He wadded up the sheet—he wasn’t sure it could be salvaged after being dragged around and ground into the asphalt and gravel, but he had to try—and went back to Wickie’s cabin, wishing there was some way to get through to the boy. When he paused for a last look over his shoulder, Davey had disappeared around the end of the building. Sam shook his head. His cabin door was unlocked. He flicked on the light and paused.
He stood in the doorway and looked around. He might not be able to remember locking the door, but he knew he hadn’t left the cabin in this condition.
The few books Wickie had were in tatters, the leaves scattered as if a tornado had hit the room. White powder, a mixture of flour and sugar, drifted over everything. Everything breakable was broken; shards of glass glittered on the floor. Unidentifiable, stinking liquids stained the walls, the furniture, pooled on flat surfaces. Obscene words were scrawled on the pictures. A pile of excrement sat in the middle of the rug, still steaming.
He didn’t even want to think about what the kitchen must look like.
“Oh, no,” said a small voice from behind him. “Oh, this is awful.”
He didn’t have to glance around to know it was Bethica. “I’d have to agree with you there,” he said. “I hope there’s cleaning supplies around here somewhere. Still in their containers, I mean.”
“Ooo, is that—that’s disgusting.” Bethica had just gotten a good look at the final insult on the rug. “Oh, wow.” She slipped around him and tiptoed around the worst damage, making faces as she went. “Gross.” She paused to pick up what remained of the algebra book and some papers, examined them, and sighed. “Even the problems we were doing. That dork.” Stepping into the kitchen, she added, “Oh, this is really bad.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Sam muttered. He made as if to drop the sheet and decided not to; it was probably the cleanest fabric in the place. He wondered if Wickie owned a washer and dryer, and doubted it.
Well, there had to be a laundromat somewhere in town. At least he didn’t have to worry about how he was going to spend the rest of the night.
Bethica returned to the living room with a broom and a black metal dustpan. “I could get started in here,” she said. “But we’re going to need a lot of stuff. Trash bags and stuff.”
He liked her immediate, pragmatic approach. Bethica might have a crush on him—on Wickie, he corrected himself—but she was also a thoroughly practical kid.
“I don’t suppose there’s an all-night grocery store around here?” Sam asked without thinking. He found himself wondering why she was there.
Bethica looked at him oddly. “The ShopRite closes at ten.”
Of course. He should have known that.
He’d gotten odder looks than hers. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nine-fifteen. It surprised him; he’d thought it was later than that. “I guess I’d better go, then.” It was a good thing Snow Owl wasn’t a very big place; it should be fairly easy to find the store. He looked up at Bethica. “I don’t think you’d better stay here, though. Whoever did this could come back.”
“ ‘Whoever did this’?” she repeated, reprising the odd look. “Wickie, we both know who did this. He’s been mad at you ever since—ever since I gave you that book. And when you took back the keg in front of everybody, that just made it worse.”
Sam realized abruptly that Bethica had been one of the kids up at the party when he’d Leaped in. “You were there, too? I thought you were smarter than that.”
She gave him the long-suffering look teenagers always gave adults who said stupid things, and changed the subject. “I’ll get started,” she said. “He isn’t going to come back.”
Sam contemplated calling the cops, saw the dangling wires where the telephone had been torn out of the wall, and decided against it. It would be entirely too easy to turn Kevin over to the cops, but he could figure out for himself what the odds were that the boy would be out on bail in no time flat, and not feeling any more charitable toward either Wickie or Bethica.
He wished Al would show up and give him some idea how he was supposed to handle this.
“It isn’t safe,” he protested halfheartedly.
“The store’s going to close,” she pointed out, and went into the kitchen and proceeded to make sweeping-up noises.
She was right. Sighing, he hugged the sheet to himself and went out to the truck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Al Calavicci had spared a thought to his best friend at least three times that day. Each time, he asked Ziggy how Sam was doing. Each time, upon being informed that the computer was unable as yet to define a probability locus and that Sam was in no apparent danger, he returned to exploring the wonders of amicable married life.
He avoided thinking about the past; it was too confusing, for one thing, and for another, he wasn’t quite sure which memories went with which past. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly where the timelines diverged.
But he knew he liked Janna more and more every minute. She was sharp and funny and gave as good as she got. And she could scramble eggs like nobody’s business.
Even when breakfast was oatmeal.
Ziggy couldn’t provide an answer, either, on what the odds were that this particular timeline would remain stable. The next time Al entered the Imaging Chamber, this entire “moment” might vanish as if it had never been.
Under the circumstances, he felt justified in delaying, just a little bit, going back to check on Sam. Especially since Sam wasn’t in any danger, or anything.
Besides, it was Saturday at the Project too, and he could take the day off. He and Janna could run up to Albuquerque and do some shopping. Maybe even catch dinner and a
concert in Santa Fe—the King-Aire could land on the Santa Fe airstrip. It wasn’t as if he were going off to Washington. And he hadn’t had time off in a long time.
