Chapter 17
Six Days, Ten Hours, Thirty-eight Minutes
"Mr. Finkle?"
His neck aching, Ebdon Finkle sat up on the bed – more of a cot, in his mind and none to his liking. The mattress was far too hard – like solid clay ground – and the pillow felt fresh off the store rack, too hard, never used or broken in. He didn't much care for his surroundings – the immaculate white room, the silent but oppressive overhead fluorescents, the simple white plastic table and chair, and the terribly, horribly, unforgivably underused bed. Finkle grew up in Mississippi where a house 'felt' lived in since its birth. And it wasn't so clean that it felt 'sanitized.' He was used to a fine layer of dust – nothing dirty, just a thin coating – hanging in the air, resting on the coffee table. But this room – this cold clinical chamber – reminded him of the sensation he felt in funeral parlors. It was far too 'clean' for his tastes.
To make matters worse, he had no idea what he was doing here.
Turning in the direction of the voice, he said, "That's my name. Ebdon Finkle, young lady. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me just who in the hell is asking?"
Stepping forward, Olga relaxed into the leather chair security had placed there for her. She smiled, hoping to disarm the elderly gentleman with her womanly charms, but she guessed by the look on his face that this was going to be no easy task. Given the present circumstances, she didn't blame him.
"Mr. Finkle," she tried soothingly, "my name is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."
"Hmm?"
She nearly jumped at the way the old man cocked his ear toward the glass.
Tentatively, she asked, "Can you hear me?"
"Barely," he replied. "I'm not deaf, but you're going to have to speak up, young lady. That glass is pretty thick, and those holes for communicating are pretty high up."
As fate would have it, she wasn't disarming him. He was disarming her.
"My name," she started over, emphasizing her words, "is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."
"Doctor?" he asked, closing his eyes, brushing a hand across his haggard face. "Miss, I'm not in any need of a doctor. What I need is a carpenter!" Arching an eyebrow, he glared at her. "What in the hell kind of room is this to put a man in? To put any man in? It's three ugly white walls without so much as a picture on 'em! The ceiling is just as bad! There isn't any door. At least, there isn't any that I can see. And then there's that wall. That wall of glass you're hiding behind." Slowly, disgustedly, he shook his head back at her. "This isn't any room, doctor. It's a cage. In a zoo. And I don't care much for being caged, if you follow my meaning."
She nodded. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Finkle, but this room is a necessary precaution."
"Precaution?"
"That's correct."
"For whom?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, for whom?" he repeated. "Precautions are protections meant for someone, young lady. So, I'll ask you again, for whom?" He held his hands out. "Is this a precaution for me?" He pointed quickly at her. "Are you suffering from some highly contagious disease of some kind? That wouldn't make you a very good doctor. At least, not a very good doctor that I'd want to be treated by." He refused to take his accusing eyes off of her. "I can only assume that's the truth. You're sick, and you don't want to expose me to whatever you're suffering. Given the fact that I know that – as of this morning – I crawled out of the same bed I've slept in for the last twenty years without so much as a case of the sniffles, I can only guess that you're the guilty party. Now, what that tells me is I'm no danger to anyone, doctor, and if that's the case, then I must need protection from you. Or others like you." He held his head up proudly. "I don't mean any offense, miss. I'm just not very pleased to find myself in this predicament. I think, if you were to walk a mile in my shoes, you would feel the same way."
Again, she smiled, hoping to soften the man's ire. "Mr. Finkle, your isolation is a precaution ... for all of mankind."
"Mankind?"
"That's correct, sir."
He narrowed his eyes to slits. "What did you say your name was?"
"Doctor Vukavitch," she explained. "Olga Vukavitch."
"Vukavitch?"
"Yes, sir."
He winced quizzically. "Is that Russian?"
She fought back a heavy sigh. "It is. Sir."
"I never much cared for Russians."
Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I hear that. A lot."
He rose from the bed, walking toward the glass. "Dr. Vukavitch, would you do me a favor?"
"Anything I can, Mr. Finkle."
