand. He squeezed it and said, “Hopefully,” then insisted on standing.

The two of them rose up as one.

At T-minus-one minute Matthew initiated the injection of the particle guns with lead gas.

At thirty seconds Quint delivered his final authorization and told Trevor to remove Woodbourne’s hood. He accomplished that with a quick grab and a retreat to a safe distance.

The videographer zoomed in on Woodbourne’s angry efforts to spit out Trevor’s sock and Duck’s trembling lips.

“…three-two-one, initiate firing.”

The camera pulled back to reveal the elliptical map of MAAC behind Duck and Woodbourne and the orbits of the speeding protons.

Matthew slowly called out the rising collision energies: “Twenty TeV, twenty-four, twenty-eight. Ladies and gentlemen, full power at thirty.”

Dirk was shouting at Alfred to keep his distance when his words caught in his throat.

John and Emily were gone.

In their place, Duck and Woodbourne were standing there, dumbfounded, in the middle of the road.

Duck was naked except for his cotton socks and cotton boxers that, absent elastic, had dropped down to his ankles. Woodbourne had fared better. His orange jump suit had made it through intact. His metal shackles and straitjacket gone, he started to pull the cotton sock from his mouth.

The videographer dropped his camera then hurriedly stooped to pick it up and resume taping.

Wild clapping and cheering followed a stunned silence in the control room.

Quint stopped clicking his pen and automatically put it back in his pocket.

Matthew looked faint and crumpled back to his swivel chair.

John and Emily were standing there among the chains and shackles that Duck and Woodbourne had left behind. They were still holding hands.

“Would you look at that?” Bitterman said, putting his hands on top of his head in shock then kissing Smithwick before she could deflect it.

Then the sense of elation drained from the room.

John and Emily were gone and Duck and Woodbourne were back.

The periodicity was irregular, ranging from one to three seconds: the swaps continued. Emily and John for Duck and Woodbourne, Duck and Woodbourne for Emily and John.

Matthew desperately called over his shoulder, “Dr. Quint, what do you want me to do with the power levels?”

Quint couldn’t find the words. He could only put his hands on top of his head in shock.

Trevor looked to Ben and shouted, “We’ve got to do something!”

Both of them moved toward the well.

“Don’t go down there!” Bitterman yelled. “You’ll get caught in it.”

Trevor ignored him. He got within three feet of a blinking Woodbourne and said to Ben, “On my mark.”

Ben understood. The instant the next swap occurred, Trevor shouted, “Now!” and he rushed forward, tackling John off his spot, driving him all the way back against the video display wall. Ben did the same with Emily and the four of them lay in a tangled pile of arms and legs.

“Shut it down!” Trevor screamed and Matthew dropped the power to zero.

Emily untangled herself and crawled over to John.

“We did it,” he said.

“No, you did it,” she said, touching his face.

Trevor got up and extended a hand to help John to his feet.

“Welcome home, guv.”

“Nice to be back.”

“You look like hell.”

John winced as he laughed. “Funny guy.”

“He needs a doctor,” Emily said. “Now.”

Woodbourne finally was able to pull the sock out of his mouth. He ignored the murmuring villagers and gave Duck his full attention. He grabbed the lad by the throat and began throttling him but Dirk sprang to action and began pounding Woodbourne’s back and legs with his club. When the larger man fought back, the other villagers joined in, delivering a good beating. Barefoot, Woodbourne ran off toward the river, slinging epithets and vowing to return to teach them all a lesson.

Duck was still standing there, naked and shell-shocked. Dirk went to him and wrapped him up in an enormous hug.

“You’ve come back to me,” he said. “I missed you more than you’ve a right to know. Did you miss your old brother, then?”

Duck slowly lifted his arms from his side and returned the hug. “Sure I did. Missed you tons. But wait till I tell you ’bout the grub they got there, and the story vids and the cartoons, and the soft beds, and the things you crap in what flushes it away.”

“Come inside now, you naked sod,” Dirk said. “We’ve got all the time to ’ear your tales. Bet they didn’t ’ave beer as good as your brother makes.”

The homecoming was interrupted by the shouts of some of the villagers and when Duck saw what they saw his mouth fell open. He pointed and began running, leaving his boxer shorts in the middle of the road.

Quint came down the stairs to the well, smiling broadly and said, “Welcome back, Dr. Loughty. Don’t worry, we’ve been busy in your absence. We should have enough data to confirm the graviton. The politicians might shut us down but they won’t be able to stop us from publishing. Who knows, we might even land the Nobel Prize.”

John was holding Emily’s hand again. He let go. His injury stopped him from using his right hand but his other one was good enough for the job.

A left to the jaw knocked Quint out cold.

Emily wouldn’t leave John’s side.

He was on a stretcher in the MAAC infirmary down the hall from the control room, getting IV fluids. The doctor was making a call to arrange for his transfer to London to receive surgery and antibiotics.

Emily asked whether she might have a coffee, adding, “It’s something I’ve been craving.”

Just then she felt something in her pocket. The drawing Caravaggio had made of her had survived the passage. She quickly looked at it and folded it away.

That’s when Trevor remembered Arabel. It was ten thirty-five. “Christ, I forgot. I’ve got Arabel and the kids in the canteen.”

“They’re here?” Emily asked.

“Stay put,” Trevor said. “I’ll bring her in. She’s going to be over the moon.”

He jogged down the hall to the canteen, threw the door open, then reached for his sidearm in terror and confusion.

Arabel was gone. The kids were gone. Delia was gone.

In their stead, four smelly, filthy, and frightened men were there, huddled in the corner by the vending machines.

Alfred, the largest man, began to move forward aggressively, prompting Trevor to fire a shot into the ceiling. Alfred slunk back to the corner. Trevor pulled his walkie-talkie and gave a mayday call.

Ben and his men rushed in and handcuffed the men while Trevor tried in vain to compose himself.