Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

Bullen was on his feet now. “Rosalee!” he shouted. “ Rosalee! ”

The heavy door opened a bit, and the stunning brunette poked her head in. “Sir?”

“Call security! These people are crazy.” Bullen was moving quickly back toward his desk. “Get out, you two! Get out of here.” Rosalee was already on the phone. Bullen opened the top left drawer of his desk and pulled out a small revolver. “Get out!”

Pierre lifted his rump onto the table, slid across its wide, polished surface, got off on the other side, and quickly interposed himself between Molly and Bullen’s line of fire. “We’re leaving,” said Pierre. “We’re leaving.

Put that away.”

Rosalee reappeared. Her collagen-injected lips opened wide when she saw Bullen’s gun. “S-s-security is on its way,” she stammered.

Soon four burly guards in gray uniforms appeared. Two of them had large revolvers drawn.

“Eject these two from the premises,” snapped Bullen.

“Come along,” said one of the guards, gesturing with his gun.

Pierre started walking. Molly soon followed. The guards took them immediately to the elevator lobby. One of the cars was locked off on-service; they were hustled into that one. A guard turned a key in the control panel, and the elevator dropped rapidly down the thirty-seven stories to the ground, Pierre’s ears popping as it did so.

“Outside,” said the same guard who had spoken before.

Pierre and Molly hightailed it into the parking lot, two guards following them. They got into the Toyota, Molly driving, and sped out of the lot.

Pierre was shaking from head to toe, his chorea aggravated by the adrenaline coursing through his system.

“What happened in there?” said Molly.

“I — I got confused.”

“You said far more than you were supposed to.”

Pierre closed his eyes. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. It’s — damn, I hate this fucking disease.”

The road curved to the left. The tires squealed slightly as the car followed the bend.

“What about Bullen?” said Pierre at last.

Molly shook her head. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing’?”

“Bullen just kept thinking things like, ‘My God — he’s a lunatic,’ and ‘He’s out of his mind,’ and…”

“Yes?”

“And ‘Look at the way he’s shaking — he must be drunk.’”

“But nothing about the murders?”

She turned down another road. “Nothing.”

“No guilt? No sense of shock that he’d been caught?”

“No. Nothing like that. I tell you, Pierre, he honestly didn’t have a clue as to what you were talking about.”

“But I was so sure. All the evidence…”

They came to a traffic signal. Molly stopped the car. “Evidence that you’ve seen,” she said softly. She looked at him briefly, then dropped her eyes.

“No,” said Pierre sharply. “Dammit, no. What happened in there was a fluke. This isn’t a hallucination. I haven’t lost my mind.”

The light turned green. Molly pressed down on the accelerator.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

Pierre, exhausted, came through the back door and immediately felt his spirits lifting. Their house wasn’t expensive, and their IKEA furnishings weren’t elaborate. But it was comfortable — the kind of life he never thought he’d have. A wife, a child, the smell of dinner cooking, toys scattered across the living-room floor, a fireplace.

Molly came into the living room, carrying Amanda. “Look who’s here!” she said to her daughter. “That’s right! It’s Daddy!… I don’t know. I’ll ask him.” Molly looked at her husband. “She wants to know if you liked the cookies we made for you.”

Pierre always brought a bagged lunch to work these days; it was easier to eat right in his lab than making his way down building 74’s long corridors to the snack bar. “They were delicious,” said Pierre. “Thank you.”

Amanda smiled.

Molly gave Pierre a kiss, Pierre sat down on the couch, and Molly transferred Amanda to his waiting arms. He lifted her above his head. She made little gurgling sounds of joy.

“How’s my girl?” he said to her. “How’s my little girl?”

Molly stepped briefly into the kitchen to stir the stew, then rejoined them. Pierre sat Amanda on his knee and bounced her up and down.

Sesame Street was on the TV, the sound turned off.

“Were you a good girl today?” asked Pierre. “You didn’t give Mommy any trouble, did you?”

Amanda was squirming with delight, as if the suggestion that she might be a troublemaker pleased her greatly.

“Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes,” said Molly.

Pierre smiled. “Thanks. Sorry I wasn’t home in time to make it. I know it’s my turn.”

“Oh, don’t worry, hon. I’m enjoying this time.”

She looked a bit wistful. Neither of them knew exactly what they would do with Amanda when Molly’s two-year leave was over. They couldn’t put a mute child in a normal day care, and they’d yet to find a special-needs one that seemed suitable. There was one nearby for deaf children, but none for those who could hear but couldn’t speak. Molly had talked about not going back to the university at all, but they both knew she couldn’t do that. She was on the path toward tenure, and would need to build a solid career for the time when Pierre was no longer with them.

Pierre picked up Amanda again and held her in front of him. He started making goofy faces at her, and she giggled wildly. But after a few moments, she started flapping her hands about, trying to say something.

Pierre put her down on his lap, so that she could move her hands freely.

Drink , she signed.

Pierre looked at her sternly, and signed, What do you say ?

Please , she signed. Drink, please .

Molly smiled. “I’ll get it. Apple juice?”

Amanda nodded. For a while, Amanda had resisted learning sign language; it had seemed a needless bother — until she came to understand that although her mother could hear what she was thinking, neither her father nor anyone else could.

Molly reappeared a few moments later with a small plastic glass half-filled with juice. Amanda took it with both hands and drained it in a couple of gulps. She handed the glass back to her mother.

“I’ve got to make the salad,” said Molly.

“Thanks,” said Pierre.

She smiled and went away. Pierre lifted Amanda off his lap and placed her on the couch next to him. He knew that sign language was, at best, a poor substitute for spoken language, and an even worse one for having thoughts read directly, but to be able to communicate with her meant the world to him. When they were signing, it was like that wall between them had disappeared. Pierre’s hands moved. What did you do today ?

Played , signed Amanda. Watched TV. Drew a picture .

What did you draw?

Amanda looked at him blankly.

What did you draw? Pierre signed again.

Amanda shrugged a little.

Pierre didn’t get as much practice as he’d like at signing. He figured he must be making a mistake, so he tried a different way of asking. You drew a picture of what ?

Amanda’s eyes were wide.

Pierre looked down at his hands… and saw that they were shaking. He hadn’t felt it at all. He gripped his right hand with his left, attempting to steady it. He tried to make the signs again, but they weren’t coming out properly. He couldn’t get his left palm to open correctly for “drew,” couldn’t get his right index finger to move smoothly across the fingers of his left hand for “what.”