The 22 Murders of Madison May Page 10

  “In the scenario I was thinking about, people can . . .” She hesitated. “Move. They travel from one world to another.”

  His eyebrows jumped. “Well, then. Travel eliminates ninety-nine percent of all possibilities.”

  “But not all of them?”

  “Oh, no. There are always more possibilities with a Multiverse.”

  “Well, there are at least two travelers. Three,” she said, including herself. “They use something to make themselves move. Some special metal object, which they hold. And there might be some more steps. Things they have to do. But then they move.” He didn’t respond. “What do you think?”

  He leaned forward, as if taking her into a confidence. “I think it’s extremely ridiculous, even for Multiverse theories.”

  “There’s no theory for that?”

  “Of course there is.” He reached over, plucked a pen from the desk, and began to waggle it for no apparent purpose. “Let’s see. A transfer—of information, at least—so we’re dealing with bubble collisions, where multiple universes press against one another. The process is repeatable, yes? A traveler can keep moving, meeting their alternate selves, say, and taking them out for coffee?”

  “They can keep moving, but they can’t meet themselves.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “No doppelgängers? That’s a shame. That’s the fun part.” He tapped his chin. “Curious. Was there a doppelgänger previously, in this scenario?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Does the traveler enter a universe in which he never previously existed? Or does the transfer itself destroy the double?”

  “I’m not . . .” She was caught on the word destroy. “What do you mean by . . .”

  “Replacement,” Creighton said. “There is evidence that the traveler existed prior to his arrival.”

  “Yes,” Felicity said.

  “Then we have information conservation. How delightfully retro. This was actually the foundation of early Multiverse theory. There was even a project, back in the day. A hush-hush study, sponsored by the military.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing very exciting. They only managed to make a bunch of math professors disappear.” He laughed at her expression. “Figuratively. They were hidden away on a secret base somewhere for years.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “The Soft Horizon Project. It still upsets me to think about the waste of talent. If we had any sense, we’d let our best and brightest work on whatever they pleased. Not lock them away every time the Pentagon has a flight of fancy.”

  She was frozen with her pen above her notepad. “Soft Horizon? That was the name?”

  Creighton nodded. “It was all declassified in the early 2000s. A few of us went through their work to see if there was anything worth salvaging.”

  “And?”

  “As I said, nothing. The basic premise was flawed.”

  “How do you know? Could they have released material to mislead you?”

  He was smiling. “You have a journalist’s nose for a conspiracy. But these are our colleagues. When they returned to campus, it was discussed. If they’d done anything worth a dime, we would have heard all about it, believe me.”

  “Hmm,” Felicity said.

  Creighton’s lips twitched. “Although . . .”

  “What?”

  He leaned forward. Unable to resist, so did Felicity. “We had a joke. I can’t remember how it began. But each time we saw Nikolas—one of the Soft Horizon researchers—we’d greet him by saying ‘Apple.’ And we’d make him reply ‘Banana.’ The joke was that if he didn’t, we’d know we had a problem.”

  “Why would you have a problem?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be Nikolas. It would be a version of him who traveled here from a universe in which Soft Horizon had succeeded.” He laughed. “A smart Nikolas, you see. One who had found a solution to problems that confounded our own, stupid Nikolas.” Unexpectedly, he reached across and patted her knee. “You look shocked. These are just games played by bored professors.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “Nikolas de Boer and I worked together for another four years,” Creighton said. “I assure you, he never stopped saying ‘Banana.’ ”

  But that was years ago, she thought. In the meantime, Smart Nikolas had been hopping between worlds. Making his way toward this one, one step at a time. Smart Nikolas and whoever he traveled with. “Your code. Apple and banana. That could work both ways. Travelers could use a code to identify each other. A code or a logo.”

  “Not a bad thought. If you were a Multiverse traveler, you wouldn’t want to confuse one of your companions with a naïve version.” He smiled, but this time it was different. “I have a class in a moment, but I’m free to meet later, if you’re interested. There’s a bar on 23rd I find tolerably student-free.”

  Was he flirting with her? He was twenty years her senior and wore a wedding ring, but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe once you were in the bar on 23rd, it belonged to another universe. “Can I ask one more? Does the theory describe anything called ‘moorings’?”

  “Not that I’m aware. What’s the context?”

  She tried to recall Hugo’s words. Clay is a moron who doesn’t know anything about moorings so when he moves, he winds up someplace Maddie isn’t an actress. “When you have a mooring, you get to choose things about the world you travel to. You can make it a certain way.”

