Phase Shift (41 page)

I am distantly aware of Reyes helping me to
the nearest chair. Dark circles kaleidoscope before my eyes, nausea
tickles the base of my brain and I know I have only precious
seconds of consciousness left in me.

"You have to finish this," I whisper to
Reyes. "Take out the modulator."

"Are you alright, Molly McBride?" he
asks.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just get it out. Don't
worry about me."

Reyes winces.

"You have to do this, Reyes. You have to
take it out." Suddenly, the pain which had dulled skyrockets and I
realize his finger is in the wound and he’s trying to leverage the
modulator out.

"I cannot grasp it."

"Open it some more. Cut it out." I hand him
the glass and tell him to use the hem of his gown to protect his
hand.

Pain flares once more, just this side of
tolerance. I close my eyes and hold my breath until the wave
subsides.

"Molly?" he asks.

I open my eyes half convinced that when I
do, I'll see Palmer. Instead, Reyes glares at me through horrified
eyes. How much time has passed? How much longer before the
Enforcers arrive? Minutes? Seconds? The air grows thin and the
silver and black kaleidoscope begins spinning anew.

"Take it out," I manage in a thin voice.
Once more the pain intensifies. My ears begin to ring, the
atmosphere grows ethereal and the lighting changes.

Palmer Richardson looked out over the
auditorium once more. Molly was nowhere in sight. Worry set in.

Joey was handcuffed to the aisle seat in the
first row of the theatre, had been since Palmer and Molly had
notified security that he was carrying a weapon. They searched him
and had found nothing.

After another search of the backstage area
and yet another customer unavailable drone when he dialed Molly's
cell, the anxiety began to build. Convenient for her to disappear
the moment Joey was arrested. Without her to tell her story, he
won't be charged.

Wait a second. What was he saying? He didn’t
really believe Josef Schliemann had a lethal bone in his body, did
he? True he was a media whore. True he was full of hot air. True he
was pompous. But was he homicidal? As badly as Palmer believed Joey
wanted the fame, he couldn’t believe he'd stoop so low as to harm
another person—at least, not physically—to achieve it. Palmer found
it hard to believe he'd know where to get a gun, let alone use
it.

And yet...

And yet Molly—whom he loved deeply and
trusted implicitly—said Joey’d had one, said he'd held it on her,
said he'd threatened to use it on him if she didn't comply and pull
out of Symposium.

He found the theatre chairs comfortable
enough, if not a little too close to the ground, and he settled
into the one next to Joey, but said nothing. He didn’t have to wait
long before Joey began to speak, seemingly prepared to do most of
the talking.

"You're probably really pissed at me now,"
he said.

Palmer leaned forward in his chair and
looked at his hands clasped on his lap as a response.

"I think Molly's a great kid, really I do,
but she's got to learn to look at the bigger picture."

Joey paused as if to let Palmer add to the
conversation. When he didn’t, Joey continued.

"The issue we're dealing with here is far
greater than either you or I or the sum of us put together. We're
talking global scale here, Paulie."

Arrogant little shit, Palmer thought. He’d
heard enough. "I'm going to ask you this once and only once,”
Palmer said, “and you're going to answer me truthfully, as if your
life depended on it, because, so help me, if anything's happened to
Molly I'm holding you fully responsible." To Palmer, Molly was more
than 'a great kid'. She was his life. As far as Palmer Richardson
was concerned, his life began the day Molly agreed to be his wife.
And though he knew how melodramatic it sounded, he nevertheless
believed that if Molly were gone, he didn’t think he could
recover.

"Where's Molly, Joey? What's happened to
her?"

"Something's happened to Molly?"

Palmer resisted the urge to rip him out of
his seat and strangle him within a breath of his life, but barely
so. "Cut the crap, Joey. You threatened my wife; I'm not in a very
good mood." That was one hell of an understatement, if ever there
was one.

"Yes, and for that, I am deeply, deeply
sorry."

Palmer tried to sublimate his anger by
taking a deep breath. It didn’t work.

"What's happened to Molly?" Joey asked,
innocently enough.

