A Catch in Time

by Dalia Roddy

  The hill flattened onto an intersection and Laura, hands propped on knees, sweat running down her face, gasped, “Which way?”

  “Look,” said Mohammed. He pointed at a crowd at the far end of the block. They ran toward it.

  The noisy mob snarled traffic. Laura hardly dared to hope, but then she heard Lily yelling, “No, no, no, NO.”

  Laura plunged through the mob, thrusting people aside.

  “LILY!” she screamed as she burst onto an incomprehensible scene.

  Lily clutched John Thomas as he gripped one of her wrists, while people tried to pull them apart.

  “LILY!” Laura ran to her, dropped to her knees, and flung her arms around her.

  “Mommy!” Lily collapsed against her.

  Laura held her tightly. “I’m here. I’m here, honey.” Ignoring the people yelling angrily at her in Chinese, she reached out to John Thomas and faltered at his dazed expression. Following his gaze, she saw what held his attention.

  Blood pooled around Lucas, sprawled on the ground. There was a hole in his forehead, his eyes open.

  I hope he rots in hell, she thought viciously, and tightened her hold on Lily.

  “Holy shit,” Kate said, thrusting herself between John Thomas and a man gripping his arm. “What happened, John Thomas?”

  “I shot him,” John Thomas confessed, his face pale.

  “Oh, honey.” Kate gathered John Thomas to her. “Are you all right?”

  John Thomas’s limbs quivered. He gazed mutely at Kate.

  Three uniformed policemen arrived. One dispersed the milling people while the other two, one Caucasian, one Chinese, questioned the crowd in rapid Chinese. By then, Josiah and Catherine had arrived, followed by an ambulance, whose two attendants quickly removed Lucas’s body.

  The police arrested John Thomas, who was to be remanded to the juvenile authorities.

  “Why?” Kate demanded. “The dead kid was Shaitan.”

  “Look, lady, nobody kills anybody in this city without accounting for it.”

  “But he was Shaitan, damn it.”

  The other policeman said, “This accusation must be verified by witnesses.”

  “We’re all witnesses.” Kate waved an arm at the others.

  The young policeman shook his head. “Clan witnesses? Corroboration must come from a clan member.”

  Josiah spoke up. “We don’t live here. We aren’t part of a clan.”

  “Take it up with the courts.” The policemen marched John Thomas to their car and seated him in the rear, hands cuffed. His face turned toward Kate and his desperate eyes stayed fixed on her as the patrol car pulled away.

  “Now what?” Kate pleaded with Laura. The small band of people who had gone through so much together drew closer to each other.

  “Now what?” repeated Laura numbly.

  CHAPTER 44

  THE RICHMOND DISTRICT WAS IN SHAMBLES, MOSTLY destroyed and deserted. Laura and the others needed temporary shelter, a place where they could sleep without fear.

  Laura felt drained. In the backseat of the Suburban, cuddling her daughter, she tried to rid herself of images of the terrifying confrontation with Mack. His frenzy. The awful sound of bone crunching between his teeth. She had sworn everyone to silence about Mack being Lily’s father. She never wanted Lily to find out. And clouding even her relief at having Lily safely in her arms again was the dreadful knowledge that, as long as Shaitan filled their world, Lily was in danger. They were all in danger.

  Josiah drove slowly, with Catherine suggesting directions. Mohammed was silent.

  Kate, in the backseat with Laura, hadn’t said anything for a long time.

  Josiah turned right, off Clement Street, onto 23rd Avenue. Most of the buildings on both sides of the street were intact but deserted, with minor damage showing. They chose a house and unloaded their belongings. Kate made a bed for Lily in a corner of the living room, while Mohammed built a fire in the fireplace and Catherine prepared a hasty meal from their supplies.

  Kate could think of nothing but the image of John Thomas, framed in the window of the police car, staring at her. They had to free him immediately. But how were they going to find him? Where were the jails? Who could they get to help them? The cop had said something about clans.

  “Kate,” said Josiah, taking her arm and drawing her to the front door, “I know where to start.”

  “I’m going with you.” She reached for the front doorknob, ready to sprint.

