Wormholes (3 page)

Then she stood and took off her helmet, leaving an incongruous dome of relatively clean hair crowning her mud-covered face and body. She turned the hose on herself, scrubbing off the mud from her face, arms and body. She flooded her shirt and shorts with water, squeezing as much as possible from their fabric. Then she squirted and scrubbed off her legs, until the tan emerged from beneath the mud. She removed her boots and socks and washed her feet. She picked up the boots, socks, rock and camera and carried them to her Range Rover parked at the curb, stowing them inside, removing dry clothes and locking it.

Among the crowd, watching her steadily, was a slim man with long curly hair and a scraggly beard and moustache, who wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans.

She gratefully accepted an offer from a kindly neighbor woman to shower at her house. As she took her shower and washed her hair in the bathroom with flowered wallpaper and a tasseled shower curtain and fancy soaps, she decided that it was better than the stock tanks or mountain rivers she usually bathed in on field trips. She emerged from the house in cutoff jeans and white t-shirt, still barefoot because she hadn’t brought extra shoes. She was ready to give a few television interviews:

No, she told the interviewers, she still wasn’t sure what had caused the cave-in, but she’d be working with engineers from the state to figure it out. Yes, it was scary down there. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. She excused herself as quickly as she could.

After a debriefing with the rescue workers and the rescue chief, who now called her Dr. Livingstone, she climbed tiredly into the Range Rover and drove it slowly through the police line and the crowd of tourists. She pulled out onto the boulevard that led into the well-tended middle-class housing development whose streets were now clogged with sightseeing traffic. It was forty-five minutes to her townhouse in Norman and she relished the time to relax. She accelerated onto Route 40, which would take her across the flat prairie landscape into Oklahoma City, and from there south to Norman. Traffic was light. Maybe everybody was still back at the crater. She smiled tiredly, wriggled her bare feet and thought about the crater and the cavern beneath. She glanced in the rear view mirror. A blue van was following her.

She decided to pick up dinner at a Wendy’s drive-through and left the freeway when she saw a Wendy’s sign. She bought a double burger, fries, and some chili, and maneuvered the Range Rover back onto the freeway. As she neared the exit for Highway 35, she noticed a blue van behind her. The same blue van. She munched a fry reflectively and veered onto 35 south into Norman. She exited the freeway and wound through the city streets, taking a more circuitous route to her townhouse than usual. It was late, getting dark. She could barely see the blue van, but it was there, following her. She munched another fry, becoming a bit more concerned. A
TV
crew? A fan? Or maybe … She remembered the phone call that morning.

She turned into the short driveway of her townhouse and pulled herself out, looking around. She didn’t see the van. She took the Wendy’s bag and went around to the back of the Range Rover, opening the tailgate and reaching in to pull out the camera and the rock. She was aware of somebody behind her. She whirled to see a bearded man in a t-shirt. He stepped toward her, reaching out.

She stepped back, whirled and with an expert karate side-kick, plunged her bare foot deep into his abdomen, leaving a dirty footprint on his t-shirt. He grunted in surprise, his mouth flying open and his dark eyes wide. He bent over double and she stepped toward him, grabbing his hand bending it straight behind him, twisting his wrist and driving him to his knees. He yelped in pain, but she twisted harder and shoved her foot onto his back, slamming him down onto his stomach. The concrete knocked the breath out of him and he offered no resistance, but she didn’t take any chances. She wrenched his arm behind him, set down the Wendy’s bag and reached up to her head, yanking a long white plastic strap from her ponytail, letting her damp hair cascade around her face. She kneeled on his back, grabbing his other hand and twisting it around behind him, making him grunt in pain. She wrapped the plastic around his wrists and threaded it through a built-in fastener and yanked it tight. Another grunt.

She was tempted to jump up and throw up her hands like she’d seen rodeo calf ropers do. But instead, she sat hard on his back, picked up the Wendy’s bag and took out a fry, popping it into her mouth.