"I already told you I'm not in the mood,
Joey. Don't pretend you don't know what's going on."

"What you say is true. I threatened her,
okay? I'm not proud of it, but I did. I left her at the back of the
theatre and went to ditch the gun. When I returned to the
auditorium they arrested me. I've been chained here," he said,
raising his hands, jangling the cuffs, "like a dog to a tree ever
since."

"I'm going to ask you one more time and you
need to think about your answer and make sure it is the truth
before you say it. Where...is...Molly?"

"I swear to you, Paulie, on my soul—I don't
know."

That was enough for him. Palmer was done
wasting time with the guy. In fact, he was done with Josef
Schliemann for good. He stood and said, "If I find out you're
lying, so help me, Joey—"

"Wait," Joey said, his face brightening,
"there is one thing. Loman Praetner. He put me up to all this—"

"What do you mean, 'put you up to it'?"

"He promised me things—money, book
permissions—if I could get Molly to drop out of Symposium."

"You could have refused."

"Absolutely right. I could have, and I
didn't. I have to live with that transgression for the rest of my
life. But you might want to check with Praetner. He was adamant
Molly not participate in today's Symposium. She's planning on
outing the Gaia Corporation. A lot of people on the other side are
pissed off at her because of it."

Palmer walked away. Joey, he firmly
believed, was instrumental in the organization of the entire
debacle. He didn’t deserve his thanks.

Backstage Palmer found Praetner quite by
accident, huddled over a clipboard in the corner. Palmer advanced
on him, attempting to formulate his game plan as he went, but
nothing came to him until he reached the weasel. He batted the
clipboard out of Praetner’s grasp and stepped toward him. Praetner
backed himself against the wall trying to avoid him. Before Palmer
knew what was happening, he had Praetner pinned against the wall,
his forearm planted firmly against his neck. Palmer leaned on the
wall behind Praetner to steady himself in order to control the
amount of pressure he placed against his larynx. Praetner struggled
to free himself, even slapped a little at the arm threatening to
cut off his air supply, but after a few seconds, he acquiesced and
went almost limp against Palmer’s restraint.

The men were unevenly matched. Praetner
reminded Palmer of a mole, with his round glasses, teeny eyes, and
sallow skin. In the mood Palmer was in, he felt more like a hunting
dog with rabies. There was a faint moment in which Palmer was able
to evaluate his situation. Palmer Richardson was not a violent man.
He’d never laid hands on another person this way before in his
life. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Molly was
missing and Palmer would bet dollars to doughnuts Praetner knew
where she was.

"What..." Praetner said, struggling to catch
some air, "what do you want?"

"My wife. Molly McBride. You know her."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me!" He emphasized the word
'don't' by slamming his hand against the wall, centimetres from
Praetner’s head. Praetner jumped as if he'd been tasered.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time:
where is my wife?"

There was a gust of wind, a thud, and a gasp
from behind them. Palmer chanced a look and saw a woman huddled
over someone lying on the floor.

"Is she breathing?" someone asked.

"Call 9-1-1," someone shouted.

A sinking feeling began to form in the pit
of Palmer’s belly. He released Praetner and rushed to the person on
the floor. Sure enough, it was Molly, stage left, just in front of
the wings. Her eyes were closed.

"My God! Molly!" Palmer said, and he dropped
to his knees at her side. Aware she might have a concussion and
shouldn't be moved, he resisted the impulse to take her in his
arms, and stroked her hair out of her face where she lay
instead.

"She wasn't there, and the next minute,
there she was," Palmer heard someone say.

Molly groaned and opened her eyes.

"Hey there," Palmer said, trying to remain
calm. He managed a smile. Though he was relieved she was there and
she was alive, the amount of blood on her clothes was troublesome
nevertheless. "You had me worried." He scanned her body to find the
source of blood. It seemed to be everywhere.

Molly returned the smile and closed her
eyes.

"Can you sit up?" It took a bit of doing,
but slowly, with Palmer’s help, she half-sat, propped up on one
elbow.

"Where are you hurt?"

"My arm." Her voice was hoarse, barely a
whisper.

