The Far Shore of Time

“Your mother’s birthday?” And when I told her that, she wanted the names of all my fellow lodgers in Rita Gummidge’s rooming house, and the date of my promotion to senior agent, and the address of the little theater in Coney Island where my then girlfriend, Anita Berman, worked as ticket clerk when she didn’t have a part in whatever play they were doing at the time. Hilda was thorough-maybe a little more thorough than the deputy director enjoyed, because he was drumming his fingers on the table before she was through.

Then she turned the big box to face him. “Looks all right as far as I can tell, Marcus,” she said cautiously. “We’ll get a better fix when the other witness gets here. I suggest we let him get some sleep.”

She caught the deputy director in the middle of a yawn of his own. He suppressed it and said, “Very well. Put him in a cell.”

That didn’t sound good to me. Or to Hilda. “We can do better than that, Marcus,” she said. “If he’s him, he’s entitled to a little something. I’ve reserved one of the VIP suites downstairs for him.”

I think because he was too sleepy to object, Pell only shrugged. “Put a double guard on it. Now take him away.”

The VIP suites were what they sounded like, plush little accommodations for high-ranking or otherwise important visitors who might need to be put up temporarily by the Bureau. They had comfortable beds and private baths and all the fixings. I didn’t pay much attention to the niceties, though. I fell into the sack and, wake-up pills or none, in two minutes I was gone.

When I woke up there was an orderly standing by my bed, a coffee tray in his hand. “They want you to be ready to leave for another destination shortly, Agent Dannerman. There are clean clothes hanging behind the bathroom door.”

Of course I asked him what this other destination I was supposed to be leaving for was, but the door was already closing behind him by the time I got the question out. I swallowed one whole cup of the coffee, scalding as it was, and headed for the shower. While I was dressing I got my first good look at myself in a human mirror. I looked skinny, and the beard I’d grown in captivity needed either trimming or shaving off entirely, I wasn’t sure which. I was a good many months behind a haircut, too. I came out of the bathroom, wondering absently if the Bureau was going to have a barber wherever I was going...

A woman was standing by my unmade bed. Not just any woman; this one had the face and form of the one I had been dreaming about. I gaped at her unbelievingly. “Pat?” I croaked.

That seemed to annoy her. “Actually I’m Patrice,” she said. “The Pat you’re talking about is over at Camp Smolley, and by the way, you might be interested to know that she’s married now. Married to you, as a matter of fact.” She didn’t give me time to absorb that, but went right on. “Listen, I’m starved. Put your babushka back on and let’s get some breakfast while we talk.”

CHAPTER FORTY

I hadn’t had anywhere near enough sleep, and the question of what the Bureau was doing with Beert and Pirraghiz and the sub hung heavy in my mind. But right then, not very heavy, because I had more personal things to distract me. Partly it was the presence of Patrice Adcock. She was a lot cleaner and better-dressed than the last time I’d seen her, with her more or less reddish hair curled around her pretty face and looking so exactly like Pat that I had to remind myself that she wasn’t really Pat. That was confusing, and I had too many other things on my mind to want to be confused about the woman I loved.

The other part of it was food. I didn’t hear any order given, but almost immediately two Bureau noncoms appeared at the door, rolling in breakfast tables that were covered with hot plates and cold. I think the meal must have been prepared in the deputy director’s private kitchen, because it was fine. There were eggs, four of them, lightly fried with their perfect golden yolks staring up at me. Hash browns, crisp and oniony. A liter or so of orange juice that had obviously been squeezed within the hour. Crisp bacon. Crackly-crusted sausages. Pancakes with melted butter and hot syrup dribbling down their sides. More coffee-more of everything, in fact.

It was the precise kind of meal I had been dreaming about for a long time.

The metal-mesh babushka kept getting in the way of my mouth, but I didn’t let that slow me down. I managed to get down a good share of everything in sight as we talked, while Patrice contented herself with picking at some toast and half a papaya. “The reason I’m here,” she told me, “is they wanted somebody who knew you to check you out, and who better than me? So let’s get down to it. What was the name of Uncle Cubby’s cat?”