“Got a call yesterday from a cop in Tennessee,” she informed the man as she chewed. “Said he couldn’t do anything official, but told me they met this weird guy who had my picture. Guy had a beard and was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, just like you. Look, I’ve had enough crap today. The cops’ll take it from here. Just remember this the next time you pick on a defenseless woman!”

The man groaned.

“D
acey?” said the little-boy voice. “Why come you sittin’ on that man?” Little Sammy had pedalled up on his
G.I.
Joe camouflage-painted Big Wheel and sat there, his fine, blond baby hair askew, his cowboy boots planted solidly on the concrete.

“Because he’s a bad man, honey.”

“No I’m not,” wheezed the man, beginning to recover from the blow to the stomach.

Dacey ignored him. “Tell your mom to call the police. Go get your mom now, sweetie.” Sammy was three and had learned all about police on Sesame Street, so he clattered away toward his house, a boy on a mission.

“Calling the police isn’t a good idea.” The man’s voice was stronger, but it was muffled from being stuck flat on his stomach under a one hundred thirty-pound load.

“Why not?”

“Because I could charge you with assault and battery.”

Dacey stood up and looked down at him, his hands trussed behind his back, a faint footprint on his shirt. “You came at me.”

“I was going to help you carry your stuff.”

“
Sure
you were, pal. You didn’t say anything. You just came at me.” She finished the last French fry and set the bag in the back of her Range Rover.

He paused to breathe and to gather his words. “I’m sorry. I’m not very communicative sometimes. Can I get up?”

“Nope. You might be a smooth talker. I know about smooth talkers.” She spied a bulge in his back pocket and bent down to fish out his wallet. She flipped through the cards.

Sammy’s mother ran out of her townhouse holding a nine-millimeter pistol. Hurrying toward Dacey, she shouted, “Are you okay? I’ll call the police!”

Dacey looked up from the wallet. “Just hold a bit, Nance. Let me see what we’ve got here.” Nancy, a slim, dark-haired woman of thirty-two stood, feet wide in an expert marksman’s stance in flip-flops, baggy blue shorts, and a man’s shirt, holding the pistol with both hands, pointed in the general direction of the man.

“Says here on your license you’re Gerald Meier from Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

“Right. Keep looking.”

Dacey held up an identification card. “It says you’re with the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics.”

“Yes. I’m an astrophysicist. A theoretical astrophysicist.”

Dacey hmphed sarcastically. “That’s the only kind, isn’t it? Like, you could do experiments with stars, eh?”

Gerald took the comment to mean his identity was accepted and he could roll over. He shook his hair back from his face and stared up at Dacey with dark, questioning eyes. Nancy backed up and looked dubiously at Dacey, who gestured that the movement was allowed.

“Why don’t you let me explain? Take these off.”

“Not quite yet, but we’ll get you a bit more comfortable.” Dacey nodded at Nancy, who stuffed the pistol in the waistband of her shorts and helped hoist Gerald to his feet. Dacey yanked at the cuff, checking that his hands were still bound firmly behind him.

“What are these things?” Gerald twisted to try to see his hands.

“Plastic zip tie. Makes a good handcuff. I keep a few pair handy in case of people like you. Girl can’t be too careful.”

“Hmm,” said Nancy, eyeing the cuffs. “Could I borrow some for Sammy?” Dacey laughed as the two women helped Gerald over to the steps leading to Dacey’s townhouse and sat him down on the second step.

“Can we talk privately?” the man asked.

Dacey considered the request. “Nance, I think we’re okay here,” she said. “Go make sure Sammy’s not up to something. I’ll holler if I need you.” Nancy offered the pistol, but Dacey declined, so she walked away, still eyeing Gerald suspiciously. The man shook his hair out of his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Look, let me give you a number to call. It’s Norm Mankiewitz, the chair of my department. His home number. He’ll vouch for me.” Dacey paused, then nodded as Gerald recited a number. She stood up, looking suspiciously down at him.

