Time of Departure (29 page)

I decided to start with a parlor trick.

I'd never been much of a fan of memorizing dates just for the sake of pleasing pedantic history instructors, but one specific date in 1978 was etched in my memory. When I was in third-year law, I had written a term paper analyzing the long-running lawsuit brought in U.S. Federal Court by the Government of France against the Amoco Oil Company of Illinois. The suit had been launched after the infamous grounding of the supertanker
Amoco Cadiz,
a catastrophe that spilled more than 200,000 tons of crude oil into the North Sea and polluted nearly two hundred miles of the French coastline. The case finally reached the Seventh Circuit, where, after thirteen years of litigation, the Court's award for prejudgment interest ended up being more than double its award for damages.

The
Amoco Cadiz
ran aground just before ten in the evening on Thursday, March 16, 1978. Twelve hours later, the ship broke in two and spilled its entire cargo. I had read and reread the law reports on the case at least a dozen times, and I knew the facts by heart. It was a turning-point disaster that led to the adoption of tough new maritime inspection standards for all ships operating in the North Atlantic Basin.

I was certain I couldn't possibly change all that history, but at least I could use it for effect.

*   *   *

Marc kept an old flat-bottomed cypress-plank boat with a ten-horse kicker in a shed behind the cabin. On Monday, we went out on the lake, jigged for bass at Allen Point, and then went for a long cruise. It was late afternoon when we returned to the cabin. Neither of us felt much like cooking, so Marc made a run to The Yearling for takeout. As soon as he drove off, I went directly to the desk in the spare room, where I'd earlier noticed some notepads and envelopes. I filled one side of a sheet of legal-sized notepaper with writing, folded the sheet in four, and sealed it in an envelope. I left it in the desk.

That night, we ate pub food, drank wine … and made love.

Later, exhausted, I lay beside Marc with my eyes half-shut, savoring the afterglow. I felt him shift on the bed.

“Amazing!” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I replied. “And just think,” I added naughtily, remembering my first night with Old Marc, “you'll get even better.”

I felt his finger tracing the tattoo on the small of my back. “I meant this.”

I bit my lip.

“I've never seen a tattoo on a woman's body before.”

I sighed. “One day they'll be all the rage.” I opened my eyes and glared. “And by the way, Mr. Man … exactly how many naked women
have
you seen?”

“A few.” His eyes ran down my body. “But none as beautiful as you, or…”

“Or, what?”

His eyes locked on mine. “Or … as intriguing.”

I kissed him. “Good answer.”

 

41

Early the next morning, while Marc was showering, I ducked into the spare room and retrieved the envelope. As he was getting ready to leave, I handed it to him.

“What's this?”

“You're a police detective.”

“Okay…” He waited.

“You must have a personal locker at work … one where only you have access.”

“I have an exhibit drawer. It's secured with a steel bar and a padlock. Why?”

I tapped the envelope in his hand. “Lock that in your drawer and don't open it until Friday. Where will you be on Friday? Here or there?”

“There during the day. I'll probably be working late, but I've got the weekend off. I'll try to get back here before midnight.”

“Does your squad room have a TV?”

“There's one in the conference room.”

“Okay. When you get to the office on Friday morning, open that envelope. Inside you'll find one sheet of paper. Read what I wrote on it and then turn on CNN.”

“What's CNN?”

Dumb girl!

“Right. Sorry. Just turn on the news, any news.”

“What's this about, Claire?”

“It's about me getting your full attention.”

He shook his head in puzzlement, kissed me, and left.

*   *   *

Cross Creek was a tiny community. To deter gossip, Marc and I had agreed we should never be in the bar at the same time. But Nonie was no fool, and with me negotiating my shifts to suit Marc's, I figured it wouldn't be long before she concluded I was either involved in an illicit affair or hiding from the police. My refusal to be drawn into a discussion of my background, and my quick put-downs when one of the regulars tried to pick me up, could only reinforce that impression. Whatever her suspicions, Nonie never voiced them to me, and she refrained from asking questions—even when I lied and said there was no phone at the cabin where I was staying. She seemed happy to have an extra body available on a tips-only basis, and she was happy to work out my roster as we went along.

