Phase Shift (28 page)

"That's understandable," Allard agrees.

"Thank you, Constable," Palmer says. He
extends a hand through the open window at Allard who accepts it.
"For your concern, I mean," Palmer says.

He waves as he raises the window and I
manage a smile, and then Allard is nothing more than a dark,
shrinking form through the rear window.

"Sweet son-of-a-bitch!" Bob Diaz said after
whistling through his teeth. He focused on the graph on the monitor
in front of him. Another C1 spike. And the media and police have
been mute about the whole thing. That meant either one of two
things. Either there was a massive governmental cover up
surrounding some nuclear disaster, or they weren't aware the blasts
were occurring at all.

Subversive nuclear detonations or subversive
government plot. The more Diaz thought about it, the more he was
certain he didn't know which scenario was the scarier of the
two.

"Well?" asked John Rice. He had been the
first to discover the most recent blast. And the one before it. He
was also the one to catch Henry "Ozzie" Osmund sleeping on the job.
Rice had caught him prone on the battered old sofa, snoring louder
than a teenager's MP3 player.

"It's a C1, alright," Diaz confirmed.
"Roughly the same magnitude as the others."

"It's coming from Canada, Sir. South-central
Ontario. Same as before."

"Isn't there a way we can pinpoint it any
closer?"

Rice nodded. He clicked around a bit on the
computer. "Triangulation's coming in now." He clicked again,
fetched something from the printer and took it to the wall map.
"Over here," he called to Diaz who joined him in front of the
map.

"Right there," Rice said as he pointed to
the origin of the flare.

"Toronto?"

Rice nodded. "What now, sir?"

Diaz lifted the receiver of the nearest
phone. "I think it's time I made that call to Homeland Security."
He began dialing.

I watch Palmer from the doorway of his office
for a moment. He's at his desk pouring over what's probably a
student's essay. Every so often he frowns and offers feedback in
broad green strokes, never red. He's of the mind that
psychologically, red marks on a student's work have a detrimental
effect. I'm partial to purple, myself.

I stand there afraid to breathe, willing him
to sense me before I reveal my hiding in plain sight. Instead, he
slides his fingers beneath the frame of his glasses, rubs his eyes,
clears his throat and flips the page.

With every motion, every nuance of his
breath, I am heartened by the idea of "us". Our first conversation,
our first kiss, our first time together, rush in with extreme
clarity, as though they happened only yesterday. Every time he was
there for me, every time I was there for him, and all the times
between, engulf my consciousness. I never tire of watching him like
this, never get bored of cataloguing every gesture, every movement,
every blink, every wrinkle. God, he's beautiful.

When at last it feels as though my heart
might burst if I wait any longer, I knock three quick raps on the
doorjamb.

Palmer smiles at me. The skin around his
eyes remains slack rendering the exquisite gesture false.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey back."

"Are you ready to go? We should have just
enough time to get there if they're quick at the border and
traffic's on our side."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that," he
says. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes once more. "I
don't think we should go."

"But I already got the tickets," I say. It's
a lame retort. I bought the tickets a while ago, long before I'd
ever met Stanley Hume and his amazing artifacts. Back then, it was
an open and shut case of simple hero worship. Dr. Josef Schliemann
is perhaps the world's leading researcher into all things
pseudo-scientific. I use his books as texts in my classes.
Schliemann's legacy of pseudo-archaeology reaches back almost two
centuries—he claims to be related to Heinrich Schliemann, the
discoverer of the lost city of Troy. I choose to believe their
connection ends there, with the goal of transforming legend to
history, and that he hasn't inherited Heinrich's entire legacy.
Heinrich was known to be a bit of a pilferer of the sites he
excavated, rendering priceless ancient stone monuments common lawn
ornaments, and selling golden treasures on the black market. Lately
I've begun to wonder if Dr. Schliemann hasn't merely exchanged one
sensational activity for another. These days his name seems to
appear absolutely everywhere: on television, the news stands, in
the local book store—there are some in the field who view him as a
sell-out, willing to jump on any bandwagon so long as it makes a
stopover at the nearest bank. That was why I had originally
purchased the tickets to hear him speak. I choose to reserve my
judgment of Dr. Schliemann until I hear the passion, or lack
thereof, in his voice.

