A Pair Of Docks Part 5

"Nope. Just a mistake. I was looking for something else." She swivelled around on the chair so her body blocked the screen.

"I hear your mom is running for mayor," he added, leaning closer to her and resting one hand on the computer desk. Abbey could smell his deodorant mixed with a faint whiff of sweat. His full lips twitched into the self-satisfied smile that made all the soph.o.m.ore girls swoon.

She was definitely not swooning, but she had to admit the smile wasn't completely ineffective. "Yup."

"Are you interested in politics too?"

"I'm not sure."

"If you were, I wanted to let you know a s.p.a.ce just opened up on student council. I thought you might like to join." He smiled, but the intensity of his gaze made her squirm.

She could feel the heat emanating from his arm, which was so close to hers. "I thought you had to be a senior for that."

Russell looked around the room at the other Chem 12 students and raised his eyebrows. "You're taking senior chemistry. I think that's good enough. The meeting is Wednesday at four. Be there if you're interested."

He returned to his desk and Abbey bolted back to hers, her heart throbbing in her chest. What could Russell Andrews possibly want with her? She seriously hoped it wasn't a date. She hadn't scheduled dating into her mental life plan for at least two years-and then definitely not a senior, and definitely not Russell. She glanced up from her books at the same time he darted a look over his shoulder. His eyes were cool, but frankly appraising, and she whipped her head around to stare at the periodic table on the wall. Aluminum: a poor metal with high electrical conductivity and a low melting and boiling point. She was a geek, a science geek. Guys occasionally paid attention to her because they thought she could help them with their homework. But that was it.

So, why did she feel like maybe that wasn't it?

Abbey forced herself to focus on her a.s.signment for the remainder of the cla.s.s. Periodicity. Atomic numbers. Valence sh.e.l.ls. Those were things she understood.

The rain had stopped by the end of the day, and-after she'd managed to extract Caleb from the circle of girls he was entertaining-she and Caleb trudged home as rivulets of rainwater ran over the s.h.i.+mmering pavement. Simon, taking his research more seriously than Abbey expected, had headed downtown to Greenhill after school to check up on the kid they had seen the day before.

"Didn't he want us to come with him?" Abbey asked.

"Nah, he seemed to want to go on his own."

"Should you have let him?"

"Ab, he's going to qualify for a driver's license in four months. I think he can handle it."

"I know, but with someone out to get him?"

"The email just said 'Sinclair.' That could be you, me, Dad, or some other Sinclair. It could even be a Sinclair in the future. And it's broad daylight and he's on a city bus."

Abbey placed her gumboot into a stream of water running down the hill. The water separated, moved down and around her foot, and then rejoined at her heel. Laminar flow, when a fluid flows in parallel non-mixing layers around an obstacle or boundary. She looked at Caleb. "Did it occur to you that we will be the Sinclairs in the future? That we could have run into our older selves?"

"Hmm, no, didn't think of that."

"That doesn't creep you out?"

Caleb shrugged. "Not really."

They continued on in silence. Abbey had already updated Caleb on what she'd found out about Aluminum Ice. That it was expected to be the rocket fuel of the future due to the minuscule amounts required, ease of fabrication, propellant qualities, and environmentally friendly by-products. Caleb had done a little dance in the street. She'd struck out on Twinkle-Free Air, but something about it nagged her. When they reached their house, Abbey headed up their drive.

Caleb grabbed her by the arm. "Let's go ask Mark about the sh.o.r.eline."

"Mark? I thought you said he was crazy."

Caleb shrugged and looked sheepish. "Well, he may be, but I couldn't find anything in the atlas. We should also get paper to do some rubbings of those markings on the stones and a sketch of the hill by the causeway."

"Why?"

"If we were just in the future, then were we in the future here, or somewhere else? Did we travel in time and s.p.a.ce, or just time? Look at Coventry Hill. Imagine if you were higher up and the trees were all gone."

Abbey glanced up the hill. They'd hiked up there a couple of times, but the trees were so thick there was no viewpoint. "The hill yesterday was all scoured and rounded and the soil was red, and where would all the trees have gone?"

