Rift (14 page)

“Where is this going?” Nicole asks me. “I still don't even know why you're in Arizona.”

“I know. I'm not sure what you're going to think about this, really. The reason why I'm here is sort of hard to believe.”

“Try me.”

“Well, the real product we're developing is based on a peculiarity of quantum physics that allows for what is commonly thought of as teleportation. NeuroStor calls it transmission, I guess because they scan an object and then transmit the properties of that object to another location, where it is reproduced. I'm no scientist, so I don't know much about how it works, but that's how I traveled to Arizona. They transmitted me.”

Nicole spends a few moments digesting this information. “You're right, that is sort of hard to believe.”

“The way it worked was this guy, Rodrigo Batista, the president of NeuroStor I told you about, picked me because he thought I would be willing to try it. Because I wasn't happy with my job and because I really don't enjoy the corporate world in general. He offered a lot of money and convinced me the test wasn't much more than a formality. But right now it looks like there was more risk than I thought.”

“So I suppose something went wrong, and you're running from them now.”

I nod.

“Why would you agree to test a machine like that? Did you have a death wish?”

“Supposedly they did extensive animal testing, but I guess they needed human transmissions on record to convince anyone outside the company to do it.”

“Still, that seems crazy.”

“It was. I don't know how to explain it, really. I've just been so bored most of my life. Nothing really excites me, and I thought this was something that I could . . . I don't know . . . something that would make me different. Something unique I could contribute to the world, something I might be remembered for. And then there was the five million dollars Batista offered. In the end it sort of seemed like I was meant to do it. Not that I believe in fate or anything like that. I guess I just wanted an adventure.”

Nicole steps a little closer to me, but not close enough for her face to completely emerge from the shadows. I don't know if she thinks I'm brave or stupid or lying.

“I can't believe I'm asking this,” she finally says, “but what went wrong? Why are you running now?”

“It seems like there is something neurologically wrong with me. Hell, I don't know. I'm not a doctor. But I've had a little problem with balance and coordination.”

“Okay. And you ended up in the river how?”

“I was with a friend of mine. We noticed two guys following us, and we ran from them. Tom was shot, I think, but I got away. The river swept me away.”

“Really,” she says.

“Really.”

“Where's your friend now?”

For some reason her question brings Tom's face into my mind, and remorse streams into me like cold water.

“I don't know.”

Nicole approaches me. The gun (no question about it now) is lowered, but not so far that she couldn't shoot me with it.

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm not being very considerate. I suppose it doesn't matter whether I believe you or not, so you can use my computer if you think it will help.”

“Thank you.”

“Follow me,” she says.

The house is enormous and immaculate. She leads me down a wide hallway, around a corner, and past a few doors. Now we walk into a large study. Thick, important-looking books cover three walls. A heavy, mahogany desk stands in the middle of the room.

“My husband is a lawyer,” she explains as she places the gun on a bookshelf. “This is his office.”

There are two chairs, an expensive leather high-back at the desk and a guest chair near the doorway. She pulls the latter toward the desk and motions for me to sit.

“How did you notice those men following you?”

“Tom and I were playing golf. The two guys were following us around on the course. There was that terrible rainstorm. I fell in the mud and slipped into the river. That was after they caught Tom and shot him.”

She powers on the computer and monitor. Their internal works whir and beep.

“But you didn't actually see them shoot him?”

“No, but he was yelling at me to run and then . . . and then he wasn't yelling anymore.”

“So you fell into the river at the golf course.”

“Actually I was sort of pushed in, and when the river turned into this canal, I saw a bridge and used it to crawl out of the water. Then I walked into town.”

The computer has completed its boot sequence and awaits a command.

“I know you don't believe me. I appreciate that you're helping anyway.”

“It sounds like you know what you're talking about. I don't know why I shouldn't believe you.”

“Because you choked when you saw me. Because I don't have any identification or any proof about what's going on.”

“I'm not going to lie to you,” Nicole says. “What you're telling me sounds like every idiotic conspiracy theory I've ever heard. I don't go along with alien abductions or guns on the grassy knoll. And that's what this sounds like.”

I don't know what to say to that.

“So is there any more to the story?”

I tell her the rest, about Crystal and alt.transmission.conspiracy and Tom's desperate instruction.

“I guess you could go ahead and send the e-mail,” Nicole says. “What could it hurt?”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I really appreciate this.”

We switch chairs so I can direct the mouse. I open the AOL program and select “Guest” as my sign-on name, wait as the modem shrieks, key in my real screen name and password until the screen says:

Welcome, Cam5217!

“What are you going to say to her?”

“I'm going to tell her what's happened to me, I guess, and then ask her what she thinks I should do.”

“And you think she's going to know better than you what to do because she's a conspiracy buff? Did it ever occur to you that maybe she was on crack? I mean, she
is
a stripper.”

“Stripper or not, she seemed to know more about this than I did.”

“What about the police? We have them here in Arizona, you know. They drive cars and wear uniforms and everything.”

“I know, I know. And if Crystal doesn't respond to my e-mail, that's what I'll do. But how are they going to help me? It's not like I have any proof to show them.”

“I think the police would have some idea how to handle the situation. They'd know better than you or me, at least.”

“Yeah, or maybe the police would lead me right to NeuroStor.”

“So it really is a big conspiracy, huh? Your company is so important they even control the police?”

“Of course not. But once they start asking questions, especially if they call NeuroStor, how do I know those two men won't show up at the station looking for me? Hell, Crystal thinks NeuroStor manipulates the media, so why couldn't they influence the police, too?”

