Nobody Gets The Girl (5 page)

"True," said Knowbokov. "It may be more
accurate to say that you are a figment of your own imagination.
Reality has a certain elasticity in response to consciousness. You
were, and still are, aware of your own existence. You are
apparently a man of great willpower, to continue believing in your
own reality in the face of so much evidence against it. Most people
would have succumbed to doubt and faded away."

"This is pretty tough to swallow," said
Richard, glancing at the juice box.

Dr. Knowbokov didn't catch the double
entendre. "You will no doubt discover in the coming days that your
own perceptions of reality fail when they conflict with the shared
reality of others. This is why you are able to touch and manipulate
objects only when no one is observing them."

"But... but the priest saw the pots I was
holding."

"He expected to," said Dr. Knowbokov. "And
when he convinced Martha and Henry they would see a demon, you
responded physically to this."

"OK. OK," said Richard. "Fine. Let's say I
believe you. You've erased my life with a time machine. When are
you going back to fix things?"

"I'm not," said Dr. Knowbokov.

"What? Why?"

By now they had reached an airfield on the
edge of town. The limousine pulled to a stop near a mid-size
jet.

"Come," said Dr. Knowbokov. "Let's continue
our conversation aboard my plane."

"Let's finish it now. Why won't you go back
and fix things?"

"I have materials to show you on the plane,"
said Dr. Knowbokov. "Photographs that will help me explain our
dilemma."

"Visual aids, huh?" said Richard. "Fine. I'll
play along."

The jet was nothing like the commercial
aircraft on which Richard had traveled. Instead of the normal rows
of seats, the mid-part of the cabin was laid out like a living
room, with two huge leather couches facing an elegant coffee table.
Veronica would have loved it. On the table were several manila
envelopes.

"Have a seat," said Dr. Knowbokov.

"I feel like standing," said Richard.

"That won't be safe during take off."

"Take off? Where exactly are we going?"

"The Caribbean. My estate is located on a
private island."

"Ah," said Richard. "Of course it is. You kin
to Bruce Wayne?"

Dr. Knowbokov looked slightly confused. "The
Bruce Wayne that lives at 47 Stanton Street in Tulsa,
Oklahoma?"

"Um. Sure."

"No. Why do you ask?"

Richard sighed, then took a seat on the couch
opposite the doctor. The plane's engines began to roar, and the
cabin lurched.

"The Caribbean, huh? I guess I'm along for
the ride. Has to be better than where I was."

"Indeed. I think you’ll like my home," said
Dr. Knowbokov. "I hope you’ll be a frequent guest. I’d like to
propose a partnership between us."

"Partnership?"

"I would find a man of your talents quite
useful. You would be the perfect spy."

"And who, may I ask, would I be spying
on?"

"My enemies, of course. Perhaps even, should
the need arise, my allies."

"That sounds a little paranoid, Doc," said
Richard. "But, maybe not all that paranoid. I guess being rich
enough to own your own island does involve a little crooked
dealing."

"Nothing of the sort," said Dr. Knowbokov.
"My wealth has been obtained through careful investments and
numerous patents on my discoveries and inventions."

"Oh yeah," said Richard. "And there's that
time machine. Must make lottery picks a breeze."

"I hadn't contemplated that," said the
doctor. "If the acquisition of wealth were my focus, I suppose I
could use the time machines for selfish purposes. But I have lived
my life in service to mankind. The wealth that has resulted is
quite incidental, and used mostly for philanthropy."

"And Caribbean estates."

"I provide what comforts I can for my
family," the doctor said, sounding apologetic.

"I had a family once," said Richard. "And you
screwed that up. Care to take a stab at explaining why you aren't
going to fix it?"

Dr. Knowbokov handed him a manila
envelope.

"This file contains information about Lisa
and Linda Rogers. They are, in a way, your sisters."

"Sisters? I was an only child. Dad always
joked that I was so much trouble they didn't want another kid."

"Lisa and Linda were born in 1970 and 1972.
Your parents were more emotionally and financially secure than they
were when you were born."

Richard emptied the envelope, and looked
through the photos of two bright-looking, happy women. They seemed
very familiar, like relatives he should recognize, but couldn't
quite recall.

