Crosstalk

  “Which is what triggered yours.”

  “And Joan of Arc’s. Thirteen’s when she first heard the voices, too.”

  “But she wasn’t Irish.”

  “No, but she lived long enough ago that the genes could still have been found in other parts of Europe. And Domrémy’s not that far from Dublin. She was also trying to connect, which seems to be a trigger, too.”

  “Connect?” Briddey said blankly. “Who was Joan of Arc trying to—?”

  “Connect to? God. When she heard Saint Michael the first time, she was praying, which is definitely a kind of reaching out.” He leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “Can you make out the name of that street up ahead? I want to see how much farther we’ve got left to go.”

  “My phone has GPS on it,” she said, and then remembered that they couldn’t turn her phone on. She squinted at the sign, which was barely visible in the darkness, trying to make it out. “Palmer Boulevard,” she said finally.

  “Good.”

  “Are we almost out of the city, then?” she asked, looking ahead for signs that they were nearing the outskirts.

  “No,” he said, stopping at a red light. “We’re not going out of it.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “Because it wouldn’t do any good. The voices aren’t affected by distance. Well, they are, but not enough that driving out in the country would put you out of range. And if you did go far enough to get away from the ones you heard in the theater, you’d just be within range of a bunch of others.”

  There was no way to get beyond the reach of the voices, and no way she could get them to stop. Which meant they’d catch up, they’d wash over the car, they’d swamp her, and—

  “Briddey!” C.B. was saying. “Briddey! Listen to me!”

  “They’ll drown me!” she cried hysterically. “They’ll—”

  “No, they won’t. I won’t let them. I’m taking you someplace safe.”

  “There’s no such place. You just said—”

  “No, I didn’t. There is, and I’m taking you there right now, but you’ve got to let me drive so we can get there,” and she realized she’d grabbed hold of his arm with both hands, and that the light had turned green and someone was honking at them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and let go of his arm, only to be deluged all over again.

  “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he said, snatching her hand up in his and holding it tightly.

  The car behind them honked again.

  “Oh, shut up,” C.B. said amicably, and held her captured hand against his chest for a minute before putting it on his knee. “Just hang on to me and sing ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,’ or some other foine Irish song, and I’ll have you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Though the truth is, ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ isn’t an Irish song at all, at all. It was written in Tin Pan Alley by someone who’d never set foot on the auld sod, and so were ‘Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra’ and ‘Christmas in Killarney.’ And ‘Danny Boy,’ the ultimate in Irishness. It was written by a lying brute of an Englishman.”

  This is just more blarney to keep me from falling apart till we get there, she thought, and tried to pull herself together, to ignore the frightening knell that had begun ringing inside her when she realized that there was no place beyond the reach of the voices.

  “Speaking of getting there,” C.B. said, “you might want to freshen up before we do. Not for me, you understand. I like messy hair.” He grinned at her. “But we’re going to be out in public—”

  “We are? Where are we going?” she asked, looking out the window to see where they were.

  C.B. had turned south, toward the tech center. He’s taking me to his lab at Commspan, she thought. Of course. That’s why he works down there in the sub-basement, because he can’t hear the voices down there.

  “No, afraid not,” he said. “Unfortunately, concrete and insulation don’t have any effect on the voices, and neither do sub-zero temperatures. Besides, some of the Hermes Project team are at Commspan, working late, and we can’t run the risk of them seeing you. You’re supposed to be at your Aunt Oona’s with Maeve, remember?”

  “So where are you taking me?”

  Instead of answering, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out her evening bag, and handed it across to her. She opened it and took out her makeup mirror. Oh, God, she looked even worse than she had in the ladies’ lounge, if that were possible, her mascara streaked and her hair a tangled mess. “You wouldn’t have a Kleenex, would you?” she asked.

  C.B. obligingly fished a wadded-up tissue out of his pocket and handed it to her. She spat on it, propped the makeup mirror on the dashboard, and tried to repair the damage, wiping at the mascara and applying lipstick—all with one hand so she could keep the other on his knee. She ran a comb through her hair, wishing she had something to tie it back with.

  “How’s this?” C.B. said, reaching across her to the glove compartment and producing a short length of computer wire.

  “Perfect,” she said, and then bit her lip, wondering how she was going to pull her hair back and wrap the wire around it without letting go of C.B.’s knee.

  “Easy,” he said without turning to look at her. “I’m going to sing ‘Ode to Billie Joe.’ ” He launched into the song, which seemed to be about a family having dinner and casually mentioning that Billie Joe McAllister had jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge, not noticing that the girl narrating the song was devastated by the news.

  Briddey didn’t really listen. She was too busy trying to get the wire twisted around her hair and her hand back on his knee before he finished the song.

  She made it, barely. “And nobody ever knew she was in love with Billie Joe,” C.B. said as she did, “since apparently they weren’t Irish or telepathic. And here we are,” he concluded, pulling over to the curb and stopping.

  “Where?” she asked. They were parked on a street lined with dorms, and above the roofs she could see the buildings of the university. “Where are you taking me? A frat party?”

