The Paradox Initiative (20 page)

Kestrel strode through the quiet halls, detouring around all the places where they served liquor. The clock in the cabin had read 9:30 when she’d left. It was probably closer to ten, now.

She’d spent most of the day with Wolfe, sometimes talking, sometimes watching live
Ortheus
tournaments on the entertainment screen—most of the time sitting in silence as he slept, overcome by exhaustion. Kestrel had finally left him around five to go eat at a restaurant, then take a shower and change clothes. Now, she headed back to the hospital, passing only one or two people on her way. She didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in that hard chair again, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep at
all
if she stayed in that hollow cabin.

Sighing, she passed through the hospital doors, noticing that the lights had powered down to a soft glow for the night. She trailed down the hallway
, turned two corners, then drew near Wolfe’s door. She passed through…

And halted.

He slept soundly, lit only by the small lamp near the top left corner of the bed. But right beside his bed, near his left arm, stood a white-swathed cot, complete with blanket and pillow.

“I knew you would be returning this evening,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Dr. Anthony
. He smiled in greeting.

“I didn’t want to find you in that wretched chair again,” he continued. “But I know what it’s like to be unable to sleep without your spouse there.”

Kestrel ducked her head, then nodded.

“
It’s not quite as good as the same bed,” Anthony said. “But close enough, I hope.”

“Thanks,” Kestrel managed. He inclined his head.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson.” He departed.

Kestrel stood there for a long time. Wolfe slept on. She gripped her fingers together. Then she scolded herself.

She’d been planning on sleeping here, anyway. In that awful chair or on the floor or wherever. Having a cot was just a blessing. Fighting back any remaining misgivings, she stepped closer, kicked off her shoes and climbed in on the left side of the cot. Mercifully, it didn’t squeak. She pushed the covers back, gingerly slid underneath them, then snuggled down into her pillow, facing Wolfe. She lay still.

The sound of his breathing washed over her. Steady, soothing, like waves on the sea shore. Warmth covered her. She blinked sleepily, absently wondering when the last time had been that she’d actually slept
well
…

She didn’t have time to
remember accurately. She fell deeply asleep in a matter of moments.

Kestrel rose out of sleep. Something had changed. The
atmosphere, the room…

Wolfe’s breathing. It
sounded different. Become irregular, or…

Unsteady. Distressed.

Kestrel woke up—but she didn’t open her eyes. She listened, every muscle frozen.

He was crying.

She felt him, lying very near to her. On his side, facing her. She felt the air shudder with him. Through her lids, she could see the room was dark, maybe lit by a tiny floor light somewhere near the door. She sensed the warmth of him, the startling closeness of his body. She forced her eyes to stay shut.

“What are you doing to me, little bird?” he choked, his voice almost unrecognizable. “Why couldn’t you
have just let me be?”

And then his warm, shivering hand
met the side of her face. Trembling fingers brushed her hair back.

“Stubborn
, willful…” he muttered, swallowing hard, his hand laying on her cheek. “…sweet-hearted girl.”

He sniffed and quickly withdrew his hand. He cleared his throat, shifting
feverishly beneath his blankets. He fell still. And Kestrel had to fight to keep from letting out a wordless cry.

Long minutes passed, and he didn’t say anything more. Kestrel listened hard, counting his breaths, until she realized he must have fallen asleep again. She opened her eyes.

He lay there in front of her, on his side. She couldn’t see more than his dark outline—but she
could
see that his right hand lay on her cot. Her throat contracted as she again fought back foolish impulses, and she made herself try to go back to sleep.

Kestrel sat alone on the sun deck, listening as the fountain played in the far corner, watching the light flicker off the dancing water. But despite its soothing sounds, and the quiet of the abandoned deck, everything inside her churned.

She hadn’t spoken to Wolfe today. She’d gotten up near six in the morning, before he’d awakened, and left for the cabin. She’d cleaned up,
loosely braided her hair, washed some clothes, and gone to breakfast—and when she thought about returning to the hospital, her whole stomach flipped.

So she’d wandered, doing laps through the commerce corridors, then finally lighting in a corner table on the
sun deck, staring off, her entire ribcage clenched.

“Passengers disembarking at the Gain Station,” a computer voice boomed. “Please be advised: we will be making dock this afternoon at five-o’clock Kansas City time. Please have all of your belongings packed and be in the lobby no later than four-thirty. If you require assistance, please contact ship’s crew and we will be happy to help. Thank you.”

Kestrel’s gut rebelled again. She glanced at the clock. It was already two-thirty.

Stiffly, she stood up, her skin going cold, and traipse
d the long way back to the hospital.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” a sweet brunette nurse greeted her as soon as she entered Wolfe’s wing. “Your husband just left!”

Kestrel stopped.

“What
?”

The nurse nodded.

“Dr. Anthony checked him over this morning and found that he’s recovered beautifully,” she said. “Your husband told Dr. Anthony that you had to disembark to the Gain Station, and Dr. Anthony said he was in good enough shape to do that, though he’ll still have to take it easy. Last night’s good sleep did the trick.” She winked at Kestrel. “He signed out and said he was heading back to your cabin.”

“Oh. All right
,” Kestrel answered the smile, albeit weakly. “Thank you very much.”

“Have a good day!” the nurse bid her as Kestrel t
urned and left the hospital. She trailed back toward the lifts, boarded, waited, then emerged into the familiar hallway.

