The God Patent

by Ransom Stephens

  His impulse was to snap at her for hanging out with a bunch of losers, but he’d already pissed her off once that night. He searched for something to say. It was too late for her to be out, but she wouldn’t listen if he told her to go home. He got an idea. Raising a hand to his head and squinting, he said, “Could you do me a huge favor?”

  She took a step toward him.

  He lowered himself to the curb and said, “Major sinus headache.”

  “Are you okay?” Her eyes widened. “My dad used to get headaches.”

  “It’s just allergies, no big deal—I mean, they suck, but—could you go up to the house and get my medicine?”

  “Give me your keys.”

  “What?”

  “To get your medicine, McDoofus.”

  “Oh yeah.” Ryan handed her the keys to his apartment and directed her to the shoe box in his bathroom. “Thanks, Katarina. Sorry I didn’t get your painting—I like it, though, even so.”

  She jumped on her skateboard and took off. She wasn’t wearing her helmet.

  Ryan resumed his circuit. As he walked toward the lobby, he saw the lady on the bicycle again. The way her hair and skirt floated behind made her look like a witch on a broom. He caught her eye the instant a streetlight illuminated her. Then, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden, she rode away.

  “McNear!” Dodge yelled from the lobby. “Get in here! Some punk-ass motherfucker is stage diving—get him out of my theater!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ryan dragged a drunk teenage boy outside, encouraged him to hand over his cell phone, found “mom” in his contacts, and called her to come pick him up. On his way back in, Dodge tossed him his medicine. Ryan asked, “Where’s Katarina?”

  Without looking up, Dodge said, “Not in here.”

  Ryan took a quick patrol through the alley and around the block. The boy who called himself The Ace sat on the curb smoking. Ryan asked if he’d seen Katarina. He answered by flicking his cigarette into a Dumpster.

  Ryan said, “Alex, leave her alone.”

  He scowled. “Chill, dude, I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.”

  Ryan took a closer look around the alley, the fire escape, and the parking lot. Katarina must have gone home.

  An hour later, when Ryan finally headed up the hill, a crescent moon was peeking from behind a long, narrow cloud. At the door, he realized Katarina hadn’t returned his keys. It was locked. He knocked a few times but didn’t expect much. There was no doorbell, and the door was too thick to generate enough resonance for knocking to be heard upstairs. Besides, Ryan didn’t want to wake anyone up.

  He looked around for an open window and went around back, but that door was locked too. On the second floor, Katarina’s light was on. He threw some pebbles up, and a minute later she stuck her head out.

  “Could you let me in?”

  She came downstairs, sock-footed and in a dirty nightshirt, and opened the door.

  “Do you have my keys?”

  “The woman said she’d give them to you.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  They walked inside together. “Really? I’ve never actually seen her…”

  Katarina stopped at the foot of the stairs with a confused look. “You have to.” Turning up the stairs she added, “And if you haven’t yet, be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  Ryan closed and locked the door. A reddish glow from a sconce lit the stairs. Katarina was already back in her room, door closed. He paused to knock—he’d need his key to get in his apartment—but, looking down the hall, he saw that his door was cracked open. It smelled sweet, sort of like cotton candy. He pushed open the door and flicked on the overhead light.

  A woman was seated at his desk, facing the window.

  For an instant Ryan felt like apologizing for intruding, but it was his apartment. Still, he said, “Excuse me?”

  She turned to him.

  “You’re Katarina’s mom?” He looked both ways, at the kitchenette and his bed. He went in the kitchen. There was something familiar about her. “Do you want coffee or something?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He reached into the fridge. “Beer?” She still didn’t respond. He twisted the cap off a bottle and leaned against the counter. His keys were sitting there.

  She was at least a decade older than Ryan, had long dark wavy hair, and wore a similarly dark skirt. That was it—she was the woman on the bike. Katarina had the same jawline and smooth course to her cheek, though her nose and eyes were different. It was definitely the face that Katarina would grow into.

