Zig Zag

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  Still kneeling (she didn't want to get up; she knew he was watching), she reached out her hands. No trace of movement in those marble legs, but she didn't seem to be paralyzed, either. Her skin was still warm. It was as if Nadja had no ability to move whatsoever.

  All of a sudden, what seemed like a handful of sand fell into her eyes. She looked down and rubbed them. Something touched her hair. She looked up again and a lump of something fell onto her mouth, making her cough.

  She became aware of the sickening reality: Nadja's body was crumbling before her, like powdered sugar disintegrating, an avalanche to her touch. Her cheeks, eyes, hair, breasts ... everything was flashing off, sounding like wind sweeping through a snowy bark.

  She wanted to wipe that chunk of Nadja's flesh off of her face but found she couldn't. The avalanche was burying her alive, it was an onslaught, she was going to suffocate...

  And then, from behind the collapsing body, he rose.

  "HEY, lady!"

  "She looks like she's on drugs..."

  "Has anybody called the police?"

  "Lady, you OK?"

  "Christ, would you move your car already, please? You're blocking traffic!"

  People's faces and voices blurred together. Elisa was mostly concentrating on the man whose face took up two-thirds of her car window and the young woman blocking the remaining portion of the glass. The only other thing she could see was the windshield, where tiny raindrops had begun to fall in the night.

  In a flash, she saw what had happened. She was stopped at a red light, though God only knew how many greens and yellows had gone by before she came to. She thought she must have fallen asleep in her car and dreamed that she was visiting Nadja and all the rest of it, including (thank God this wasn't true) the macabre discovery of her body. But no, she hadn't fallen asleep. She realized she felt her pant leg all wet with the smell of sour urine. She'd had one of her "disconnects," one of her "waking dreams." It had happened before, though this was the first time she hadn't been home (and the first time she'd peed in her pants).

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled, dazed. "I'm really sorry."

  She waved her hand by way of apology; the man and woman looked satisfied and moved on. The rearview mirror showed a row of irate drivers in their cars, trying desperately to overcome the obstacle in their way (Elisa). She quickly put the car in gear and accelerated. Just in time, she said to herself, catching glimpse of a phosphorescent vest over a dark jacket in her side-view mirror. The last thing she needed right now was a run-in with the police.

  She'd reached Moncloa, but the traffic on that chaotic night in the run-up to Christmas and her own rush to get there as soon as possible seemed to have joined forces to make it take as long as possible. Soon she was stopped again, in the middle of a two-way street. People honked furiously, far-off sirens howling in the night. It was drizzling, too, which didn't help matters. She turned her Peugeot toward the curb, despite the fact that there were no free spaces. Elisa double-parked, got out, and began running down the street, clutching her purse by the strap as though it were the leash of a toy dog.

  She was scared. Her fear made everything worse. It was like gambling, and having the tiniest stakes grow huge because so many people wanted in on the game. Her mouth was open, parched. Only the light rain moistened her tongue.

  Nothing happened. Nadja's fine. It was just one of your crises. She's fine...

  She stopped a couple of times to look at the street signs, as if they were headstones. She'd gotten mixed up. Almost screaming, she asked an old man with a jaundiced face for directions. He stared at her from a doorway, but wasn't sure about the street she wanted. He and a woman who was just leaving a building began arguing about it.

  Then she heard the siren.

  She left them arguing and took off.

  She didn't know why she was racing so fast. She had no idea where she was going or why she had to get there right away. Still, she ran, avoiding shadows cloaked in overcoats and carrying long umbrellas that looked like swords. She ran so fast that her breath, which she could see, couldn't keep up. Turned to steam, it hit her in the face.

  It was an SUV with flashing lights. It made an enormous racket as it careered through the streets, but since traffic was so dense, she didn't lose sight of it.