"Allard said we shouldn't leave town."

"Allard said we shouldn't go far. It's not
the same thing." We take each other in for a moment. "Besides,
Buffalo's not that far."

He looks at me like he's thinking about it.
A deep furrow forms down the centre of his forehead.

"The only thing on Allard's mind right now
is how much longer before he can go home for dinner. By the time we
come back, he'll be fast asleep."

He's still thinking about it. Hard.

"Come on. We can grab some dinner at a
different restaurant and go grocery shopping for things they don't
have here."

"What if they stop us at the border?"

"Then we'll forget about the lecture and
groceries and go for dinner in Niagara Falls."

Palmer says nothing in response.

"Come on. It'll be fun." I may be trying too
hard, but Lord knows both of us could use a getaway. Maybe an
evening together is just what we need, time to wash some of the
tension between us away.

He shakes his head. "I don't know,
Moll."

"I can't believe you're doing this to me." I
throw myself into the beat-up easy chair opposite Palmer's desk,
and try to look sad. My head lolls to my chest, my hand rests with
one thumb on my left temple and the other fingers splayed across my
forehead as if I'm in a great deal of pain. I pause and then bring
my hand to the arm of the chair, slapping it down with force. "I
could have hitched a ride with my students. They left hours
ago."

Palmer shows no response.

"You know how much I hate driving in the
States." I sound desperate, a shade away from whining. "You know
Schliemann. You were supposed to help me gain audience with him."
Palmer and Schliemann are old digging buddies. Okay, not so much
buddies as adversaries. Suffice it to say, they tolerated each
other whenever they were together. Palmer was supposed to be my
'in', the bait I'd dangle before Schliemann. Based on what Palmer
has told me about him, Schliemann wouldn't pass up the chance to
challenge him to a game of War with the hands life had dealt
them.

"This is about Stanley, isn't it?" I ask,
preparing to hit below the belt. "You don't love me anymore." It
sounds juvenile to my ears. The instant I hear it, I'm sorry I said
it.

It had been simple hero worship, all those
weeks ago when I purchased the tickets. But after Reyes and
Stanley, it's become so much more. Now I see Schliemann as an ally,
someone who would listen to my adventure and not write me off as a
crack. Schliemann is a walking, talking tome of pseudo-scientific
knowledge. If anyone on Earth would know where to go from here, it
would be him. I have to talk to Schliemann, I have to.

Palmer's expression remains unchanged. I
might as well have said I'd just finished gassing up the car.

"I'm late," I say, standing. "I have to go."
When he doesn't stand, I turn my back on him to leave. As I do, I
hear him leap from his chair. He grabs me by the elbow, spins me
around, and draws me close to him. I allow him to hold me for a
minute or two, as he strokes my hair and kisses the top of my
head.

"To Buffalo and back,” he finally says. “If
we stop for food it'll be for something quick on the way.
Deal?"

I take a breath in relief. "Deal."

Palmer winces when I gush at Dr.
Josef Schliemann. He warned me. Before we got here, and every
hundred kilometers or so on the road, Palmer warned me that if I
swooned, I’d have to pick myself up off the floor. I vowed to him I
would be the paragon of civil maturity. And I believed this to be
true up until the moment he walked into the bar.

I see him and my stomach turns aflutter. He
smiles our way and the air grows thin. He waves and I
giggle.

Palmer frowns at me and grumbles. He and Dr.
Schliemann used to be digging buddies, long before Palmer was a
prof and Dr. Schliemann was famous. Palmer was reluctant to meet
with Dr. Schliemann tonight because of that history. He agreed to
arrange the meeting, agreed to tolerate their oil and vinegar
relationship, for me.

Truth be told, I think Palmer’s a little
jealous.

My history with Dr. Schliemann, though not as
intimate as the two of theirs, is nonetheless more profound. I
loved Dr. Schliemann before I loved Palmer, though not in the same
sense, of course. I fell in love with Dr. Schliemann and his
teachings in my first year. I read one of his books as a curiosity
and then I was hooked, reading as many as were in stock in the
campus book store and then as many as were in the library stacks
until I was up to date. I’d emailed him, too, detailing the focus
of my studies, and the interest he’d inspired. He responded,
quickly, with a letter that was very warm and supportive and
well-wishing.