Reaching the glass, he held up his palm to the cold surface. He pressed his fingers flat to the transparency. "Can you see the wrinkles there? In my hand?"
Curious, she studied his palm. "I do."
Smiling, he quipped, "Those are the only things wrong with my body, young lady. So would you mind telling me how one overworked, underpaid, and increasingly agitated old man with wrinkled hands poses any threat to all of mankind?"
Olga rose from her chair. She stepped up to the glass to face the man.
"Mr. Finkle, you made contact with a man at your restaurant."
"Frank?"
At the sound of his name, Olga smiled unexpectedly. "Yes," she breathed. "His name is Frank Parker."
"Parker?" The old man sucked on his bottom lip for a moment. "Is that so? The young man wouldn't even give me his last name."
"It is our belief that Mr. Parker may have exposed you to a very rare form of contamination."
Finkle turned back and glared at her. "You're kidding?"
"No, sir," she answered succinctly. "I wish I were."
"But I thought he was involved in some helicopter crash?"
Helicopter crash? It made sense. Frank Parker knew enough not to divulge the secrets of the BackStep Program. He had concocted a ruse to throw the man's obvious questions off.
"That's correct," she agreed.
"He said something about ... he said something about a battery pack exploding in his helicopter," Finkle confessed, lines drawn tight in his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to remember their dialogue. "He said that the explosion had caused him to bleed." The man opened his eyes and studied Olga's expressionless face. "But I'm going to guess that what you're telling me is the truth. I'm going to guess that Frank Parker was flying that helicopter, and he was transporting something. Eh? Some kind of human organ for transplant? Some kind of virus? Something infected?" He pulled his hand off the glass and pointed at himself. "And he was infected ... he came running up to my restaurant ... and he infected me?"
As much as she detested lying to the elderly gentleman, Olga followed protocol. It had been established years before in the event of temporal contamination.
"That's what we currently are investigating, Mr. Finkle," she conceded. "I give you my word that Mr. Parker was unaware that he might've faced exposure to any form of contagion. He did not knowingly put your life – nor would he place any life – at risk, sir." She fought back the lump in her throat at the memories of the cynical chrononaut suddenly filling her mind's eye. "Frank Parker is a patriot. He does great things for your governments, and he would never have knowingly hurt you – or anyone else, for that matter."
Finkle opened his eyes wide. "Doctor, what was he carrying?" he asked. "Is it ... is it something lethal?"
She tilted her head slightly. "At this point, Mr. Finkle, I don't honestly know." She stepped even closer to the glass, placing her hands on the wall for him to see. "However, I give you my word that we can find out. What we're going to do ... we're going to run some tests."
"Tests?"
"Yes, blood work, mostly," she confessed. "At this point, I give you my word that my assistants will do nothing invasive. We're not going to harm you in any way. It's just that ... we need to rule out every possibility of infection."
He nodded, agreeing to subject himself to whatever she needed.
"Also," she continued, "I'll need to spend some time debriefing you."
"Debriefing?"
"I'll be asking you some questions, sir." She took a deep breath before she explained, "I'd like to talk with you about your encounter with Mr. Parker."
Finkle pursed his lips. "Well, doctor, there really isn't much to tell. Like I told you a little while ago, your Mr. Parker wouldn't even tell me his last name. Then, those soldiers showed up. One of them pounded Frank over the head pretty hard. I hope he's all right."
"I understand," she said. "But any detail – however big or small – could possibly be of great help."
With an expression of bewilderment, he nodded. "I don't have any problem with that, miss. Whatever you'd like to know, I'm happy to oblige."
"Thank you, sir."
Suddenly – as if the thought struck like lightning out of the clear blue sky – Ebdon Finkle asked, "Is Frank going to be all right?"
She smiled. Here was this man – this old gentleman of the American South – trapped in a cage – in one moment fearing for his safety – and suddenly, it was if he didn't matter any longer. In the blink of an eye, all of his attention turned to another human being – someone he had little more than a casual encounter – and he wanted to make certain that Frank Parker was safe.
"Mr. Parker is going to be just fine."