Kestrel
stopped in front of the cabin door, staring at it. All of a sudden, it seemed like a wall instead—she felt that powerless to open it.

“
Attention passengers disembarking at the Gain Station…
” the computer said, repeating its message. Kestrel gritted her teeth, reached out with her card and waved it in front of the reader. The door hissed open. She stepped forward—

Wolfe stepped out toward her. They almost ran into each other.

They both jerked to a stop.

Her eyes flew to his—locked with his.

He wore jeans and a gray t-shirt and boots. He had cleaned up—and he looked directly at her, unflinching. Kestrel’s cheeks flamed.

He stood still a
moment, then cleared his throat.

“I was…just coming to find you.”
He sounded strange. Hesitant. She couldn’t answer.

He
glanced down and stepped aside, motioning her in. She avoided looking up at him as she passed, though her whole right side tingled as she did.

“
They released you from the hospital?” she managed, scanning the room, looking anywhere but at him.

“Yeah, I…” Wolfe began. He cleared his throat again. “
The doctor said I was fit enough to go.”

She bit her lip and nodded—the only reply she could risk. She took a breath and drew herself up, then headed toward her room.
She felt his attention follow her.

She left the door open, but didn’t peer through it
a single time as she dug out her suitcase and started piling her clothing into it. Her hands shook. Several times, she had to stop and steady herself before she could go on.

Finally, Kestrel
paused, considering her open bag. She’d packed everything in her room, but she was still missing several articles of clothing.

She’d left them in the dry
washer.

Kestrel stood there for
a full five minutes, paralyzed. She closed her hands into fists, her brow knitting as she dared a glance to her left, out the door.

She could hear him moving
around out there. Packing, just as she had been. She steeled herself, turned and stepped through the door.

He stood with his back to her, facing his bed, his bag open on top of it.

Her feet, usually quiet, suddenly sounded loud on the carpet.

Wolfe went still
. But he didn’t turn. Kestrel swallowed, stepped down the single stair, then cautiously made her way to the dry washer. She reached it, stood in front of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Wolfe holding a folded white shirt in both hands, unmoving. She gripped the cold handle of the washer and pulled it open.

She leaned her shoulder against the door of it to
keep it ajar, then reached in to draw out her soft garments. She attempted to fold them as she did, the scent of lavender wafting up.

She felt him
turn his head. Felt him watch her. Like beams from the summer sun—like the undertones of low music.

Kestrel dropped a shirt
on the floor. She adjusted her stance against the door to hold it in place, then bent to pick the shirt up.

“Here, I’ve got that,” Wolfe murmured—and
he stepped up and took hold of the door above her head.

“It’s…It’s okay, I’ve…” she tried, suddenly breathless. She swallowed, closing her fingers around the fallen shirt and squeezing her other laundry close to her chest. She started to stand up.

“Looks like I’ve got a shirt…” he muttered. “…in here too, let me—” He pushed the door back and leaned in around her to reach into the machine.

His broad chest brushed her shoulder.
Her heart thundered.

He stopped—half bent over her. Millimeters away.

Both of them went completely still.

Slowly, Kestrel
turned her head to the right. She managed a tight breath as her eyes trailed up toward his face.

He towered over her
. So close—she could feel every one of his deep, tense breaths.

Terror overpowered her. She looked straight up into his eyes.

Brilliant, penetrating eyes.

His hand clenched the door of the washer, his knuckles going white. His brow knotted
, his gaze flittering over her features. Startled. Captive.

Kestrel’s
breathing sped up as she wavered closer to him, memorizing every angle of his rugged face. His lips parted, to almost speak—and all at once, his mouth was all she could look at. And she stopped breathing when he bent down toward her, tilting his head…

His hair brushed her forehead. Her frame lifted
as her wide eyes met his again—

The door buzzed.

Kestrel lost her balance, her vision blacking out for an instant as she turned toward it. Wolfe pulled away from her, letting the washer door slam shut. She pressed a cold hand to her hot face.

“Come in,” she called. The door whooshed open.
Dr. William Anthony stepped in, a pleasant smile only barely concealing an intense expression.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “Mrs. Johnson, may I have a word with you? Out in the hallway here? It won’t take a moment.”

“Sure,” Kestrel said listlessly, her heart still hammering against her ribs. Rubbing her forehead, she stepped out after him, leaving Wolfe behind. The door shut behind them. Kestrel fought to focus on the doctor’s face.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Anthony began, just above a whisper. “Under normal circumstances, I would classify what I am about to tell you as ‘none of
my business.’ But since you assured me earlier that he has never discussed this with you, I feel obligated to inform you of my suspicions, for no other reason than your protection.”

Kestrel started.

“My protection?”

“Yes,” he nodded.
He paused, considering her. “Your husband’s scars. You said you know nothing about them?”

“I don’t,”
Kestrel admitted.

“I
have just come from conducting some research,” the doctor went on. “And it confirmed what I had first surmised.” He stepped closer to her, and lowered his voice further. “At some point, your husband underwent surgery—massive, critical surgery—that was apparently very successful. However, the style of suture indicated by his scars has not been in use in
any
hospital in the known galaxy for more than two-hundred years.”

Kestrel stared at him. Anthony nodded once more.

“Facts he has attempted to hide verbally are written upon him physically, Mrs. Johnson,” he whispered. “And that is why I am led to believe that your husband is an illegally-practicing Time Traveler.”