Flash Point

by Thomas Locke

  She took her phone from her briefcase.

  Roger Foretrain answered her call with, “This has to wait.”

  “It can’t,” Lena replied. “I really need—” She was halted by the click of the line going dead.

  Lena compressed the phone between her hands. The audacity of what she was considering shocked her. But the longer she sat there, the more certain she became. She pulled the card from her wallet and dialed.

  When Roger’s wife answered, Lena said, “I need something. And even asking is so far out of line—”

  “Skip the windup and tell me what it is,” Marjorie said.

  Lena stumbled through a basic description of what had been going on.

  Marjorie cut her off in mid-flow. “You and Roger need to meet.”

  “Outside the office if at all possible.” Lena breathed fractionally easier, having someone else catch the jagged urgency. “I can lay it out in twenty minutes. Half hour tops.”

  “You just stay right there.” The phone clicked.

  The silence held an electric tension, as though the argument she could not hear infected the sunlit garden. Lena rose from the bench and paced the narrow path.

  When Marjorie returned to the line, her words carried the crisp hint of smoke and cinders. “MOMA, the café, quarter to one.” Then she was gone.

  There was no reason why the brief back-and-forth should have left Lena slightly breathless. She stood and cradled her phone with both hands, waiting for the world to rebalance. Then she noticed Brett standing by the glass alcove’s open doorway, waiting.

  He was dressed in another outfit, smoky blue trousers and a navy jacket with a subtle stripe matching shirt and tie. Only his eyes carried the shadows of the previous evening. “Someday I hope to be able to tell you what it meant, having you stay here last night.”

  She pocketed the phone, and only then did she realize she was blanketed by the aroma of cherry blossoms, gentle as a lover’s midnight whisper. “I’m glad I could help.”

  He gave that a moment’s silence, then said, “Charlie’s plane lands at Kennedy in just over an hour. He has a two-hour layover before flying on to Savannah. I think we should go out together so you can meet him.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Then I have to teach my class.” Brett pointed at the house rising behind him. “After that I’ve just arranged with Agnes for her to have another session. She wants to meet you this afternoon. I explained you’re a friend. She . . .” Brett studied the sunlit garden. “She is a wonderful person.”

  On the ride into New York the previous evening, Brett had told her about the wealthy woman and her meeting with Brett’s own temporal self. The first time such a transference had happened, as far as their team was aware.

  Lena said, “She is concerned about you.”

  “She wants to be involved,” Brett replied. “Her body is failing, but her curiosity is a living flame.”

  “After we meet Charlie at the airport I need to speak with my boss. But later, of course, I’d like that.”

  Brett remained where he was. “Agnes has two people who care for her. They want to ascend. Today. With Agnes.”

  Lena took that as an invitation and replied, “Count me in.”

  The MOMA coffee shop was no great shakes. For such an astonishing museum, it was almost a disappointment. The cavernous room held long rows of identical tables and chairs. The clinical sameness stripped away any sense of artistry or uniqueness. It was a factory designed to swallow the hordes and send them on their way again. But it suited Lena just fine.

  The café was less than half full. Even so, the noise was a quiet and steady wash, like a sound machine designed to render every conversation completely private. Lena had a tray in front of her, holding a steaming mug of green tea and a poppy-seed bun. She picked tiny fragments off the rim of the roll, something she used to do as a child, creating little white crevices around the rim.

  Roger approached the table bearing a full head of steam. Marjorie followed, her face set in determined lines. She said, “I invited myself.”

  Roger dragged out a chair. “I don’t have time for this.”

  Marjorie seated herself and pulled Roger down so he took the place between them. She said, “He left for the office at five thirty this morning. Skipped breakfast. Ditto for lunch. I brought him uptown so he’d be forced to take time for a hot meal. It’s called dining by limo.”

  “I would have eaten,” Roger groused.

  “Of course you would,” Marjorie said. “And on the way back you can write the speech you’re delivering tonight.”

  He froze. “I forgot the speech.”

  Marjorie shot Lena a smug glance. “I know you did.”

  Roger said to Lena, “We’re preparing a package for a major new investor.”

  “They just showed up last night,” Marjorie offered. “Russian oil money.”

  “I doubt the board would be happy to learn my youngest associate is party to that knowledge,” Roger said.

  Marjorie sniffed. “The board.”

  Roger turned to Lena and asked, “Why am I here?”

  “Because my project’s potential is real,” Lena replied. “What we’re coming to realize is the project’s risk is also real. As is the need for you to know what is going on.”

  As Lena began describing what had happened in Savannah, Roger gazed through the café’s rear windows to the trees rising in the central garden. He looked as rumpled and intense as usual. From the side, his grey-green eyes held a crystal quality, like a prism through which the café’s light was distilled. He only granted Lena space for a few sentences before he softly declared, “What you’re telling me is only more ammunition for my opponents.”

  Marjorie protested, “Roger, please.”

  “I’m getting serious blowback from Wesley’s uncle. The Baker Meredith partners went over my head. They want you gone.”

