Crosstalk

  “You can listen to cows?”

  “No, just people, more’s the pity. Think how nice it would be to hear your dog telling you about his unconditional adoration,” he said, but she was secretly relieved. She didn’t have to worry about hearing lions or tigers—

  “Or bears,” C.B. said. “Or flatworms, though sometimes with people it’s hard to tell the difference. Do you know what people spend the majority of time thinking about?”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s canoodling.”

  “Nope, except for the under-twenty-five set. For everybody else, it’s the weather. Is it going to rain? Is it going to stop raining? Is it going to snow? Is it going to warm up? They think about it constantly. That, and money and how much they hate their jobs. And thank-you notes.”

  “Thank-you notes?”

  “Yep. Or rather, the lack thereof: ‘Why didn’t I get one from my nephew? What kind of manners is his mother teaching him? I’m not sending him another present till I get a thank-you from him—and not an email or a phone call either—a proper handwritten note!’ ” C.B. clutched his head. “On and on and on for hours. It’s worse than the sex and the rest of the griping. And the bodily functions. That’s another thing people spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about. Belching and fa—”

  “I get the picture. So you’re telling me there’s no one fun to listen to?”

  “No, kids are great. I’m crazy about—” He stopped.

  “Crazy about what?” she asked.

  “Three and four-year-olds. The way they think is amazing. It probably goes for babies, too, but their thoughts aren’t verba— The voices are coming.”

  She was faster that time, though still not fast enough to suit him. He took her through the drill again and again.

  “How many times do I have to do this?” she asked. It felt like they’d been at it for hours.

  “Till it’s completely automatic,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Sorry. I—”

  “Had a roaring dose of fear-produced adrenaline—no, make that two doses, counting the storage room—and now they’ve worn off, so you’re crashing. Besides which, it’s”—he glanced over at the clock—“three A.M. No wonder you’re yawning.” He pointed at the sofa. “Why don’t you lie down?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said, looking longingly at it. “But I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep, and you said we needed to practice—”

  “We do, but we’ve got loads of time. The library doesn’t open till eleven on Sundays. And a nap might actually be a good idea. It’ll give your brain a chance to process the stuff it’s learned and put it into long-term memory. Go ahead, lie down.” He walked over to the table and turned off the lamp.

  “Thank you,” she said, suddenly so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. She lay down—and immediately sat up again. She’d forgotten about the voices. Her barricades worked because she was visualizing them, and if she fell asleep—

  “You don’t hear them when you’re sleeping,” C.B. reassured her.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because people’s brain chemistry alters during sleep. Or maybe REM sleep involves a fundamentally different kind of thought. Whichever it is, you can’t send or receive messages while you’re asleep.”

  Thank goodness, she thought. “But what about while I’m falling asleep? And when I first wake up?”

  “Those are the times you’re most vulnerable,” he admitted, “but only till your defenses become fully automatic. When they do, they’ll kick in the second you wake up.”

  “And how long will it take for them to become fully automatic?”

  “A few days,” he said, switching off the Tiffany lamps at either end of the sofa, leaving on only the one between the wing chairs. “But don’t worry. I’ll stand guard till then.”

  “How?”

  “With my trusty Victorian sword,” he said. He went over to the bookcase and pulled out a thick volume. “How does The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire sound?”

  “Boring.”

  “Agreed. But the fall part should keep it from being too boring.” He put the book on the table next to the wing chair and came over to the sofa. “Now lie down,” he ordered, and covered her up with the cashmere throw. “Close your eyes and forget about everything else but your nice, adobe-walled, impenetrable safe room.”

  “I will,” she said. “But if it’s going to take a couple of days for my pre- and post-sleep defenses to automatically kick in, when will you sleep?”

  “While you’re awake. So the sooner you get to sleep, the sooner you’ll wake up and I can take my nap. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said doubtfully.

  “It’ll be fine. I’ll be right here. Well, not right here. A nice, safe distance away,” he said, walking over to the wing chair on the far side of the fire and plopping down in it. “So you don’t have to worry about me attacking you.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yeah, well, just in case. Besides, I can concentrate better on The Decline and Fall from over here.” He grinned at her. “I won’t let anything get in, I promise.” He opened the book. “Now go to sleep.”

  That was easier said than done. She kept thinking about what would happen if C.B.—

  “I won’t nod off,” he said. “This chair is too uncomfortable. And this idiot girl keeps talking.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. She curled up under the soft cashmere throw, closed her eyes, and concentrated on going into her courtyard, pulling the door closed behind her, lowering the heavy wooden bar across it, fastening the latch. Shutting the voices out.

  But they weren’t the only thing she had to worry about. There was also how they were going to get out of here in the morning without getting caught. And what she was going to tell Trent. And Maeve—

  “Want me to tell you a bedtime story?” C.B. asked.

  “Yes, please,” she said, tucking her hand under her cheek.

  “ ‘The Pannonian army was at this time commanded by Septimius Severus,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘who had concealed his daring ambition, which was never diverted from its steady course by the allurements of pleasure, the apprehension of danger, or the feelings of humanity.’ ”

  My feelings are that this cashmere throw is really warm, Briddey thought, almost as warm as the blanket C.B. brought me in the hospital, and fell asleep.