"Sisters, huh?"

"There's more," said Dr. Knowbokov, handing
him another envelope. "Your former wife, Veronica, married before
she finished college. She has two children now, a boy, age seven,
and a girl, age eight."

"I don't believe you," said Richard.
"Veronica hated children. She viewed them as little dirt magnets.
She would never have found a diaper bag that meshed with her
wardrobe."

"The girl was unplanned, but is loved," said
Dr. Knowbokov. "Look at the photographs."

Richard fumbled with the clasp. His hands
were trembling. He left the envelope closed, and said, "I don't
care."

"What don't you care about?"

"Any of this. Any of these people."

"They are real people," said Dr. Knowbokov,
his voice very calm and gentle. "As real as you once were. More
real than you are now. If I were to tinker with time again, even if
I had the talent and wisdom to make things exactly as they once
were, I would be condemning these people to non-existence."

"I don't care!" Richard rose, flinging the
envelope across the room. It came open, sending a flurry of photos
and papers drifting through the air. "You're going to put me
back!"

"No," Dr. Knowbokov said calmly.

With a feral growl, Richard lunged forward,
his hands aimed at the doctor's throat.

Still seated, Dr. Knowbokov raised his leg
high above his head and delivered a kick to Richard's chin. Richard
crashed to the coffee table, stars before his eyes. He rolled to
the floor, tasting blood in his mouth.

"Any attempt at physical assault is most
unwise," said Dr. Knowbokov. "I have black belts in seven styles of
martial arts."

"Of course," Richard said, his hands
clutching his throbbing jaw. "Goddamn."

"I understand your emotional distress," said
Dr. Knowbokov.

"Sure," said Richard, swallowing blood. "Why
wouldn't you understand? This is your fault. You destroy my life.
You tell me that my parents really did decide against kids because
I was so horrible, and my wife would have welcomed the opportunity
to breed, just not with me."

He sighed, rubbing his jaw. "Sorry, DNA.
Guess I let you down."

Dr. Knowbokov laughed. "You possess a sharp
wit, Richard. This is evidence of your intelligence. I have faith
in your ability to adapt to your condition."

Richard ignored him. "And to top it all off,
I'll have to eat through straws for the rest of my life. Man, it
feels like my teeth are about to come out."

"Unlikely," said Dr. Knowbokov. "I didn't
kick you that hard."

Richard shook his head. He didn't know what
to say. This was just too much to think about, especially with his
head throbbing. So he said, "I have a headache."

"Perhaps it would be best if you rested. I
have sleeping quarters in the rear of the plane. There’s medication
in the bathroom. Some anti-inflammatories will help ease your
pain."

Richard chuckled joylessly. "Any pills in
there that will make me real again?"

"Richard, you are real. It's vitally
important you remember that, and believe it. I have told you these
things because I believe that the truth will help you come to terms
with your new circumstances, and actually reinforce your
identity."

"Yeah," said Richard. "Self-esteem, believe
in yourself, blah, blah, blah. You sure you're not a shrink?"

"Come," said Dr. Knowbokov, offering his
hand. "Let's get you to bed. After you rest, we can further discuss
my offer of employment."

"Spy, huh?" said Richard. "Won't be as cool
as in the movies. I'm unlikely to get the girls, being intangible
and all."

"There are rewards in life far greater than
'getting the girl.’”

"Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Dr.
Know-it-all."

Richard took the doctor's hand, and was
pulled to his feet. The doctor led him to the next room. The
sleeping quarters weren't the cramped bunk he expected but a plush
canopy bed, covered with hand-sewn quilts. The bathroom beyond was
spacious, with a full-sized toilet, a bidet, and a claw-footed
tub.

"Swank," said Richard. "Doc, you may be a
time-traveling, life-wrecking scumbag, but you know how to
travel."

"Here," said the doctor, handing him some
pills. "These will prevent swelling in your jaw and help you
sleep."

Richard popped the pills and swallowed them
without waiting for water. He collapsed onto the bed. It was soft
and warm and smelled freshly laundered. He shut his eyes and felt
like he was at his grandmother's house.

When he opened his eyes, Dr. Knowbokov was
gone.