"It could look pretty different around here in twenty-five years."

"Not that different." Not without a major catastrophe, Abbey thought. One that would obliterate their house and all the houses around it.

"Anyway, just saying-those are the questions we need to be asking. Let's go talk to Mark."

Abbey wondered how Caleb could seem so chipper about all of this, as if this were an adventure or a mystery to unravel. She had to admit, though, he was posing the right questions. She looked back up at Coventry Hill. Fog still clouded the top of the mountain where the terrain leveled off into a largish plateau surrounded by a ring of hills, but the sun had broken through in some spots and was painting patches of trees in a brilliant prismatic light. Her mother had been trying unsuccessfully to have Coventry Hill made into a City Park for years, but her efforts had finally gained some traction due to the housing boom and the recent arrival of developers frothing with enthusiasm to have the area made into 'lifestyle' subdivisions with glorious views. Even though her mother looked poised to win the mayoral election, the developers had deep pockets, and the campaign had gotten ugly. Abbey had stopped reading the things people said about her mother, and yet her mother had hardly seemed bothered by them at all.

"I guess, but what are we going to tell Mrs. Forrester?"

Caleb shrugged. "That it's a school a.s.signment or something." He doubled his pace and they soon stood on Mrs. Forrester's porch, breathing in the lingering aroma of pipe. Abbey had seen the old woman on her porch in the evenings in the shadows, her face lit by the faint red glow of the pipe. She wondered what it would be like to be old and alone, with only an autistic adult son for company. She wondered what had happened to Mr. Forrester.

The door flew open at Caleb's knock, as if they'd been expected, and Mrs. Forrester ushered them into the warm yellow-wallpapered kitchen, offering tea and biscuits with some general talk about the wet weather. Abbey found herself in a kitchen chair with a steaming cup of tea and a sugar cookie in front of her, wondering why Mrs. Forrester hadn't asked why they were there.

Caleb spoke through the crumbly bits of cookie in his mouth. "Mrs. Forrester, we were wondering if we could talk to Mark. We have a school a.s.signment on sh.o.r.elines, and we know he's really good with maps."

Mrs. Forrester sank into a seat at the table, teapot in hand. "Oh, well that is a surprise. n.o.body ever asks to see Mark. It would be lovely for him to have someone take an interest in his maps. But, dears, he's unpredictable. He can get upset pretty easily."

Caleb smiled easily. "We know, Mrs. Forrester. We'll be careful. He just needs to point to a map in a book for us."

Mrs. Forrester studied them. "I guess that would be okay. His speech is a little odd and he doesn't understand social cues. If you get him started talking about maps, he might not stop. He's not slow or violent, usually, but he still has some challenges."

Mrs. Forrester led them down the hallway.

Caleb followed with his usual casual lope, not too fast and not too slow.

Abbey studied the walls, looking for signs of Mr. Forrester. But the wood-paneled walls were conspicuously bare, and the living room was tidy with faded green furniture from the sixties, remarkably nondescript. A set of stairs descended into the cement bas.e.m.e.nt through the door opposite Mark's.

A light burned at the bottom of Mark's door. Mrs. Forrester knocked firmly. The sea of blue that greeted them when it opened made Abbey gasp. Every surface of Mark's room, save for the ceiling, was covered with maps of multiple sizes and types, all of which shared one common feature: water.

Mark had his lips pulled back in a broad smile, frightening in its toothy expanse, as if he, too, had been expecting them. His hair was slicked back into a congealed swoop, and he wore an aqua sweater vest over neatly pressed navy cords that outlined his bulk.

Abbey shuddered slightly. He was so big, and he'd been beating the window the day before. He was a body at rest right now, but his potential energy was high.

Mrs. Forrester paused and c.o.c.ked her head slightly at Mark's appearance. "Mark, Abbey and Caleb are here to ask you a question about maps. Can you help them please?"

Mark considered and then nodded with exaggerated gravity. "Yes, that would be within my capacity, if their question is a.s.sociated with a sh.o.r.eline or water feature. I am an expert on all water features, oceans, lakes, rivers, streams, ca.n.a.ls, ponds, and wetlands."