  “Major mistake,” Marjorie said.

  Roger turned to his wife. “You know this how?”

  “Lena costs the bank nothing. Isn’t that the first thing you told me? But that isn’t the issue. Lena works outside the lines. She scares the lesser minds on your board.”

  “Those lesser minds,” Roger pointed out, “are responsible for my job.”

  Marjorie pressed on, “They can’t control Lena. It terrifies them.”

  Roger tapped the table, softly drumming along with his thoughts. “I am going to try and arrange for you to present your findings to my allies.”

  Lena swallowed. “All right.”

  “You need to bring some undeniable evidence to the table,” Roger went on. “That’s your job now. Find me something so compelling not even the Weasel’s uncle can shoot it down.”

  Lena thought of what the afternoon might hold and said, “I can do that. I think.”

  Roger rose from the table. “Be ready for my call.”

  Lena followed Roger and Marjorie from the museum and stood somewhat removed as her boss spoke intently with his wife. Lena most certainly did not mind waiting. This was the best time of year to be in New York. The air carried a sweet flavor of spring that not even a passing truck’s exhaust could erase.

  Roger slipped back into the limo and left without glancing Lena’s way. Marjorie stepped over to her and said, “Roger is glad he came.”

  The day’s burdens lifted somewhat. “Is that your way of trying to make me feel better?”

  “I am a born-and-bred New Yorker. I’m not capable of sugarcoating.” She smiled. “Tell me what you need.”

  “My team is driving up from Savannah. I’m supposed to find us a place to work.”

  The older woman opened her purse and brought out her phone. “How big?”

  Lena gave her what Charlie had said at the airport. “We need a place that is off the map. One access portal would be preferable. In an area where there isn’t too much foot traffic. A clean line of—” She noticed Marjorie’s expression. “What?”

  “You so
und like one of the bank’s security team.”

  Lena hesitated, then decided there was no need to try to describe Charlie Hazard just yet. She finished with, “Size and comfort take second place to safety.”

  While Brett was in the taxi returning from Columbia, Lena called to report that she and Marjorie were working on the secure location Charlie had requested. As soon as the butler opened the door and ushered him inside the Park Avenue house, Brett knew something was wrong. All Frederick said was, Agnes had had a difficult morning. But one look at the lady in the bed was enough for Brett to know that Agnes Lockwood was not ascending today. At least, not with his apparatus.

  Her eyes drifted slightly, then focused on him. She said weakly, “There’s never enough time.”

  He seated himself by the bed and took her hand. Like he had been doing it for years. Like they were the best of friends.

  Agnes asked, “Where is your young lady?”

  “Lena’s been held up. But she’s coming.” Brett glanced over to where Frederick and Doris hovered on the bed’s other side. “Lena wants to ascend with you.”

  Agnes asked, “Can you do it in here? I’d like to observe.”

  “Of course.” Brett said to the pair, “There is no assurance either of you will manage an ascent. The success rate with nonterminal subjects on their first try is very low.”

  Frederick replied for them both, “We want to understand what the missus has seen.”

  “Frederick positively thrives on meddling,” Agnes said weakly.

  Brett indicated the box in the corridor and said to the old woman, “I have a new system I was hoping to try out. It requires some calibration. But if it works as I expect, it could alleviate some of your pain without drugs.”

  She could still command with a murmur. “What a delightful thought. Sit down and get to work.”

  “There could be side effects,” Brett said. “I don’t think they are a real threat. But you need to be aware just the same.”

  “Now you sound like my doctors. Side effects. Those words have lost all possible significance.” She rested with eyes closed for a long moment, then went on, “Young man, you may begin.”

  The calibration process was finicky. Bishop’s system utilized software whose user interface was ten years out of date. But Brett had worked with far worse. What required more time was Agnes, who floated in and out of a drug-induced doze. Brett was certain he would eventually find ways to work around the subject’s sleep-wave patterns. But Bishop’s current protocol was based upon patients replying directly to questions. Brett suspected much of the resulting data was unnecessary. It was a structure set in place by a doctor who had spent a lifetime interpreting patients’ verbal responses.

  Bernard’s questions were designed to illicit emotions: Recall a situation where you were hurt, where you were angry, where you were disappointed. Focus upon your pain, describe your current emotional state, identify what in particular causes you to feel as you do. Many of them were clearly uncomfortable for a woman as reserved as Agnes. But she did not protest. Her features contorted from time to time, but she did as Brett requested. Her only refuge was the occasional nap.

  Brett used the downtime to transfer a copy of the software to the nurse’s laptop. She and Frederick drew up chairs to either side of Brett’s station and listened as he described the process of linking the neural net to the patient’s individual brain-wave patterns. Minute electromagnetic impulses could then be sent into the brain via the microchips positioned within the neural net, damping down both the pain itself and the related emotional responses.

  By the time Brett completed the explanation, he had also finished the questions. He powered down the second laptop, handed it to Doris, and said, “What we’re doing here is totally off the books. I’m probably breaking a dozen laws. But if it helps Agnes deal with her pain . . .”

