Page 21 of The Paradox Club

She had felt honored when Calvin 4 had stopped by her apartment one night several months ago and asked if they might chat for a few minutes. She had only been a member of the club for a few months, and the legendary Calvin 4 wanted to have a tête-à-tête. She had spent enough time at the club to know that Calvin 4 was a towering figure in the organization. Though now he was essentially president emeritus in all but name, he had scores of loyal followers, earned over decades of service. Even though Valentine 6 was not yet privy to the whole nature of that service, she had heard enough about Calvin 4 to hold him in high esteem. She had even heard whispered in one of the members’ lounges a story about Calvin 4 presiding over something called the Great Debate—some sort of conflict between a former member and Pilgrim 3 that threatened to tear the club apart. And now he was sitting at her kitchen table, sipping a cup of decaf.

“Have you heard of the Great Debate?” Calvin 4 asked.

“Only snippets. Someone said you kept the club from splitting apart.”

“A bit of an exaggeration. Would you believe me if I told you that what we do at the club can have ramifications for all of humanity?”

“From what I’ve been told so far, that wouldn’t surprise me,” said Valentine 6.

“And would you believe me if I told you that if Pilgrim 3 has her way and does what she was accused of aspiring to do at the Great Debate, those ramifications could be extraordinarily dangerous?”

“To be honest, I never really liked Pilgrim 3,” Valentine 6 said. “She seems too fond of power. And of herself.”

“Precisely,” said Calvin 4. “I had you pegged as perceptive at your first meeting, and I wasn’t wrong. Now, I’m about to go into something called retirement, and I’d like to have some chance of enjoying it. But I can’t just leave the club in the hands of Pilgrim 3.”

“Of course not.”

“I need someone to keep an eye on things for me. Someone who can contact me if certain things happen. And someone I can contact when I need information.”

“You want me to be a mole,” said Valentine 6, leaning across the table and whispering the last word. She felt a jolt of excitement. She had not even been a member for a year, and she had been handpicked as personal spy to the president.

“Are you up for it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Valentine 6. “You’ve come to the right person. Now, tell me exactly what events I should be looking for.”

That had been a little over four months ago. She hadn’t had another conversation with Calvin 4 until this morning.

“I need to take a trip,” Calvin 4 had said when she called back. “I’m leaving later today, and I’m sure Pilgrim 3 will try to have me followed. Text my burner from yours every four hours when you can. I need to know anything you hear about me or about two people named Tess Maxwell and Vivian Harbottle from anyone at the club. I also need to know if we get any red lights on the big board while you’re on duty. Text the word avocado if nothing happens, but as soon as you hear anyone talking or you see a red light on that board, text peaches, and call me as soon as you can.”

“This sounds very cloak-and-dagger,” Valentine 6 said. “Are you sure you’re safe?”

“I’m not sure at all,” Calvin 4 said. “That’s why I need you to watch out for me.”

Valentine 6 had haunted the halls of the club all day, drifting in and out of its various lounges and eavesdropping wherever she could, but she heard nothing about the president or about Tess Maxwell or Vivian Harbottle. At five, she began a shift in the basement, where she was certain to hear nothing. The lights on the board glowed green and the machinery gave off a low hum. For the first time since she had started in the basement, Valentine 6 actually paid attention to the big board. Her iPad stayed in her bag along with her burner phone as she stared at the lights. What would happen if one turned red? What, exactly, did it mean? Valentine 6 was only a level two club member, and while she understood the basic purpose of the club, she was not yet privy to specifics. To make it to the next level, she had to devote five hundred hours of service to the club. She worked four-hour shifts several times a week watching the big board and was only a few shifts away from getting her five hundred hours. As she stared, glassy-eyed, at the lights, she wondered what would happen if one of them turned red when she was not on duty? Would the light still be red when she arrived for her next shift? By then would it be too late to warn the president? Or did Calvin 4 have other moles besides herself? For the first time in her four hundred fifty hours in the basement, Valentine 6 felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back.

THE ARCHIVIST

Tess watched as the flesh of her arm bubbled like molten lava, the heat of the flames searing her with pain while her feet stayed rooted to the ground. Her mother’s screams and Aunt Vivian’s crying sounded so faint they seemed to be seeping in from another dimension. But the one voice she longed to hear was silent. Silent forever, she thought as the flames swept around her and she erupted into a pyre of light.

She bolted up in bed, her pajamas soaked with cold sweat. It was her third night at Aunt Vivian’s, and the dream had gotten worse every night. What she hated most about this dream was its proximity to reality—as if her mind had taken a memory and twisted it two degrees to the left. And when the dream came, as it too often did, the voices came with it—voices that had invaded her consciousness long ago and that even the best medications could not always keep at bay.

“You were screaming,” said a voice next to Tess. She looked up and saw Aunt Vivian in the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. Vivian pressed a hand gently against Tess’s arm. “A nightmare?”

“The same nightmare as always,” said Tess. “My therapist adjusted my meds, but some things can’t be medicated away.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Vivian in a soothing voice. Tess looked up at Vivian’s placid face. She hadn’t really looked at her closely since arriving. Although her hair had turned prematurely white in the ten years since the fire, other than that she looked just as Tess remembered from those happy days at the lake—her face, though now in its fifties, was largely unlined; her blue eyes sparkled with life and curiosity; the smooth curve of her cheeks and gentle subtlety of her smile were as welcoming as a hot cup of tea. Vivian possessed a softness that was as much a factor of her gentle voice and kind eyes as of her slightly padded figure.

“Would a story make you feel better?” Vivian asked.

“I thought you had to wait for the stories to come to you.”

“One did,” said Vivian.

“While you were asleep? Like a dream?”

“Something like that,” said Vivian with a smile. “Now, did I ever tell you about working for Hilton Deramus?”

“Who was that?”