  He frowned. “There’s no way for . . .” Then his face cleared. “Ah. All right, yes. Under information conservation, that does make sense. You see, one of the problems with the idea of travel, if there really is an infinite array of universes, is that most of them would kill you. Our world is a one-in-a-billion-trillion shot. In many other universes—the vast majority of other universes—the Earth wouldn’t have evolved its current climate. It may not even exist. Which means you would not want to spin a roulette wheel and travel to a random alternate universe. With information conservation, however, it is impossible for a traveler to inject something new into the destination universe. He may only replace what is already there. And this means he must arrive in a universe like his own, which contains a copy of himself to replace. All other possibilities are unreachable—filtered out, effectively. Does this make sense?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then consider what he might choose to bring.” Creighton seized a book from the desk, a red hardcover. “This novel, say. If I carry it to the next universe, it must, according to the law of information conservation, already exist there. Which, by extension, means its author must exist. Its publisher. The world must have books. With this one object, I’ve determined many things about the world.”

  “So the book is a mooring.”

  “I’m not familiar with that term, but it sounds appropriate. Where did you pick it up?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ve been interviewing different people. If I have a mooring, what do I do with it? How do I actually travel?”

  “There’s a well-known oscillating function that describes the timing of bubble collisions—moments where multiple universes come into contact with each other in curved spacetime. This was Soft Horizon’s premise: that in those moments of overlap, transfer could be possible. Given the right technology, of course. And assuming one was free from the observer effect. But I can’t tell you what that technology would be, or how it would operate, because it didn’t work.”

  Timing matters, she thought. She remembered Hugo’s old-fashioned watch, how it had beeped on the subway. “I could know when it was time to travel. From this oscillating . . .”

  “Function,” Creighton said. “Yes, if you can handle the math. The time between collisions varies in a predictable way, from about fourteen to fifty-seven hours.”

  “Can a traveler go home? Back where she came from?
”

  His smile became puzzled. “You must be a good journalist. You know so much about a project you’ve never heard of.”

  “That was part of Soft Horizon? The idea that you can’t go back?”

  “Of course. You must travel to a universe that possesses a version of yourself. But this is no longer true of the universe you came from.”

  She blinked, startled. “Why not?”

  “Because you disappeared.” He gestured, like a magician performing a trick. “Out of sight, to avoid the observer effect. You left a letter, I hope, to inform your friends and family that they’ll never see you again.” He gazed at her. “I’m quite serious about the bar. I’d enjoy answering more of your questions there.”

  She stood. “You’ve been very helpful, thank you.”

  He rose. “I’m late for my class now. It’s the least you could do.”

  “Thank you again.” She shook his hand, not even really thinking about the come-on. There was a pit of nausea in her stomach and she wanted to get out of the building.

  “When will the article run?” Creighton asked. “I’d like a copy of it.”

  “I’ll let you know,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  She sat on the steps of the Low Library, trying to research on her phone while students moved around her, laughing and talking about TV shows she’d never heard of—because she was older than them or because the shows didn’t exist; one of those, she couldn’t be sure which. Creighton had said that Soft Horizon was declassified, but Felicity couldn’t find any references to it. She tried oscillating bubble collision function, which only brought her to an academic paper drenched in symbols she would never understand. At the bottom, though, was a simple table, the output of the function, as a long, repeating pattern. Like a bus schedule, she thought. But with no dates or times: only the length of time between buses. So unless she already knew where she was in the pattern, it wouldn’t help her.

  The sun was warm. She was tempted to stay for the afternoon. Sit here and think until she’d figured it all out.

  If you could move between worlds, what would you do?

  Murder real estate agents, apparently. Although only Clayton Hors was doing that. Hugo was trying to stop him. Why was that? Out of the goodness of his heart? She wasn’t sure she was ready to buy the idea of a traveling group of do-gooders. Specifically, do-gooders who acted like Hugo.

  Riding the Q home, she forged into her email. There was a message from the office of District Attorney Tom Daniels; the last time they’d spoken, in a previous world, he’d promised to get back to Felicity about the case of an eighteen-year-old boy who assaulted a girl during a party. Maybe in this one he was genuinely interested in prosecuting the scions of wealthy society families. She scanned the email. The way Felicity remembered this case, the girl had laughed at the boy, and in response he’d punched her hard enough that her retina had detached. Here, that didn’t seem to have happened, but for some reason, there was still a case. She dug into the conversation history and found that there had been an argument; that part was the same. And the D.A. had decided not to prosecute. But this time no one had seen James Hammond hit her. Instead, she had supposedly slipped and hit her head on the edge of the pool. By the time the ambulance arrived, she had died.

  She exited Church Avenue station, furious. This was bullshit, obviously. It was the same event with a different spin and a worse ending. And once again, no one was going to care enough to make anyone pay for it. As she crossed Crooke Avenue, though, she realized she’d been inside her head for a while, and someone was following her. The knowledge popped into her brain fully formed, like an unread message notification that had been awaiting her notice. She kept her head down, fishing her keys out of her bag and sliding one between her ring and middle fingers, the way they said you should, to make a weapon. Behind her, she heard footsteps, brisk, like her own.

  It’s Clayton, she thought. He’d found out who she was, somehow, and come after her. She threw a glance over her shoulder. There was someone back there, and as she turned he lunged toward her and she yelped and began to run. She made five steps, enough to think that she was getting away, then he caught her bag and swung her against the brick wall of an apartment building. “Where is it?”