  She finally looked away, back at the window.

  All he could think of to say was, “Thanks for bringing me my keys.”

  She nodded and the quiet strained a while longer.

  Ryan finally said, “I love Katarina. You have a wonderful kid.”

  That was the trigger. “Katarina was a fine child. We loved her so much.” Looking at the floor in front of her, she walked toward him. One step onto the kitchen’s linoleum, she stopped one foot away. Close enough to be uncomfortable.

  She said, “My name was Jane,” and offered a hand. It was cold, and as he closed his hand around hers, she stiffened and her eyes seemed to focus for the first time. “It’s nice that you watch TV with Kat; her father and I can’t.”

  “It’s cool,” Ryan said. “I like hanging with her. I have a son about her age back in Texas.”

  “Is your wife dead?”

  “What?” Ryan stepped to the side. “No, she lives in Texas with my son.”

  Her eyes tracked him but she didn’t move. Her words flowed in a monotone, and she told him about her husband’s fight with brain cancer. “That was our sad-glad time. As we watched our world dry up and blow away, our pain blew away too. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. He told me to stay here with Kat. As soon as I’m finished with Kat, I’m going to him.”

  When Ryan’s father died, he learned that hugging his mother helped; not that he had enough hugs to fill her loss, but they helped. Ryan stepped toward her.

  Jane’s face jerked toward him. “Don’t comfort me. Only he could comfort me. I held onto him, you know. Even when he was cold and rigid, I didn’t let go. It was Katarina. Katarina made me let go of him. She pulled my arms away. She made me let go. I wouldn’t have let go, but she made me. Someday, when she’s ready, then I’ll go. Dodge is going to help me.”

  Any sympathy he felt for this woman was washed away in anger and jealousy. “My son is two thousand miles away. I’m not allowed near him.” She didn’t seem to be listening, so he grabbed her shoulders. “Listen to me, Jane. You’re wasting time. He’s dead and you’re alive. Katarina needs—”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not alive.” Her eyes were blank, empty, even empty of tears. “I died with him. I’m just here until Kat is ready.”

  He let her shrink out of his grasp. Her response struck him as the opposite of what a parent should say. He said, “Katarina needs you,” but it was like speaking to a closed window.

  She shuffled out the door, drawing in on herself with each step. Ryan held the door for her and watched her work her way down the hall in uncomfortable silence. She opened the door to the apartment she shared with Katarina and stepped inside.

  Katarina leaned out the door and made a face at Ryan. With raised eyebrows she whispered, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  He smiled at Katarina and waved off the drama, but once he closed his door, Katarina’s mother’s words echoed in his head: “I died with him. I’m just here until Kat is ready.” He believed it.

  Ryan was rebuilding his career and his life according to plan. His rent was on time nine months straight. Plus, he paid all of Dodge’s fees and sent Linda over $5,000. When his contract with FiberSpec Communications expired, the manager offered him an electrical engineering staff position. Technician to staff engineer was three rungs up the career ladder. He had b
usiness cards, health insurance, a 401(k), and a new blue cubicle. With the steady success, Ryan’s confidence filled him up, crowding out the ever-present but now diminishing appetite for meth and its destruction.

  Maybe he should have done more research into the legal aspects of his predicament; maybe he should have listened to Dodge, but he didn’t.

  Six months ago, when FiberSpec first hired him, human resources had filed all the standard forms, including one with the Directory of New Hires. The Office of Child Support Enforcement eventually matched Ryan’s name to a list submitted by the DNH. The OCSE filed a standard form with FiberSpec human resources, and they generated a memo saying that child support would be garnished from Ryan’s pay. Since the child support had been set at 20 percent of his pay when he was software director at GoldCon, he would take home less than half his rent.

  When he saw the first check with all the deductions, he thought it was a mistake. He kept his cool as the HR administrator explained all the policies. He didn’t say a word, except to thank her for her time. He went back to his cube and his job.