“Well, I guess you won’t get into mischief with your hands tied behind you.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket, unlocked her door and went into her townhouse, leaving the door open so she could watch him. Gerald shifted himself to get more comfortable, leaning against the wrought-iron railing on the steps. He heard the murmur of Dacey’s conversation, as she apparently had reached Mankiewitz. He looked around. It was a nice street, a nice townhouse. A middle-aged woman walked by with a small white dog on a leash. She eyed him suspiciously. He couldn’t conceal that his hands were tied behind him, so he tried to look nonchalant, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. He managed a smile and a nod, but she didn’t return the smile, shaking her head in a way that said she expected as much from the young woman who lived in that townhouse. After about ten minutes and two more head-shaking neighbors, she returned with two cans of beer.

“He says you’re not a psychopath. He says you’re a pretty nice guy, actually, although you’re quiet and kind of spacey. He didn’t say spacey. He said absentminded. He said you’re a genius. He also said nobody knew where you’d gone and he was glad I’d found you. He wants you to call him.” Dacey kept to herself her own observation that Gerald was a pretty good-looking fellow.

“Well, I guess all that’s true. Will you cut me loose?”

Dacey considered the idea. “Yeah … provisionally. I want to hear a satisfactory explanation. If it’s not, I yell for Nancy and she brings her gun.” Gerald nodded and Dacey drew a small Swiss Army knife from her pocket and sliced through the strap. She set the open knife down on the porch. Gerald rubbed his wrists to erase the welts. He accepted a beer from her, opened it and took a deep swallow. His stomach still hurt badly, but the beer helped.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, fetching the Wendy’s bag from the back of the Range Rover. “Maybe I overreacted a bit. But you sort of moved in without warning. A girl can get a little freaked.” He said nothing, so she unwrapped the hamburger and sliced it in two, offering him half. He took it and nodded in thanks. She sat on the top step, and he twisted sideways on the bottom step, resuming the position leaning against the wrought-iron railing, and looking up at her curiously. She was not like the women he usually encountered in academe. They didn’t usually kick one in the gut. He actually admired the act, even though it would leave him sore for some time.

She extended her legs and worked her feet around to stretch her leg muscles. “I’ll be sore from all the stuff today, including that kick.” She took a bite of hamburger, and when she had swallowed it, asked, “So, if you’re not a criminal, why’d that cop call me about you?”

“Misunderstanding. I don’t come across to people very well, sometimes.” He took a bite of his own half.

“I’ll say you don’t. Okay, let’s start over, like we never had our little rumble. What do you want?”

“Help with a puzzle.” He took another bite of his hamburger and a sip of beer. His stomach was slightly queasy, but it was empty. The hamburger would help him recover.

“What kind of puzzle? Astrophysics? I don’t know anything about astrophysics. I’m a geologist.”

“Well, actually I don’t know for sure what the puzzle is. Maybe geology. Maybe unnatural. Maybe some astrophysics.”

“You’re sounding weird, Gerald,” Dacey warned.

“Sorry. Look, I should explain that, because I’m a theoretician, I just think about things. Why they happen. I can’t explain it, but I kind of sense how theories should fit together. I see concepts, visualize them. I’m sorry, I just can’t—”

“—articulate very well,” she finished his sentence. “It’s okay, I’m kinda followin’ you. I took a course in the psychology of science. Einstein was like that. And there’s Stephen Hawking. Almost intuitive.”

“Yes, intuitive. Anyway, about six months ago … well, more like a year … I became aware of lots of strange things happening. I would read in the papers or see on TV about some strange things.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve got it all on my laptop in the van. I’ll get it in a minute. You’ll see what I mean.” He was so intent on his subject, he forgot his hamburger. His gaze grew distant. “Anyway, the only way I can classify them so far is they involve things appearing and disappearing.”

“Appearing and disappearing? That’s it? That’s your big scientific theory? Boy, I’m even more sure than ever why I like rocks.”

“I know it sounds—”

“Stupid?”

“—vague. But a lot of theories start out vague.”