  “No.” Josiah knew how agitated Kate was and how difficult an agitated Kate would be to have at his side at this time. He needed the cooperation of strangers to navigate through the tight bonds of clansmanship governing the city and lead him to the one man who might help him. Where diplomacy was a must, Kate was a liability.

  “What do you mean, no?” Kate said, outraged. “That’s my kid out there!”

  Quickly, Josiah explained his mission to find Dr. Chang.

  Kate interrupted almost immediately. “Doctor Chang? Chrissakes, Josiah, we need a lawyer, not a doctor.”

  “This is exactly why you’re not going with me,” Josiah said, containing his impatience.

  Dr. George Chang, a physics professor, was a simple man, despite his intellectual and cultural background, and was the only teacher with whom Josiah had formed a relationship during his unofficial college class audits. When Josiah and Eli had visited San Francisco two years before, he’d made a point of finding Dr. Chang and introducing them—the only two men he’d ever truly respected. Now he could only hope Dr. Chang was still alive and would be willing to help.

  Feeling the press of time, Josiah bluntly told Kate she would be a liability in his social negotiations. With grim determination he slid behind the wheel of the Suburban, Kate’s protests and curses still ringing in his ears. Leaving her behind was definitely the right decision.

  There was a rustle from the corner. “It’s so good to have the child back,” said Catherine, who rose to check on Lily. Laura, Kate, and Mohammed were busy swabbing down the kitchen, bathroom, and small bedroom that shared the same floor as the living room where she watched over Lily. No one was in the room to hear her murmured words, yet she was not abashed to speak them aloud. They gave voice to but a fraction of the emotion she felt at having Lily back.

  As she neared the small mound of blankets and pillows nestled in a corner near the fireplace, she was startled into momentary immobility as Lily jackknifed up with a scream.

  “ICEFIRE!” she wailed, eyes tightly shut. “ICEFIRE/BLACK!”

  Catherine painfully lowered herself onto the edge of the makeshift bed and gathered the child into her arms, uttering wordless, soothing sounds. Laura dashed into the room with loud, frantic inquiries, Kate and Mohammed at her heels.

  “Just a nightmare, Laura,” Catherine assured her as she relinquished Lily into Laura’s arms. Lily’s eyes were still tightly closed, but the tenor of her whimpers as she curled into her mother’s embrace let them know she was awake, aware of her safe surroundings. At Laura’s gentle questioning, Lily returned halting descriptions of her nightmare, her voice spiraling into high-pitched terror every time she uttered the word icefire. Catherine retreated into the kitchen and drew Kate and Mohammed with her, proposing they brew a nice pot of tea.

  “What is this ‘icefire’?” Mohammed wanted to know as the three of them sat around the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil.

  Catherine made a helpless gesture of ignorance.

  Kate frowned. “Don’t take this wrong, Ali. Lily’s fine, just like we told you before. It’s just that she’s got this little quirk, this weird kind of thing she does with words.”

  “What weird thing?”

  Kate shifted uncomfortably on the hard oak of her chair. “She just … puts strange words together into clumps. She’s been doing it for years. It’s harmless; doesn’t mean anything.”

  “The words don’t mean anything?” Mohammed found that hard to believe. Who would bother to utter meaningless word
s?

  Catherine rose to gather cups and spoons. “The words have meaning,” she corrected, “when used individually. Lily, however, creates nonsensical compounds. Quite charming, really.”

  Mohammed’s thoughts spun crazily as sudden intuition leaped among them: Lily wasn’t creating nonsense with meaningful words; she was creating meaning with nonsense words. Hearing Lily’s childish voice coming from the living room had reminded him of his little sister, Aida. But Aida had never made up funny words. Nor had she slapped a handful together trying to say something for which she didn’t yet know the word. What if there were no words, in any language, for what Lily was trying to say?

  Icefire. Lily understood something but had no language for it. That word had propelled her from a nightmare. She’d been Mack’s prisoner. Mack was Shaitan. Perhaps icefire was Shaitan.

  Catherine set a cup of tea down for him. He acknowledged her with a nod, a meager smile, and went back to his thoughts.