He closed his eyes again. His head felt full
of static. Images flashed across his eyelids, words echoed through
his skull.

Echo
. That's all he was now. An echo
of someone who used to be. How long before he faded away to
nothingness?

It was absurd. Everything, the time machine,
the photos of sisters he'd never known, the private jet, the
island, the seven-foot-tall bald chick driving the limo, all of it
was just a joke. Any minute, someone would yell, "Surprise!" He
could grin and say, "You got me!" Or maybe he would open his eyes
and realize that the soft bed he lay upon was the floor of a padded
cell.

But he had gone too far into this now to
question his sanity. Lying in the bed, his jaw still throbbing, he
had a very good sense of what was real, and what wasn't. This
wasn't a joke. He wasn't real. And, yet, of course, he was.

He could feel himself drifting. He wondered
if something in the pills was putting him to sleep. He felt too
full of questions to rest. And yet, little by little, he drew
deeper inside himself, floating in memories.

He remembered sitting on his grandmother's
bed. Her bed had always smelled so wonderful. He was very, very
small. She held his hand in hers.

"And when you add another one you get . . .
?" She folded out a second finger from his fist.

"Two!" he said.

"And when you fold it back you have?"

"One!" he said.

She folded the remaining finger back into his
palm. "And now you have?"

He looked at his hand. He wasn't sure what he
had. "One minus one is zero," his grandmother said.

He stared at his fist, unconvinced. After
all, his fingers were still there.

"Zero," he said, knowing it would make her
happy.

"Good boy," she said.

Drifting to sleep in his memories as well as
here and now, Richard felt his grandmother's kiss upon his
brow.

CHAPTER FOUR

STRONG GENETIC COMPONENT

When Richard opened his eyes again his jaw no
longer hurt. He touched it carefully, then more firmly. It was like
he'd never been kicked. Rich people apparently got better pills
than the rest of us.

He sat up on the most comfortable bed he'd
ever slept on, then stepped onto the nicest carpet his feet had
ever touched. Piano music drifted into the room, serene and
introspective. An eerie red light seeped through the drapes. He
went to a window, pushed aside the drapes, and opened the
shade.

They were over an ocean, gleaming with the
last sunlight of the day. For as far as he could see, there was
only water and sky merging as one on the horizon. The plane seemed
to hang in perfect stillness.

On the window, he could see the faint trace
of his reflection.

"Never born," he said. "Huh."

In the distance he could see a flash of
light, a boat perhaps, or a low plane. Whatever he saw, it was
moving rapidly, leaving a wake of gleaming silver.

He focused his attention on the approaching
object. Could a boat move that fast? The wake wasn't dispersing
like a boat's. It remained a perfect, shining, razor-sharp line. It
was definitely moving above the water, not across it. A plane? It
seemed too small. Whatever the object was, it was keeping low and
gaining on them.

Low, fast, and small. A missile? Suddenly,
Richard wondered just how tough Dr. Knowbokov's enemies were.

He left the bedroom and found Dr. Knowbokov
playing a grand piano in the room where they had held their earlier
discussion. The couches and coffee table were gone. Had they
changed planes? Richard's brow furrowed. Somehow this bothered him
much more than the thought of an approaching missile.

"Ah, Richard," said the doctor. "My playing
didn't disturb you, I hope?"

"Weren't there couches in here just a little
while ago? Or have you been tinkering with the time machine
again?"

"Nothing so exotic," said the doctor. "The
furniture can be raised and lowered from the holds via hydraulic
lifts."

"Does Martha Stewart know about this?"

Dr. Knowbokov's eyes closed; he seemed
briefly lost in thought. He opened his eyes.

"No," he said.

"How about the missile coming our way? She
know about that?"

"Missile?"

"Maybe. Take a look out the window and tell
me my eyes are playing tricks on me."

Dr. Knowbokov went to the nearest window and
raised the shade. A woman stood outside the plane, only a few yards
away. The wind whipped at her hair and clothing as she skated along
beside the plane astride a pair of polished steel rails. Her
clothes reminded Richard of a drum majorette's, with a tight red
jacket fastened by twin rows of gold buttons, a short skirt, and a
tall, flat-topped hat, which fastened with a strap beneath her
chin. She smiled and waved.