“Worse? Oh. Shot in the dark: you did not like the results of my MRI and/or my CAT scan?”
“I’ll kill them all,” she swore, all but shoving me into the passenger seat before throwing my charts at me. Ack! Blizzard of paper! “I’ll set those bastards on fire. Then I’ll drown them. Then I’ll shoot them in their dumb fucking faces. Then set them on fire again. Then more drowning.”
“Aw. You love me.”
“Buckle up, dumbass.”
See?
Chapter Sixty-Five
“Brain damage, you sociopaths! And you never warned her!”
“I.T.C.H., you remember my roommate, Dr. Harris. Dr. Harris, you remember the itchy fuckers.”
“What are you talking about?” Karen asked. She, Warren, and Dr. Holt were all cornered in the break room. There’d been no receptionist, no security guards, nothing to stop Lisa from storming the place and taking hostages.
Lisa slapped my charts on the break room table: FWHAP! “Microscopic brain damage, significant fucking changes, that’s what I’m talking about. Whatever chemical shit you exposed her to, whatever tech you had her using, is fucking up her brain.”
“Now tell Dr. Harris that you’re sorry,” I prompted, “and that you won’t do it again.”
“Oh, Christ, that’s all we need.” Ian Holt, the guy with the build of a fire hydrant and the soul of a carpetbagger, was rubbing his eyes. “Brain damage.”
“It’s moot anyway,” Karen huffed, setting the coffee pot down with a decisive thump. “We’re shut down. Look around. Everybody packed their stuff and left. The lobby’s been cleaned out, the pictures are off the walls. We agreed yesterday it was all over.”
“Moot?” Lisa asked, and I pushed the coffee pot out of her reach. Also the mugs. And the microwave. I didn’t worry so much about the refrigerator. If it was too heavy for me, it was too heavy for her. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Just that, uh, nobodyelsewillbeexposedcuzwe’reshutdown.”
Lisa stuck a finger in her face. “I am filing a complaint with EU-OSHA. I am reporting you to HSE. And that’s just the warm-up. I’m going to lie awake nights plotting your professional and personal downfall. And I warn you, when I’m low on sleep? I’m a real bitch. You think this is bad? These are my Sunday school manners by comparison. You willfully incompetent fucks better have good lawyers, because I do, and we’re gonna fuck you up.”
Willfully incompetent! Excellent phrasing. Meanwhile, Warren had sidled over and handed me a cup of disgusting coffee. “Are you okay?” he murmured.
“I feel fine,” I whispered back. “Honestly. I can’t tell any difference. But it’s like we were talking about last night—if something was radically changed, would we know? And I’m sorry about running out right after finishing my second dessert and your port.” The tawny liquid had been the color of old blond wood and tasted like honey and raisins. Mmmm … liquid raisins …
“Oh, hell, that’s okay, I’m just happy you made it home all right. If you’re up to it, I wondered if I could take you to brunch today.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” With a start, I realized Lisa had finished terrorizing Karen and was now focused on Warren and me. I couldn’t see Holt; he was either cowering in the alcove behind me or she had killed and devoured him. “You’re going out with him?”
“I have to eat,” I pointed out. “Do you want me to starve and die, Lisa? Because if I don’t eat, I’ll starve and die. Is that what you want? Huh? For me to starve? Huh? Lisa?”
She shrugged off my lingering death by malnutrition. “Are you seriously thinking about fucking one of the people who gave you brain damage?”
“Not … immediately.” To Warren. “Right around date number five is when I’d most likely wave you in.” To Lisa: “Can I have a word?” And when we were in the hallway, I continued, “Not that I have to explain—”
“Wrong.”
“—but he’s actually a good guy. He just got caught up in this disaster and he’s trying to help me fix it.”
“And does that generous interpretation of his actions have anything to do with the fact that he looks like a sexy Dr. Who?”
