Nobody Gets The Girl (4 page)

"How 'bout twice for yes, once for no?"
Richard called out.

But then Father Leibowitz stepped into the
kitchen and the pots slipped through Richard's fingers, clattering
on the floor. Richard thought this was strange. Normally things he
was holding, like the towel, stayed solid to him and invisible to
everyone else until he let go of them.

"April," Father Leibowitz said into the
phone. "I think we can definitely rule out a hoax. I just saw two
pots levitating, no doubt in response to my request."

Richard realized this was a perfect
opportunity to move back into the bedroom and add to his message on
the mirror, to let them know that he would cooperate however he
could.

But as he stepped into the hall, he stopped
when he heard Father Leibowitz's words.

"Right," said Leibowitz, in response to
April. "No record of a Richard and Veronica Rogers in this city.
I'm not surprised."

Richard decided that April wasn't very good
at her job. He went back to the mirror, smeared away a clean
surface with one of Henry's undershirts, and wrote down his Social
Security Number, his work phone number, and his birth date. Then,
he had a clever idea. He ran the lipstick along his fingertips and
left a perfect set of fingerprints on the mirror.

"That should make it easier," he said.
"Assuming Father Leibowitz has a fingerprint lab in the trunk of
his car. But what the hell." Then he banged his fist against the
wall several times, until Leibowitz came running, and his fist went
through the wall without leaving a mark.

"April," said Leibowitz. "Let's try again.
I've got some more—what? You do have a listing in Salem for Bill
Rogers? Yes. Yes, that's a match. No, don't call yet. Check out
this Social Security Number first."

Richard smacked his forehead. "Look, just
call my folks, OK?"

Then he thought about it. Call and say what?
Your son is invisible and intangible and we were hoping you might
help? What good would a phone call to them do?

"Maybe April could look up Stephen Hawking's
phone number," Richard suggested.

Instead, April was giving Father Leibowitz
the results of the Social Security search.

"Yes. Yes that is a strange coincidence,"
said Leibowitz.

"What," said Henry.

"The Social Security Number belongs to an
Alan Leibowitz in New Jersey," Leibowitz said with a shrug. "Could
be a cousin."

Richard took another look at the mirror. That
was his number. He was sure of it.

The priest addressed Henry and Martha. "This
is only a minor setback. This sort of confusion isn't uncommon
among the dead."

"Father," said Martha.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask a personal question?"

"Go."

"Isn't Leibowitz a, um, Jewish name?"

"I'm asked that all the time," said
Leibowitz. "I think it's time to call the parents. It's the only
information our ghost has given that April's been able to get a
confirmation on."

"Finally," said Richard. He started to bite
his nails, until he realized he had lipstick under them. Just what
would Leibowitz say to his parents?

"Is this Bill Rogers?" Leibowitz asked, as
April set up a three-way call.

"Mr. Rogers, my name is Father Leibowitz, and
I'm call—yes. No problem. I'm asked that all the time. But, let me
get directly to the point of my call. Do you have a son named
Richard? I see. Second question: Does the date March 9, 1969, have
any meaning to you? I see. No, not a joke. No. No, you've been very
helpful. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day."

"Well," said Henry.

"They don't have a son," Father Leibowitz
said.

"What?" said Richard.

"We're left with only one possibility," said
Father Leibowitz.

Richard's knees grew weak. He braced his back
against the wall and slowly slid down into a crouch. "This can't be
real," he whispered.

"The spirit that haunts this house is quite
likely a fallen angel," Father Leibowitz explained. "From time to
time, the damned delude themselves into thinking they are something
they are not. In this case, the demon has made up elaborate details
about a former human life, in an effort to strengthen his delusion.
But, as we've just determined, all of these details are lies."

"Lies," Richard said. "Oh God, this can't be.
This can't be. My name is Richard Rogers. I'm real. I have a life.
I have a wife. Her name is Veronica. I . . . can't believe
this!"

"No doubt, the demon is listening even now,"
said Father Leibowitz. "It's important, no matter what happens,
that the two of you keep faith. God watches over us. No demon can
touch you."