  “Nope,” he said, taking the key out of the ignition and unbuckling his seatbelt. “If you think the thoughts of theatergoers were bad, you should hear a bunch of drunk college guys.” He glanced at his watch again and then reached across her to open her door a couple of inches. “Okay, now I need to break contact while I come around to get you.”

  She nodded and then realized that he was waiting for her to let go of his knee. She took a breath, exhaled, pulled her hand away, and clasped her hands together in her lap.

  “Unless of course you want to go to a frat party,” he said, getting out of the car and starting around the front of it, still talking. Actually, listening to their thoughts isn’t much different from being at the party.

  And he was there, leaning in her door, grabbing her hand and helping her out of the car, saying aloud, without missing a beat, “And you get a lot less beer and vomit spilled on you.”

  It was cold on the street. She shivered in the sleeveless green dress, and before she realized that C.B. had let go of her hand, he’d taken off his denim jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  “I can’t take your jacket—” she began.

  “It’s protective coloration,” he said, “so we don’t look quite so mismatched.”

  “You mean like an escaped mental patient and her keeper?” she asked, glancing down at her hopelessly wrinkled dress.

  “No, like the prom queen and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Put it on,” he ordered, and while she did, he opened the back door and began rummaging in the car. He straightened up and looked at her appraisingly. “Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Still too gorgeous for the likes of me. Come on, my Irish colleen.”

  They started up the street. As they walked, he handed her what he’d gotten out of the back seat. It was a stack of books.

  “You’re taking me to the library?” she asked.

  “No, I had some overdue books,” he said sarcastical
ly, “and I thought we might as well return them since we were out running around. Yes, I’m taking you to the library.”

  Good, she thought, thinking of silence and light and card files—and rows and rows of books between her and the voices. If they could just get there before the voices caught up with them…

  “I’m sorry we had to park so far away,” C.B. said, walking her quickly up the street, “but they check the campus parking lots every hour.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, clutching the books to her as tightly as she’d clutched his knee. But it wasn’t. They were blocks away from the library, and it was so dark out here. The streetlight up ahead was out, so the next block would be even darker, and she didn’t see how a song about a boy who’d killed himself was going to stop the voices from breaking through, and—

  C.B. took the books from her, shifted them to his outside arm, and grabbed her hand.

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “Anytime. It doesn’t have to be ‘Ode to Billie Joe,’ by the way. It can be any song you want so long as it has plenty of words—country-and-western, folk, rap, or, like I said, show tunes. Hamilton. Kinky Boots. Guys and Dolls. That’s got tons of good songs—‘Luck Be a Lady’ and ‘Adelaide’s Lament’ and ‘Fugue for Tin Horns.’ No, on second thought, forget ‘Fugue for Tin Horns.’ It sounds too much like the voices. You’d better stick with ‘Adelaide’s Lament.’ Eight verses, and it’s got all kinds of nice white-noise-ish words like ‘psychosomatic syndrome’ and ‘streptococci’ and ‘postnasal drip.’ ”

  “Postnasal drip?”

  “It’s a song about having a cold. Or if you don’t like that, how about something from Finian’s Rainbow? Musical about an Irish lass and a scruffy guy—and a leprechaun. Which reminds me, I’ve been thinking about those marshmallows. Could one of the shapes have been a pot of gold?”

  He nattered on, talking about the marshmallows and “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” and non-Irish Irish songs, and she knew he was only doing it to get her through the dark streets, but she didn’t care. He was keeping the voices at bay till they reached the library.

  C.B. stopped just outside the door. “Don’t panic,” he said, “but when we go inside, I’m going to let go of your hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want the librarian to think we’re here to study and not to go up to the stacks. This time of night they’re full of oversexed undergrads canoodling.”

  “Canoodling?”

  “Old Irish term for necking, making out, hooking up. I don’t want the librarian deciding she needs to come check on us, though I doubt if anyone would believe someone as gorgeous as you would actually go out on a date with a guy like me. But don’t worry about my not holding your hand. It doesn’t mean I’m letting go of you. Ready?”

  She nodded, and he took his hand from hers and put it firmly on her back. He opened the door with his other hand and stopped. “Hang on.” He bent to peer at the Library Hours sign posted on it. It read, SATURDAY 10 A.M.—10:30 P.M.

  Shit, he said. Their budget must have gotten cut. They’ve shortened their hours again.

  “Does that mean we can’t stay here?” The thought of having to walk back those four dark blocks to the car—

  “No,” C.B. said. “Shh.” He cocked his head, staring past the door.

  He’s not reading the sign, she thought. He’s listening to hear how many people are inside, and there must have been only a handful because after a minute he handed her back the stack of books, said, “Say what I tell you to, and try not to attract attention,” and opened the door.

  “Yeah, Iverson’s exams are a real bear,” he said aloud, and ushered her inside, his hand still on her elbow. Now you say, “I’ve got to get at least a B on it.”

  She clutched the books to her chest, trying hard to look like a student. “I’ve got to get at least a B on it.”

