The Brahms Deception

by Louise Marley

  He went in to find a small, chintzy sort of bedroom. The bed was narrow, but it had puffy pillows and a thick, inviting comforter. His bag waited for him beside an ancient bureau that looked as if it might actually have been there since 1861. Kristian kicked off his shoes, and bent to fumble with his socks.

  Chiara went to close the shutters. “The sunshine might keep you awake,” she said. “Do you need something to help you sleep?”

  He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll probably need something to wake me up.”

  “Sì, sì. I will call you.” She went to the bed and folded back the comforter to reveal printed sheets beneath, images of olive trees and grapevines and roses, a sort of cheesy Tuscan tourist poster that made Kristian give a weary chuckle. She smiled. “Yes, we think they are for the summer tourists. But clean.”

  “My eyes will be closed,” Kristian said. “I won’t see them.” He had started to unbuckle the belt of his jeans, but he stopped, suddenly remembering he barely knew this woman. He gave a deprecating shrug. “Sorry. I think my eyes are half-closed already.”

  “Don’t worry.” She patted the pillow. “Sogni d’oro.”

  The moment she was gone he undid his belt and shucked out of his jeans. He tugged off his shirt, and slipped between the cool sheets dressed in his shorts and tee shirt. He sighed, and turned toward the wall, away from the light. I should have called Rik—

  He was asleep before he could complete the thought.

  Kristian opened his eyes some time later to nearly complete darkness. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was. He blinked, and sat up. Dark already? Someone had forgotten to wake him.

  That made no sense at all. Everyone was on edge, eager for him to go back and look for her—unless they had sent someone else!

  Suddenly afire with urgency, he threw back the covers and scrabbled on the floor for his clothes. He found his jeans, but he couldn’t find his shoes or socks. He took a breath. Calm down. They don’t have anyone else. He went to the doorway to pat along the wall for a light switch. Two minutes later he was dressed, smoothing his tousled hair back with his fingers, and on his way back downstairs to the transfer room.

  He glanced at the clock behind the desk. It was past ten. He had slept twelve hours straight.

  He turned toward Frederica’s cot. Two people he had never met, a short man and a rather tall woman, sat in chairs beside the unconscious girl. Chiara was with them, perched on a stool, her head bent forward as she spoke. None of them looked up.

  Elliott had been sitting at the mahogany desk. He rose and came down the long room to meet Kristian.

  Kristian spoke before Elliott reached him. “Why didn’t someone wake me? Who are those people?”

  Elliott rubbed his forehead, as if his head ached. “You won’t believe it,” he muttered. He took Kristian’s elbow, and drew him back toward the desk. “Those are the Bannisters. Frederick and Bronwyn. Frederica’s parents.”

  “Oh, damn.”

  “Right. They didn’t tell Gregson they were coming, just got on a plane.”

  Erika would do the same, if it were me. “Do they know?” He grabbed one of the folding chairs and set it on the far side of the desk, straddling it so he could watch the little tableau, the balding, narrow-shouldered man, the long-legged, thin-lipped woman. Poor Frederica. She had inherited the worst features of each of her parents.

  “They know now,” Elliott said mournfully. “Max went to call Gregson and Braunstein about half an hour ago. Chiara’s been great with the Bannisters, calming them down, pointing out that their daughter’s vital signs are all strong.”

  “Are you going to let me go back?”

  “We’re waiting to see what Gregson says.”

  “Would the Bannisters’ being here change his mind? They’re still going to want her found. They can hardly go after her themselves.”

  “You’d think so.” Elliott pushed back his chair, and stood up. “Uh-oh. Here they come.”

  The Bannisters came down the long room, the father with quick, decisive steps, the mother trailing a little behind, her hand under her husband’s arm. Mrs. Bannister looked both miserable and frightened. Mr. Bannister looked angry. They both looked exhausted. Kristian stood up, and went to meet them.

  He put out his hand. “Mr. Bannister? I’m Kristian North. I’m going to do everything I can to help your daughter.”

