Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

“What do you think?” asked Helen. “Will it be all right now?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hope so.”

Sunday, November 27. Mid-morning.

In the end, the Great November Delusion was written off as precisely that, a kind of mass hysteria that settled across a substantial chunk of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware. Elsewhere, life had gone on as usual, except that the affected area seemed to have vanished behind a black shroud which turned back all attempts at entry and admitted no signals.

Fortunately, it had lasted only a few hours. When it ended, persons who had been inside emerged with a wide range of stories. They had been stranded on rocky shores or amid needle peaks or in gritty wastes where nothing grew. One family claimed to have been inside a house that had an infinite number of stairways and chambers, but no doors or windows. Psychologists pointed out that the one element that appeared in all accounts was isolation. Sometimes it had been whole communities that were isolated; sometimes families. Occasionally it had been individuals. The general consensus was that, whatever the cause, therapists would be assured of a handsome income for years to come.

My first act on returning home was to destroy Victor Randall’s wallet and ID. The TV was back with full coverage of the phenomenon. The National Guard was out, and experts were already appearing on talk shows. I would have been ecstatic with the way things had turned out, except that Helen had sunk into a dark mood. She was thinking about Shel.

“We saved the world,” I told her. I showered and changed and put on some bacon and eggs. By the time she came downstairs it was ready. She ate, and cried a little, and congratulated me. “We were brilliant,” she said.

After breakfast she seemed reluctant to leave, as if something had been left undone. But she announced finally that she needed to get back to her apartment and see how things were.

She had just started for the door when we heard a car pull up. “It’s a woman,” she said, looking out the window. “Friend of yours?”

It was Sgt. Lake. She was alone this time.

We watched her climb the porch steps. A moment later the door bell rang.

“This won’t look so good,” Helen said.

“I know. You want to duck upstairs?”

She thought about it. “No. What are we hiding?”

The bell sounded again. I crossed the room and opened up.

“Good morning, Dr. Dryden,” said the detective. “I’m glad to see you came through it all right. Everything is okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”

Her cheeks were pale. “Good,” she said. “I hope it’s over.” She seemed far more human than during her earlier visit.

“Where’s your partner?” I asked.

She smiled. “Everything’s bedlam downtown. A lot of people went berserk during that thing , whatever it was. We’re going to be busy for a while.” She took a deep breath and, for the moment at least, some unconscious communication passed between us. “I wonder if I could talk with you?”

“Of course.” I stepped back and she came in.

“It’s chaos.” She seemed not quite able to focus. “Fires, people in shock, heart attacks everywhere. It hasn’t been good.” She saw Helen and her eyes widened. “Hello, Doctor. I didn’t expect to see you here. I expect you’re in for a busy day too.”

Helen nodded. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’m fine.” She stared out over my shoulder. Then, with a start, she tried to wave it all away.

We sat down. “What was it like here?” she asked.

I described what I’d seen. While I was doing so, Helen poured her some coffee and she relaxed a little. She had been caught in her car during the event on a piece of rain-swept foggy highway that just went round and round, covering the same ground. “Damnedest thing,” she said.“No matter what I did, I couldn’t get off.” She shook her head and drank the coffee.

“I could prescribe a sedative,” said Helen.

“No, thank you,” Lake said. She looked at me carefully. “I wonder if we might have a minute alone?”

“Sure,” Helen said. “I should be on my way anyhow.” She patted my shoulder in a comradely way and let herself out.

Lake turned her attention to me. “Doctor,” she said, “you’ve informed us you were home in bed at the time of Dr. Shelborne’s death. Do you stand by that statement?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. “I do.”

“Are you sure?”

The question hung in the sunlit air. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

I could read nothing in her expression. “Someone answering your description was seen in the neighborhood of the townhouse shortly before the fire.”

“It wasn’t me ,” I said, suddenly remembering the man at the gas station. And I’d been driving Shel’s car. With his vanity plate on the front to underscore the point.

“Okay,” she said. “I wonder if you’d mind coming down to the station with me, so we can clear the matter up. Get it settled.”

“Sure. Be glad to.”

We stood up. “Could I have a moment, please?”

“Certainly,” she said, and went outside.

I called Helen on her cellular. “Don’t panic,” she said. “All you need is a good alibi.”

“I don’t have an alibi.”

“For God’s sake, Dave. You’ve got something better. You have a time machine .”

“Okay. Sure. But if I go back and set up an alibi, why didn’t I tell them the truth in the beginning?”

“Because you were protecting a woman’s reputation,” she said. “What else would you be doing at two o’clock in the morning? Get out your little black book.” It might have been my imagination, but I thought the reference to my little black book angered her slightly.

Friday, November 11. Early evening.

The problem was that I didn’t have a little black book. I’ve never been all that successful with women. Not to the extent, certainly, that I could call one up with a reasonable hope of finishing the night in her bed.

What other option did I have? I could try to find someone in a bar, but you didn’t really lie to the police in a murder case to protect a casual pickup.

I pulled over to the curb beside an all-night restaurant, planning to go in and talk to the waitress a lot. Give her a huge tip so she couldn’t possibly forget me. But then, how would I explain why I had lied?

The restaurant was close to the river, a rundown area lined with crumbling warehouses. A police cruiser slowed down and pulled in behind the Porsche. The cop got out and I lowered the window.

“Anything wrong, Officer?” I asked. He was small, black, well-pressed.

“I was going to ask you the same thing, sir. This is not a good neighborhood.”

“I was just trying to decide whether I wanted a hamburger.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. I could hear the murmur of his radio. “Well, listen, I’d make up my mind, one way or the other. I wouldn’t hang around out here if I were you.”

I smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up. “Thanks,” I said.

He got back in his cruiser and pulled out. I watched his lights turn left at the next intersection. And I knew what I was going to do.

I drove south on route 130 for about three quarters of an hour, and then turned east on a two-lane. Somewhere around eleven, I entered Clovis, New Jersey, and decided it was just what I was looking for.

Its police station occupied a small two-story building beside the post office. The Red Lantern Bar was located about two blocks away, on the other side of the street.

I parked in a lighted spot close to the police station, walked to the bar, and went inside. It was smoky, subdued, and reeking with the smell of dead cigarettes and stale beer. Most of the action was over around the dart board.