  Suddenly, everyone began to run, and all the cars seemed to have lights on their roofs, sirens blaring. She found the street she was looking for, but it was blocked off by dark-colored vans. There were more of them in front of Nadja's door. Vans, ambulances, and cop cars. Men in helmets looking like the riot police were asking people to step back.

  She felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. Pushing her way to the front, she tried to get through, but a gloved hand clamped down on her arm. The man who spoke to her didn't look human. He wore a helmet and mask, and his eyes were the only identifiable life source, buried under layers and layers of law and order.

  "You can't get through here, ma'am."

  "My ... friend ... lives ... here..." she panted.

  "Step back, please."

  "What's going on?" asked a woman standing beside her.

  "Terrorists," the cop said.

  Elisa tried to catch her breath.

  "My friend ... I need to ... see her..."

  "Elisa Robledo? Is that you?"

  It was another man, this one without armor. Well dressed, wearing a coat and tie, black hair slicked back. A stranger, but Elisa held onto his smile and kind words like a life preserver thrown to a drowning sailor.

  "I recognized you," he said, still smiling as he approached her. "Let her through," he added to the masked man. "Come with me, please, Professor."

  "What happened?" she asked, still out of breath as she hurried to keep up with her guide's footsteps, rushing through the deafening bedlam of lights and screeching radios.

  "Nothing, really." He walked past the doorway but didn't enter the building. "We're just here..."

  "What?" Elisa hadn't heard the last sentence.

  "For protection," he repeated, raising his voice. "We're here for protection."

  "So, Nadja—"

  "She's fine, though she's very scared. And after what happened to Professor Craig, we decided the best thing would be to move her to a secure location."

  Hearing that, she felt relieved. They'd reached the end of the street; he was still ahead of her. There was a van parked on the sidewalk, its two back doors slightly ajar. The man opened them wide and disappeared inside for a second. She heard his voice.

  "Miss Petrova, your friend is here."

  Then he reemerged and made room so Elisa could get past. She leaned in, smiling anxiously.

  Inside was another man in a white jacket, seated beside the stretcher. Which was empty.

  A man covered her nose and mouth, her lips still stretched into a tentative smile.

  24

  "THEN what happened?"

  "I parked the car—well, double-parked, actually—and started running..."

  "Excuse me. Didn't something else happen first? Didn't you have a disconnect while you were driving?"

  "Yes, I think I did."

  "What did you see?... OK calm down... And we started off so well today... Why is it that when we get to this part, you..."

  IT would have been a perfect day for a walk. Unfortunately, the courtyard was tiny. It was still better than her room, though. Through the diamond-shaped links of wire fencing she could see more fences, and off in the distance a beach and the deep blue sea. An ocean breeze rustled the hem of her gown—if you could call it a hem. It was a paper gown (paper, for God's sake; how cheap can you get?), but at least she was allowed to cover up this time, and the wind wasn't as cold as she'd feared. You got used to it.

  They'd told her there were olive and fig trees on the western slope, which she couldn't see from there. But this landscape was enough for her: her eyes hurt from the feast of images, but it was a fleeting pain. She managed to take several steps without feeling dizzy, though in the en
d she had to grab onto the fence to hold herself up. Beyond the second fence, a robot moved back and forth. It was actually a soldier, but from that distance he could have passed for a movie-quality, computer-generated android. He held a pretty serious gun and moved lightly, as if to communicate that he could handle the weight with no trouble.

  Then it all went dark. The transformation was so abrupt that she thought the landscape had actually changed. But it was just a cloud covering the sun.

  "LET'S go back to that vision of Nadja's body crumbling before you. Do you remember?"

  "Yes..."

  "Did you see anyone else? Did you see the figure you call 'him'? The one from your erotic fantasies?" Silence.

  "Why are you crying?" Silence.

  "Elisa, nothing can touch you here ... Please calm down..."