  The man’s face was drawn with tension, but his gaze was sharp. He assessed Kristian in one sweeping glance, and took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m Frederick Bannister. My wife, Bronwyn.”

  Kristian put out his hand to Bronwyn Bannister, as well. She took just the tips of his fingers and gave them a salutary shake. “Mrs. Bannister,” Kristian said. “I know how worried you are. I’m sorry.”

  She blinked at him, and put a hand to her fashionably frosted hair. “I don’t understand what happened,” she said. “Why won’t Frederica wake up? She should have awakened right after . . . I just don’t understand.”

  Chiara came up behind the Bannisters. “Please, will you sit down?” she said, indicating two of the folding chairs beside the desk. “Max went to prepare beds for you. You must rest a little.”

  Bronwyn Bannister sank onto one of the chairs with a little sigh, but her husband didn’t move. “When are you going after her, Mr. North?”

  “As soon as they’ll let me. I’m ready right now.”

  Frederick Bannister turned his sharp gaze on Elliott. “What’s stopping him?”

  Elliott said, “We’re waiting for approval from Chicago.” Bannister didn’t hesitate. “The hell with Chicago. Let’s do it.” His wife winced at his harsh tone, but Kristian nodded approval.

  Elliott said, “Well, we could—that is, Max . . .”

  Chiara said, “Max is our physician assistant. Elliott programs the transfer, and Max monitors the subject.”

  Elliott said, “Gregson dug in his heels, Kris. He and Braunstein can’t agree on whether it’s safe for you to—”

  Mrs. Bannister said tearily, “Frederick told me it was just . . . like watching television!” She fumbled in her bag for something, which turned out to be a handkerchief. As she pressed it to her eyes, an American Airlines ticket stub dropped out of its folds and fell to the floor. Kristian bent to pick it up. First class. Figures. He schooled his face as he handed it to her.

  “Elliott,” he said. “Can I speak to you? Mr. Bannister, will you excuse us a moment?”

  Chiara moved forward to put her hand on Mrs. Bannister’s bony shoulder. Elliott, looking relieved to escape from the worried parents, followed Kristian toward the banks of equipment. The amber lights of the monitor blinked, reflecting on the unconscious Frederica’s sallow cheeks. Someone—probably Chiara, who seemed both practical and sensitive—had covered her with an extra blanket, a large flowered quilt, so the catheter and the hydration tubes were mostly hidden. It seemed less disturbing that way, more as if the girl were in a deep sleep, instead of . . . What? Being the lost girl?

  “What is it, Kris? We still have to wait for Chicago to tell us—”

  “I know,” Kristian said. “But listen, Elliott, the thing to do is to send me back to when Frederica first arrived. A little before, actually. So I can watch her, and know what happened.”

  “Observe,” Elliott said automatically. Kristian gritted his teeth against a wave of impatience, and Elliott said ruefully, “Sorry. It’s habit. They make us say that to put off the protesters.”

  “When’s Max coming back? This should be an easy decision.”

  “It’s not. There are some legal considerations, and of course, there’s the problem of layering. We have to think about that.”

  “Layering won’t be an issue. I’ll stay away from her.”

  “We have to wait. Braunstein would have our heads—”

  Max made his appearance at that moment, his freckled face flushed. He strode past the desk, where Chiara stood beside Mrs. Bannister. Fred
erick Bannister was speaking to Chiara, but he stopped. Behind them, Kristian saw Chiara pressing Bronwyn Bannister back into her chair, pulling a chair next to hers, and sitting down in it. Chiara held the older woman’s hand in both of hers as if to steady her. Fleetingly, Kristian thought that Erika would like Chiara Belfiore a lot more than she had liked Catherine.

  Elliott said, as Max reached them, “What are they saying now?”

  Max made a wry face. “Now all they can talk about is the Bannisters’ being here, and what that might mean if the press gets hold of it. That senator or congressman, whoever it was—there’s talk of Congress halting all transfers, and if that congressman finds out . . . we’ll never get her.”

  Kristian said, “Let’s go. Send me back to before the time Frederica arrived. So I can see her when she does. Observe,” he amended, flicking a glance at Elliott.