Her bicep looked as if it had been mauled by
a dog. "Call 9-1-1," Palmer called into the crowd. "Has anyone
called 9-1-1?"

One of the centre's staff, a young man, put
a hand on Palmer’s shoulder. "They're on their way, sir." He
assured him by squeezing his shoulder.

"What happened, Moll? Who did this?"

"Praetner. It was Praetner." She licked her
lips and tried to sit up further.

"Don't move, Moll. Help is on the way."
Someone handed him a bottle of spring water which he open and
offered to Molly who shook her head.

"It's contraband," she said.

How could he have forgotten—no bottled water
was one of Molly's Green Rules for Symposium. "Will you just take a
drink?" He said. He supported her head and tilted the bottle so she
got the water in a slow trickle.

A commotion ensued behind them as security
took Praetner into custody. He eventually wound up cuffed to the
row of seats behind Schliemann in the auditorium until the police
arrived.

"Better hide that before the guests arrive."
Molly said of the water bottle.

The paramedics arrived and gave her the once
over. They taped gauze around the wound. "It'll have to be
stitched," he told Palmer. "We have to take her to hospital to do
it—"

"I can't go. My speech!" Molly said.

Palmer squeezed her hand and glanced
hopefully at the paramedic.

"We'll see to it you get the V.I.P.
treatment. In and out, quick as humanly possible."

Temporarily placated, Molly nodded.

"When was her last tetanus?" the paramedic
asked Palmer.

Since archaeologists root around in century
old garbage, including discarded rusted nails and a variety of
other potentially hazardous materials, as a rule, archaeologists
regularly update their tetanus shots. Unable to remember the date
of either his wife’s or his own last tetanus shot, Palmer shook his
head.

"A few years ago," Molly whispered. "Two,
maybe three."

"That's fine, ma'am," the paramedic said,
turning his attention to her. "Can you sit up, ma'am?"

She started to move. The paramedic got
behind her and supported her from behind. He motioned to his
partner who wheeled over a gurney. "Help me now," he said to Molly,
or maybe to his partner, but together, the three of them got her up
off the floor and onto the gurney.

"I'm coming with you, Moll," Palmer told
her.

"No," she said as the paramedics buckled her
to the stretcher for the trip. "Speech too important. If I'm not
back in time, you do."

"My place is with you at the hospital,
Moll."

"Promise me, Palmer." She grappled for his
hand and then squeezed. "You'll do the speech. Promise me."

Palmer kissed the knuckles of her hand,
ignoring the dried blood there. "I promise," he said,
reluctantly.

The rest of the day played out as would be
expected after that. The EMS team brought me to a very busy
emergency room and if they had told someone I was a rush job, no
one was listening. Every tick of the clock seemed like an eternity.
I moved around the assigned examination room, alternately pacing
the crowded corridor, unable to relax knowing Symposium, my baby,
the one event which had consumed virtually every aspect of my life
for the past three months, was happening in my absence. The fact
that Palmer was just as capable as I of pulling it off was lost on
me.

At last the doctor came, froze my arm,
cleaned the wound, and stitched me up. It's healed rather nicely,
slightly lighter than my normal colouring, in the shape of an ankh,
the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph for life. It looks like a tattoo
from a distance and consequently ups my cool-factor with the
students.

I was released into the starting thralls of
rush hour, hailed a cab and chewed at my cuticles all the way back
to the conference centre. I entered the theatre as Palmer was
stammering the opening remarks of my speech. He stopped, cold, when
he saw me, and glared, a look of sheer adoration beaming at me, the
likes of which I haven't seen since I walked down the aisle at our
wedding. Taking Palmer's cue, everyone turned around and the hall
filled with surprised and horrified gasps. I must have looked a
sight, like a survivor crawling from beneath a train wreckage. My
blouse was torn, dried blood forming copper blooms over most of the
fabric.

When Palmer's smile could grow no larger, I
moved toward the stage. He met me at the stairs and hugged me
tightly. People began to applaud. Over the din, I heard Palmer ask
if I was okay. I nodded.