End of Chapter 17
Six Days, Ten Hours, Thirty-eight Minutes
"Mr. Finkle?"
His neck aching, Ebdon Finkle sat up on the bed – more of a cot, in his mind and none to his liking. The mattress was far too hard – like solid clay ground – and the pillow felt fresh off the store rack, too hard, never used or broken in. He didn't much care for his surroundings – the immaculate white room, the silent but oppressive overhead fluorescents, the simple white plastic table and chair, and the terribly, horribly, unforgivably underused bed. Finkle grew up in Mississippi where a house 'felt' lived in since its birth. And it wasn't so clean that it felt 'sanitized.' He was used to a fine layer of dust – nothing dirty, just a thin coating – hanging in the air, resting on the coffee table. But this room – this cold clinical chamber – reminded him of the sensation he felt in funeral parlors. It was far too 'clean' for his tastes.
To make matters worse, he had no idea what he was doing here.
Turning in the direction of the voice, he said, "That's my name. Ebdon Finkle, young lady. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me just who in the hell is asking?"
Stepping forward, Olga relaxed into the leather chair security had placed there for her. She smiled, hoping to disarm the elderly gentleman with her womanly charms, but she guessed by the look on his face that this was going to be no easy task. Given the present circumstances, she didn't blame him.
"Mr. Finkle," she tried soothingly, "my name is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."
"Hmm?"
She nearly jumped at the way the old man cocked his ear toward the glass.
Tentatively, she asked, "Can you hear me?"
"Barely," he replied. "I'm not deaf, but you're going to have to speak up, young lady. That glass is pretty thick, and those holes for communicating are pretty high up."
As fate would have it, she wasn't disarming him. He was disarming her.
"My name," she started over, emphasizing her words, "is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."
"Doctor?" he asked, closing his eyes, brushing a hand across his haggard face. "Miss, I'm not in any need of a doctor. What I need is a carpenter!" Arching an eyebrow, he glared at her. "What in the hell kind of room is this to put a man in? To put any man in? It's three ugly white walls without so much as a picture on 'em! The ceiling is just as bad! There isn't any door. At least, there isn't any that I can see. And then there's that wall. That wall of glass you're hiding behind." Slowly, disgustedly, he shook his head back at her. "This isn't any room, doctor. It's a cage. In a zoo. And I don't care much for being caged, if you follow my meaning."
She nodded. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Finkle, but this room is a necessary precaution."
"Precaution?"
"That's correct."
"For whom?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, for whom?" he repeated. "Precautions are protections meant for someone, young lady. So, I'll ask you again, for whom?" He held his hands out. "Is this a precaution for me?" He pointed quickly at her. "Are you suffering from some highly contagious disease of some kind? That wouldn't make you a very good doctor. At least, not a very good doctor that I'd want to be treated by." He refused to take his accusing eyes off of her. "I can only assume that's the truth. You're sick, and you don't want to expose me to whatever you're suffering. Given the fact that I know that – as of this morning – I crawled out of the same bed I've slept in for the last twenty years without so much as a case of the sniffles, I can only guess that you're the guilty party. Now, what that tells me is I'm no danger to anyone, doctor, and if that's the case, then I must need protection from you. Or others like you." He held his head up proudly. "I don't mean any offense, miss. I'm just not very pleased to find myself in this predicament. I think, if you were to walk a mile in my shoes, you would feel the same way."
Again, she smiled, hoping to soften the man's ire. "Mr. Finkle, your isolation is a precaution ... for all of mankind."
"Mankind?"
"That's correct, sir."
He narrowed his eyes to slits. "What did you say your name was?"
"Doctor Vukavitch," she explained. "Olga Vukavitch."
"Vukavitch?"
"Yes, sir."
He winced quizzically. "Is that Russian?"
She fought back a heavy sigh. "It is. Sir."
"I never much cared for Russians."
Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I hear that. A lot."
He rose from the bed, walking toward the glass. "Dr. Vukavitch, would you do me a favor?"
"Anything I can, Mr. Finkle."