“First, you leave Time Lords out of this. Besides—don’t you want at least one I.T.C.H. member on our side? Especially if things turn nasty? If you terrorize and alienate all of them, things will get a lot harder, especially if we’re looking at eventual litigation.” And what I didn’t say, but what she must have been thinking, was that it wasn’t just I.T.C.H. who had damaged me. Maxipan had a hand in this mess, too.
“Fuck ‘eventual’.” She ran her fingers through her hair, making the black strands stick out all over—she looked like a grumpy porcupine. “But—and I hate to admit this—that’s a good point. Whistleblowers need allies.”
“I’m not sure I qualify as a whistleblower.”
“So you’re shutting down?” Lisa had turned back to Karen and Holt, who had just crept in.
“Yes, we were going to get a last data drop and then—”
Lisa stepped into Holt who, to his credit, didn’t back up. “Brain damage,” she hissed at his neck.
“Yes, we—”
“Why the hell do you think we’re here? It wasn’t just to bitch slap the lot of you. It was to clue you in to the overly obvious fact that effective fucking yesterday, you can’t let anyone use this equipment in this space under any circumstances. Not until the regulators have been over the place with STEHM microscopes!”
“Yes. All right.” Holt had his hands up like Lisa was arresting him. He might want to get used to that pose. “I agree, we’ve all agreed. Come along.”
We followed him to the lab, and with no hesitation, what was left of I.T.C.H. shut down every machine, every bank, everything that clicked or glowed or beeped, until the only thing still on were the overhead lights.
We all stood in the quiet gloom.
“Huh.” Lisa glanced at me. “Kind of an anti-climax.”
“Agreed.” To Warren, “Brunch?”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Brunch! At the Queen’s Lane Coffee House, est. 1654. As they tell it, “the oldest continually working coffee house in Europe”. Not to sound like a tourist—I am in actuality an ex-pat—but this is what I liked about living here: someone’s been serving coffee in this building going on four hundred years. I get off on stability.
I also got off on their fish and chips. The whitefish had been battered, then fried crisp and steamed as I bit into it, the tartar sauce was tangy, and a squeeze of lemon brightened everything. The chips were crispy and mealy and salty and almost too hot to hold and I was washing it all down with an ice-cold ginger beer and blotting grease with napkins. Outstanding.
The company wasn’t bad, either. Warren and I were tucked into a cozy corner at a table so small our knees were touching. The wooden floors were gleaming, which was a good trick given all the foot traffic and the fact that they’d been open for hours. I had moved the lit candle off to the side and Warren laughed to see my frown.
“What? I can’t stand candles on restaurant tables. The light they add is minimal and unnecessary. All it does is take up valuable space meant for better things.” Better edible things.
“You don’t find it romantic?” he teased.
I looked up with a mouth full of chips. “Momantikk?” Swallowed. “No.” Was I blowing it? Was this killing the mood? What was the mood? Did he get off when his date talked with her mouth full? Hope so. “Do you want me to move it back?”
“No, you don’t want to waste valuable chip-eating time.”
“Finally, someone gets it. And this is delicious, but you’ve got to let me pick up the check this time. Not that that evens us out—I shudder to imagine last night’s dinner bill.”
“It’s not about evening anything out.” Warren leaned forward despite our tiny table, and as a re
sult, he was almost looming. But he’d rolled his sleeves up, so I didn’t mind. “I told you before—I’m in your debt. I think it’s remarkable that we lost only Teresa.”
“Teresa and whoever went before my Calais jump,” I pointed out. “You guys thought there’d been one or two others, right? I never saw them over there. Or would it be back there?”
“Maybe the guys who take over the project will have some ideas on how to get ‘em back,” he suggested.
“You think that’s likely? That I.T.C.H. won’t just stay permanently shut down?”
“I think you can’t un-ring a bell.”
“Point,” I conceded. “You know, if they want to try to rescue them, I’d—I could help. I mean, obviously I can’t take any more jumps, but maybe I could be a consultant or whatever.”