  She woke to darkness. She wondered drowsily where she was, and then remembered, and felt a rush of sheer panic. The fire went out!

  No, that’s not possible, some rational part of her brain insisted. It’s a gas fire. And she could feel its heat. In a moment her eyes would adjust to the darkness, and she’d be able to see the reddish orange glow from the flames.

  Unless C.B. turned it off, she thought. If he did, I’m in the dark. With the voices. And they’ll…C.B.!—and then reassurance as she felt him lying beside her, her hand clasped in both of his and held tightly, safely, against his chest.

  She knew she should be angry with him for not keeping his distance, but she was too relieved. And too filled with gratitude that he was there like he’d promised, shielding her, keeping the voices at bay. And she could hardly accuse him of putting the moves on her. He was sound asleep. She could hear his even breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her captured hand, hear his heartbeat.

  C.B., she thought tenderly, and heard a murmur from across the room that made her sit up in the darkness. She’d been right about the fire, because she could see C.B., lit by its ruddy glow, sprawled in the wing chair, his head resting against the back, his hands dangling over the arms as he slept.

  She looked down in surprise at her own hand, not clutched in his after all, and must have made some sort of sound because his head came up, and he murmured sleepily, “What is it?”

  “Nothing, it’s okay. I must have been dreaming,” she whispered, lying back down and putting her hand under her cheek ag
ain to show him everything was all right. “Go back to sleep.” Though telling him that wasn’t necessary. He hadn’t ever been awake. He leaned his head back against his wadded-up flannel shirt, where it had obviously been all this time, and immediately began to snore.

  He looked utterly exhausted. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d had to rescue her twice tonight, and before that once—no, twice—in the hospital, and in between he’d raced around taking her home, and to the Marriott to get her car, and finding them places to hide. And, she suspected, listening to her every moment in between, watching for signs that she was starting to hear the voices, guarding her, protecting her. And he was still doing it, even in his sleep.

  She smiled at how vulnerable he looked, lying sprawled there in the wing chair, his face flushed from the firelight—and how young. He’d said the voices had started when he was thirteen, only four years older than Maeve. What must that have been like for him?

  He’d spoken lightly of his attempts to stop them, to discover what was going on, to devise barricades, but it must have been terrible. School would have been a nightmare, and college out of the question. And most jobs. He’d been lucky to find Commspan, with its no-coverage sub-basement.

  Movies would have been out of the question, too, and going to graduation and weddings and funerals and football games and the mall. Which probably went a long way toward explaining his clothes. And his ancient car. Virtually every aspect of normal life would have been a struggle.

  And that was after he’d erected barricades and a safe room. Before that, when the voices first appeared, it must have been beyond terrifying. How horrible to have had that tidal wave of thoughts and emotions crash in on him without any idea of what was causing it—and without anyone to rescue him or reassure him he wasn’t going crazy, or teach him how to build defenses! Or to hold his hand safely to their heart while he slept.

  What if this had happened, and I hadn’t had C.B.? she thought, and knew the answer. She wouldn’t have survived. She’d have gone insane. Or committed suicide.

  It was amazing that C.B. hadn’t, flung as he had been into a world of wrath and lasciviousness and malice before he was ready for it, exposed to the full vileness and viciousness of the world without any filter at all, a helpless victim of, and witness to, how many things he had no way of dealing with?

  And with no one to help him, or explain what was happening, not even anyone he could tell—and everyone around him thinking he was a freak. Just like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was a wonder he hadn’t become a rapist or a serial killer.

  But not only hadn’t he become a monster, he’d figured out how to defend himself against the voices’ unending onslaught—and reached out to help her when the same thing happened to her. He could have simply stayed silent. He’d had plenty of reasons to do that, not the least of which was her own kicking-and-screaming response when he tried to tell her, accusing him of everything from bugging her room to blocking Trent.

  But he’d helped her in spite of that, and risked having his secret exposed in the process. And that was probably the most remarkable thing he’d done, because everything he’d said about what could happen if people found out he was telepathic was true. Suki would tweet the news instantly, the press would descend, and Commspan would probably fire him for making them a laughingstock. Or worse, they’d co-opt him as a corporate spy and demand he tell them what Apple’s new phone had on it, and it would be no good trying to explain that it didn’t work like that, that the voices couldn’t be searched like a database for information. They wouldn’t believe him. They’d be convinced telepathy would give them a business advantage, and they’d invade his lab and interrogate him.

  No, the smart thing for him to have done was definitely to have kept quiet and let her deal with the voices on her own. She was infinitely grateful that he hadn’t.

  She watched him a while longer and then shut her eyes again. And even though she knew her hand was tucked beneath her cheek and he was on the far side of the room, the instant she closed her eyes he was there beside her again, his hands crossed on his chest and her hand held tightly under them, pressed safely against his heart.

  Who says you can’t communicate when you’re sleeping? she thought, smiling, and went back to sleep.

  “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  When Briddey woke again, the lamps were back on, and the chair—and the room—were empty. C.B.? she called. Where are you?