Sam found the ShopRite twenty minutes before it closed, swept in, and bought everything he could think of. He was the last customer. “You planning on starting your own business, Wickie?” the cashier asked him, ringing up the last pack of sponges and figuring the rental charge for the rug shampooer.
So much for pretending he was new in town and asking where the nearest all-night laundromat was.
“Just decided to do some cleaning up,” he mumbled, watching the total grow. It was a good thing he did collect those tips, as it turned out; he just barely had enough. The cashier gave him a pretty smile with his change. It was a nice moment. The whole evening had been pretty nice, in fact, right up until he got home.
Arms full of paper bags, he trudged back to the truck and set them in the back. There were only four other vehicles in the parking lot.
From one of them, a red pickup, came the sounds of adolescent male laughter.
He drew a deep breath, got in the truck and drove back to the cabin.
Bethica was in the bathroom, throwing up. Looking around, he couldn’t blame her. He put the bags down and began putting chairs right side up. It was going to be a very, very long night.
Ten minutes later, Bethica was still in the bathroom throwing up, the most noxious part of the cleanup job was out of the way, and Sam wanted to wash his hands. He tapped on the door.
“Bethica? You okay in there?” The sound of retching made him gag in sympathy.
“Yeah,” she said in a faint and completely unconvincing voice. The toilet flushed. The door opened three inches, and she peered up at him. She didn’t look well. “I tried to clean the rug and ... I think I’m going to be sick again.”
It was essential to save her dignity. It was even more essential to let her get back to the toilet. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said hastily.
Bethica staggered back, swinging the door open, and lunged for the bowl again. Sam followed her, keeping an eye on her as he scrubbed at his hands. From the looks of it, she’d managed to get the bathroom sparkling before succumbing to nausea; he was pretty sure he’d had to shave around water streaks on the mirror that morn
ing. The pink razor, soap, and loofah were all gone, he noticed.
Finally his hands were raw from scrubbing. Bethica was still clinging to the bowl.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” He got down on one knee beside her and lifted her head, cautiously. She was pale and red eyed and her face was streaked with tears, and she looked nothing like the practical woman who had started cleaning up while he went shopping. He looked around, scrabbled one handed in a drawer underneath the sink, and found a clean washcloth, soaking it in cold water.
“Hey there.” He washed her face clean with the impersonal efficiency and expertise of a good nurse, and she burst into tears again.
If Al was going to show up, he thought, it would be right now, to see him sitting on the bathroom floor with a teenage girl in his arms, crying her heart out. He’d either make some snide crack or overflow with sympathy. Maybe both. Simultaneously. Meanwhile, the best he could do was try to soothe the girl and figure out how to get them out of the bathroom.
“Sorry,” she said at last, straightening up and making a valiant effort to pretend she’d never cried at all. “I don’t know why it got to me like that. I used to have to clean up after Davey all the time. I guess it’s just the idea anybody would do such a thing.” She sniffled, and despite herself a line of tears escaped and threaded down her cheek. “I’m
really sorry he did this, Wickie. Really. He has no right to treat you this way.”
She shook her head back and forth, blonde hair flying. She didn’t hold up well, he decided. Some women shed beautiful tears, elegant, long suffering, perfect for a follow spot in the movies. Bethica snuffled. Sam gave up.
“It’s disgusting,” he agreed, “but it’s not your fault. Are you sure you’re okay?” He scrubbed fresh tear tracks away, and she sat there and let him, like a little girl, not a teenager only a few years younger than he—Wickie—was. He took the opportunity to check her face for bruises—he still didn’t believe her claim that Kevin didn’t hit her—but found none.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, beginning to look around. He moved back so she could stand. “It’s such a mess. It just hit me so hard—”
“That can happen when you’re pregnant,” Sam said without thinking. “It’s normal. Your hormones are out of whack.”
Bethica’s head snapped around so fast he had an instant of worry for her neck. “What did you say?”
He opened his mouth to repeat himself and then paused, reviewing unconscious cues. “How long has it been since you had your period?”
The look on her face reminded him that Wickie Starczynski was no doctor, and the question was probably far more intimate than Wickie’s relationship with his boss’s niece warranted. Chagrined, he tried to apologize. “I mean, you are pregnant, aren’t you?”
She shook her head and blew her nose, took a deep breath, and got up without looking at him. “That’s . .. that’s none of your business.”
She didn’t know, he realized abruptly. She had no idea she was pregnant. She probably thought she was just late, or skipped a period. His eyes narrowed again: maybe two periods. Those jeans were getting tight.
But there was nothing in the information he had so far that indicated Bethica’s pregnancy had anything to do with anything. He sighed. “You’re right, it isn’t. Look, Bethica, I really appreciate your help here, but I think you’d better get home—”
It was the wrong thing to say. He followed her back into the kitchen to dig through the grocery sacks for the Kleenex, borrowing one to blow his nose while he was at it—something in the air was making his nose run and his eyes water and itch.
In the act of turning to throw the tissue away he paused. An odd, scraping sound was coming from the living room; Bethica, who was standing at the sink wringing out a sponge, didn’t appear to hear it.
