She showed her the gem chip on her necklace as they neared the man. “See this? Know what it is?”
“Peridot,” she replied without looking at the stone. “My birthstone. August. It’s associated with fame, dignity, and protection.
When it’s that quality,” she waved her hand over Mendenhall’s necklace, “it most likely comes from an island off the coast of Egypt. Really rare stuff comes from meteorites.”
“Oh.” Mendenhall almost forgot about the man on the sidewalk, peered at the gem and let the student guide her by the elbow.
A cab, as promised by Schrader, slid to the curb. The man on the sidewalk called to them, “Excuse me, ladies….”
Mendenhall did not listen to his excuse for approaching. She hurried into the cab and told the driver where to go. Only after they had pulled away did she realize the student was riding with her.
“That’s the wrong direction.”
“What?” Mendenhall had to blink to make sure the young woman was really in the cab with her.
“That place is in the opposite direction. Of the beach. Of where you’re meeting Professor Schrader.”
“I’m not meeting Schrader. I needed his cash.”
The student’s stare quivered. She chewed her lower lip, red against white teeth, brimmed with youth. “Good,” she said finally. “Where do you want to get off?”
“I thought I was going to the beach.”
“I’m sorry.” Mendenhall looked away, then back. “We’ll drop you off at the next corner.”
“No. I’ll go wherever.” The student fashioned her short hair into a spiky ponytail. “I just needed to go somewhere.”
Mendenhall offered confused concern, an ER trick. The student blew at her bangs before explaining.
“Schrader’s kind of a wank. I wish I’d thought of your move. All the way to the beach. Who wouldn’t want to go to the beach with you? You always dress like that?”
“Almost never.”
“Who are you running from?”
“More than one.”
“One what?”
“Side. Apparently.” Mendenhall eyed the student’s black skirt, white t-shirt, and blue Mary Janes. She used to dress like that in college. “What size are you?”
The idea was to make it seem as though she didn’t plan to return to Mercy. Her thin disguise might misdirect them, keep them following the cab. More likely it would only lead them to underestimate her.
The Mary Janes were fine in the cab but felt tight as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She liked the way they looked, felt insecure in the t-shirt, tried not to think too much about the skirt. She ran a little, just to shake into the clothes more, into herself. The idea was also to stay outside longer, to be away from the bay an hour more, to see what was out here. To be alone.
On the map Covey had marked a bar with a star, a place for Mendenhall. It was getting close to rush hour. Traffic was the same—thick and slow as always—but the sidewalk was intensifying, the pedestrian flow becoming more one-way, pointed, moneyed, with ties and heels and good haircuts. Happy hours were starting.
For Mendenhall and the rest of the ER, happy hour was neither happy nor an hour. It was three hours of discontent producing a full spectrum of wounds, stretching into several more hours of outright misery. You name it, said her mentor once said, and happy hour’s done it.
She took a stool at the bar corner. This was the center of the universe, a cup of space in a cluster. She felt sent, stung, a mark. The only other remaining seat was on the other side of the bar corner.
A man in a loosened tie moved into it, sliding away from his three buddies. Mendenhall could tell that he had underguessed her age.
There was a drop in his look followed by reconsideration.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she told him, motioned toward the stool.
“I think you’re lying.”
“I am lying. I don’t want you sitting by me.”
“Nasty.”
“You wanted the truth.”
The bartender brought her wine. It was the color of the blood Claiborne had drawn from her. She imagined it warm and lifted it by the stem, got set to take it away to some quiet corner. A woman emerged from the crowd, jarred her way between Mendenhall and the guy.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Mendenhall rescued her glass from the interruption. Jude Covey slid in front of the guy, shouldered her way onto the stool, set her tablet on the bar. He hovered close, eyed both of them. Covey gave him an over-the-shoulder glare, and he returned to his former place. She pointed to Mendenhall’s wine and made eyes with the bartender, tucked then licked her lips.
“I hoped you’d be here,” Covey said.
“Isn’t that why you marked it on the map?”
Covey eagerly received her wine from the bartender. “Yes. I aimed you here.”
“I’m not going home.”
“You are.” Covey looked her over. “Nice. Will I get my dress back?”
“I think so.” Mendenhall unclasped her necklace and gave it back to Covey.
She waved it away. “Keep it for a while. It looks good with that. Dresses it.”
Mendenhall shook her head. “I can’t wear this in ER. Nothing that hangs. Certainly not from the throat.”
Covey grimaced and took the necklace.
“The crescendo,” said Mendenhall. “What might that be? Like?”
“Sorry I used that term.” Covey brushed her tablet to life and positioned it between them on the corner top. “I refined some things. Some things on your line. Using what I did for mine. It’s crude because you just gave me two general locations. With some travel and a GPS I could be exact. But I did find some GPS readings for your boiler room and that street corner in Reykjavik.”
“You can do that? Who has those?”
“Geocachers. Live gamers. Hashers. You look like you could be a hasher.”
“Because of this?” Mendenhall raised her wine.
“And your legs.”
Covey took a sip, then a longer draw. She spoke facing the bar mirror. “The entire globe is now measured into one-meter squares.
If you know how to look, you can do it from your lap.”
“So that’s your standard of deviation?” Mendenhall held forth the chart Covey had given her. “One meter? Or one meter on each side of the line?”
“Each side.”
“So a hallway.”
“Kind of.” Covey fingered circles over her tablet. “An undulating hallway. I made some quick refinements for you.”
On screen was a 3-D gridded globe. The globe was sliced in half diagonally with a circular plane. “In a perfect universe, that would be our crush line.” Covey motioned her fingertip around the disc that sliced the Earth.
“Our crush line?”
“Yours. Mine.” She prodded the tablet, adjusting the brightness to the bar light. The room was beginning to crowd; patrons sought standing space, shouldered between sitters. “Different latitudes of the Earth rotate at different speeds.” She tapped the screen and the slicing disc warped slightly.
“I never knew that.”
“You could tell me things, I’m sure.”
Mendenhall wanted to tell her about Albert Cabral, how he had been struck while fashioning shadow puppets on the ER wall, had spent his limbo trying to help, had died. She sipped and pursed her wine.
“There’s the Earth’s magnetic field.” Covey made another tap, and the disc became wavy, a rippled slice around the globe.
“Solar wind. Current solar prominences, major and minor. Current alignment of Jovian planets. Of inner planets.” Each statement came with another tap, the rippled slice growing wavier.
“Inclination.” Tap. “Eccentricity.” Covey offered a coy peek.
“Those aren’t metaphors.”