Phase Shift (27 page)

"We're almost done here, Ms. McBride,"
Allard says. He looks green, too. After hearing the retching.

I nod. Pull my legs up. Rest them on the
runner beneath the door.

"After you found Mr. Hume's remains, what
did you do then?"

In the bathroom I flush the toilet. Splash
cold water on my face. Look at my reflection in the mirror. I look
old. Grey. Tired. I look at the water in the bowl as it finishes
its flush. Water level slowly rises. Trying to get up enough nerve
to go back. To the parlour. To Stanley. What's left of him.

Smouldering remains. Walls charred, but not
burnt. Baseball-sized hole in the Oriental rug beneath him. Beneath
where his torso should have been. Blackened edges. Room otherwise
unharmed. In the centre of the remains, where his belly button had
once been, is a small, circular, soot-covered object. The
modulator.

I pick it up. It's hot to the touch. Too
hot. It tattoos itself to the inside of my palm. I try to drop it.
It sticks. Branded to the skin. I shake my hand. It drops. Takes
off skin when it falls. Bleeds.

There's a tea towel in the kitchen, striped
russet, chocolate and tan. Masculine. I use it to hold the searing
modulator and staunch the bleeding.

I call Palmer's office. Get Rosy. Leave a
message. Try his cell. Unavailable. Takes some time but I punch out
a text message. My hand is throbbing. Burning. Is this what he
felt? Stanley? After pushing the button?

Palmer calls. All I can do is cry. He urges
me to call 9-1-1. He's on his way.

I'm on hold with 9-1-1 for an eternity. It
takes almost as long to explain to the operator what's happened.
Not every day someone bursts into flames, I bet. Then, at last,
they're on their way.

I look at my feet. "I called my husband and
then I called 9-1-1," I say. My voice sounds small.

"You called your husband before calling
9-1-1?" Allard asks. He questions the order of events. He trusts me
not to lie. And I'm not. Lying. I'm omitting.

I look at Allard. He should know why I
called Palmer first. If he were married, he would know. "Whenever
anything happens, good or bad, he's always the first one I think of
calling."

Allard glances at Palmer. Palmer smiles,
apologetically and shrugs his shoulders. "Of course you do," Allard
says. His tone conveys discomfort. Like he'd forgotten Palmer was
there. My husband. Standing right beside him. The man I'd called
first.

"And did you use Mr. Hume's telephone?"
Allard asks. "For either call."

I remember using my cell for something. The
text message to Palmer. His call afterward. Did I use it to call
9-1-1? "I don't think so. The smell. It was..." I can't finish. I
want to say, 'unbearable'. "Overwhelming," I say, then stop. Let
the word hang in the air. Until it’s washed away by the rain.

No one else speaks. Then Allard says, "Well
then, from where?"

"My cell. I think." I say. I look up at the
men, long enough to see Palmer smile, masking the worry I read in
his eyes. My neck stiffens. I look down again. Back at my feet. At
the asphalt of Stanley's driveway. At a worm stretching and
contracting. Twisting. Trying to close the distance between
Allard's toes and the lawn.

Palmer asks, "Is my wife under arrest,
Constable?"

Allard finishes writing in his notepad.
Makes a flourish of crossing the last T in the sentence. "No, sir,
she's not," he says.

Not yet
, I hear. It’s hidden in his
tone, not said outright.

"One more question, Ms. McBride. Did Mr.
Hume seem depressed lately? Not himself."

"Like I told you Constable, my wife and Hume
were nothing more than acquaintances," Palmer offers.

"I'd like to hear it from your wife, if I
may," Allard tells him. "Ms. McBride?"

"You want to know if this was a suicide," I
say. I know this is what he's asking. It's a stupid question. Only
someone psychotic would have the temerity to do this. Intentional
burning. "You actually think he did this to himself?"

Allard moves his mouth but no sound comes
out.

"I saw no suicide note, Constable." I sound
angry. "I found no accelerant." I look at Allard, then at Palmer.
He is pale. Have I said too much? Is it better to let them think
Stanley killed himself? Stanley was giddy in his last message.
Charged. This wasn't suicide. Reckless disregard? Maybe. Stupid?
Probably. But not suicide. "I didn't know him all that well,
Constable, but no. He didn't seem depressed."