  That night, Ryan digested the news and decided that it was just another part of the rebuilding process. After all, he’d made the mistakes. He hadn’t earned any favors. Besides, he could make enough on the side to keep Dodge off his back and to put enough food in the cupboard for his meals and Katarina’s snacks. He even convinced himself that it was better this way, better to have everything go through the proper channels.

  After a few months paying full child support, he figured he could go to court in Texas, argue that he’d demonstrated ability and willingness, get the amount reduced, and have that arrest warrant rescinded.

  But Ryan still didn’t understand the extent of his predicament.

  Of course, Dodge had a complete understanding of Ryan’s situation. If Ryan had asked, Dodge might have even filled in all the details. Probably not, it was more fun this way, but he could have asked.

  It came as no surprise when the OCSE agent knocked on the door. Dodge invited the tired-looking man in for coffee and tried not to chuckle as he followed him down the hall. It wasn’t a complete hand yet, but his down cards looked good. Apparently, the raspy laughter leaked out. The agent flashed a suspicious look as he entered the kitchen. While brewing a fresh pot, Dodge said that yes, a man named Ryan McNear lived there, but no, it didn’t sound like the man he was looking for.

  “McNear, a deadbeat dad? I don’t think so.” He offered a seat at the kitchen table. “You’re looking for a bald man? About fifty?”

  The agent opened a folder, took out two envelopes, confirmed the address, and said, “Ryan McNear, thirty-seven years old, auburn hair, blue eyes, not quite six feet tall?”

  “Naw, the guy that lives here isn’t any taller than me and, if his eyes were ever blue, he’s full of shit now.” Dodge laughed extra loud at his own joke, loud enough that the agent had to join in the laughter or appear rude.

  Dodge poured coffee while the agent puzzled over the contents of an envelope. “I should really talk to your Mr. McNear before reporting that we have a bad address—will he be home soon?”

  Dodge couldn’t help but smile—is stupidity a requirement for government work? You know where the guy works, you know what he does, and you come to his house in the middle of the workday. “Nope, the Ryan McNear who lives here is out of town—don’t expect him back for a couple of weeks.”

  “Does your Mr. McNear work for”—he scanned a page in his folder—“FiberSpec Communications?”

  “FiberSpec? No, this guy is a traveling salesman—sells raincoats or something.”

  “I have to leave a notice for your Mr. McNear, just in case. I sure hate going into a place of business and dragging someone out…”

  Dodge gestured surrender with his hands. “Wish I could help.”

  The agent took a sheet of paper from the folder. Dodge leaned over, close enough to make the man uncomfortable. The page was a map of Petaluma with both Nutter House and FiberSpec marked.

  “Going over to FiberSpec then?”

  “I have to.”

  The agent took a long drink and set the coffee mug down. As he lifted the map, Dodge put his thumb on it and said, “Best way to get over there is to take the Rainier connector. It’s not on the map, but it’ll save you fifteen minutes and is much easier to get to.”

  Dodge took a pen from the man and drew a nonexistent street on the map. The Petaluma City Council had been discussing construction of another freeway off-ramp and connector between the west and east sides of town for a decade but never built one. In the process, Dodge got enough ink on the map that there was no way the OCSE agent could reconstruct reasonable directions. The diversion would add at least twenty minutes to what was otherwise a ten-minute drive.

  The agent gave a halfhearted thank-you, and Dodge walked him to the door.

  Dodge was on the phone within seconds of the door shutting. Ryan picked up on the third ring. Dodge said, “There’s a federal agent on his way to arrest you.”

  Ryan said, “What are you talking about? Arrest? What for?”

  “McNear, you fucking idiot. Don’t you know that crossing state lines to avoid paying child support is a felony?”

  “I didn’t cross state lines to avoid paying child support. I crossed them so that it would be possible for me to pay child support.”

  “Maybe so, but the eyes of justice are blind to that sort of nuance.”

  “The police are coming here?”

  “McNear, you need to leave right now.”