I walked to The Yearling late Tuesday morning, but the place was pretty dead during the lunch hour, so Nonie and I agreed that I'd work straight evenings until Friday. For the rest of the week, I spent part of each day out on the lake, or hiking the rustic trails behind the lakeshore, but mainly I sat on the porch reading.

I had found a pile of books stacked behind the couch in the lounge. This time—unlike my experience in Marc's loft apartment of the distant future—there was no evidence of decorating artifice. After spending a fascinating afternoon lost in Kipling's
Rewards and Fairies
, I found a copy of Alvin Toffler's
Future Shock
. I was surprised Marc had it. The verso page reminded me that it had been published in 1970, and I recalled the book had become a bestseller, but I had never read it. Flipping through the chapters, I was struck by some of the author's predictions. Runaway technology, homeschooling, digitally enhanced instant celebrities, superficial personal relationships, and the widespread use of drugs to treat stress—it was all there. But, then, so were underwater cities and family spaceships, which made me pretty sure I could have done a better job writing the book.

Of course, given my specialized knowledge, I'd have had a bit of an advantage.

I waited for Saturday.

But, for me, Saturday never came.

*   *   *

It started on Thursday morning. I woke up feeling shaky, and the sheets were damp from sweat. I made some coffee and tried to shrug it off. I took the boat out on the lake, but returned after half an hour. I couldn't get interested in reading, so I dozed on the bed, trying to fight off what I was sure was just a cold. But after going to the bathroom a few times, I knew I was in trouble. Peeing was painful, and my urine smelled foul.

I had a bladder infection.

I rummaged through the bathroom cabinets and Marc's dresser, hoping to find an unfinished prescription of antibiotics—
any
antibiotics—that might hold this thing off until Marc got home on Friday night and we could figure out what to do.

No luck.

The walk to The Yearling at five o'clock nearly destroyed me. I'd felt nauseated for most of the day and hadn't eaten. I was desperately tired, and a dull pain had developed on the left side of my lower back. But it was a busy night, and for Nonie's sake, I was determined to see it through. I'd heard once that cranberry juice is good if you have a bladder infection. I drank as much as I could force down while I worked, but as the evening wore on, I only felt worse. It didn't help that a couple of boors at the bar were getting on my nerves. Eventually one of them started making ignorant comments about “pussy,” with his eyes fixed firmly on me. Nonie intervened as I was about to rearrange the drunk's face with a beer pitcher.

Fifteen minutes later, it struck.

I was upending a bucket of ice into the reservoir when my knees buckled. I dropped the bucket, and a mini-glacier of diced ice splayed across the floor. I made it to the restroom just in time to throw up in the sink.

Days later, I learned what happened after that. Nonie found me in a restroom cubicle, burning with fever, with my jeans around my ankles and the toilet red with blood. Her first thought was that I'd had a miscarriage. She phoned for an ambulance. The following morning, Marc called the cabin. He wanted to tell me he'd opened the envelope and watched the news, and, yes, for fuck's sake, I had his full attention. When I didn't answer the phone, he wasn't too concerned. He was used to me missing his calls.

He arrived at the cabin around eleven that night. He was disappointed that I wasn't waiting, but he still didn't worry. He figured I was working at the bar and I'd show up after closing.

By the next morning, he was frantic.

 

42

Munroe Memorial Hospital was in Ocala, twenty-five miles south of Cross Creek. I have hazy memories of the ambulance ride and of white-clad forms hovering over me, but nothing that I can fit into any logical continuum. When I eventually came to my senses, I was sweating in a malodorous, fully occupied eight-bed ward with an IV running into my arm and a catheter draining my bladder.
Christ!
For most of my life, I hadn't seen the inside of a hospital except as a visitor, but since landing in 1978 less than three weeks ago, I'd been hospitalized twice. Harboring dark thoughts, I roused enough strength to press a call button mounted on the bed rail, and eventually a nurse came into the room. She was an older lady with kindly eyes. Her name tag read:
D. BOWLES, LPN.