"Okay, I'll leave you to it then. Just please remember to breathe, Mark. And let them leave when they're ready. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." Mrs. Forrester disappeared down the hall in a swish of pipe spice and rose water.

"You may come in and present the nature of your query," said Mark formally.

Abbey hunched her shoulders and edged into the room.

Caleb strode in and took a seat on the bed.

Mark shrieked, "Don't sit on the bed!" and made for Caleb as if he was going to hurl him bodily off the bed.

Abbey screamed.

"Sorry, man," said Caleb, launching to his feet.

Mark stopped in his trajectory and stood there, wringing his hands, muttering, "Don't sit on the bed. Please don't sit on the bed. Don't sit on the bed."

"No bed-sitting for me," said Caleb.

Mrs. Forrester reappeared. "Mark is very protective of his stuff. We're working on that." She turned to Mark. "Mark, why don't you show them your Oxford Atlas?" Then, as suddenly as she was there, she was gone again.

Abbey stared after Mrs. Forrester, wis.h.i.+ng she would stay-as if the tiny woman could provide them with any protection against her hulking son. And yet Mrs. Forrester obviously managed Mark.

Mark stood in the center of the room curling and uncurling his fists, his breath coming in raggedy starts.

Abbey looked uneasily at Caleb.

All of a sudden, Mark opened his mouth and started to talk. "The Deluxe Edition of the Oxford Atlas of the World is considered one of the best atlases in the world. Perhaps not as good as the Times Comprehensive; but it contains two hundred and seventy-eight maps prepared in Oxford's distinctive cartographic style, with layered, colored contours and exceptional shading. Its ocean maps are some of the finest. It contains stunning satellite imagery of sh.o.r.elines." Mark paused to draw breath. "There are two major types of ocean sh.o.r.elines, or coasts. Primary coasts are youthful coasts that are formed mostly as a result of characteristics of the land. There are sub-cla.s.sifications within this. For example, Hawaii is a primary volcanic coast. The Nile Delta is a deposition coast."

Caleb cut in. "Great, it sounds like you can help us then. We have a sh.o.r.eline that we need to identify. Here's a sketch of it." Caleb held out the crumpled piece of paper.

Mark's mouth remained open and he twitched slightly, like a video that had been paused on a TV with a vertical hold problem. Abbey wondered if he might resume his speech precisely where he'd left off. But after a couple of seconds, he took the paper and laid it flat on his desk to smooth the edges. He studied it for a moment, then carefully removed a piece of onion-skin paper from a box on his desk, sat down, and began to trace the drawing slowly and silently. He seemed to take hours to mark each indentation, curve, and point. When he was done, he just sat and stared at the paper. Abbey fidgeted behind him, wondering if she should say something, comment on all the maps in his room, his atlas, anything. She wished Mark would flip through his atlases or something, so it would seem like he was looking for the answer instead of just staring.

Caleb wandered around studying the maps on the wall, but thankfully not touching anything.

"Ocean or lake?" Mark's voice startled Abbey.

Caleb returned to the desk. "We can't be sure. I think ocean from the color and size."

Mark went silent again.

Abbey checked her watch. It was almost four o'clock-the time they were supposed to meet Simon at the stones. She hoped he wouldn't go through without them.

Finally, Mark spoke. "This is not a sh.o.r.eline currently in existence."

"What do you mean by that?" The words were out of Abbey's mouth before she could stop them.

Mark's brow scrunched up and his face grew cloudy. He started to rock slightly. "This is not a sh.o.r.eline currently in existence," he repeated.

Abbey and Caleb looked at each other. For once, Caleb's green eyes reflected a small hint of worry. Was Mark about to go off on them? Should they call Mrs. Forrester?

"Mark," Abbey said carefully, "you say it's not a sh.o.r.eline currently in existence. Are you trying to say it could be in existence in the future? If climate change resulted in a rise in sea levels or something like that? Is that what you're trying to tell us?"

Mark stopped rocking, but his nostrils flared and Abbey tried not to imagine the body in the sea-green sweater vest hurtling in her direction. But he seemed relieved to answer. "Yes."