  Laura had said that after the blackout things had mutated. Lily was born after the blackout. Was she a mutation after all? But Laura said all these mutations were reversals, forms that had, at some point in the past, existed.

  Laura, though, had been pregnant during the blackout. During those minutes, the path had still been open.

  Lily was a deliberate mutation, came the staggering thought.

  Mohammed grasped his teacup, automatically blew over the brew, and took a swallow without a testing sip. The burning sensation that filled his mouth and throat overcame even the flame of his thoughts and he set the cup down with a thump, startling Catherine and Kate. He could only shake his head to their puzzled looks.

  It was Laura to whom he needed to speak. He was bursting to tell Laura his thoughts about Lily, certain this was vital information. Both felt that, between them, they knew enough to figure out what was missing and, perhaps, learn how the Path could be fixed. Surely Lily’s status as a deliberate mutation must have a connection to the very occurrence of the blackout and the resultant loss of the Path. Without the Path, everything would eventually mutate to nonexistence.

  And earth would become, once again, just a lifeless rock in space.

  Josiah stood on a pier of the small harbor at Fisherman’s Wharf, gazing at the Wil o’ the Wisp and the man standing on her deck. It was indeed a different world, Josiah thought, to have Chang, a man of such brilliance, fishing the sea instead of probing the universe. With surprised recognition, Chang greeted him warmly and invited him aboard. Josiah followed Chang down a set of narrow steps into the bowels of the sloop, where they settled themselves in a small, richly appointed salon off a tiny galley.

  They chatted in the way of men becoming reacquainted, and Josiah waited for the right opening to put his case before Chang. He found, instead, a subtle reserve in Chang’s demeanor that was disconcerting. As the minutes ticked by, the nuances of Chang’s manner deepened and Josiah sensed not only reserve but an increasing resolve. Over what, Josiah wondered. It was almost as though Chang wanted something from him. Yet how could that be? Chang had no idea he’d show up at his docked home.

  A moment later, a child appeared in the doorway, and Josiah had his answer. She looked to be about Lily’s age, which meant either that Chang was hiding her or that San Francisco laws protected children, Shaitan or not. Josiah, as an outsider, presented a danger to Chang and the child.

  “Papa, it’s time,” proclaimed the girl, dressed in dark pants and a long-sleeved blue top, her shiny black hair plaited into a long, thick braid. Faint eyebrows rose upward when she spotted Josiah. Running lightly to her father, she cast Josiah a small smile and said, “Nice shweng fey.”

  Chang lifted his daughter onto his lap. “Feng Shui, little apple,” he corrected gently. Su Ling smiled impishly. Chang caught and held Josiah’s gaze. His chin tipped fractionally upward in defiance. “She sometimes gets her words mixed up.”

  Josiah nodded, his face expressionless while his mind raced for ways to use this new development. His enormous respect for Chang warred with his awareness that tools of deceptive manipulation had just been dropped into his lap.

  “Tell me, little apple,” Chang said, cupping his daughter’s chin, “how are your lessons progressing?”

  Su Ling pouted. “This morning, Madam Teacher made us do sums. It was very silly. She told us to carry numbers. Carry them where? I thought, but Ching Pao asked aloud the question in my head and got his knuckles rapped.”

  “You might have saved Ching Pao his punishment,” Chang chided gently, “had you told Madam Teacher you had the same question.”

  Su Ling frowned. “Ching Pao should have his knuckles rapped. He’s puddle/dung/foul.”

  Astonishment splashed over Josiah’s face.

  Chang’s arms tightened around his daughter. “Sometimes Chinese words do not work for her.”

  Su Ling shook her head vehemently. “No, Papa, there is no—”

  “Come now,” Chang said, putting Su Ling on her feet. “You must gather your things for the Academy.” The boat rocked gently as they walked down the narrow corridor.

  Josiah’s mind spun like a centrifuge, whipping aside the debris of half-formed plans and leaving a pure kernel of truth: he could tell Chang everything. Everything.

  The man had a vested interest.