  “And offer her clarity in the days between now and her departure,” Doris added. “I understand.”

  “Just don’t share this with anyone else,” Brett said.

  “You have my word.”

  Agnes opened her eyes. “Are we done?”

  “We are.” He glanced at his watch. The questioning had required two hours and forty-seven minutes. “You did great.”

  “That was a trial. Quite horrid, actually.”

  “How long before your next dose?”

  Doris replied, “Anytime she wants.”

  “Get her meds ready,” Brett suggested, watching Agnes. “But hold off and let’s see if this has any impact. That is, if you’re game.”

  “Why do you think I put up with those wretched questions of yours?”

  “Those questions are specifically designed to assist in the calibration—” Brett noticed she was smiling. “What is it?”

  “Do all your female students fall head over heels in love with the dashing professor?”

  “Not nearly enough of them,” Brett replied.

  Agnes shut her eyes. “Crank up your gizmo.”

  Brett hesitated. “As I mentioned, there have possibly been severe side effects.”

  “Five deaths. I know. Do it.”

  Brett should have been used to the silent and unseen process by now. But the seconds clicked by with maddening slowness.

  He decided to give it two full minutes. But ninety-two seconds in, Doris asked, “Are you showing any response?”

  “Her alpha patterns indicate a strong harmonization . . .” Brett stopped as Agnes opened her eyes and looked at him, alert and focused for the first time that day. “Something wrong?”

  “On the contrary,” Agnes replied. “The pain. It is gone.”

  44

  Half an hour after Reese returned from her first voyage, Kevin found her in the lounge, wrapped in a pashmina blanket and sipping on a coffee. He waved the other voyagers away, then announced, “The money’s in our account. Sun Trust, south two blocks. I’ve already made you coexecutor. You just need to sign the forms.”

  Reese knew at some level the money was important. But just then she could not say why, or even feel a need to understand. The disconnect from reality remained that strong. “I’ll stop by after the next voyage.”

  Kevin looked tired, stressed, and confused. A dangerous combination. “Security wants to speak with you. They say it can’t wait.”

  Reese asked, “How much sleep did you get last night?”

  Kevin ran a hand through his remaining hair. “Hard to say.”

  “Go sack out. For both our sakes.”

  When he had left, Reese dropped the blanket and walked slowly down the hall to the front lobby. She wished she could just get back to flying. The buzzer opening the security door had never sounded more irritating.

  She entered, waited until the door clicked shut, and asked, “You wanted to see me?”

  Val, the female guard, said, “There’s something going on with the four weirdos.”

  Stu explained, “Kevin ordered us to wire their rooms. We’ve got audio and visual feeds, phones, computers, the works.”

  Reese forced herself to concentrate. “Can you observe any other apartments?”

  “Just theirs. As per orders.”

  “Show me.”

  He tapped the keyboard, and the central monitor displayed three of the four together. Esteban was sprawled on the sofa, his right hand massaging a bandage at the base of his bare rib cage. Reese heard him say, “This still hurts really bad.”

  Val said, “This is Esteban’s apartment. He howled like a little girl when they treated his wound.”

  Reese heard Heather say through the wall speaker, “We’ll get Reese. It’s only a matter of time. Now shut up.”

  Stu said, “That Heather is the walking dead.”

  The monitor showed a view about three feet off the floor. Reese assumed the feeds were imbedded in the television. She made a mental note to use Kevin’s tools and check her own place for bugs.

  The sound of furious typing came over the speakers, then Lilly pushed bac
k from the desk that ran between the television and the sliding glass doors. Reese heard her say, “Okay, the bossman has come back. He says they’ll have a response to our request ASAP.”

  Reese asked, “Any idea what they’re talking about?”

  “Not a clue,” Val replied. “They go out for breakfast most mornings. My guess is they worked out some kind of plan while they were away. Been camped in Esteban’s room ever since they got back.”

  Reese shook her head. Clearly the midnight crew had connected to some outside force and were seeking to circumvent her new order. Which could only mean one thing.

  She heard Esteban say, “We go downstairs, I’m carrying my pal Smith & Wesson.”

  Stu asked Reese, “Want me to check them for weapons?”

  “Thanks, but no.” Reese headed for the door. “I’ve had a year to learn how to take care of myself.”

  As soon as Reese reentered the lounge, the voyagers began drifting over. She saw the same expression on most of the faces, the unspoken question, the wondering if things were really moving in the right direction.

  She asked, “Any trouble with the hungry ghosts while you were out?”

  “They watched, but they didn’t attack,” one said.

  “We sort of clutched each other,” another said. “That might’ve helped.”

  Reese described what she’d worked out with Ridley and Carl. The assembled voyagers joined into the discussion, nineteen of them now—Reese knew because she counted. She broke in with, “What if we stopped splitting you up and instead everybody goes out together? We’re coming together solid, why not try to keep this bond on the other side?” When she received a general agreement in reply, she turned to where Ridley and Carl stood by the side wall. “The increased numbers will mean your scouting techniques go from important to critical.”