Allard writes copious notes. Long pauses
germinate between his questions. Set down roots. Begin to bud.

"Constable?" Palmer asks when Allard
neglects to break-off from his scribbling.

He looks up from his notebook,
questioning.

"Is that all?" Palmer reiterates.

"Huh? Oh, yes. You can go now. But Ms.
McBride should remain close to home in case we need to question her
again. You know, in case we missed anything."

Palmer nods. "Thank you, sir," he says. He
holds out a hand for Allard to shake.

I chance it and look up into Allard's eyes
where I find mistrust. I force a smile. "Thank you," I say.

Palmer helps me out of the police cruiser.
Walks me back to our car. Links an arm in mine. Steadies it with
the opposite hand.

The rhythmic patter of the rain on the
windshield has a calming effect. In spite of the fact we're out of
the weather, I can't help but shiver. I can sense Palmer
considering me, wet puppy, licking her wounds.
Stanley's
dead
, my mind repeats and repeats again, needle stuck in a
groove.
Stanley's dead and I killed him
. Palmer wriggles out
of his overcoat and then his suit jacket. He drapes the jacket over
me and wriggles back into his overcoat, gifting me his woolen
warmth and spicy scent. My hand hurts. The burn bites into the
flesh as though eating away at it, cushioning itself with a
liquid-filled, pulsing pustule.

"What happened here, Moll?" Palmer asks. He
startles me when he speaks. I've been zoning in on the constant
drum of water beading on the car's exterior.

"You heard what I told Allard," I say. "It
was the truth."

"What I mean is: how did Hume get ahold of
the modulator?"

I hadn't told Palmer about what transpired
during Stanley's visit yesterday, or even of the visit itself. It's
not that I was trying to hide it from him. I just couldn't figure
out how to broach the subject. "I gave it to him."

"You just...gave it to him?"

"He's been calling me all week about the
fucking thing." I hadn't told Palmer about the calls either. He
tends to assume the role of aggressive male, thrusting out his
chest and thumping it loudly to ward off perceived threats to his
mate. "He must've left twenty messages over the last few days
alone.

"I thought I could ignore him and he'd go
away, you know? Give up. But then he just showed up at the house
yesterday, demanding the artifacts. What else was I supposed to
do?"

"Call me."

"You never have your cell on when you're
lecturing.

"I told him we were still working on it. I
begged him to let me keep it for a few more days. I figured if I
could just hold onto it until I saw Reyes again, maybe he would
know how to deactivate it and then Stanley could have it. He gave
me five minutes before calling the police."

"You should've let him."

I shook my head. "Different story, same
result. The police would've made me give Stanley back the artifacts
and he still would've gone home and pushed the button. Only now
there's a police report documenting the altercation and I'm
starting to look good for Stanley's murder.

"I guess I figured if I gave him the
artifacts, Stanley Hume would be gone from my life for good."

"I guess you got what you wanted then," he
says without emotion.

"That's not fair," I say, meeting his lack
of emotion with a thrust of mine. "That's just..."
not fair
,
I want to repeat, but can't find the words.

Stanley Hume's dead. I killed him.

What's wrong with Palmer? I'm disappointed
in him, quite frankly.

"Stanley's dead, Palmer," I say with
deliberation, "and I'm not blind to the role I played in his death.
I killed him, as surely as if I'd asked him to play Russian
roulette with a fully loaded barrel." Usually, Palmer's this
magnificent guy, always attentive, always thoughtful, a throwback
to the time when men respected women and people understood what
'chivalry' meant. Times like this, times of severe stress, I see
him for what he really is: just a man. And the realization is
frightening.

"You mean, 'the role we played'," he says,
gallant. I shake off his comment. Palmer was at school, where I
should have been. It was my decision to give Stanley the artifacts,
and mine alone.

"God, Palmer!" I blurt, "I warned him. I
told him we experimented with charging it. I told him we were
unsuccessful and it would be dangerous to activate it at all." I
chance a look at him. He's staring into the windshield. I wish I
could feel as numb as he looks right at this very moment. "He had
Prescott's papers. He knew what it could do. And he went ahead and
pushed the button anyway."