"I’m not a demon!" Richard screamed. He
wanted to grab the priest by the throat. He stalked from the
bedroom, back to the kitchen, flung open the cabinets and started
throwing pots and pans around the room. He wasn't sure why this
seemed like a good idea, but his present state left him few options
for venting his frustration.

"Stop this now!" Father Leibowitz shouted as
he entered the kitchen.

"Screw you," said Richard.

Martha peeked her head into the kitchen, and
shrieked.

"What?" asked Father Leibowitz.

"I see it!" she cried.

Richard raised his eyebrows. Throwing pots
and pans might work out for him after all.

"It's right there," said Martha, pointing to
where Richard stood. "It's like... like a pink haze."

Richard looked down at his housecoat.

"You do see me!" he said. "Oh, thank
God!"

Henry stuck his head slowly around the corner
and caught his breath.

"I see it, too," he whispered.

"Can you hear me? Can you hear me?"

Apparently, they couldn't hear him.

"Martha, Henry, listen to me," said Father
Leibowitz. "You must not turn away from what you see. You must have
faith in God."

Father Leibowitz took a step toward Richard.
"Demon! Your presence is revealed to us. Show yourself!"

"I'm freaking trying, OK?"

"Show yourself!" Father Leibowitz commanded
once more.

Richard's stomach twisted into a tight knot.
His skin suddenly felt hot.

"Show yourself!" Leibowitz demanded.

Richard fell to his knees, staring at his
hands. His flesh writhed and crawled, twisting his hands into
blood-red claws with long black nails.

"Gah," he cried, choking, as he felt his face
stretching, till it seemed like it would split open.

He knelt submissively before the priest, too
weak to hide his shameful, distorted body, too frightened to even
try to speak.

"Pitiful wretch," Father Leibowitz said, his
voice seething with disdain as orange slime dripped from Richard's
body and slithered about the filthy linoleum.

"Look at yourself," Father Leibowitz said.
"You’re not the ghost of a man. You never were. You’re a fallen
angel. You do not belong here!"

Richard squealed as he forced his misshapen
jaw into action. His forked tongue flicked across his lips. "My...
name... is... Richard Rogers."

"No," said Father Leibowitz. "We both know
that isn't the truth. Tell us your true name."

Richard didn't know. Richard didn't know if
anything was true anymore. Acid tears rolled down his cheeks,
burning small holes in the floor where they fell.

"Be... Beelzebub," he said, unable to think
of anything else.

Before Father Leibowitz could respond, the
door from the kitchen to the back porch swung open. A tall,
gray-haired man in a white lab coat stepped into the room.

"You monsters," he said, contemptuously.
"Leave this man alone."

"What kind of demonic trick is this?" Father
Leibowitz asked angrily.

The gray-haired man pulled out what looked
like a high-capacity water gun from his coat and pointed it in the
face of Father Leibowitz.

"This won't be painful," he said, and pulled
the trigger. A cloud of green gas engulfed Father Leibowitz who
slumped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

The gray-haired man looked at Henry and
Martha.

"Leave," he said.

With hurried footsteps, they left.

Richard screamed. He was changing once more,
his skin and muscles and bones sliding to new configurations. In a
dozen heartbeats the transformation was complete. He was himself
again.

The gray-haired man placed a hand upon
Richard's shoulder.

"Hello, Richard. I'm sorry I didn't make it
here sooner."

"You... you see me," said Richard, still
trembling from his ordeal. "You know my name."

"Yes. I am Doctor Nicholas Knowbokov. I'm
here to help you."

"A doctor," said Richard, placing a hand on a
chair to steady himself. "Oh God. Oh God, I'm crazy aren't I? And
you're going to help me get better. Please help me get better."

"Your sanity is quite intact," said Dr.
Knowbokov. "And better is a subjective term. But I'll do what I can
to help you come to terms with your new reality."

"Not crazy. My skin was freaking melting into
puddles a minute ago, but I'm not crazy? You sure you're a
psychologist?"