The roar of a vehicle engine pierced the air outside. Mark lurched up from his desk and lunged to his window. He turned back to Abbey and Caleb. "You need to go."

Caleb nodded. "Sure, in a sec, we'll head. Do you have an idea where the sh.o.r.eline is?"

Mark looked as if he might explode. His bulbous cheeks and forehead resembled the thin skin of a tomato that had been left to ripen too long. "You need to go. Now."

"I don't understand," Caleb started.

Mark reached for both of them; his meaty hands that had been so gentle with the pencil just a few minutes before now clamped painfully on Abbey's arm. He dragged them both to the door. Abbey felt swept along like a marionette, her arms banging against the desk and doorframe as they walked, her foot catching on the hall rug. She wondered if he planned to toss them down the stairs. Rag-doll physics was created for the gaming industry to make dying bodies look more realistic by making animated characters a collection of multiple rigid bodies tied together by a system of rules that determine how the bones can move relative to each other. She pictured her own fall, the loss of control, the crush of bones, and the eventual stillness of limbs.

But Mark didn't toss them. He thrust them into the dim light of the stairwell. "Take the stairs. Go out the bas.e.m.e.nt door. Stay away."

"Stay away from who?" Caleb whispered.

Mark flapped at them. "No more questions. Go."

A man's voice came from the kitchen, its resonant tones mixing with Mrs. Forrester's softer ones.

"Come on, Cale!" Abbey pulled at her brother's sleeve. She didn't like the voice. They were partway down the stairs when Caleb turned back to Mark. "The sh.o.r.eline?"

"I will bring the topographical maps to your house tomorrow."

Abbey and Caleb raced the rest of the way down the stairs and out the bas.e.m.e.nt door into the yard. A silvery blue Jag was parked on the road. It had white racing stripes and a gray leather interior. Abbey's eyes fell on the personalized plate: MANTIS.

Abbey froze. "Oh my G.o.d, Caleb. It's the name from the email."

Mrs. Forrester's front door opened and the man stepped out. He had his back to them, still talking to Mrs. Forrester, who remained in the house. His silvery hair fell to his shoulders, turning up here and there with soft whorl-like curls. He wore a fancy suit and overcoat, his statuesque and lanky frame both elegantly graceful and quietly menacing. He stooped slightly, his head jutting forward and downward. Like his namesake, Abbey realized with a shudder.

"Run," Caleb mouthed to Abbey, "to the stones."

The twins ran as quietly as they could, tiptoeing to lighten their footfalls on the wet pavement, letting their breath out only in short silent blows, until they reached the bushes. As soon as they were hidden by a veil of green, Abbey risked a look back. The man stared up the hill directly at them. Abbey spun around and ran wildly up the hill, no longer making any effort to be quiet. Branches whacked her in the face, stinging her skin. Rainwater from the plants streamed down her cheeks and neck, soaking her s.h.i.+rt and coat.

Simon stood under a tree by the rosebush, waiting for them. He had the hood of his Gore-Tex jacket up and he watched their mad approach with a look of bafflement.

Caleb slowed down enough to stutter, "Mantis is at Mrs. Forrester's. He saw us. Let's hide in the mirror building. Maybe there'll be pa.s.sengers waiting and we can blend in, or sit in the bathrooms."

Abbey didn't stop. All her thoughts of not using the stones again had vanished. It was like they were calling out to her. She continued running over the stones until, with a whoosh, the damp forest vanished. She clamped her eyes shut as she felt herself moving through s.p.a.ce, and the light penetrating her eyelids became brighter.

The air she sucked in felt like it came from a blow dryer, her breath heavy from her wild run up the hill. She opened her eyes to the blistering rays of the sun and a vast swath of sky with no shade. All around her, as far as the eye could see, was sand-dune after dune of golden sand.

Caleb and Simon almost smacked into her a second later. Then they, too, stood staring. "What the...?" said Simon.

Abbey whirled back to look for the stones. They were still there, but the wind blew a thin sheet of sand over them, blurring their edges, making them alternately silver and gold.

Chapter 5.