What are you doing? Good question. I felt like John Cusack in 1408: “I was out. I was ouuuuut!” Besides, if they wanted a consultant, they wouldn’t call the American who watched The Tudors with her mom. They’d get an expert like Starkey or Weir.
“Listen, Joan—maybe we can’t help them, but I think I can help your friend Lisa.”
“That is literally the only time anyone has said that to me.”
He shrugged. “Well, she’s terrifying. Anyway, the building’s locked down, but I still have my keys. I could bring her in and she could document whatever she liked before EU-OSHA or HUMINT get involved and prevent anyone else from coming and going.”
“Helping her beat the rush, huh?”
“It might help your case.”
“I have a case?”
“Brain damage,” he reminded me.
Why did I keep forgetting that? And don’t say ‘brain damage’. “That’s a great idea. Are you sure? You might get in more trouble if it comes out later.”
“I don’t give a damn,” was the crisp reply, which I loved. A lot.
I pulled my phone and sent Lisa a text, which took a couple of tries because … because … because it was hard … couldn’t see because …
“Shit,” I managed. I could see the squiggles writhing across my field of vision, harbingers of pain (or, in the last few weeks, a temporal gate). “M’getting a migraine.”
“You—oh. Joan, be careful!” He caught my phone as it fell from my hand which was deft or daft or something, I dunno, it was hard to think. “Oh, hell. You’re in no shape to go to I.T.C.H. right now.”
“Huh?”
“Could I take you to my place? It’s within walking distance. You can rest as long as you need to and then we’ll meet up with Lisa.”
“Reshting don’t count to five dates.”
“Er … okay.”
“Don’t worry,” I slurred. “I’ll just get the Peking pie to go.”
“Sorry?”
“‘Scuse me, I have to go barf.”
And I did, because I’m a woman of my worm.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Sleeping during a migraine is like being a dog: you have no concept of how much time has passed. Or even what time is. Have I been here for half an hour? Or five days? Is it nighttime or are the blinds closed? Did I kick the migraine or are we in half-time? And, because my life has gotten progressively stranger: what century is this?
I sat up in Warren’s (!!) bed, fumbled for the bedside light, and glanced around the room. The place looked like it had been decorated by a hurricane. Half empty boxes everywhere, clothes draped over the half-open closet doors, and I could see into the small en suite bathroom, which had a half-filled box on the floor and travel-sized toiletries on the sink.
I blinked, thought about what I was seeing, then carefully got out of bed and … excellent, the migraine had gone to wherever they go when they aren’t fucking me up. Now I just felt hollow and tired, despite napping for six hours. Or ten minutes.
“Warren?”
I left the bedroom and realized Warren lived in one of those extended stay hotels that accommodate people who don’t live in the area, but will be in town longer than a couple of weeks. It was a perfectly adequate suite: double bed, small living room on the other side of the wall with a couch, dining room table for four, a television. The kitchen was also small and adequate: stove, microwave, sink, cupboards, tiny dishwasher. There was an open closet in the hall which revealed (not that I was snooping) a miniature washing machine stacked on top of a miniature dryer. Nothing on the walls but what the hotel had put there, and boxes all over.
No, there was nothing wrong with the place, but it made me uneasy. Warren was wealthy; I had the bank balance to prove it. I.T.C.H. was able to keep running without funding because of him. So why was he living rough in what was clearly a temp set-up? And where was he?
For that matter, where was my phone? And my purse? I stepped over to the dining room table, which was covered with files and boxes, and looked out the window. The view was nice: old brick buildings, a few cars, bikers and pedestrians. Still daylight, so I couldn’t have been out that long. Unless it was the next day, which had been known to happen.
I told myself I was looking for my phone as I opened one of the boxes. It was stuffed with framed photos and diplomas and where was Warren and why was he living here?