  “I can help you with that,” C.B. said.

  The young woman at the circulation desk looked up from her terminal and fastened her gaze on them. I should never have worn this dress, Briddey thought. Trent was right. It’s too conspicuous. I should have worn my black—

  Trent’s a moron, C.B. said. You look beautiful. Say, “It’s the thing about nonvocal communication I don’t get.” And look at me, not her.

  She obediently turned to look at him. “It’s the thing about nonvocal communication I don’t get,” she said, and the librarian’s attention dropped back to her terminal.

  “Yes, well, you came to the right guy,” C.B. said. “I happen to be a whiz in the nonvocal communications department,” and they were past the circulation desk and into the large study area beyond it.

  But it wasn’t deserted. There were scores of people here—studying, staring at laptops, whispering to one another. And thinking. Briddey looked fearfully at C.B. I thought you said I was supposed to avoid crowded places, she whispered.

  You are, he said, hustling her through the room. You don’t have to whisper, you know. I’m the only one who can hear you. He hurried her past the stairs marked TO THE STACKS and down to a second stairway.

  I thought we were going to the stacks, she said.

  Nope, too distracting, he said, leading her up the stairs. Unless you want to hook up. Which wouldn’t be a bad idea, voices-wise. Sex is a great defense. It pretty much shuts everything out. I was going to teach you a different kind of defense, but if you’d rather—

  I do not want to hook up, and if that’s why you brought me here— she said, snatching her hand away from his. And was immediately sorry. The voices seemed to surge forward.

  You’re okay, I’m right here, C.B. said, and took her hand.

  Thank you, she breathed.

  Anytime, he said, and started up the stairs again. He stopped on the landing. “Hang on a sec. I need to text Trent again.” He turned her phone on, swiped to a screen, and scrolled down.

  “Did he leave any messages?”

  “Afraid so.” He handed the phone to her, and she saw that there were five texts and three voice messages from him. “I promised the Hamiltons we’d go out with them to Iridium afterward. I told them you’d meet us there. Can’t you tell your family they need to handle this on their own?” plus several variations on “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” and, worst of all, “Any progress in the connecting department yet?”

  Not the kind you’re thinking of, Briddey thought, wondering how on earth she was supposed to respond to that.

  “Like this,” C.B. said, taking the phone from her. He typed a rapid message and hit SEND. “I told him you can’t meet him, that it’s taking longer to calm everybody down than you thought, and you’ll call him in the morning.” He switched her phone off and pocketed it.

  “See? No problem. Come on,” he said, and led her up to the next floor and down a hall to a door marked READING ROOM. He paused outside it, listening, and then said, We’re in luck.

  He opened the door onto a large open space like the one downstairs, except that there was no one at the reference desk and the study tables were longer and wider. Racks of newspapers lined the sides, and there were fewer people up here than downstairs, but it was still far from deserted. There were at least two dozen people seated at the tables, hunched over laptops or books or reading newspapers. Two dozen people. All thinking. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

  The worst part was the room itself. When C.B. had told her he was taking her to a library, she’d imagined the walls lined with books, which would offer some kind of fortification against the voices, but there were no books anywhere here except for the few the people at the tables were reading, and two of the walls were all window, black from the darkness beyond and no protection at all from the voices.

  What do we do now? she asked C.B., hoping he’d say he had a backup plan, and they could go to the archives or even back to the staircase, anywhere so long as it didn’t have people and windows. But instead he said, This is good, and gave her a push toward the neares
t table. Go all the way to the end.

  She turned to look beseechingly at him. The voices—

  It’ll be fine. Go. And try not to look like I’m kidnapping you. We’re supposed to be here to study, remember?

  Briddey went, keeping her eyes down so she wouldn’t see the windows and the darkness beyond them, and, clutching her books, took the chair C.B. indicated. He pushed it in for her, said, Put the books on the table, and open the top one to page six, and went around to the chair opposite her.

  Page six, she thought, concentrating fiercely on finding the page, trying not to think about the fact that C.B. had let go of her and that they were less than a foot from the windows and the table was too wide. If he sat across from her, he wouldn’t be able to hold her hand, and the voices would—

  I’m not going to sit across from you, he said, pulling his chair around so he was at the end, sitting catty-corner from her, and reaching across the table not for her hand but for the next book on the stack. He opened it and looked down at it. I’m right here. And you’re perfectly safe. The voices can’t get in here. Listen, he said, and it was an order.

  She looked longingly at his hand resting casually next to his book. You don’t need it, he said, and when she still hesitated: Trust me. Just listen.

  She did, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, bracing herself against the crashing wave of voices she was afraid would follow.

  It didn’t. The voices weren’t gone, but they no longer roared over her, deluging her. They were calmer, quieter, like a harmless, murmuring stream. She looked over at C.B., amazed. How did you do that?

  I didn’t, he said, nodding in the direction of the other people seated at the long tables. They did.

  But how—?

  He grinned. Never underestimate the power of a good book.

  “Ahem!” said the Mouse with an important air. “Are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. ‘William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria—’ ”