  Out rustling us up a midnight feast, he said, and she automatically glanced over at the clock behind the checkout desk. Five thirty.

  Okay, an early breakfast, he said. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in two shakes.

  I’m not worried, she thought wonderingly, and went into her courtyard so he wouldn’t be able to hear what she was thinking. Because he wasn’t gone. Even with the room full of lamplight and her eyes open, even with her having pushed off the throw and stretched her arms up in a luxurious yawn, he was still holding her hand close to his chest.

  Hurry up, she called to him. I’m starving!

  Be right there, he said, and a minute later burst through the door. He had a large, bulging plastic grocery bag in one hand, a paper plate full of cake in the other, and a bag of chips under his arm. I found all sorts of goodies.

  He put them on the table and emptied out the bag, naming his finds as he did. “Birthday cake, Doritos, salsa, grapes, half a pepperoni pizza, a package of peanut butter crackers, a partially eaten Snickers, olives—”

  “Did you steal all this from the staff lounge?” Briddey asked.

  “Just the salsa, the olives, and the cake—I heard Marian wondering how she was going to get rid of all of it. The rest is contraband I found in the stacks. Except for these,” he said, bringing out two cans of soda, “which I got from the vending machine. They didn’t have lattes. You’ll have to settle for Pepsi or Sierra Mist.”

  “Pepsi,” she said, and reached for the pizza. C.B. produced paper napkins from his flannel shirt pocket and handed her one. It was obviously from the party, too. It had bluebirds on it and the words A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME YOU WERE HAVING A BIRTHDAY.

  Everything tasted wonderful, even the Doritos, which must have been up in the stacks for weeks. They were very stale. “But good, huh?” C.B. said. “Oh, and you won’t believe what else I found. While I was out foraging, I did a little research to see what the other marshmallow was—”

  “Research? You mean you found someone who happened to be thinking about Lucky Charms?”

  “No, I googled it on Marian’s computer.”

  But I thought the offices were locked. And wouldn’t a computer have needed a password?

  “We were right about the pink hearts, blue moons, and green clovers—not shamrocks,” C.B. was saying, “but they’re shooting stars, not stars. There are also horseshoes, rainbows, balloons, and for some unknown reason, hourglasses. And then what do you think I found up on the top level of the stacks? A box of…ta-da!”

  He reached in the food bag and pulled out a cereal box with a flourish. “Lucky Charms!” He poured out a handful of cereal onto the table. “So we can confirm my findings.”

  “Or not,” Briddey said, looking down at the multicolored blobs. She picked up a pale green one with a lump of bright green in the middle. “This does not look like a shamrock.”

  “Clover,” he corrected her.

  “It doesn’t look like a clover either. It looks like a hat with a bow on it.”

  “What kind of Irishman would have a bow on his hat?” C.B. said, taking it from her, turning it upside down, and squinting at it. “Maybe it’s a pot of gold.”

  “Then why is it green? And look at this one,” she said, picking up a purple U-shaped marshmallow. “What’s this? The rainbow?”

  “No, this is the rainbow.” He showed her a multicolored half circle.

  “Or a slice of watermelon.”

  “They’re all
supposed to be Irish. What’s Irish about a slice of watermelon?”

  “Or a dog bone?” she said, picking up a brownish yellow marshmallow.

  “At least this pink thing is definitely a heart,” he said. “And this blue blob is a moon.”

  “But what on earth is this?” she said, fishing a white marshmallow out of the pile. It was oblong and had an orange line down its middle and an irregular splotch at one end.

  “I have no idea,” C.B. said, taking it from her and turning it one way and another. “An albino eggplant?”

  “An albino eggplant?” she said, laughing. “Why would they put an albino eggplant in a children’s cereal?”

  “Beats me,” he said, popping it into his mouth. He made a face. “The real question is, why would they put pieces of chalk in a children’s cereal and call them marshmallows? Speaking of which, unless you want to be stuck reciting, ‘Albino eggplant, dog bone, purple U-shaped thingy,’ the next time the voices hit, we need to get back to work. Your safe room needs to be—”

  “Totally automatic. I know.”

  “And after we’ve done that, I want to teach you some auxiliary defenses. It’s a good idea to have ramparts, and an inner sanctum for backup.”

  And even with all those defenses, he still has to wear earbuds and hide from the voices down in the sub-basement, she thought, feeling afraid all over again.

  “I don’t actually have to stay in the basement,” C.B. said. “I partly stay down there because when you’re talking to people, it’s easy to make mistakes and let slip that you know stuff they haven’t told anyone—”

  “And they’ll find out you’re telepathic.”

  “Exactly. I’d much rather have them think I’m crazy. I also stay down there by choice. Years of listening to the innermost secrets of your fellow human beings gives you such a low opinion of them, you don’t want to associate with them. It doesn’t have anything to do with the effectiveness of my defenses. Don’t worry, your courtyard will keep you perfectly safe. Provided we get it finished,” he said, and for the next solid hour he had her practice talking to him while remaining safely inside her courtyard. And not looking like that was what she was doing.