“What's wrong with me?” I croaked at her.

“Nice to meet you, too, young lady! Welcome back!” Her voice was soft and comforting, like velvet. She checked my pulse. She stuck a thermometer under my tongue, disappeared into the bathroom, and returned with a wet facecloth. She gently wiped my burning forehead. She checked the thermometer. I couldn't tell if her sigh was from relief or alarm.

“I thought I just had a bladder infection,” I said, trying to sound more polite.

“It's much more serious than that, dear. The doctor says you have a kidney infection.”

I groaned. My imagination immediately ran wild with dread thoughts: Do these people have an antibiotic that will work? Did I transport a strain of bacteria from the future they can't deal with … some flesh-eating superbug that will turn my insides into suppurating mush and trigger a pandemic?

Nurse Bowles offered a soothing answer to my unarticulated fears. “The doctor thinks the antibiotics are starting to work. He told us the latest lab results showed quite amazing improvement. But your fever was dangerously high.”

“Was?”

“It's coming down. It was topping a hundred and four when you were admitted. What with the infection and the sedatives, you've been pretty much out of it, my dear.”

“Wait a minute! How long have I been here?”

“You were brought to Emergency on Thursday. You've been here on the ward since Friday.”

My stomach tightened. “What day is it now?”

“Sunday.”

“Sunday? What time is it … please?”

The sudden note of terror in my voice startled her. She checked the watch that was clipped to her uniform. “Just before ten, dear. What is it?”

“Oh, God!” I tried to get up. She stopped me. “You don't understand! I have to—!”

“What is it, dear? What's wrong?”

I couldn't talk.

“Is there someone I can call?”

I gasped out Marc's name.

“What's the number?”

“He's a police detective in Gainesville. I need to tell him something! Please!”

“Okay, you calm yourself! I'll find him!” She hurried off.

I started to weep.

I had failed.

*   *   *

Marc showed up at one thirty.

He had waited at the cabin until late Saturday morning, and then decided to break our private protocol. He'd driven to The Yearling and stormed in, looking for Nonie. The dayshift bartender told him she wasn't due on until four, so he flashed his shield and questioned the guy about me. He made it sound like I was the subject of an investigation, a ploy that got quick results. He learned that I'd collapsed at work on Thursday night and been taken away in an ambulance. Not unexpectedly, my collapse had generated gossipy interest among the staff, but no one could tell him which hospital I was in. The bartender called Nonie's home, but there was no answer.

On the assumption I'd been taken to the nearest community with medical services, Marc drove to his office and started calling all the hospitals in Gainesville that had an ambulance service. There weren't many, and he soon determined that I wasn't there. He was about to start calling hospitals in Ocala when a robbery at a pawnshop turned into a shoot-out. The proprietor was dead, the wounded robber on the run, and Marc was ordered to join the investigation.

Marc hadn't personally taken the call from Nurse Bowles, but when he finally made it back to his office late Sunday morning, a message slip was waiting on his desk.

I didn't learn any of this until after I'd left the hospital. When Marc appeared at my bedside, I moaned with relief and threw my arms around his neck. I hugged him so hard, I nearly ripped out my IV.

But when he started to recount how he found me, I cut him off. “It's today, Marc! It's probably too late, but you have to do something! Her name is Victoria Chan!”

“What?”

“Did you open that envelope?”

He lowered one of my bedrails and sat next to me. “You knew the exact time that ship would go aground,” he whispered. “We need to talk. I want to know how—”

“You know how. I've told you enough times. You're just in denial. But we can talk about that later. You have to get back to Gainesville!”

“Why?”

“Because another girl will be taken today! No, she's already been taken! But maybe it's not too … Oh, damn!” I was crying.