I examined the first picture and recognized one of the photos from I.T.C.H.’s lobby. There were at least forty people in the pic and they were outside; you could see snow on the ground. And here was a diploma for Warren: Master of Computer Science. Here was another I.T.C.H. outing; someone was having a party judging by the booze and cake (my kind of party!), because I recognized the breakroom. I also recognized the woman sitting on Warren’s lap.
I dug into the box again, pulled out another diploma. Tucked into the corner of the frame was a casual shot of that same woman.
And because my life had become a time travel/adventure/horror movie directed by M. Night (But not a good one, like The Sixth Sense; a silly one you couldn’t take seriously, like The Happening), I heard the door open behind me and asked, without turning around, “Warren? Why is Lady Eleanor wearing a breast cancer awareness t-shirt in front of McDonalds?”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Warren shut the door and just stood there.
“And before you insist you barely know each other, I’m holding her diploma, which is how I know Lady Eleanor Stanley is actually Eleanor Warren and she has a degree in Mathematics and Philosophy, which is a good trick for a 16th century lady-in-waiting.” I dropped the diploma face-down on the table—crunch. Oopsie. Then I waved the other picture, the one from the party. “She worked with you. She works for I.T.C.H.! And since there would be no reason for you to keep that from me if she was your sister, I’m assuming you’re married.”
Nothing. He just blinked at me with his big, stupid blinky eyes.
“So before I beat you to death with the contents of this box, I’d like you to explain what the hell is going on. And don’t say it’s complicated.”
“Well.” He spread his hands. “It is.”
“You’re married to Lady Eleanor!” That was the part I couldn’t get over. Well, there was a lot I couldn’t get over, but that one really jabbed me. Thank God his shirt sleeves were hiding his forearms so there was nothing to distract from my incredulous hurt rage. “This isn’t a time travel movie, this is Inception! You had a crazy ex-wife running around you knew was trying to hurt me and you didn’t say shit!”
“She’s not my ex-wife.”
I ignored the irrelevancy. “You’ve known all this time, you know she’s been causing problems for me, and you never said! Worse—you had the gall to call me out for keeping things from you! And to think, I thought you were the stable, methodical one!”
“Compared to who?”
“Never mind! You get over here and you sit down and tell me the whole story, starting with ‘I married the devil’ and ending with ‘then you beat me to death with the devil’s diplo
ma’.”
“I need a drink,” was his response, and ducked into the teeny kitchen. “Want one?”
“I don’t drink on migraine days. Or when I’m planning to commit felony assault.”
“Migraine days.” He pulled a bottle of scotch from the cupboard and poured himself a shot. He probably thought it looked suave, but as he was using a juice glass, it just looked silly, like he was trying to soothe his jangled nerves with apple juice. “Yeah, that was inconvenient.”
“Oh no! Did I inconvenience you with my chronic medical condition? I’m so sorry, Warren, how will I ever make it up to you?”
“My wife,” Warren began, pouring himself a second drink—yikes. I hadn’t seen him suck down the first one. “Has always hated my job. We both worked for I.T.C.H., but in different departments. At first it was great. I got to spend the day with my best friend and go home with her every night. I felt blessed. But then it went wrong.”
“You know I’m not a marriage counselor, right? And that you’re speaking cliché?”
“I got promoted to the QT project, which meant a big raise but a lot more lab time. She was supportive at first, but as we made more progress, my hours got longer. So we fought. And then I’d spend more time in the lab to avoid arguing, which made her angrier, so we fought more.”
“Yes, yes, your love union was being shredded in a vicious circle of mutual recrimination, get to the part where she hangs out in the 16th century.”
“We were working around the clock and it was just—we knew we were running out of funding, knew we were getting shut down. But we weren’t ready to give up. We got more and more desperate and took stupid short cuts, and one night Eleanor showed up—I hadn’t been home in a few nights and she’d—she’d had enough. So we fought. I was trying to get her to go, she wanted me to leave, everyone was exhausted, the fight got heated, Ian and Karen were trying to pull us apart and nobody noticed the phenomenon was unstable and then—she was gone.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 29