The Brahms Deception (9 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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“You had an hour. The transfer zone is very small. Did you look carefully?”
“Of course,” Kristian said, as firmly as he could. He closed his eyes, and tried to muster his thoughts, but his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. She began to say something else, but he interrupted her. He suspected his tone was as peremptory as hers, and he rather hoped it was. “Look, Dr. Braunstein, here's what we need to do. Let me sleep a few hours, and then I'll go back. Can you put off the Bannisters for a few more hours? A day?”
There was a pause, and he heard her murmuring away from the phone. He opened his eyes to find Chiara watching him, her brow furrowed. She started to speak, but he put a finger to his lips, and pointed at the receiver. Braunstein was saying, “Maybe. Maybe. How much sleep do you need?”
Now he did laugh. It seemed such an absurd question.
A week
. He said, “Six hours?”
He clearly heard Gregson say, “I don't know, Lillian. I'm worried. Maybe—”
She said, “No, no. We have to try, and he wants to do it.”
“I do,” Kristian said. “But right now I'm so damned tired I can hardly think.”
“The time lag—,” Gregson began.
Kristian said impatiently, “Dr. Gregson, I signed about fifteen different waivers. I'm sure one of them is still good. You flew me over here on about two hours' notice, and I'm tired, that's all. I can do this.”
Chiara, across from him, pressed her palms together. Max said, “Easy there, Kris.”
“Yeah. You're right.” Kristian thrust the telephone at him. “You talk to them, will you? Sorry, but I'm beat. I need to lie down for a few hours. Then I should eat something. I'll be ready to go about—” He glanced at the big aluminum clock that hung behind the desk. The numbers on it seemed to have no meaning. He chose one at random. “Let's say about three.”
Elliott, frowning, rose and went to his banks of equipment. Chiara stood up, too, and gestured for Kristian to follow her. As they left the transfer room, Max was speaking into the telephone. As the door shut behind them, he said, “He hasn't slept in two days, except for a bit on the plane. He's jet-lagged, but he's healthy. Chiara is—”
Kristian followed Chiara to a stairwell at the end of the corridor, and trudged up the stairs after her small figure. His feet felt as if they were made of cement. She led him to a room near the back, and held the door for him.
He went in to find a small, chintzy sort of bedroom. The bed was narrow, but it had puffy pillows and a thick, inviting comforter. His bag waited for him beside an ancient bureau that looked as if it might actually have been there since 1861. Kristian kicked off his shoes, and bent to fumble with his socks.
Chiara went to close the shutters. “The sunshine might keep you awake,” she said. “Do you need something to help you sleep?”
He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I'll probably need something to wake me up.”
“
Sì, sì
. I will call you.” She went to the bed and folded back the comforter to reveal printed sheets beneath, images of olive trees and grapevines and roses, a sort of cheesy Tuscan tourist poster that made Kristian give a weary chuckle. She smiled. “Yes, we think they are for the summer tourists. But clean.”
“My eyes will be closed,” Kristian said. “I won't see them.” He had started to unbuckle the belt of his jeans, but he stopped, suddenly remembering he barely knew this woman. He gave a deprecating shrug. “Sorry. I think my eyes are half-closed already.”
“Don't worry.” She patted the pillow.
“Sogni d'oro.”
The moment she was gone he undid his belt and shucked out of his jeans. He tugged off his shirt, and slipped between the cool sheets dressed in his shorts and tee shirt. He sighed, and turned toward the wall, away from the light.
I should have called Rik—
He was asleep before he could complete the thought.
 
Kristian opened his eyes some time later to nearly complete darkness. For a moment he couldn't think where he was. He blinked, and sat up. Dark already? Someone had forgotten to wake him.
That made no sense at all. Everyone was on edge, eager for him to go back and look for her—unless they had sent someone else!
Suddenly afire with urgency, he threw back the covers and scrabbled on the floor for his clothes. He found his jeans, but he couldn't find his shoes or socks. He took a breath.
Calm down. They don't have anyone else.
He went to the doorway to pat along the wall for a light switch. Two minutes later he was dressed, smoothing his tousled hair back with his fingers, and on his way back downstairs to the transfer room.
He glanced at the clock behind the desk. It was past ten. He had slept twelve hours straight.
He turned toward Frederica's cot. Two people he had never met, a short man and a rather tall woman, sat in chairs beside the unconscious girl. Chiara was with them, perched on a stool, her head bent forward as she spoke. None of them looked up.
Elliott had been sitting at the mahogany desk. He rose and came down the long room to meet Kristian.
Kristian spoke before Elliott reached him. “Why didn't someone wake me? Who are those people?”
Elliott rubbed his forehead, as if his head ached. “You won't believe it,” he muttered. He took Kristian's elbow, and drew him back toward the desk. “Those are the Bannisters. Frederick and Bronwyn. Frederica's parents.”
“Oh, damn.”
“Right. They didn't tell Gregson they were coming, just got on a plane.”
Erika would do the same, if it were me.
“Do they know?” He grabbed one of the folding chairs and set it on the far side of the desk, straddling it so he could watch the little tableau, the balding, narrow-shouldered man, the long-legged, thin-lipped woman. Poor Frederica. She had inherited the worst features of each of her parents.
“They know now,” Elliott said mournfully. “Max went to call Gregson and Braunstein about half an hour ago. Chiara's been great with the Bannisters, calming them down, pointing out that their daughter's vital signs are all strong.”
“Are you going to let me go back?”
“We're waiting to see what Gregson says.”
“Would the Bannisters' being here change his mind? They're still going to want her found. They can hardly go after her themselves.”