  SHE felt like she was emerging from a cave, a netherworld. The last few days had been a series of murky, unconnected shadows. Her joints hurt, and there were needle marks on her forearms. She was chock-full of them, like tiny piercings everywhere. But they'd told her the reason for all those injections. Sedating her had been their number one priority when she arrived at the base in the state she was in. They'd given her huge doses of tranquilizers.

  It was January 7, 2012. She'd asked the young guy who came to get her from her room what the date was. He wore a striped suit and was very sweet. He told her she'd been there over two weeks. Then he led her to the ward.

  "I don't know if you know, but 'Dodecanese' means that, in theory at least, there should be twelve islands," he said with tour-guide intonation as they traversed endless corridors that inevitably led to checkpoints where he had to show ID. "But actually, there are more than fifty. This is Imnia. I think you've been here before. It's a totally operational center: we have our own lab and heliport. Structurally, it's very similar to the U.S. DARPA bases in the Pacific—that's the U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. In fact, we also do work with the Joint EU Department of Defense." He paused every little while to glance at her, ever attentive. "Feeling OK? Are you dizzy? How's your appetite? We'll feed you in a little while. You can eat with everyone else today ... careful, there's a step there. Your colleagues are all doing fine, so you don't need to worry. Are you cold?"

  Elisa smiled. There was no way she could be cold wearing that wool sweater over her black strapped blouse. Her jeans were black, too.

  "No, I just... it's just that... I just realized these are my clothes."

  "Yes, we brought them from your house." He smiled, showing teeth so perfect that for a second she found it off-putting. "Wow. Thank you."

  From the open doors of a large salon came the labyrinthine sound of baroque piano music. Elisa shivered.

  "The piano was the professor's reward. We allowed him his favorite pastime. You all know each other, so we won't waste time on introductions."

  It occurred to her that his statement was only true to a point: in fact, she hardly recognized Blanes, Marini, Silberg, and Clissot, they looked so exhausted. They all had huge bags under their eyes, and their bodies, some in street clothes and others in paper gowns, showed all the telltale signs of utter fatigue. She supposed the same was true of her. When she walked in, they hardly took any notice. Blanes (who, incidentally, had grown a beard) was the only one who flashed her a weak smile after momentarily interrupting his recital.

  Two more people walked in as she took a seat by the coffee table. She didn't recognize the first one straight off; he'd shaved his mustache and his hair had turned completely white. The other man, though, she knew immediately. He still had a crew cut and a gray beard, his stocky body still looked uncomfortable in business suits, and he still had that look of intense concentration that seemed to say that although few things actually interested him, those that did each received extraordinary attention.

  "You all know Mr. Harrison and Mr. Carter, our heads of security," the young man said. The recent arrivals nodded their greeting, and Elisa smiled at them. Once everyone had taken a seat, the young man began by fawning over them. "Let me just say, on my own behalf, that I'm honored to have you here. And please don't hesitate to call me if you need anything at all during your stay."

  After he left, following a few seconds of smiles and exchanged glances, the white-haired man turned to her.

  "Professor Robledo, it's so nice to see you again. You do remember me, don't you?" It clicked. She'd never liked that man; it was probably just a personality clash. She gave him a smile, but also buttoned her cardigan up over her skimpy blouse and crossed her legs.

  "Well, let's get right down to it. Paul, whenever you're ready."

  Carter's speech was like boiling water, waiting to burst from his mouth.

  "You'll all go home today. We call it 'reintegration.' It will be as if you never left: your bills have been paid, your meetings postponed, your immediate appointments canceled with no trouble, and your families and friends have been reassured. Because of the holidays that this operation covered, we had to use different excuses for each of you." He passed out a little dossier. "This should bring you all up to speed."

  She already knew her mother had received a message on her machine in which Elisa herself (or at least "her voice") apologized for not being able to come to Valencia on Christmas Eve. And she hadn't had to ask for time off work since classes didn't resume until after the holidays anyway.

