Crosstalk

  Encouraged, she began sending to Trent again, but nothing happened. Maybe I’m going about it wrong, she thought after an hour, and wished there was someone she could ask. Not Dr. Verrick, obviously, and the only person she knew who’d had an EED was Rahul Deshnev’s assistant. If she asked her, it would be all over Commspan by tomorrow. She’d have to see what she could find on the internet.

  She typed in, “EED failure to connect,” but all that brought up was the Match Made in Heaven breakup and two more failed-connection murders.

  Very helpful, Briddey thought, and tried “EED connection,” and when that didn’t work, “EED connection blogs.”

  That produced a number of entries, but none of the bloggers had had any trouble connecting, or any idea of how they’d done it. “It just happened,” one of them said, and another: “I was kind of nervous about it, but it was easy. All of a sudden I felt Jack’s love enveloping me, like he’d put his arms around me, and I felt so safe.”

  All of them reported it happening “quicker than I’d expected,” and in none of the blogs was there any mention of talking. Briddey typed in “EED telepathy.”

  “Did you mean ‘OED telepathy’?” the computer asked, and brought up the Oxford English Dictionary definition of telepathy: “The communication of impressions of any kind from one mind to another, independently of the recognised channels of sense.”

  Independent of sense is right, Briddey thought. “No, I didn’t mean OED,” she said, and retyped “EED telepathy” and then “telepathy.”

  C.B. was right: There was a lot of junk on the internet. Briddey found the “Lyzandra of Sedona” ad that Kathleen had sent her, which described Lyzandra’s “psychic spirit gift” and promised she could open your chakras, change your understanding of the nature of communication, and connect you to the universe.

  She also found a number of similar ads and the “hearing voices” study C.B. had talked about. He’d said all the participants had been diagnosed as having schizophrenia. That wasn’t true. The two that hadn’t been labeled schizophrenic had been diagnosed with acute manic-depressive psychosis.

  And C.B. hadn’t been exaggerating as far as the “emotional bonding” component went. She couldn’t find a single instance of telepathic communication where someone had connected with a stranger, let alone a person they couldn’t abide. Every single account involved families, friends, sweethearts, fiancés.

  So why can’t I connect to Trent? she wondered, and went back to the blogs to look for clues. And after reading several more delirious accounts of improved romantic relationships and improved sex lives, she finally found something helpful: “My friend Adanna and her boyfriend connected right away, but we didn’t, and I was scared it meant Paul didn’t love me, but the doctor said the problem was that I wasn’t concentrating enough. He said I needed to focus on Paul and not think about anything else, and once I did that, we connected right away.”

  “Not think about anything else,” Briddey murmured, remembering all the distractions she’d had today: C.B. and the CT scan and Kathleen’s online dating and money laundering and psychics and U-boats and zombies. No wonder she hadn’t connected with Trent.

  She tried again, concentrating on him and only him, determinedly shutting every other thought out, but she still didn’t feel anything—except for a growing sense of dread as the evening wore on. Trent’s meeting had to be long over by now. What if the reason he hadn’t called was that he’d concluded their failure to connect meant she didn’t love him?

  When he finally phoned at eleven she was so relieved she could hardly speak. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “My meeting just got out, and I had no way to communicate with you because Management wouldn’t allow—”

  “I know,” Briddey said. “Your secretary phoned when she realized you were going to have to work late.”

  “She did? Good. Then you didn’t have to spend the whole evening wondering why I hadn’t gotten in touch with you,” he said. “I’ve been absolutely frantic, worrying about leaving you at the hospital.”

  Oh, no. Now he’s going to ask me how I got home.

  But he didn’t. He said, “What did the tests show?”

  “Nothing. All the results were normal. And just because we haven’t connected yet, it doesn’t mean—”

  “So you haven’t felt anything either?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. I was hoping…Dr. Verrick said the reception might be one-way at first, and I thought that might be what was happening, that you were receiving but I wasn’t. But if you haven’t been receiving either…We should have connected eight hours ago. We need to call Dr. Verrick.”