A knock on the window seems to surprise
Palmer as much as it does me. It's Allard. I can't find the tissue
box. My fingertips brush away tears from my cheeks and eyes. To my
surprise, Palmer sniffles. He blinks. A tiny droplet falls from his
lashes and is whisked away with the palm of his hand almost before
it lands on his cheek. He has to turn the key in the ignition to
lower the driver's side window.

"Everything ok here?" Allard says.

Palmer nods. "My wife's just a little
unsettled at the whole thing. You know how it is."

"Sure. Look, the investigation's ongoing.
You need to be on your way."

"Of course, Officer. Thank you," Palmer
says. He rolls the window up and reaches to start the car. I wait
for Allard's shadow to fall into the distance.

"Palmer?" I say. He drops his hand from the
ignition to his lap. "I have a confession to make." He turns his
head to face me. "I wasn't entirely honest with Allard back there."
Before he can speak, I show him the modulator. It sits balanced in
the crook of my open palm.

"I don't understand," Palmer says. He shifts
his body in the driver's seat, turning his torso to face me.

"I found it in the middle of the body. Of
Stanley's body. At about his midriff. It was still hot. Burned
itself into my hand when I picked it up. I think I have a blister."
I can't look at him. Instead, I stay focused on the modulator.

"Let me get this straight: you took the
modulator. From Stanley's remains. Before the police got
there."

I say nothing in response.

"You tampered with a crime scene, Moll," he
says, voice slightly raised.

"No. Not a crime
scene.
No crime has been committed," I say, surprised at how
angry my voice sounds. Angry at the accusation, at what he's
accusing me of. I decide it's finally time. Time to chance a look
at him. Is that contempt I read in his eyes? I can't believe he
blames me for this.

I look away. I spend a second or two
studying the varied paths the rain takes as gravity carries it down
and along the windshield. "Stanley did this to himself," I say
after what feels like an eternity. "I told him not to press the
button. I told him..."

We revert back to lost eye contact in
silence until I turn my body toward Palmer and see he's shaking his
head. He's looking down at his hands writhing nervously in his
lap.

"Both of our fingerprints were on it," I
say. The bombshell of a confession I've just detonated has formed a
chasm between us. "Had the police found it and realized that we
might both be implicated."

"Implicated in what, Moll? You said there
was no crime."

"There wasn't. But because his death is
suspicious—"

"That's an understatement if ever there was
one."

"There'll be an investigation, you said it
yourself. Ultimately we are responsible for his death. We were the
ones who charged that thing in the first place." Across the abyss
between the bucket seats he looks pained. As though realization has
just set in. And though he said it before, this time he looks as if
he actually believes he played a part in setting the stage for
another man's death.

I reach for his hand across the rift between
us. I need to somehow close the gap. To know we're still okay. That
he and I will survive this. That we can repair whatever it is that
tonight has broken.

He flinches as my hand nears his. For a
fraction of a second I think he's going to pull his hand away, and
tell me tonight has rendered us irreparable. But then he takes my
hand and squeezes. Once. Hard.

Without looking at me he says, "Without the
modulator they'll label his death 'unexplained' and they'll let it
go." His voice is cold. Distant.

"Think about it Palmer," I say, "think about
what might have happened had one of the officers found it and
decided to press the button himself. What if there was just enough
juice left in the thing to incinerate the officer as well? Believe
me, taking the modulator was the best thing I could do under the
circumstances. Besides—"

Allard's shadow reappears at Palmer's
window. "Allard," I say. I pull my hand from Palmer's grasp. Allard
gives two quick raps on the window. Time to go. I bury the
modulator in Palmer's jacket pocket and reach for my shoulder
belt.

Palmer turns the key in his ignition and
lowers the window once more. Delicate drops of rain begin to pepper
the vinyl of his door. "Constable," he says.

"Everything all right in there?" Allard asks
as he nods at me.

Palmer glances at me. The chasm has finally
closed and we are once more co-conspirators instead of adversaries.
"Fine," he says. Then he adds, "My wife's still a bit upset." From
this angle I think I can make out an affable smile forming on
Palmer's lips.