Reaching the glass, he held up his palm to the cold surface. He pressed his fingers flat to the transparency. "Can you see the wrinkles there? In my hand?"
Curious, she studied his palm. "I do."
Smiling, he quipped, "Those are the only things wrong with my body, young lady. So would you mind telling me how one overworked, underpaid, and increasingly agitated old man with wrinkled hands poses any threat to all of mankind?"
Olga rose from her chair. She stepped up to the glass to face the man.
"Mr. Finkle, you made contact with a man at your restaurant."
"Frank?"
At the sound of his name, Olga smiled unexpectedly. "Yes," she breathed. "His name is Frank Parker."
"Parker?" The old man sucked on his bottom lip for a moment. "Is that so? The young man wouldn't even give me his last name."
"It is our belief that Mr. Parker may have exposed you to a very rare form of contamination."
Finkle turned back and glared at her. "You're kidding?"
"No, sir," she answered succinctly. "I wish I were."
"But I thought he was involved in some helicopter crash?"
Helicopter crash? It made sense. Frank Parker knew enough not to divulge the secrets of the BackStep Program. He had concocted a ruse to throw the man's obvious questions off.
"That's correct," she agreed.
"He said something about ... he said something about a battery pack exploding in his helicopter," Finkle confessed, lines drawn tight in his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to remember their dialogue. "He said that the explosion had caused him to bleed." The man opened his eyes and studied Olga's expressionless face. "But I'm going to guess that what you're telling me is the truth. I'm going to guess that Frank Parker was flying that helicopter, and he was transporting something. Eh? Some kind of human organ for transplant? Some kind of virus? Something infected?" He pulled his hand off the glass and pointed at himself. "And he was infected ... he came running up to my restaurant ... and he infected me?"
As much as she detested lying to the elderly gentleman, Olga followed protocol. It had been established years before in the event of temporal contamination.
"That's what we currently are investigating, Mr. Finkle," she conceded. "I give you my word that Mr. Parker was unaware that he might've faced exposure to any form of contagion. He did not knowingly put your life – nor would he place any life – at risk, sir." She fought back the lump in her throat at the memories of the cynical chrononaut suddenly filling her mind's eye. "Frank Parker is a patriot. He does great things for your governments, and he would never have knowingly hurt you – or anyone else, for that matter."
Finkle opened his eyes wide. "Doctor, what was he carrying?" he asked. "Is it ... is it something lethal?"
She tilted her head slightly. "At this point, Mr. Finkle, I don't honestly know." She stepped even closer to the glass, placing her hands on the wall for him to see. "However, I give you my word that we can find out. What we're going to do ... we're going to run some tests."
"Tests?"
"Yes, blood work, mostly," she confessed. "At this point, I give you my word that my assistants will do nothing invasive. We're not going to harm you in any way. It's just that ... we need to rule out every possibility of infection."
He nodded, agreeing to subject himself to whatever she needed.
"Also," she continued, "I'll need to spend some time debriefing you."
"Debriefing?"
"I'll be asking you some questions, sir." She took a deep breath before she explained, "I'd like to talk with you about your encounter with Mr. Parker."
Finkle pursed his lips. "Well, doctor, there really isn't much to tell. Like I told you a little while ago, your Mr. Parker wouldn't even tell me his last name. Then, those soldiers showed up. One of them pounded Frank over the head pretty hard. I hope he's all right."
"I understand," she said. "But any detail – however big or small – could possibly be of great help."
With an expression of bewilderment, he nodded. "I don't have any problem with that, miss. Whatever you'd like to know, I'm happy to oblige."
"Thank you, sir."
Suddenly – as if the thought struck like lightning out of the clear blue sky – Ebdon Finkle asked, "Is Frank going to be all right?"
She smiled. Here was this man – this old gentleman of the American South – trapped in a cage – in one moment fearing for his safety – and suddenly, it was if he didn't matter any longer. In the blink of an eye, all of his attention turned to another human being – someone he had little more than a casual encounter – and he wanted to make certain that Frank Parker was safe.
"Mr. Parker is going to be just fine."
End of Chapter 17