Rift: Excerpt page two

". . . begins at conception, not when some godless scientist says it does. They want to farm human beings, my friends. They want to harvest cells from someone who could turn out to be your sister, your best friend, your aunt Ruby who tapes 'Wheel of Fortune' every weekday on her VCR. And they hide behind their own corrupt morals, trying to influence public opinion by giving false hope to those unfortunate enough to contract incurable diseases. 'We can save lives!' they cry! 'We can help people who are alive!' But to do this they want to steal the life away from innocent babies, each with a soul given to them by God and saved by His Son, Jesus Chr--"

I touch the television remote and end his tirade midsentence. I'm supposed to be packing, so I jack up the volume on CNN and head back into the bathroom, where toothpaste and cologne and grooming implements patiently wait to be dropped into my suitcase. When I happen to look at my reflection in the mirror, the fear apparent in my own eyes unnerves me.

I carry the suitcase back into the bedroom--now ready for underwear briefs and white T-shirts--just in time to catch the beginning of a Breaking News Event brought to me by a striking, articulate brunette.

". . . don't really know exactly how long the group has been missing. Police in neighboring Corpus Christi notified the FBI after numerous missing person reports were filed by concerned friends and relatives who claimed to have lost contact with suspected members over three weeks ago. Authorities expressed skepticism, however, when questioned about sources who estimate the group had swelled to over nine hundred members in recent weeks."

A short, muscle-bound fellow dressed in a navy blue FBI jacket appears on the screen behind the caption: Special Agent Gerald Weir.

"We are currently gathering information on the group, which calls itself Primordial Carbon," he says. "Apparently this group made a pilgrimage into a remote area of the King Ranch and chose a gathering place about sixty miles south of Corpus Christi. As to the allegation that their numbers approach one thousand, we have reason to believe this has been somewhat exaggerated. But I would like to assure the public that any and all leads are being investigated."

The beautiful brunette anchor further explains the significance of this news event, declaring it the largest mass disappearance of humans in recent history, and asks us viewers to tune in to CNN for a special report beginning promptly at--

"Cameron," Misty calls from the kitchen, "did you pack your golf shoes yet?"

"No," I tell her. "I think they're still in the trunk of my car."

"I'll get them."

Boundaries box you into predictability, and eventually you grow dependent upon the razor-wire walls that form the perimeter of your life.

She's been remarkably calm today, my wife, considering her attitude over the past three weeks. When I first told her she threatened to divorce me. She didn't care about the money, the five million dollars NeuroStor offered for the test. She didn't care when I explained that my job was being eliminated, that our entire company's financial health--and my retirement stock options--might rest on the success of the transmission machine. Instead she said--quite predictably, I might add--All I need is you, Cameron. Sure it is. Easy to say when there is plenty of money to go around.

The idea of divorce scares the hell out of me. Maybe, considering our declining intimacy over the past several years, it's something we should have discussed a long time ago. But when you marry young like Misty and I did, and when your relationship stretches on for five, ten, and now fifteen years, it's not easy to give up the comfort, the bedrock upon which your life rests. You want to know the laundry is going to be done every Sunday afternoon. You get used to the daily ritual of cooking familiar meals for two. You lull yourself to sleep every night with the rhythmic pattern of your wife's breathing. Boundaries box you into predictability, and eventually you grow dependent upon the razor-wire walls that form the perimeter of your life.

But something changed in me the day Batista made the five-million-dollar offer, and in the end I realized there was no way I could not accept. That recurring dream, the one where I go to my grave with no eulogy? It was trying to tell me something, and I'm going to heed its warning.

I'm going to do something with my life.

* * *

Misty looks over at me periodically as she negotiates the Beltway traffic, and while her voice trembles with anger, I read more from her eyes. Like fear. And grief. And uncertainty. The one thing she knows for sure: She doesn't want to let me go.

"You're crazy, Cameron. Do you hear me? I should have you committed."

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