Page 62 of The Paradox Club

Tess watched as Nemo 7 slumped down, his right hand splayed out on the seat. A story from Vivian would have eased her anxiety, she thought. She could imagine a therapist saying, It’s perfectly all right to be anxious when you’ve been kidnapped for no apparent reason and are facing possible death. But the fact that her anxiety and depression were justifiable didn’t make them any more pleasant. If she could fall asleep herself, she thought, at least she might be unaware of the darkness for an hour or two. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds of the car—the whine of the tires on the interstate, the almost inaudible hiss of the air coming out of the heating vents. In her legs she felt the bump of the seams on the highway. Or possibly not. These bumps made almost no sound. And she felt them only in her left leg, not throughout her body. The car wasn’t bumping; it was something else.

Tess opened her eyes and looked across at Nemo 7. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and regular. But on the bench seat, the middle finger of his right hand tapped rhythmically up and down. Or not rhythmically. Yes, there was a pattern to his taps, but not a rhythmic pattern. She stared at the finger as two minutes went by, then five, then ten. The pattern repeated itself every two or three minutes. Where had she seen that type of tapping before?

And then she returned to the island, returned to Harry on a rainy afternoon when she had finished reading a book and tired of Monopoly and jigsaw puzzles and Harry told her to come and sit by the fire and he would teach her Morse code.

It took her three more repetitions of the pattern to be sure she understood Nemo 7’s message. I am a friend. I will protect you and Vivian. When I can find a way, I will help you. Montag 5 believes I am on his side. I am on yours.

Tess reached out her hand just far enough that her pinkie touched Nemo 7’s. She tapped her simple message three times. Okay.

Then Tess Maxwell fell asleep.

COFFEE WITH BRADLEY

Valentine 6’s feet ached. She had spent almost two hours walking the streets of the Upper West Side, convinced she was being followed and uncertain what to do next. She couldn’t go back to the club; her burner phone was at the bottom of a mop bucket; and likely that witch Pilgrim 3 was having her apartment watched. She needed to get in touch with the president without anyone else knowing and without looking suspicious to anyone who might be watching. She was just beginning to despair of contacting the president secretly when salvation came walking down the block in six feet, two inches of handsomeness going by the name of Bradley.

“Sarah!” said her neighbor. “You actually leave the building. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside the stairwell.”

“Bradley,” said Valentine 6, putting on her best flirting voice. She knew he was way out of her league, but she didn’t need a relationship or even a date. She just needed coffee. “Are you going to that next residents’ meeting? I have some concerns I’d really like to talk to you about. Maybe we could get some coffee at Tony’s?”

“I’d love to,” said Bradley, “but I’m a little busy today. And to be honest, all those petty skirmishes between neighbors aren’t my thing. Maybe another time, though.” He started to stride past her, but Valentine 6 put a hand on his arm and gave a gentle squeeze.

“Okay, cards on the table,” she said, trying to look into his eyes even though they were well above her head. “I just ran into my creepy ex and I’m afraid he might be following me, and I don’t want him to see where I live or, you know, think that I’m available. If he sees me having coffee with someone like you, I think it would discourage him.”

“Someone like me?”

“Physically intimidating,” said Valentine 6.

“I’ve never been in a fight in my life,” said Bradley.

“He doesn’t know that.”

“I suppose I can spare twenty minutes for a damsel in distress,” said Bradley. He allowed Valentine 6 to slip her arm into his and they headed down the block. Valentine 6 didn’t like being called a damsel in distress, nor did she care for Bradley implicitly styling himself a knight in shining armor, but she planned to use him for her own ends, so she let the casual sexism slide this time.

Five minutes later they were ensconced in the back booth of the local diner, sipping black coffee. Bradley had made a show of waving down the waiter, as if only a man could undertake such a daunting task.

“Can I borrow your phone for a second?” asked Valentine 6. She saw no reason not to get straight to the point.

“My phone?” said Bradley.

“Mine’s home charging. I just need to send a text.”

“You left home without your phone?”

“Can I borrow it or not?” said Valentine 6, trying to tamp down the exasperation in her voice.

“Fine,” said Bradley, handing her his phone.

She tapped in the president’s number, then the message. V6, two minutes, followed by the phone number of Tony’s West Side Diner, which she copied off the menu. As soon as the message had been marked as delivered, she deleted the whole thread and handed the phone back to Bradley.

“You seem pretty normal in the stairwell,” said Bradley. “Now I’m not so sure.”

She wanted to reply, You seem like less of an asshole in the stairwell, but only mumbled a terse “Thanks for the phone.”

Valentine 6 had eaten at Tony’s at least a hundred times. It was the first establishment she had staked out for its usefulness in avoiding trouble. She knew every inch of its layout and she knew that the phone—yes, Tony’s still had a landline for delivery orders—hung on the wall just around the corner from the restrooms. She watched the second hand on the wall clock behind the counter swing through one and a half revolutions, then excused herself, arriving in front of the ladies’ room, and thus out of sight of anyone in the restaurant, just as the phone rang. With a wink at Tony, she picked up the receiver.

“Trouble?” said Richard.

“Lots of it,” said Valentine 6.