“Appearing and disappearing,” Dacey said again reflectively, taking a sip of beer. “Like that house. That’s why you had that article with my picture. The cops told me.” Gerald nodded. She shrugged. She was interested. “Okay, let me see your stuff.” After all, she was totally stumped by the mystery of the disappearing house. And there was the unexplained cavern. But mostly, she remembered Anita. And she remembered the woman’s daughter, little Jenny, and her confused, fearful look, not understanding where her father had gone.

Gerald rose and walked, slightly bent over with his sore stomach, around the corner and out of sight. She felt even sorrier for having kicked him. He seemed okay, she thought as she finished the half hamburger and started on the chili, rummaging around for the plastic spoon in the bag. The chili was lukewarm, but still tasty. She was halfway through the bowl and almost done with her beer when he drove up in the van and disappeared from the driver’s seat into the back. From the rocking and squeaking that emanated from the van, she could tell he was rummaging around. He appeared out the back door with his laptop. A can followed him, rolling along in the gutter. He retrieved it and pitched it into the back and shut the door, trying twice before the latch held.

She had turned on the porch light as dusk rose, and sat down on the steps just as he reached her and perched beside her, opening the laptop and launching a database program. He brought up an image of a multitude of stars, with a bright streak cutting through the middle.

“This is really what got me started. They were doing a sky survey at Palomar, taking photos with this wide-field telescope. They got this shot of this really bright object out in space. Brighter than an asteroid, even brighter than a little sun. It was moving against the background of stars, so they knew it was in our solar system.” He clicked to the next picture of what looked to be about the same star field. “Then a couple of hours later, they did another exposure of the same star field. Bang! It’s gone! Disappeared!” He clicked back and forth between the two photos, showing how the streak has vanished.

“Maybe it just zoomed out of the area.”

“They could tell how fast it was going from the streak. Really damned fast. But they allowed for that.”

“It might’ve exploded.”

“Maybe, but there was no flash. Disappeared,” he said portentously. “Anyway, I don’t like things like that … things that don’t fit. It means that something’s wrong with a theory. So, I started going through astronomy data from planetary probes. And I found more objects in space that appeared or disappeared. It was tough, because they were mostly in raw data. None of the astronomers would publish them, because they all thought something was wrong with their instruments.” He brought up the next photo, a swirling mass of red, orange and yellow color with a large, dark splotch in the middle. “This did get published. It’s a closeup of Jupiter taken about a year ago. There’s this big anomaly in the atmosphere that showed up one week and was gone the next.”

“Anomaly?”

“Well, they did measurements. The atmosphere seemed to be swirling inward to a point. Like a whirlpool. But that’s all they could figure out.”

“So, what’s all that stuff up there got to do with us earth people?”

“Well, after Jupiter, I started looking in the newspapers, searching online news services. I don’t know why. Just a hunch.” He brought up a news story on the screen. “Few months ago, there was this gas cloud that killed a big reindeer herd in the Arctic circle. Something
appeared
just out of nowhere.” He clicked through the database and brought up another news story. “These climbers in the Caucasus mountains went on an expedition to climb this mountain and found the topography had changed. A whole big chunk of mountain had eroded. Or
disappeared
.”

“And now that house.”

“Yeah, that house.” His eyes were bright now. He’d forgotten the injury, forgotten the welts on his wrists, forgotten his half-eaten hamburger. “And there are explosions and eruptions and—”

“Whoa, pal!” She stood up, edging toward the door. “This is all getting too weird. I agreed to listen, but this is just too tall a story. What do you expect me to believe here?”

He stood up, too, but knew enough to back away instead of approaching her. “I don’t expect you to believe anything now. I don’t believe anything. I’ve just got this—”

“Obsession. That’s what they call it.”

“Well, all right. But I left Cambridge to go find out about these things. I’ve just got this … this obsession. All I want now is to find out what you know about this crater. Just let me look at your data.”

“Yeah, my data,” she said. “About all I’ll have is data. I’ve got no funds to continue this. The university won’t give me the kind of help to mount a major exploration of that cavern … to do isotopic analyses … seismic profiling …”