The Perseids and Other Stories by Robert Charles Wilson Page B

“Do you really believe that?”
    “I’ve spent a lot of time reading the strange books, Jeremy, and talking to the strange people. It’s hard to believe in hidden information in the information age, but there are still some mysteries that haven’t made the Internet. Trust me on this.”
    “What should I do?”
    She looked away, ashamed of her impotence. “I don’t know.”
    Long story short: I went home; Michelle hadn’t shown up, nor did she come home that night.
    I didn’t sleep. I watched TV, and when that was finished I watched the minute hand sweep the face of Michelle’s bedroom clock. Michelle didn’t believe in digital clocks—hated them. The only digital clock in the apartment was the one on my wrist. She believed time ran in circles.
    I fell asleep at dawn and woke to find daylight already fading, snow on the windowsill, snow falling in sheets and ribbons over the city. No Michelle.
    I tried phoning Deirdre. There was no answer at the store or at her home number.
    Then I remembered the address she had scrawled for me—John Carver’s address.
    I was in my jacket and headed for the door when the phone rang.
    “Jeremy?”
    Deirdre, and she sounded breathless. “Where are you?”
    “Doesn’t matter. Jeremy, don’t try to get hold of me after this.”
    “Why not?”
    “They busted my garden! Raided the store, too—on principle, I guess.”
    “The police?”
    “It wasn’t the fucking Girl Guides!”
    “You’re in custody?”
    “Hell no. I was having lunch with Chuck Byrnie when it happened. Kathy managed to warn me off.” She paused. “I guess I’m a wanted criminal. I don’t know what they do to you for growing grass anymore. Jail or a fine or what. But they trashed my house, Jeremy, and my place of business, and I can’t afford legal fees.” She sounded near tears.
    “You can stay here,” I said.
    “No, I can’t. The thing is, only half a dozen people knew about the garden. Somebody must have tipped the police.”
    “I swear I never—”
    “Not
you
, asshole!”
    “Carver?”
    “I never told him about the plants. Somebody else must have.”
    The wind scoured grains of snow against the balcony door, a sandpaper sound.
    “You’re saying Michelle—”
    “I’m not pissed at Michelle. It comes down to John Carver, and that’s why I called. He means business, and he isn’t pleased with me. Or you.”
    “You can’t be sure of that.”
    “I can’t be sure of anything. I think he’s been manipulating us from the word go.”
    “Deirdre—”
    “My advice? Throw that fucking map away. And good luck, Jeremy.”
    “How can I reach you?”
    “You can’t. But thanks.”

    Time passes differently in the secret city.
    Day follows night, sunlight sweeps the sundial streets, seasons pass, but the past eats itself and the future is the present, only less so. We pace the sidewalks, we few citizens of this underpopulated city, empty of appetite, wordless, but how many others are keeping secret diaries? Or keeping the same diary endlessly rewritten, stories worn smooth with the telling.
    I took a last look at the map. The map was mounted on a press-board frame leaning against the wall of my study.
    The map was sleek, seductive, and inexpressibly beautiful, but I didn’t need it anymore. It had never been more than a tool. I didn’t need the map because I contained it—I
was
the map, in some sense; and it would be dangerous, I thought, to leave so potent a self-portrait where strangers might find it.
    So I destroyed it. I carved it into pieces, like a penitent debtor destroying a credit card, and then I pushed the pieces down the garbage chute.
    Then I went to look for Michelle.
    What Michelle hadn’t said, what Michelle hadn’t guessed and Deirdre hadn’t figured out, was that a temporal deity, even a minor and malevolent one, must own
all
the maps, all the ordinary and the hidden maps, all the blueprints and bibles and Baedekers of all the places there are or might be or have