If Kevin had come back—
He moved as silently as possible to the door and stuck his head around the frame.
At first the room appeared empty. He stepped into the doorway.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Scrape.
The sound drew his gaze downward, to a small, chubby grey tabby kitten who seemed to feel that the rug shampooer hadn’t done an adequate job. She sniffed again at the rug, curled her lip.
Scrape. Scrape.
“Achoo!”
Sam wasn’t sure who was more startled by his sneeze, but judging by the reaction, the kitten won by a long margin; she levitated straight up, came down on the arm of the sofa, bounced to the back of the sofa, threw one terrified yellow glance at Sam, the cat-devouring monster looming in the doorway, and jumped down and dived underneath, out of sight.
“Achoo!”
On top of everything else, it appeared that Wickie was allergic to cats.
Sam knew of some cat lovers who kept the animals in the face of the most debilitating allergies, but there had
been no sign of kitty litter, cat food, or water dishes in the cabin. The kitten was, therefore, not Wickie’s. He hadn’t reacted to it before Bethica arrived. Deductive logic led inevitably to the conclusion: The kitten arrived with, and must therefore belong to, Bethica. Sam hoped the kid could get the little beast out and take it with her when she left. He didn’t look forward to sneezing all night.
He made a mental note to tell her not to feed her pet so much. The kitten had the dimensions of a furry butterball. He wiped at his streaming eyes again.
Which reminded him that he’d been in the middle of an errand of mercy when he’d been so rudely interrupted.
Bethica had finished with the sponge and was emptying out a bucket. She took the proffered tissue gratefully. “I knew,” she said abruptly. “I’ve been making plans. I’ll deal with it, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam said helplessly.
Her eyes fell. “You must think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily.” As a matter of fact he wasn’t sure what he did think, except that it was getting rather late for a Saturday evening, and if Rimae showed up, there might well be consequences of a nature better dealt with by, say, Al, who at least had more practice. “I’m not making any judgments. You’ve got to tell Rimae, though.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “She’ll kill me.”
“I don’t think so. She’ll be pretty mad, though. But you can’t put it off much longer.”
Bethica’s lips firmed. “That’s my business, too.”
Sam sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine. If that’s the way you want to play it. Look, I really appreciate the help, but I think you’d better go home now. Let me walk you over, and I’ll finish cleaning up.”
“I don’t need to be walked home.” She was getting angry again. Well, anger was a valid coping mechanism too.
“If you need somebody to talk to—” he offered, unable to stop himself. Her glare did it for him. “Oh, your cat is in the living room,” he said hastily, changing the subject. “I think you’d better take her with you.”
Once again, he’d said the wrong thing. “I don’t have a cat. But I can take a hint.” Pushing past him, she dropped the used Kleenex into the wastebasket and marched through the cabin and out the door.
“Some Leaps you just can’t win,” Sam muttered. He became aware of yellow eyes, huge in the small triangular face, outlined by dark lids and white stripes, observing him steadily from under the sofa. The watcher had two dark vertical strips like exclamation points over her nose. He could probably hold her in one hand, he thought, watching her in return. “Boo!”
The kitten hastily withdrew.
He followed Bethica at a distance to the house at the end of the block, making sure she got home all right. She paused briefly in the porchlight, looking back at him, and he raised one hand, tentatively. She raised one in return. With that much comfort, he went back to the cabin to finish the cleanup.
The next several hours were punctuated with sneezes. He needed more tissue; two boxes weren’t enough. He had to wash down th
e walls, sweep up more debris, and put bag after overstuffed bag of garbage out the front door. The kitten supervised. After the first hour she decided he was mostly harmless, and crept out from under the sofa to go back into her “you missed a spot” routine again. When Sam didn’t respond—other than to sneeze—the kitten mewed half a mew at him.
“What are you, a cat or a mouse?”
The kitten made an ek-ek sound, and then began to purr, a surprisingly deep rumble for such a small body, and stropped herself against his ankles.
“Ah, shaddup, ach-ch-ch—”
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“—oo. You wouldn’t know where Al is, would you?”
The cat didn’t know either.
It was four-thirty in the morning before Sam finally straightened up, looked around, and decided it would have to do. The kitten had long since given up on him and curled up in the comer of the sofa, which it clearly regarded as its own personal property. Judging by the amount of grey hair already liberally scattered over the rough plaid surface, Sam wasn’t inclined to argue. He’d be happy to let the cat have the sofa, at least for the remainder of the night, as long as he could have the rest of the house. Specifically the bed.
He’d forgotten about house cats and beds, especially when the door had been torn off its hinges and there wasn’t any way to keep them out of the bedroom. Some five minutes after his head hit the pillow, little cat feet began marching up his leg to his hip, kneaded, and settled. He moaned and went back to sleep, acknowledging defeat.
SUNDAY
June 8, 1975
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.
—John Donne, The Undertaking, st. 4
CHAPTER NINE
Quantum Leap - Random Measures Page 7