The Cantor Dimension (2 page)

Brody sat on the couch, unable to concentrate on anything but the unknown fate of his only real friend. He tried to watch TV but his heart just wasn't in it. He felt as if he were wasting time on trivial pursuits when his friend might be in trouble. The box on the floor was all he could think about. What was so secret that Max wouldn't even share it with Brody?

He studied the photo of he and Max at Rock Island Park where it sat on the bookshelf next to the photos of Brody's parents, sister, and hiking group. Max reminded Brody of a German despot with his reddish-brown hair, ivory complexion, hard blue eyes, and thin lips that accentuated his perpetually stern expression. Judging by the face in the photograph one might guess Max to be a neo-Nazi but Brody knew better. Max would never get involved with any militant group or radical movement - he was too level-headed for that. So where was he? What was he doing? Brody's eyes kept straying toward the box.

Max had never told him that he couldn't read the Cantor papers. Max had never given any instructions on what to do with them once Brody had removed them from the apartment. Part of Brody knew that Max wouldn't approve of his reading the reams of documents that he hadn't before shared with his friend. Part of Brody didn't care. Like a child about to embark on a journey expressly forbidden by his parents, a child with a sudden feeling of power over his own destiny, a child with a mischievous gleam in his eye, Brody pulled the box into the middle of the floor and opened it.

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Ellen glanced at her watch, irritated. She'd been standing for several minutes in front of the window. Snowflakes floated gently past the window covering the ground in a smooth, white blanket. Soft halos surrounded the streetlights in the parking lot.

She searched for signs of Pat's car down below. You couldn't mistake Pat's old Volkswagen bug. It had originally been a dark green but over the years several body sections had been replaced turning it into a patchwork of red, yellow, orange and green. There was no sign of the multi-colored Volkswagen, only the rows of white hillocks which were suggestions of the cars that lie hidden underneath.

Ellen left the window and slumped at the kitchen table, lines of stress creasing her forehead. She and Pat were due at a wedding reception in an hour and a half on the other side of the city and they were supposed to pick up Jimmy and Greg on the way. The reception was in Churchville, a small slice of farm country an hour's drive from Ellen's. Pat didn't have a cell phone so if she was on her way, there wasn't much Ellen could do but wait. The phone rang and Ellen grabbed it.

"Pat, where the hell are you!" Ellen demanded.

"Ellen, this is Jimmy. I take it you're still waiting for Pat?"

"Oh, sorry Jimmy. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's just that she's so irresponsible sometimes. She makes me nuts!"

"Yeah, I know. So what do you want to do here? Greg wants to get going. He wants to get there early and mingle."

"How much time do we have?"

"You need to leave in fifteen minutes if you're going to get to my house on time and even then we're pushing our luck. Fairport isn't exactly around the corner from me, you know. Why don't you move up my way like we talked about?"

"Then I'd have to drive it every day to go to work. You know how much I hate rush hour downtown! Let's not do this right now, okay? Look, why don't you guys just go on ahead without us. Maybe we'll catch up with you before all the cake runs out. No sense for all of us not to be there."

"Yeah, I guess. Look, why don't we come get you and the three of us'll go?"

"That's ridiculous, Jimmy, and you know it. Then all three of us would be late. There just isn't time."

"Well your car sure picked a hell of a time to bug out on you!"

"Forget it, Jimmy. There's nothing we can do about it tonight. Just go to the party and take lots of pictures, okay? I'm counting on you."

"Okay, Ellen. If you're sure."

"I'm sure. Bye Jimmy. Enjoy."

"How can I if you're not there? This is the last time we include her in our plans. The last time Ellen, understand?"

"I understand, Jimmy. She's got hell to pay for this time!"

"I hope so, Ellen. You've been promising to have a heart-to-heart with her. You haven't done it yet, have you?"

Ellen sighed, sounding totally defeated. "Look, if you keep hanging on the phone with me, you'll be late."

"Okay then, we'll go on ahead and hope to meet you there. Bye hon."

"Back atcha, Jimmy."