"Actually, I'm a theoretical physicist," said
Dr. Knowbokov. "And I'm responsible for your condition."

CHAPTER THREE

ONE MINUS ONE

They left through the back door, cutting
across the neighbor's yard to the street beyond. A long black
limousine waited. A very tall black woman got out as they
approached. She was bald, with an elaborate tattoo of a dragon on
her scalp. She wore a black uniform with her eyes hidden behind
sunglasses.

She opened the door as Dr. Knowbokov
approached.

"Thank you, Mindo," the doctor said. He
paused, and motioned for Richard to enter. "We have a guest. An
invisible man."

Mindo nodded, but said nothing.

Dr. Knowbokov followed Richard into the
limousine. Richard slid across the soft leather seats, whistling as
he looked around at the trappings of wealth.

"Theoretical physics must pay better than I
thought," said Richard.

"I've lived a fortunate life," said Dr.
Knowbokov.

"This thing have a bar?" asked Richard. "I
could really use a drink."

"Of course," said the doctor. "Bar,
open."

With a whir, a minibar unfolded out of the
wall separating the passenger compartment from the driver's cab.
Richard quickly accessed the contents. Every kind of juice he could
think of (and some blends he'd never imagined, like
kiwi-tomato-carrot), four different kinds of bottled water, and not
a drop of booze.

"You wouldn't be Southern Baptist by any
chance?" asked Richard.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Not important," he said, deciding to sample
the banana-celery-cranberry. "You say you're responsible for my
condition. How? What's happened to me?"

"It won't be easy to explain," said Dr.
Knowbokov.

"Try me."

"Two days ago, I made the maiden voyage with
my time machine, and—"

"Stop," said Richard.

The doctor stopped, smiling gently.

"Try again. You can't expect me to believe
any story that starts with a time machine."

"Very well," said Dr. Knowbokov. "And what,
pray tell, would you accept as a reasonable explanation for your
condition?"

Richard sipped on the juice. It was hideous.
He took another sip, imagining it mixed with vodka. He could get
used to it.

"OK," he said. "I'll play along. Time
machine."

"I built my time machine purely for research.
I never intended to interfere with the past. I experimented
carefully. My intention was to travel back to a point just after
the creation of the universe to search for my enemy before he had
time to conceal himself."

"Your enemy," said Richard. "At the creation
of the universe. Is God really pissed off at you or something?"

"I was looking for the terrorist known as Rex
Monday. But this detail is unimportant," said Dr. Knowbokov. "A
detail that matters, however, is that my time machine causes a
rapid displacement of air when it's used. It makes, if I may be
crude, a sound rather like a loud fart."

Richard stared at the doctor, expecting him
to crack a smile. The doctor continued.

"I traveled to July 4, 1968. I chose a
remote, rural location to minimize the chance of interacting with
people of that time. Unfortunately, a man named William Rogers was
out hiking that day, less than two hundred yards from the location
I materialized in."

"My father," said Richard.

"Not at that time. I sensed him instantly. I
knew he’d heard the noise that accompanied my arrival and was
curious about it. He began to walk in my direction. Due to the
roughness of the terrain, I still had several minutes. I conducted
the search for the man I sought. I failed to find him. I left, with
time to spare before William would have seen me."

"Hmm," said Richard. The insanity theory was
rising high on his list of explanations again. "Didn't even see
you, huh?"

"Still, his search for the source of the
sound he had heard delayed him. He returned to his car twelve
minutes later than he would have had I not made my trip."

"And this is responsible for my present
condition how?"

Dr. Knowbokov shifted in his seat, looking
slightly uncomfortable. With a deep breath, he continued. "Your
father visited a pharmacy that evening. He purchased a package of
prophylactics. A different package than the one he would have
purchased had he arrived twelve minutes earlier. And, in this
package, all the prophylactics functioned properly."

"What are you saying?"

"You were conceived as a result of a ruptured
condom. With my visit to the past, I erased the time line in which
you existed. You were never born."

"Uh-huh. Right." Richard took another sip of
his juice. "And just what am I then? I'm real. I'm alive. I'm not
some figment of your imagination."