  Max paused, his freckled face intent. “I don’t know. If we just had an idea, any idea—”

  Kristian indicated the couple at the far side of the room. “Imagine how those two are feeling.”

  Elliott sighed. “I have the coordinates already programmed from Frederica’s transfer. I could plug in Kristian’s mapping with no problem, just subtract five minutes.”

  “We haven’t solved anything,” Max said. “We’re just taking shots in the dark. Even if Kris comes back safely a second time, even if the layering effect isn’t a problem—”

  “I don’t understand why anyone worries about that,” Kristian said. “Magna Carta went fine. What’s the concern?”

  Elliott gave him a mournful look. “They transferred together. They stayed well away from each other. What if Frederica bumps into you?”

  “What if she does?” Kristian waved his hand at the unconscious Frederica. “She’ll get jarred out of the transfer, and so will I. Isn’t that what we want anyway?”

  “It is, but we don’t know where you might end up.”

  “Back here, wouldn’t you think?”

  Elliott shrugged. “Theoretically.”

  Frederick Bannister came up behind Max without their noticing. When he spoke, everyone jumped. “What’s the delay, gentlemen?”

  “We don’t have authorization yet,” Max said.

  Elliott said, “And there’s the problem of layering.”

  Kristian looked at Frederica’s father more closely. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and he needed a shave. Despite his first-class flight, Kristian felt certain Frederick Bannister was at least as tired as he had been when he first arrived, and he must feel infinitely worse. It was his only child lying on the cot before him.

  “Mr. Bannister,” Kristian said. “I want to transfer to the moments before your daughter arrived in 1861. That way I can assure you she reached the right time, that I’m looking in the right place.”

  From the far end of the room, Bronwyn Bannister fixed her husband with a look Kristian could have sworn was one of accusation. Bannister wasn’t looking in her direction, but the lines around his mouth deepened even more. He said, “I was assured by the Remote Research Foundation that the process had been comprehensively analyzed. That there was no risk!”

  Max said, “We have a perfect track record.”

  “Until now.”

  “We don’t know yet what went wrong,” Elliott put in. “The programming—”

  Bannister growled, “There had better not be any further risk to my daughter, or I’ll—”

  Kristian put up a hand. “Enough. Let me go, and then we’ll know more.”

  Bannister eyed him. “Kristian North,” he said. Something obscure flickered behind his red-rimmed eyes, making Kristian’s instincts prickle.

  “Right.”

  “You were the runner-up.”

  Kristian drew a breath. The loser. “Right again.”

  “Why did they call you for this?”

  “Because I was ready to go. Vetted, mapped, tested. I’m sure you’re happy there was someone they could call on.”

  There was a long pause, Bannister and Kristian staring at each other. Bannister’s mouth twisted. He looked anything but happy. “This could be you,” Bannister said, nodding toward the still form of his daughter.

  “I suppose,” Kristian said. “That depends on what happened.”

  “You’re willing to go?”

  “More than willing. Eager.”

  Bannister searched Kristian’s face, and Kristian gazed back at him. There was something in the older man’s expression, something hidden, masked by the set of his mouth and the droop of his eyelids. It wasn’t just that he was a worried father. There was something more—shame? Guilt? Kristian couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Look,” Kristian said. “Send me back for—another hour, say. Then, when we know everything is all right with Frederica’s arrival, I can go back for a longer period, try to figure out what happened, and why she doesn’t come back.”

  Elliott chewed on his lip, and Max began, “That’s a lot of transfers. I’m not sure—”

  Frederick Bannister said, in a voice that clearly was accustomed to being obeyed, “Do it, gentlemen. Do it now. With every minute that passes, the Foundation is getting closer to a very big lawsuit.”

  6

  “One hour, Kris,” Elliott said as he placed the cap on Kristian’s head. “No longer.” Elliott’s hands trembled slightly.

  Kristian said, “Take it easy, Elliott. Everything’s going to be fine, just like last time.”