  No! “Twenty-four hours wasn’t the deadline for connecting,” she said. “It was the soonest we could connect, but it can take a lot longer. When did you come out of the anesthesia?”

  “I don’t know. Mid-afternoon?”

  “Then it’s no wonder we haven’t felt anything yet. The average for connecting is forty-eight hours, and my nurse said it sometimes takes even longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  She debated how long she could get away with. “Seventy-two hours.”

  “Seventy-two hours? That’s three days! I can’t wait—” He must have realized how impatient that sounded, because he said, “I’m sorry, I just want to be connected to you so much. And Dr. Verrick said our scores on the tests were really high. We should’ve connected sooner than the average.”

  “Not necessarily. My nurse said there were all kinds of variables—how long it takes the wound to heal and the brain to develop the neural pathway, how focused both people are—”

  “Focused,” he said, seizing on the word. “That’s the problem. With the meeting and worrying about you, I haven’t been able to focus. I’ll come over—”

  No, Briddey thought. Keeping him from suspecting anything was hard enough over the phone. There was no way she’d be able to manage with him actually here. They wouldn’t need to be connected for Trent to sense her fear and anxiety. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “The nurse told me Dr. Verrick said we’d both need to get lots of rest the first couple of days after the surgery, that it would help us heal faster.”

  “What’ll make me heal faster is seeing you. I want to hold you, to be with—”

  No! If by some chance C.B. wasn’t gone, that would be disastrous. “No, Dr. Verrick said no sex till after we’re connected.”

  “You’re kidding! If we connect physically, it’s bound to make us connect faster mentally.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. Dr. Verrick told me couples connect faster when they’re separated, that being together is a distraction. He said when couples are in the same room, they revert to talking and physical contact as their means of communication, and their neural pathways don’t develop. Whereas when they’re separated, if they want to communicate, they’re forced to connect, and it happens more quickly.” Please, please buy that, she added silently.

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Trent said. “And connecting’s the top priority. If keeping apart helps speed things up…all right, I won’t come over tonight.”

  Thank heavens.

  “I’ll come over in the morning, and we can have breakfast together before work. And speaking of work, did you tell Charla we were having the EED done yesterday?”

  “No. I said I was gone for meetings.”

  “You didn’t tell her you were going to the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No,” she said, afraid his next question was going to be, “What about the person who brought you home? Who did that, by the way?”

  But he merely said, “Good,” and then, “Listen, this needs to stay our secret for now, so don’t say anything about it at work, all right?”

  “All right,” she said, relieved that it wasn’t already all over Commspan and about to go up on Facebook for her family to see.

  But he apparently felt he owed
her more of an explanation because he said, “Management’s really uptight about the iPhone rollout, and they might take our having had the EED now as a sign that I’m not totally committed to the project. You understand, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, of course,” Briddey said, “but are you sure we can keep it secret? I mean, they’ve seen the bandage on the back of your neck, haven’t they?”

  “Only the people at the meeting, and I told them I got a haircut on the way to work and the barber nicked me, and that I was at a meeting downtown yesterday. The only person who knows I was at the hospital is my secretary, and I’ve told her not to tell anyone.”

  She won’t have to, Briddey thought. Suki was a genius at putting two and two together, and when she saw the bandage on Briddey’s hand…

  “We can tell people later,” Trent was saying, “after we’ve connected. I’ll see you in the morning. Seven thirty. If we’ve connected, we can celebrate. And if we haven’t, we’ll call Dr. Verrick and find out what’s holding things up.”

  Then I’d better see to it that we connect tonight, Briddey thought, and as soon as Trent hung up, she turned off her phone and began sending as hard as she could, hoping that now that Trent was concentrating, too, she’d get something.