Two hours later Ellen kicked off her emerald green pumps and threw them at the closet door. She wished there weren't such animosity between Pat and Jimmy; she hated playing peacemaker between them. She caught her reflection in the mirror -- auburn hair piled on top of her head, wearing an emerald green dress with a pink sash. She'd chosen this dress to match her only decent dress shoes so that she wouldn't have to buy another pair. She'd gone to so much trouble. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

She turned away from the mirror and tugged angrily at her pantyhose, snagging them on a long, rose-colored fingernail. "Shit," she muttered. In spite of her anger she took great pains with the dress, carefully hanging it up. Ellen wished she could have wadded it up and kicked at it but it was a rental and she wanted to make sure she got her deposit back.

Ellen slipped into a grey sweatshirt and jeans, pulled on a thick pair of socks, and folded herself up in the chair next to the phone. She sat staring morosely at the four foot plastic Christmas tree in the corner. Tiny lights twinkled cheerfully over the array of brightly wrapped packages underneath. The spirit of Christmas cheer eluded Ellen as she dialed Pat's number for the umpteenth time. Unexpectedly, someone answered.

"Hello?" a man's voice queried.

Ellen was outraged. Apparently Pat had made other plans. She hadn't even had the decency to call Ellen and cancel.

"Hello?" the man repeated.

"Let me talk to Pat if you can keep your pants on a few more minutes!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let me talk to Pat!"

"There's no Pat here."

"Well, maybe she gave you a phony name then. Let me talk to the girl you're with."

"I'm not with any girl and I don't know what you're talking about, lady!"

"This is 555-0126, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's my number."

"Then I've got the right number and if you don't put Pat on the phone right this minute..."

"Look lady, I don't know what the hell your problem is and I don't particularly care! I don't know anybody named Pat. This is my phone number and if you call here again I'm going to call the police and file charges against you for harassment. Got it? Maybe this Pat gave you a wrong number!"

Ellen jumped as he slammed the phone in her ear. "Son of a bitch," she muttered. She decided to let it go for the night. It was obvious that the man was not going to let her talk to Pat. She sat up suddenly. What if he was a murderer and Pat was in danger? He had admitted that she'd dialed the right number. Ellen chided herself for such a ridiculous thought. He was just hot to trot and didn't want to be interrupted. Ellen wished Pat weren't so easy with the men. Time and again she'd chastised Pat, who had dubbed Ellen 'the mother hen' to which Ellen replied, "Well somebody's got to look after you!"

"Come on, Ellen, I'm a big girl. Nothing's going to happen to me. I know how to take care of myself."

"How do you know? You meet these guys in bars and for all you know they could be serial killers. Even if they aren't, you might catch something that a pill can't cure. In the olden days they would have called you 'a fallen woman.' Don't you think it would be nice to have a regular boyfriend sometimes?"

"Don't be such a prude, Ellen!" Pat had laughed. It was a conversation they'd had a number of times: Ellen reproving, Pat shrugging it off. One of these days Pat was going to find herself in over her head. Maybe she was in trouble right now. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Ellen dialed 911. A tired sounding woman answered.

"911, can I help you?"

"Hello, yes! I hope so. I think my friend is in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, I think she could be in danger. I mean, I think maybe a man could be in her apartment who's not supposed to be there."

"Did you see someone break into her apartment?"

"Well no, but a strange man answered her telephone."

"So what makes you think something's wrong? Why do you think your friend is in danger?"

"He denied she even existed. Said he never heard of her. Told me I dialed the wrong number."

"Have you considered that perhaps you did dial the wrong number?"

"Well, yes. I asked him. I said, 'Is this 555-0126?' and he said yes, and that's her number."

"Don't you think it's a bit unusual for an intruder to answer the phone and admit you've dialed the correct phone number?"

"Well yes, I did think of that. But my friend Pat, she never lets men answer her phone. She dates several men and she'd never take the risk of one catching another one. She doesn't let men hang around her apartment unless she's there either so it's really strange."

"I see." The woman sounded doubtful.

"And she's late for a wedding reception."

"Her own wedding?"

"No, one of our closest friends. Wouldn't that make you kind of suspicious?"