  “I don’t like this rush. All it takes is for one set of coordinates to be off by a fraction—”

  “They’re not,” Max said, from the other side of the cot. He taped down the electrodes to Kristian’s right wrist, and straightened. “You said it was simple. You substitute Kris’s mapping for Frederica’s, and adjust for five minutes earlier. There’s no problem.”

  “But the layering—”

  “It’s okay,” Kristian said. “I know the math, and I understand the physics, at least as well as a layman can. I won’t come near her.”

  “Most of the transfers don’t understand the process.” Max spoke to Elliott above Kristian’s head. “If we have to take a chance, Kris is the best subject we’ve had.”

  Elliott said, “You said we’re not taking a chance.”

  Max shrugged, and grinned at Kristian. “You wouldn’t cost me my job, would you?”

  “Nope.” Kristian closed his eyes, and settled his shoulders into a comfortable position against the pillow. “Ready to go, guys.”

  “See you in an hour.”

  Kristian breathed in, filling his lungs with the faintly metallic air of the clinic, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, it seemed unfair that he couldn’t taste the air of 1861. It must be sweeter, fresher, must be full of the scent of the roses that grew on every wall.

  As before, he found himself just outside the low stone garden wall, a day earlier than his first visit. The French windows stood half-open, and the sun shone gaily on the tumbled roses and the longish grass. There was no cook in the garden today. Kristian was amused to see the weeds sprouting bravely among the basil and parsley and lettuce. Their time was short! Tomorrow the gray-haired woman in the printed apron would pull them out, toss them over the wall into the field.

  He moved swiftly away from his vantage point, slipping behind the corner of the house to watch for Frederica to arrive. The view was different here, looking up into a dry meadow dotted with rocks. The road, impossibly narrow, rutted by carriage wheels, fell away to the right. Above him, the roof of Casa Agosto was steep and covered in glowing terra-cotta tiles, something he hadn’t noticed before. The houses nearest it, Casa Luglio and Casa Settembre, boasted lush gardens. People moved behind their windows, and children played in the street below.

  Reluctantly, he turned his gaze away from the scene and fixed his eyes on the spot where he had first arrived. He didn’t have long to wait. It was precisely five minutes. Elliott had done just as he promised.

  She wasn’t there, and then she was
. It was as simple as that.

  It wasn’t as if he could see her, actually. See would not be the right verb. Perceive was better, but even that wasn’t quite adequate. It recalled to him the strangest experience of his life, one he had never spoken of, one he was never completely sure had actually happened.

  It had been the night of his mother’s death. She was only forty-two, and Kristian was fourteen. Erika, eighteen and beginning to have health problems of her own, had stood dumbstruck in the living room of their apartment, stunned, as people came in and out. There had been the doctor, the ambulance, the sudden and shocking absence of their mother’s body. A priest made a hasty call, though he barely knew the North family. Kristian stood beside Erika, trying manfully to speak for them both, but he felt as if he were walking through a nightmare, one of those dreams in which everything seems broken, in which legs don’t move and words don’t come. He tried, in an awkward teenage way, to comfort his sister, but when he put an arm around her shoulders Erika pulled back, staring at him as if she had never seen him before. He didn’t blame her. It didn’t feel natural to him, either.

  Everyone left, the doctor, the neighbors, a man from the funeral home where their mother’s body had been taken. The priest lingered, awkwardly, trying his best to offer words of comfort. When he, too, finally departed, Kristian and Erika had stared at each other across the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember either of them saying a single word. Even then, it seemed to Kristian, Erika had felt the mantle of responsibility settle on her shoulders. She was white lipped and stiff—just as he felt himself.

  Kristian gave up trying to compose himself. He escaped even from Erika. His control shattered the moment he closed his bedroom door. He threw himself onto his bed and gave in to a storm of weeping, something he hadn’t done in years. He cried for a long time, muffling his sobs in his pillow until he was spent. He fell asleep like that, his face in his sodden pillow, his arms wrapped around it. He startled awake, sniffled, and wriggled up onto his elbows to turn the pillow to the dry side. He felt heavy with sleep, as if his tears had drugged him. He thought of getting up to brush his teeth, but the futility of that pressed him back down.