  "On behalf of Eagle Group, I'd like to apologize for having made you spend your holidays here." Harrison smiled like a rueful cashier who'd accidentally doled the wrong change. "I hope you can understand our reasons. Though I know you've been receiving some information over the past few days, Mr. Carter will be happy to give you the actual test results. Paul?"

  "We've found no proof of any relation between Professor Craig's death and what happened in New Nelson, nor was it connected to any of you," Carter said, removing a bundle of papers from his briefcase. "As far as Nadja Petrova's suicide is concerned, unfortunately we do think there is a direct relationship between her death and the news of Craig's murder..."

  Elisa closed her eyes. She'd managed to accept the awful tragedy but couldn't help feeling a rush of anguish every time she actually thought about it. Why? Why did she do it? Why call me and then do that? She couldn't seem to recall many of the details of their phone conversation, but she did remember Nadja's distress, and how badly her friend had wanted to see her.

  "That's precisely why we warned you not to contact one another," Harrison broke in reproachfully, staring at Jacqueline. "Professor Clissot, I'm not blaming you for anything. You did what you thought was the right thing in calling Miss Petrova. You received the news yourself and wanted to get it off your chest. Unfortunately, you chose the wrong person."

  Jacqueline Clissot was sitting at one end of the table. She wore light-blue pajamas and a dressing gown but still looked incredible despite the years that had passed. Elisa did notice one thing, though: she'd dyed her hair black.

  "I'm sorry," Jacqueline whispered, eyes downcast. "I'm so sorry..."

  "Don't blame yourself. Really," Harrison said. "You had no idea Miss Petrova would react that way. It could have happened to anyone. But I don't need to remind you not to do it again."

  Jacqueline's head was still bowed, her beautiful lips trembling as if nothing Harrison said could stop her from believing she deserved terrible punishment for her actions. Elisa was scared. She'd talked to Nadja, too, after all.

  "We've managed to reconstruct what happened." Carter passed out more sheets of paper. Photocopies of international news stories. "Nadja Petrova spoke to Professor Clissot at seven o'clock. She phoned Professor Robledo around ten. By ten thirty, she'd slit both of her wrists and bled to death in the bathroom."

  "After you suggested going out to dinner together," Harrison said, pointing at Elisa. She struggled not to burst into tears.

  "You can see what the press had to say about it here," Carter said, giving the floor back to Harrison. They were like actors on a stage, performing, ri
ffing off each other.

  "Obviously, they don't have the whole story. We intervened there, but I'll tell you why. When Professor Craig was murdered, we were intrigued. We sent special units to his house and put all of you back under surveillance, too. That's why we tapped your phone conversations. Miss Petrova was very upset, so we ordered one of our agents to go and make sure she was OK. When he got there, she'd already killed herself. So we cordoned off the area and decided to bring you all here to avoid another tragedy."

  "Not very orthodox methods, but it was an emergency."

  Harrison picked up, finishing Carter's thought.

  "Not very orthodox methods, but we'd do it again if we had to. Let me make myself perfectly clear about that. We'd do it for one or all of you." He looked at them each in turn, stopping at Elisa, who looked down. Then he turned to Jacqueline, who would not meet his eyes. "Do I make myself clear, Professor?"

  "Perfectly," she replied quickly.

  "You've all been in isolation. For your own safety and the safety of those around you. We've been through this again and again: you all suffered from the Impact. And until we have a better understanding of what happens to a person who sees the past, we'll have to take drastic measures whenever a situation arises. I imagine you all know what I mean." He turned back at Elisa again, and she nodded. Harrison's look gave her the creeps; his blue eyes were so narrow they looked like pinpricks. "You're all educated people, intelligentsia even. So I'm sure you can grasp this."

  Everyone nodded.

  "But... wasn't Colin murdered by an organized gang?"

  Marini suddenly shouted. Elisa was shocked by his tone: he sounded as if he wanted that to be true. His eyes were red and the left one twitched uncontrollably.

  "There is no evidence whatsoever that points to any sort of organized crime," Carter said.