"Possibly," the woman sighed. "Look, I'll send someone to check it out. Could you give me your friend's full name and address?"

She gave the woman the information and hung up. "Pat better have a damn good explanation for this!" Ellen spat, suddenly adopting the operator's tone of disbelief.

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Black, twisted trees stood angrily against the grey sky, their leafless arms unmoving as if in death. Frozen field grass snapped under the weight of heavily booted feet. The searchers looked insignificant against the backdrop of grey. Several local farmers had volunteered to help search for Eric Weissmuller's body while the police questioned his family hoping for a clue.

It was unusual not to have snow on the ground in December and the expanse of white would have been helpful to their search. Footprints would have been easy to spot in the snow, as would blood or any other piece of evidence that might have been dropped. Without any visual clues they were searching blind. Eric's body could be anywhere in the surrounding farmland which stretched for miles. They searched among the frozen weeds and bushes but so far, their efforts had been fruitless.

The evidence pointed to foul play and Police Chief Hunsinger hoped that Eric's body would be found somewhere nearby, otherwise he doubted it would be found at all. The Corn Belt contained too many remote areas perfect for hiding a body. He suddenly felt homesick for the city - a place where nothing stayed hidden for long.

The police dogs had been brought in and their whines mingled with the yips of the farmer's dogs. Chief Hunsinger wished that the locals would have left their dogs at home. The farmers all believed that their canine trackers could out-do the police dogs and there must have been close to twenty dogs and as many farmers searching the fields. The dogs had found old boots, a dead possum, a car battery, a number of bird carcasses and evidence of a rabbit's nest, but no sign of Eric.

Several dog fights had to be broken up as the farmer's dogs battled for supremacy over every new find. All of these extraneous dogs and people had trampled the area surrounding Eric's truck. Whatever tracks Eric or his abductors may have left were now hopelessly obliterated. Chief Hunsinger stood cheerlessly next to his police car watching the searchers. A wizened old man sauntered up to him. The man had a gaunt, weather-worn face.

"Still lookin' fer that Eric feller, aren't ye? Well, ye ain't gonta find 'im! I told them police fellers earlier that I seen those big, bright lights in the sky yestidy. You want t'find Eric, you better call up them extry-terrestrial fellers! Tee hee hee!" The old man glanced up at the sky with a fanatical gleam in his eyes then sauntered away.

Chief Hunsinger shook his head, turning to Officer Stokes who had left the search party and had joined the Chief in his observation. "Takes all kinds, don't it, Ed?"

Officer Stokes nodded in agreement, scuffing his foot at the frozen dirt. "Yeah, and the next thing you know some loony'll come along and claim that the lights in the sky are the reason there ain't no snow in December, too!" he snorted derisively. "These farmers sure have some strange notions about things." Chief Hunsinger shrugged noncommittally.

The sun was sinking rapidly and soon the search would have to be called off for the day. That didn't bode well for Eric's chances if by some remote possibility he were still alive. Chief Hunsinger had hoped to find footprints, a patch of clothing, evidence that could be traced to a kidnapper, Eric's unconscious body or God forbid, his lifeless body. So far they had found nothing but Eric's truck.

The previous night they'd received a call reporting a runaway pickup truck. The driverless truck had been careening around the empty field with a flat tire and a missing door. The door had turned up near a tree. The truck belonged to Eric Weissmuller.

A neighbor driving by had seen him working on the truck shortly before the call. Eric often worked late into the night on his beloved truck - fine-tuning the engine, replacing parts that still had years of life left in them, painting the rest of the parts so that the engine sported a showroom shine, washing off any specks of dust that had dared to land on his precious "lady" and polishing her to a blue satin sheen.

That was the last anyone had seen of Eric except for his truck bouncing erratically through the field. The engine was still running when Chief Hunsinger arrived and the runaway truck had already caused one police car to get stuck in a mud rut. Chasing down the truck to stop it had been like an old-fashioned rodeo except nobody was cheering. They'd finally thrown railroad ties in its path, stopping the truck long enough for someone to jump in and yank the key.