***
The air had a slight nip to it, which Dr. Carlson enjoyed. He began to wonder why he hadn’t moved to Canada years ago, especially since the view from the balcony of the hotel allowed him to see up and down the entire Halifax coast.
The coastal waterways were thick with traffic, ranging from massive tanker ships to small fishing boats. The water was unusually calm in the bay, with the only ripples coming from the wakes of the ships that cut through it. Dr. Carlson closed his eyes and listened to the birds, the ships’ horns, and the sound of light traffic coming from below.
The people on the sandy beaches below looked no larger than pencil-sized dots. He studied their scurried movements up and down the beach. Each of them had their own worries, their own troubles, but none of them could fathom the scope of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.
He walked back into his room and eyed the minibar. It had remained unopened despite his grasping the handle a few times. He didn’t need to look inside. He already knew what was there, and he was afraid that if he looked, he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. Even though the alcohol was in the room, he felt better knowing that it was behind closed doors. It gave him a barrier.
Dr. Carlson flopped down on the bed and moaned at the release of pressure from his lower back. It was something that had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking. In fact, a lot of pains had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking, pains that had never bothered him while he was still drinking. He lifted his head to glance at the minibar one more time.
No. He rested his head back on the comforter and closed his eyes. His hands twitched nervously at his sides until he found his phone. He checked the screen. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.
The bed squeaked slightly from Dr. Carlson’s roll onto his feet. He started calculating the time difference between DC and Halifax until he remembered they were both in the same time zone. He wondered what was taking so long. If Smith didn’t get off on his treason charges, which Dr. Carlson was ninety-nine percent sure would happen, then he would be stuck in Canada with no way of getting back home. Not that he was in any particular hurry.
Dr. Carlson took a seat over by the small, round table in the corner of the room. Sketches of his designs were etched on different-colored papers spread out over the table’s surface. He shuffled through them until he found a white napkin with blue phone numbers written on it. He walked over to the hotel phone and began dialing the first on the list.
“Hello, Craig? Yes, it’s Edwin. How are you? Good, good. Listen, I’m in town and I was hoping we could grab lunch. Two p.m.? Perfect. Uh-huh. Okay. Got it. I’ll see you there.”
The line went dead, and Dr. Carlson moved down to the next number. There were twenty phone numbers listed on the napkin. The ones at the bottom were all scrunched together, as he had ran out of space to write them.
Most of the scientists he called picked up, and the majority that picked up agreed to meet with him, but the ones that he wished the most would come turned him down. However, the last number on his list could redeem all the rest. He considered Dr. Frank Turney the only mind on this continent equal to his own when it came to the world of chemistry and physics. He had completed his doctorate at MIT with Frank, who also happened to be the only other person who could keep up with him at the bar.
But they’d had a bit of a falling out once Frank sobered up. Harsh words were exchanged. Objects were thrown. Doors were slammed. And Dr. Carlson vaguely remembered something about sixteen stitches after he came down from his four-day binge. His finger slipped off the last digit from the sweat collecting on his palms. He wiped them on the sides of his pants. The phone rang twice, and then a husky voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Frank?”
“Who is this?”
Dr. Carlson paused.
“It’s Edwin.”
The line was silent for almost a minute. Dr. Carlson thought Frank had hung up. It wasn’t until he heard Frank clear his throat on the other end that he realized that he was still on the line.
“What do you want?” Frank asked.
“I’m in Halifax.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“Then talk.”
Dr. Carlson rolled his eyes. He had always preferred Frank when he was drunk. He was much more laid back after he’d had a few.
“I’m looking for a partner to help start up my work again,” Dr. Carlson said.
He hoped the positive words like “partner” and “help” would tug on Frank’s heartstrings.
“I’m not interested.”
It didn’t work.
“Frank, listen. I’m sorry about my behavior in the past. I should have listened to you and gotten help when you told me to,” Dr. Carlson said.
“And you shouldn’t have thrown that coffee pot at my head.”
“Is that what it was? I thought it was a remote.”
“A remote wouldn’t have given me nine stitches.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I was remembering sixteen stitches for some reason. Where should I meet you?”