  Nothing, and she was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open, let alone concentrate. Maybe that’s the problem, she thought. The nurse had told her she needed rest, that fatigue could delay their connecting. If she could just get a few hours’ sleep…

  But sleeping proved impossible, too. She had far too many things on her mind. Like, how was she going to talk Trent out of calling Dr. Verrick if they still hadn’t connected by morning? And what if they did make contact, and Trent found out she’d been connected to C.B.? How would she ever convince him it had nothing to do with emotional bonding?

  After an endless period of tossing and turning, Briddey got out of bed, made herself a cup of cocoa, and tried to contact Trent mentally again. Still nothing. She went back to bed—and to worrying. Tomorrow Trent was bound to ask her, “If you didn’t tell anybody you were in the hospital, how did you get home?”

  No, he won’t, she told herself firmly. C.B. was right. Trent will just assume I drove home in my own—

  Oh, no! My car! she thought, sitting bolt upright in bed. It’s still at the Marriott!

  She’d completely forgotten about it. She’d have to pick it up tomorrow morning. No, that wouldn’t work. Trent was coming here for breakfast, and when he saw her car wasn’t there, he’d ask where it was.

  She needed to go get it right now. She looked at the clock. 3:46 A.M. Could she even get a taxi this time of night, and if she did, would the parking garage even be open?

  Yep, C.B. said. I looked it up. It’s open all night.

  “Night Fighter calling Dawn Patrol. Night Fighter calling Dawn Patrol. ”

  —How to Steal a Million

  I told you you might need another ride, C.B. said.

  His voice, coming suddenly out of the darkness like that, startled Briddey just like it had the first time she heard him in the hospital, and she had to stifle the impulse to turn on the light and look around the room. What are you doing here? she demanded.

  What am I—you called me, he said indignantly. And don’t say you were calling Trent because I heard you say you had to get your car back before he finds out.

  I wasn’t calling you or Trent, she said, sitting up and switching on the lamp beside her bed. I was talking to myself.

  Yeah, well, I’m not sure that’s an option anymore. But you’re right. We do need to get your car back before Trent starts wondering how you got home from the hospital without it. Only if I take you to get it right now and somebody from Commspan should happen to see us, they’re going to wonder what we’re doing at a hotel together at three thirty in the morning.

  So what do you suggest? she asked, and remembered that every time she talked to him like this, she was reinforcing their neural pathway. She repeated the question aloud.

  I suggest we wait till six. At this time of night we’re up to no good. At six, we’re on our way to an early meeting. So what say you go back to sleep and I’ll pick you up at five thirty?

  “But—”

  You’ll be back by six forty-five, tops.

  And Trent wasn’t coming over till seven thirty. “But what if he and I have connected by then?” she asked.

  I assume that means you haven’t had any luck so far?

  “No.”

  Not even a flicker?

  “No, but we could make contact at any time.”

  Well, then either he’ll be so overjoyed, he won’t even notice your car’s missing, or the car will be the least of your worries.

  “What does that mean?”

  It means, if he can hear your thoughts, he’ll know you’re connected to me, too. And if he can’t, if it’s just feelings like the EED was supposed to deliver, you’ve got an even bigger problem, because I have a feeling Trent wouldn’t take kindly to having a second-class connection.

  But if Trent can only sense my feelings, she thought, I won’t have to tell him I can talk to you.

  You’re kidding, right? If he can pick up your emotions, he’ll want to know why you’re feeling worried and guilty instead of overjoyed. And face it, you’re not a very good liar.

  “Go away,” Briddey said.

  Roger, he said. I’ll pick you up at five thirty and take you over to the Marriott. And on the way I’ll tell you what I found out. I did some more research.

  “You found out what caused this?”

  Possibly. I’ll explain when I get there. In the meantime, get some sleep. The nurse told you to rest, remember?

  Yes, she thought, and lay back down. But sleep was impossible. She had too much to think about. What if she did only connect with Trent through emotions? How would she explain the anxiety he would definitely pick up from her—and the sense that she was keeping something from him?