  Laura tried to grasp that Lily might be a positive mutation. Mohammed had waited until her exhausted daughter had fallen asleep and been tucked beneath her blankets before gesturing Laura to him and, in a whisper, revealing his conclusions. His emphasis on Lily’s word groupings as meaningful communication thrust new light on a peculiarity to which Laura had grown so accustomed she’d no longer taken notice of it.

  All the gifts Lily created, she now realized, stunned, came not from an abundance of creativity but from a need to express something. To communicate.

  This is for you. This is you.

  Lily’s words tumbled through Laura’s mind, but this time it was as though a foreign language she’d been hearing for years suddenly began making sense. “Groping/sneeze/fiddler” wasn’t the name of the necklace Lily had made for Kate; it had been Kate, Kate’s essence, understood by Lily. And “Midnight/shaky/bubbles” hadn’t been the wines Eli made; it had been Eli.

  Dozens of examples jammed her thoughts. Lava/fountain/tide: Catherine. Cave/sparkle/throb: Josiah.

  How hard it must have been for her. She was a sighted child amongst the blind. And we have no clue what she’s even looking at.

  Mohammed had to repeat Laura’s name several times to regain her attention. “Try to understand,” he urged, “what Lily could mean by ‘icefire.’”

  Laura was still dazed. The connection she’d made weeks ago resurfaced: the blackout had been the unintended consequence of the soul-energy’s attempt to manifest a new evolutionary direction. And Lily was it. “How did you get from how she talks to her being a deliberate mutation?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Just as I don’t know how she gets these things-that-have-no-words. But we must try to understand icefire. What is it, Laura?”

  Icefire? It was Mack. It was Shaitan. It was … conflicting.

  “Chaos,” she whispered. “Icefire, Shaitan—chaos. But chaos that is embodied.”

  “Chaos,” Mohammed repeated. “Embodied chaos. Is that not… contradictory?”

  “Yes,” Laura said simply.

  Kate stood in the doorway, fists clenched. She couldn’t, she thought, stand listening to one more word of crap about what might be. John Thomas was in trouble. That was real, and all Laura was doing was rehashing her fantasy religion. Plugging the chinks of her new faith with even more thin air. Frustration mingled with her old, familiar anger and Kate turned away. Only John Thomas mattered now. She had to stay busy or she’d drive herself crazy. She’d clean the second floor rooms, she decided, starting with a room for John Thomas.

  Catherine, who’d entered the room midway through Laura’s and Mohammed’s discussion, sat in an armchair
near Lily’s sleeping corner, unashamedly eavesdropping. This definition of Shaitan as embodied chaos fit quite well with thoughts she’d had long ago, when Laura had first insisted that Shaitan were of a force existing on the flip side of the universe.

  Dark matter, Catherine had thought at the time, but she had said nothing. After all, the existence of “dark matter” was unproven, though many leaned toward the idea that it permeated the universe. Composed of unknown particles, undefined energy, the existence of dark matter could be inferred only by its effect on some stars. The rotational velocities of such stars evinced anomalies that could not be explained, and they roused scientific speculation of an unseen x-factor exerting an unknown force. They called it dark matter.

  It was times such as these, Catherine reflected as she watched the intensity of the dialogue between Laura and Mohammed, that she missed her husband, Howard—her prince, as she’d often referred to him—with whom she’d engaged in so many stimulating conversations. Her flawed, brilliant prince, a student of many subjects, all of which he’d shared with her. Wearily, Catherine leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  “Maybe all the Shaitan will just … implode,” Laura was saying hopefully. “Chaos can’t be contained. Maybe that’s why Mack went so crazy—that display of self-cannibalism …” She shuddered. “Chaos destroying the order closest to it—the body that contained it.”

  “What about those Shaitan you say have always been with us? Like Lucas? They don’t do this, do they?”

  “I think Shaitan born as infants have the advantage of adapting slowly since the bodies they come into are so much more limited.” She paused, her own words jogging her onto a different subject. “Do you remember the … effort of breaking into this dimension?”

  “Yes,” said Mohammed. “It makes me shake inside. Jiggle?”

  “Vibrate. Like oscillation—almost a tuning-in kind of thing.”

  “Yes. It was closing the … the loop … that made it possible.”