  “I’m in the middle of a—”

  “Leave right now. You won’t be going back anyway, so just go. Tell them something has come up. Tell them the feds are onto your ass and you need to leave.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because in fifteen, maybe ten minutes, you’ll be in handcuffs.”

  As Ryan hung up the phone, Dodge heard him whine, “Oh fuck.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Ryan walked in the door and threw his tired, patched-up briefcase against the stairwell.

  “If I don’t work, I can’t pay my child support. Everything was coming back together. Why would they destroy me? How can I pay child support from jail? What do they expect me to do? Why on earth would…”

  Dodge stopped listening. It all ran together anyway. He bent over and rubbed the tiny scratch from the briefcase collision out of the hardwood with a little piece of lapping paper that he kept in his pocket. As Ryan threw his temper tantrum, Dodge tried to give the appearance that he was listening. Staring at Ryan’s nose, he added together everything he knew. National Engineering Group, the conglomerate best known for supplying hardware to the world’s oil companies and refineries, was getting a larger and larger share of weapons research contracts since 9/11 and had met with Foster Reed. It was a nice card but not good enough to start the betting.

  Finally, Ryan leaned against the wall and let loose a long sigh. With his tantrum complete, he was guided into the office by Dodge, who sat him down and said, “How many times have I told you that you have to work off the books?”

  Faint lines etched up Ryan’s forehead, connecting the bridge of his nose to his widow’s peak. They added ten years. Perfect.

  “McNear, understand this: I’m an attorney, an expert on these things. You know that IRS form, the W-4, you fill out before an honest employer can pay you?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Next time you fill that out, you’re going to jail. It doesn’t matter whether you do it here or in Texas, you’re going to the big house.”

  Ryan said, “What if I—”

  “The slammer, the cooler, the hoosegow, the pokey, the pen—of course, you and your husband will call it home.”

  “But if I got a job in Texas, at least—”

  “Don’t drop the soap, Ryan. Your fine Irish ass is at stake.” Dodge waited for it to sink in and then tried not to laugh at sink in.

  Ryan stared into the shadows under the desk. H
is fingers stopped tapping, and he let loose a long sigh, as though he were exhaling the last wisps of hope. Dodge tried not to smile, but it was impossible. Fortunately, Ryan didn’t seem to notice.

  “This is how you’ll get your money,” Dodge said as earnestly as he could manage. “Your friend’s company, Creation Energy, is going to get some contracts for their technology, and, when they do, we will sue them and all your problems will disappear.” Dodge snapped his fingers. “Just like that—all you have to do is be patient and let me take care of it.”

  “I’m not suing Foster Reed,” Ryan said.

  “Of course you are. Otherwise you go to jail. Don’t you want to see your son? Besides, they’re your inventions. You have a right to that money.” Dodge still saw doubt in Ryan’s eyes. The solution was simple: stack the deck. It was time to con his science-zealot sister, Emmy, into coming up for a visit. She could beat any belief out of Ryan.

  “You mean that I can’t get a job?”

  “I mean you’re unemployable. But don’t worry about it. You can earn your money the old-fashioned way, through litigation.”

  “What about my rent?”

  “I’ll keep track of your debts.”

  “What’s the point?” The line in his forehead looked more like a crease now.

  “Listen, McNear, I’m going to have my sister visit. She’s a physics professor—a real physics professor, at a real university. She can help us understand what your chum is trying to do.” The best part of dabbling in the lives of others is setting them up and then watching them betray their desires. “She’s a beautiful girl. Course you probably wouldn’t be interested—she comes with a brain.” Ryan didn’t take the bait, though. He just sat there staring under the desk, a human-shaped pool of hopelessness.

  Freshly unemployed and basically unemployable, Ryan was spending his fifth straight day on Dodge’s couch when he heard someone walk up to the porch. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe this federal deadbeat-dad office had a program to help guys like him get their shit together. Then he heard the muffled thump of Katarina tossing her skateboard under the bench.