  But Trent will pick up my love for him, too, she thought, and the fact that I don’t even like C.B.

  If they connected. It had been thirty-eight hours since she’d woken up after surgery, and she still wasn’t getting anything from Trent. What had C.B. found out? That it was crosstalk? Or something worse? What if he’d found out that once a neural pathway was established, it couldn’t be erased? Dr. Verrick had said it was a feedback loop. What if, once in motion, it went on looping and intensifying till it was too strong to stop?

  When she couldn’t stand going round and round anymore, she turned on her side and looked at the clock: 4:18 A.M. “C.B.?” she called. “What did you find out? From the research you did?”

  I thought you were going to get some rest, he said reprovingly.

  “I need to know what you found out first.”

  Oh, I get it. You can’t sleep, so you’re not going to let me get any sleep either.

  Sleep? She’d thought he was in his lab.

  Nope. I’m in bed just like you.

  She had a sudden vision of him lying there, his tousled dark hair against the pillow, and sat bolt upright, clasping her blankets to her chest.

  Oh, for— he said disgustedly. You don’t have to do that.

  She lunged for her robe at the foot of the bed, still clutching the blankets to her.

  It’s not X-ray vision, it’s telepathy.

  “I don’t care,” she said, putting her robe on.

  You’re acting crazy, you know that, he said, and as she padded barefoot out to the living room: You don’t have to…where are you going? Please tell me I’m not going to have to come rescue you from a stairwell again because—

  “I am going to the kitchen,” she said with dignity. “To make myself a cup of tea.” She took a mug down from the cupboard, filled it with water, stuck it in the microwave, and then stood there waiting for it to heat and wishing it would hurry up. Her bare feet were freezing on the tile floor.

  And whose fault is that? If you’d stayed in bed where it
was warm instead of…what exactly do you think I’m going to do to you? I’m halfway across town, for cripes’ sake.

  “What did you find out?” she demanded. “From your research.”

  That acting crazy’s a bad idea. It can get you locked up. Or burned at the stake.

  “I’m serious.”

  So am I. I got to thinking about Joan of Arc’s hearing voices and decided to see if there were any other saints who did. There were—Saint Augustine and Saint Brendan the Navigator and your very own Saint Brigid and Saint Patrick.

  “But they—”

  Thought they were talking to God or angels or the Virgin Mary. I know, he said. But what if they weren’t? What if they were talking to an ordinary person and what they were experiencing wasn’t a religious vision but telepathy? And they just interpreted it as a holy voice because that was the only way they could make sense of their experience? Or the only way they could keep from getting burned as a witch?

  “But I thought Joan of Arc—”

  Yeah, well, the plan didn’t always work.

  The microwave dinged. Briddey took the mug out, put a teabag in it, and carried it into the living room. “Even if it was telepathy,” she said, sitting down in the corner of the couch, “how does knowing that help us?”

  Well, for one thing, it tells us telepathy’s a real thing, and we’re not suffering from some kind of shared delusion. And for another, it tells us it’s been going on a long time. Saint Patrick lived in the fifth century. His voice told him to go back to Ireland and plant a tree, by the way, which he interpreted as an order to establish a church, but he could have just been talking to a gardener. And Joan of Arc could have been talking to somebody who really wanted to defeat the English.

  “Couldn’t you find any telepaths more recent than the Middle Ages?” Briddey asked.

  Yeah, Patience Lovelace and Tobias Marshall. And that girl in McCook, Nebraska, and her sailor.

  “I meant current ones.”

  Nope. If there are any real telepaths out there right now, they’re keeping their heads down. And no wonder. If people found out telepathy was real, they’d go nuts. The government, Wall Street, the media…Just think, no more having to hack phones or follow celebrities around with a telephoto lens. People could read their minds and know where they’re going. And they could read their political opponent’s mind, too, and the DA’s. And the jury’s. Not to mention what the NSA and the military could do with it. Everybody’d want a piece of them. So they’re not telling anybody.