Nicole rolls her eyes.

“Well, it wouldn't hurt to send the message, would it?” I ask.

“By all means,” Nicole agrees.

“Probably she won't get it in time, anyway. Then I can call the police.”

“I hope she responds right away. I'm curious to see what sort of advice she gives you.”

So now I have to type the message with the skeptic looking over my shoulder. And I don't even know where to begin.

Perhaps with the basics:

Crystal,

This is Cameron Fisher. I met you at The Wildcat the night before last. I'm the one who transmitted, remember?

I desperately need your help. This is not a joke. I promise this is not a joke. Please read this message carefully and help me if you can.

“Now what?”

“Tell her what happened to you,” Nicole says. “Just like you told me.”

I nod and press on.

Tom and I played golf at a place called Sandy Canyon yesterday. It's outside of Phoenix, north of Fountain Hills, I think.

“Fountain Hills?” Nicole says. “That's at least fifteen miles from here! You swam fifteen miles in a raging canal?”

“I wouldn't say ‘swam.' More like survived. By the way, where am I? What city is this?”

“Scottsdale.”

You know that guy who was staring at me the other night? He was there. At the golf course. He and two other guys were following me. When it started raining, Tom and I ran, and they chased us. They shot Tom. He might be dead. I kept running and the guy from the bar continued to chase me. He pushed me into a ditch or river that was flooded and the water swept me away. I washed up in Scottsdale and found someone here to help me. She's letting me use her computer to send this message.

I know it must seem ridiculous, sending this to you, but I honestly don't know what to do. I thought of going to the media, but what proof would I have? What I should do is call the police. If I don't hear from you soon, that's what I'll do.

But you seemed to know a lot about NeuroStor the other night, so I thought you might have some other ideas. If so, please reply immediately. I don't know how long I'll be able to wait here for your message.

Please help me. This is not a joke.

—Cameron

“What do you think?”

Nicole looks at me and smiles. “It is what it is. I don't think you could say it any better.”

I click on the
SEND
button and the message disappears.

We sit there in silence. Suddenly it seems like a ridiculous idea, sending this e-mail to a woman I barely know. A
topless dancer
I barely know. How often does the average person check their personal e-mail? Once a day? At the most?

“What if she doesn't respond?” Nicole says.

“I'm sure she will. There's just no telling how long it'll be before she gets my message.”

“But you said that if she didn't get it right away . . . I mean, you can't really stay here all day waiting.”

“I know.”

“Cameron,” she says. “The way I see it, there are two possibilities here. One, everything you've told me is true. In this case, I may have put my husband and myself at great risk by bringing you here. What if the men following you somehow figure out where you climbed out of the canal? All they have to do is ask around, and someone will tell them I took you in.”

“What's the other possibility?”

“That you're crazy, and all this is a lie.”

“Does this mean you're about to kick me out?”

“No, but I think you should call the police. It's really your only option. Even if this girl has some advice about your transmission problem, you're still going to have to get the authorities involved. The police first, and then maybe the FBI. It's not like you're going to be able to do anything by your—”

A short, musical tone from the computer interrupts her, and we both turn toward the monitor. There is another window on the screen.
INSTANT MESSAGE
, it says, and below:

TWOPEAKS:           Are you bisexual?

I just stare at the screen for a moment, afraid to hope, afraid to believe the person sending this message is who I think it is. Because sometimes when your hope turns out to be false, it hurts worse than if you never hoped at all.

“Why are you smiling?” Nicole asks.

“Am I?”

“Is this your friend, the one from the dance club?”

“I hope so.”

My fingers dart across the keyboard.

Cam5217:           I thought we went over this already.

“What are you talking about?” Nicole asks.

“A little joke we shared at the bar.”

TWOPEAKS:           I can't talk long. Don't say anything except answer my questions.

Cam5217:           OK.

TWOPEAKS:           Good. Turns out I was right—you
ARE
bisexual. And suddenly I'm out of the closet, too, which is why I left town. You remember what I told you in the club? You'll find me at the highest point in San Francisco.

Cam5217:           Got it.

TWOPEAKS:           I'll be watching for you, then. Good-bye.

“You're not kidding,” Nicole says. “She is paranoid. How could someone intercept your instant messages?”

“I'm sure AOL can access anything they want. And if they can, then someone with the right contacts could do the same.”

“Okay. But how in the hell are you supposed to get to San Francisco? And how are you going to find her there?”

“San Francisco doesn't necessarily mean California,” I tell her. “Crystal is originally from Flagstaff, and the mountain range—”

“The San Francisco
Mountains,
” Nicole finishes. “She's in Flagstaff.”

“I hope so.”

“That's only a few hours away. Straight up I-17.”

But she trails off as she says this, knowing as I do that it's more than a few hours away if you don't have a car to drive.

“Nicole, I know you're not sure what to think about this, and I feel awkward asking you for help. But—”

The computer chimes again, surprising me. Crystal should've been long gone by now. I turn back to the computer and see another instant message window open. It's not from her.

BATIROD:           Give yourself up or your wife is dead.

“Cameron, who the hell is that?”

I sit there and stare at the screen. Nicole sits next to me, agitated, waiting for me to act. But
BATIROD
doesn't wait.

BATIROD:           I know where you are. Wait there for us or Misty will be killed. I am not fucking around, Cameron.

Nicole's hands begin to shake. Her indigo eyes bulge out of their sockets.

“Is it them? The men who were chasing you?”

“It's Batista.”