“You'd think so.” Elliott pushed back his chair, and stood up. “Uh-oh. Here they come.”
The Bannisters came down the long room, the father with quick, decisive steps, the mother trailing a little behind, her hand under her husband's arm. Mrs. Bannister looked both miserable and frightened. Mr. Bannister looked angry. They both looked exhausted. Kristian stood up, and went to meet them.
He put out his hand. “Mr. Bannister? I'm Kristian North. I'm going to do everything I can to help your daughter.”
The man's face was drawn with tension, but his gaze was sharp. He assessed Kristian in one sweeping glance, and took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “Thank you,” he said. “I'm Frederick Bannister. My wife, Bronwyn.”
Kristian put out his hand to Bronwyn Bannister, as well. She took just the tips of his fingers and gave them a salutary shake. “Mrs. Bannister,” Kristian said. “I know how worried you are. I'm sorry.”
She blinked at him, and put a hand to her fashionably frosted hair. “I don't understand what happened,” she said. “Why won't Frederica wake up? She should have awakened right after . . . I just don't understand.”
Chiara came up behind the Bannisters. “Please, will you sit down?” she said, indicating two of the folding chairs beside the desk. “Max went to prepare beds for you. You must rest a little.”
Bronwyn Bannister sank onto one of the chairs with a little sigh, but her husband didn't move. “When are you going after her, Mr. North?”
“As soon as they'll let me. I'm ready right now.”
Frederick Bannister turned his sharp gaze on Elliott. “What's stopping him?”
Elliott said, “We're waiting for approval from Chicago.” Bannister didn't hesitate. “The hell with Chicago. Let's do it.” His wife winced at his harsh tone, but Kristian nodded approval.
Elliott said, “Well, we could—that is, Max . . .”
Chiara said, “Max is our physician assistant. Elliott programs the transfer, and Max monitors the subject.”
Elliott said, “Gregson dug in his heels, Kris. He and Braunstein can't agree on whether it's safe for you to—”
Mrs. Bannister said tearily, “Frederick told me it was just . . . like watching television!” She fumbled in her bag for something, which turned out to be a handkerchief. As she pressed it to her eyes, an American Airlines ticket stub dropped out of its folds and fell to the floor. Kristian bent to pick it up.
First class. Figures.
He schooled his face as he handed it to her.
“Elliott,” he said. “Can I speak to you? Mr. Bannister, will you excuse us a moment?”
Chiara moved forward to put her hand on Mrs. Bannister's bony shoulder. Elliott, looking relieved to escape from the worried parents, followed Kristian toward the banks of equipment. The amber lights of the monitor blinked, reflecting on the unconscious Frederica's sallow cheeks. Someone—probably Chiara, who seemed both practical and sensitive—had covered her with an extra blanket, a large flowered quilt, so the catheter and the hydration tubes were mostly hidden. It seemed less disturbing that way, more as if the girl were in a deep sleep, instead of . . .
What? Being the lost girl?
“What is it, Kris? We still have to wait for Chicago to tell us—”
“I know,” Kristian said. “But listen, Elliott, the thing to do is to send me back to when Frederica first arrived. A little before, actually. So I can watch her, and know what happened.”
“Observe,” Elliott said automatically. Kristian gritted his teeth against a wave of impatience, and Elliott said ruefully, “Sorry. It's habit. They make us say that to put off the protesters.”
“When's Max coming back? This should be an easy decision.”
“It's not. There are some legal considerations, and of course, there's the problem of layering. We have to think about that.”
“Layering won't be an issue. I'll stay away from her.”
“We have to wait. Braunstein would have our heads—”
Max made his appearance at that moment, his freckled face flushed. He strode past the desk, where Chiara stood beside Mrs. Bannister. Frederick Bannister was speaking to Chiara, but he stopped. Behind them, Kristian saw Chiara pressing Bronwyn Bannister back into her chair, pulling a chair next to hers, and sitting down in it. Chiara held the older woman's hand in both of hers as if to steady her. Fleetingly, Kristian thought that Erika would like Chiara Belfiore a lot more than she had liked Catherine.
Elliott said, as Max reached them, “What are they saying now?”
Max made a wry face. “Now all they can talk about is the Bannisters' being here, and what that might mean if the press gets hold of it. That senator or congressman, whoever it was—there's talk of Congress halting all transfers, and if that congressman finds out . . . we'll never get her.”
Kristian said, “Let's go. Send me back to before the time Frederica arrived. So I can see her when she does. Observe,” he amended, flicking a glance at Elliott.
Max paused, his freckled face intent. “I don't know. If we just had an idea, any idea—”
Kristian indicated the couple at the far side of the room. “Imagine how those two are feeling.”
Elliott sighed. “I have the coordinates already programmed from Frederica's transfer. I could plug in Kristian's mapping with no problem, just subtract five minutes.”
“We haven't solved anything,” Max said. “We're just taking shots in the dark. Even if Kris comes back safely a second time, even if the layering effect isn't a problem—”
“I don't understand why anyone worries about that,” Kristian said. “Magna Carta went fine. What's the concern?”
Elliott gave him a mournful look. “They transferred together. They stayed well away from each other. What if Frederica bumps into you?”
“What if she does?” Kristian waved his hand at the unconscious Frederica. “She'll get jarred out of the transfer, and so will I. Isn't that what we want anyway?”
“It is, but we don't know where you might end up.”
“Back here, wouldn't you think?”
Elliott shrugged. “Theoretically.”
Frederick Bannister came up behind Max without their noticing. When he spoke, everyone jumped. “What's the delay, gentlemen?”

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