  “Get off me,” she said. Fingers jabbed into her armpits and crotch. She had done self-defense, a million years ago, and learned the three key target areas to strike: eyes, groin, instep. She tried them and they didn’t work, because he was too strong.

  He flipped her around like a sack. The back of her head knocked the brickwork. His face was pale and puffy, his forehead enormous, blond hair plastered across it. His nose was thick, like an old boxer’s, and lined with red veins. He was not Clayton Hors. He was no one she’d seen before. “Where is it?”

  “What . . . ack,” she said, which was supposed to be What are you talking about? Her throat had closed.

  “Do you realize what’s happening?” And before she could answer: “I will hurt you.” He drew back a fist. “Where did you hide it?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  His fist moved. She flinched. But he didn’t hit her. Instead, he seized the front of her shirt and pulled her to him. She felt her buttons go. “You have one day. Then I will begin fucking up your life in ways you can’t imagine.” His eyes burned into hers. Then he let her go and walked away.

  She breathed. Her legs were shaky, so she sat. After a minute, a woman came along with a dog and asked if she was okay, and Felicity said yes, she was just tired. She cried for a few moments. Then she laughed, remembering the man’s threat to begin fucking up her life.

  Begin, she thought.

  * * *

  —

  She collected the egg in its plastic tub from her mailbox and carried it up to her apartment. Then she sat at the table and stared at it. She didn’t want to give up the egg. It was practically the only thing she had: the only thing that had come with her aside from the clothes she’d been wearing. But she couldn’t hide it for much longer. Eventually, they would find it.

  She opened the tub, took out the egg, and tucked it beneath her pillow until she could think of somewhere better. As she emerged from the bedroom, there was the sound of a key in the lock. Gavin entered. She was surprised at her own excitement. “Hey!” he said. He had brought home snapper. Snapper! He kissed her and began to prepare it and sizzle it in a pan. She should give this Gavin a chance, she decided. He cooked and cared about her. He was a good guy. Her guy. With alterations.

  They ate at the counter, side by side, with only the low kitchen lights on, so it felt like candles. “You have a little scar,” she said, during her second glass of wine. “On your cheek.”

  He touched it. “This?”

  “What’s it from?”

  “Chicken pox. As a kid.”

  She kind of liked it. It added character. A little imperfection to make things interesting. Then, without thinking, she said: “What would you do if I disappeared?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How? Like kidnapped?”

  “Just disappeared. Vanished without a trace.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She was trying not to think about Gavin, her old Gavin. She was giving new Gavin a chance. But now she couldn’t leave it alone. “Think about it.”

  “Do I have to?” He refilled his glass. “It’s a horrible hypothetical.”

  She stared at him.

  “What would you do if I disappeared?” Gavin said.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Well, there you go,” he said.

  “God, you can be infuriating,” she said.

  “How am I being infuriating?”

  “It’s a serious question. I disappear tomorrow. What do you do? Do you miss me? Do you find someone else? I want to know.”

  He sipped
his wine. “I’d go looking for you.”

  “Where?”

  “Your office. Your parents’ place.”

  “Would you call them or drive there?”

  “Both,” he said, warming up. “Phone first, then drive there.”

  “Why?”

  “They could be hiding you.”

  She smiled. “They’re not.”

  “Then I take out an ad. A full page in the Daily News. I could get a discount, I assume.”

  “You’re not staff.”

  “They’d probably do it for free. Given the circumstances, they’d put you on the front page.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. He was right.

  “I would be interviewed a lot, assuming you’re missing for a good length of time, in appropriately suspicious circumstances. I’d have to give them a photo. They always have exactly one photo of a missing person and use it over and over.” He snapped his fingers. “The one of you on the pier.”

  She was appalled. “My hair is terrible.”

  “It’s my favorite picture of you. You’re so happy.”

  “Stop,” she said. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  He blinked. “But it’s your game.”

  She began to cry.

  “Felicity,” he said, bewildered.

  “I’m tired,” she said. She hunched so that her hair fell over her plate.

  She heard Gavin’s chair scrape back. He touched her shoulder. When she didn’t respond, he lifted her out of her chair, scooping her up as if she were a new bride, and carried her to the bedroom.

  “I don’t want to disappear,” she said.

  “Then don’t.” Gavin kissed her face, gently, in several places. She kissed him back, and it was good, like it was really him, like she couldn’t tell the difference at all.

  * * *

  —

  In the night, she rose to use the toilet and padded across the living room floor. She was trying to be quiet but caught her hip on the corner of the table. “Ow,” she said. “Shit, ow.” She moved to her right but somehow there was more table there. She groped toward the light switch and threw illumination into the room. The table was facing the wrong way, filling up space it hadn’t before. She stared at it, realizing what it meant. The table hadn’t moved. She had. She was somewhere new.