My relationship with Dr. Schliemann was
nothing more than a severe case of hero worship. I never thought
that, when at last we’d meet, the experience would be no less
profound than had it been any one of my teenaged Hollywood
crushes.

He nears our table, and I realize
he is taller than I first thought. I mean, he looked tall, standing
on the stage in the church basement in which he’d given his
lecture, but now, as we stand to greet him, he towers over me. He
wears ovular, pewter glass frames which make him appear more sexy
than scholarly. He's traded in the charcoal, double-breasted
lecture suit he wore for a royal blue, pinstriped button down under
a pale blue, v-neck sweater. It makes him seem friendly,
approachable.

He reaches out to shake Palmer's
hand and claps him twice on the shoulder. "Paulie," he says, "it's
been a while, eh?" He looks at me and feigns a start as if this is
the first time he's noticed me. "And who is this lovely, eh? Don't
tell me she's with you."

"My wife. Molly McBride."

"Molly," Dr. Schliemann says,
using the same tone as with Palmer, like he's greeting an old
friend. He extends his hand.

My right hand, wrapped up like a
mummy’s hand, reaches out to him and I’m reminded about why I’m
here. Stanley. The grotesque imagery of a disembodied foot and the
wafting smell of burning flesh come to the forefront. The itch from
the heat of the modulator begins to burn its way through the flesh
of my palm. I gasp at the sight, and search for an explanation.
"It's a long story," I manage with a smile, and offer him my left
hand. "So nice to meet you, Dr. Schliemann."

"Ach! Josef, please. Call me
Josef."

As we sit our chair legs scrape on the hard
wood floor beneath us and Palmer says of the lecture, "That was
quite an impressive performance, my friend."

"I aim to please." He clenches his angular jaw
and turns his attention to me, scrutinizing with eyes so brown
they're almost black. "So someone finally managed to win the old
man's heart, eh?" He nudges me in the ribs with his elbow, and
whispers, "From what I remember, Paulie was quite the ladies'
man."

Palmer squeezes
my hand again.
Don't believe a word he
says.

Dr. Schliemann, Josef, motions to
the waitress who responds promptly to take our orders. Josef makes
flirtatious small talk with her and then orders a beer and some
food. Palmer, too, orders a beer, a Canadian beer, creature of
habit that he is. I'm not much of a drinker. I never could palate
the taste of beer. If I order something strong, a mixed drink,
maybe, it’ll help dial down the stress, but I'm not sure that's
what I want right now. I don't think I've earned the right to be
okay with what happened to Stanley, at least not yet. "Coke,
please," I tell the waitress.

"Now, where were we?" Josef asks

Stay calm, Moll. Remember why
you’re here. "Thank you so much for meeting us like this. I'm a
huge fan," I say, gushing once more.

"Really?" He sounds amused.

I nod. "Your courses are required
reading in all my books." It takes a moment for me to realize what
I've said. Suddenly my cheeks feel hot and I wonder if anyone has
noticed I'm blushing. I breathe a short laugh in an attempt to
diffuse the situation and continue whilst gazing at my hands in my
lap. "I mean, your books are required reading in all my courses." I
chance a look at Josef—he's grinning at me.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm a little
nervous." My anxiety plays tricks on me, painting Constable
Allard’s face on every sandy-haired, darkly clothed man that
saunters past our table.

"I make you nervous?" Josef grins
mischievously. He lights a cigarette.

He enjoys my discomfort way too
much. It's my fault, I know. I've dreamt of this moment for so
long, dreamt of the chance to converse with the man, imagined what
I might say to him. In my mind, I've already scripted every word,
what I might say and how he might respond. Rather than enact that
script today, I'm forced to improvise. So much rides on this
meeting regarding the future of the two planets, I'm almost
rendered mute. I need Josef to believe me. I need him to join me,
to help figure out what to do next. In elevating the significance
he plays in the situation, I've fed his ego, giving him far more
power than he deserves. I look at Palmer, hoping he'll offer some
much needed help.