Ellis just stared, certain he wasn’t getting everything. He was still trying to understand what Pax meant by him being from way in the past. How long ago was way? Then it sounded like Pax had said there was no more death. “What did you say?”
“Listen,” Pax began in a softened tone. “I’m sorry about all this. You’ve just been through a traumatic experience. You’re tired and not feeling well. You’re clearly a pioneer, a great scientist of some sort who’s accomplished something astounding. You’re a new Charles Lindbergh or Network Azo, and trust me, I’ll see you’re taken care of. Your very existence is amazing—”
“Impossible actually,” Cha added with disdain.
Pax went on without pause. “You should be welcomed with a parade, and a party, and I’m certain a great many people will wish to speak with you. I know you have all sorts of questions, but you need to believe me when I tell you I’m not a cop. I’m an arbitrator. I deal with general disputes between people—help them settle their differences with the least amount of bad feelings. And I help people who have experienced painful events in their lives. I was called here to see if I could help these students deal with the trauma of witnessing a dead and brutalized body. But this…is there anything else you could tell us?”
“Are you serious?”
“Right now you’re the foremost living expert.”
Ellis had never been the foremost anything. And whether he really was or not, he liked that Pax thought he might be. “I don’t know what I can offer. I don’t know anything about how things work here. All I know comes from reading crime thrillers and watching TV.” He said this even as he moved toward the body, crawling now, as standing was too much effort to consider. Cha quickly stepped back, but not as frantically as before.
The corpse looked like the bystanders, who were still shifting around to get a better look at him, except the dead person was covered in blood, cuts, and puncture wounds. Looking down, Ellis felt his dizziness rise a couple of notches. He also had a headache. He’d never seen a brutalized body before. All the dead people he’d been near were thick with makeup and tucked neatly in boxes surrounded by flower arrangements. Luckily, with the exception of the blood, which had already mostly dried, it wasn’t a very gruesome scene. No guts hanging out, no bones showing—just the mutilated shoulder, which wasn’t as bad as he had expected. The killer had dug in like a doctor to retrieve a bit of shrapnel. He knew he wasn’t going to puke, which surprised him, because his stomach had been churning for some time. He tried to focus and apply what he knew from the novels of Patricia Cornwell, Jonathan Kellerman, and the occasional episode of Law & Order or CSI. “Looks like he was stabbed to death and the killer didn’t seem to know what he was doing.”
“Why’s that?” Cha asked this time.
“Well, unless you’ve moved things around since my time, the best places to kill a person, according to most of the crime novels, would be a slice across the throat to cut the carotid artery, an upward stab under the ribs to the heart, or a stab to the base of the skull. This person was just jabbing anywhere, straight in and out. See all the puncture marks on the stomach? All of them have small openings, like he was just going for the soft spots. There was no twisting of a blade or attempt to open the wounds wide. And the victim didn’t fight back…just defended. See the cut on the arm there? Probably from trying to ward off the knife. And see the blood pool? That wound caught a larger artery there, and I bet that caused the bleed out. These others might have damaged intestines, and maybe eventually done the trick, but not nearly as fast. Might have been saved if not for that arm cut.”
“Does that make sense?” Pax asked Cha.
Cha nodded, and Ellis thought there might be reluctance there, but “Aztec Tattoo” got points for being honest.
“So the killer isn’t an expert.”
“I wouldn’t think anyone alive these days is an expert,” Cha said. “So you haven’t narrowed anything.”
“Is there more you can tell us?” Pax asked.
Ellis got up on his knees. “Yeah—this fella’s eyes were bad. He wore glasses.”
“What did you say?”
“He or she—ah, I mean—well, I don’t really know what to…never mind. This person wore glasses. See the pinch marks along the bridge of the nose, and the little half-moons on the cheeks? Glasses do that.”
Pax looked at Cha. Both were puzzled.
“Hang on.” Ellis set down his pack, unzipped a side pocket, pulled out his reading glasses, and set them on his nose. “See. Glasses. I take them off and you can see the divots left—the little impressions.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Ellis Rogers,” Pax explained, “but no one wears glasses.”
Cha had found the courage to inch closer to peer down at the body. “I hadn’t noticed that. Something did pinch the nose, and there’s a crease along the forehead too.”
“Like a hat,” Ellis said, and pointed at Pax. “Some people still wear those, at least.”
Pax offered him a smile, and he responded with one of his own.
“So where are the glasses and hat?”
Pax and Cha looked around but found nothing.
“Killer might have taken them—but no, I don’t remember anything in his hands—oh!”
“What?” Pax asked.
“The killer—I just remembered—was missing two fingers. Right hand, I think.”
“So, whoever did it was interested in the Hive Project, had likely never killed before, and is missing two fingers. And the victim wore glasses and a hat.”
Ellis shrugged. “I told you I wouldn’t be much help.” He was feeling worse and reconsidering whether he might vomit after all.
“Actually, that’s much more than we knew five minutes ago. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And speaking of time and knowing things, what year is it?”
“Oh right.” Pax looked embarrassed. “This is the year 4078.”
“Forty seventy-eight? That’s…that’s more than two thousand…” Ellis wavered, and Pax reached out, grabbing his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Pax offered. “I didn’t realize it would be such a shock.”
“No—no—well, yes, it is, but really I—I’m not feeling very well. I think I need to lie down.” He settled to the grass, lying on his back.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cha asked.
“I told you I have a respiratory problem,” he said, looking up at the sky. “It’s called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. No one in my time knew what caused it or how to cure it, and in my case it’s terminal.”
Cha drew closer than ever before and studied him. “Are you feeling better right now?”
“Lying down, yeah. A little bit.”
“Stand up.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Do it anyway,” Cha insisted.
Ellis looked at Pax, who nodded. “Cha is a very good physician.”
Ellis pushed up and staggered, as the world swam more than before.
“Okay, okay, sit down,” Cha told him and gave up his security distance to touch Ellis on the neck. “Your skin is hot and dry. When was the last time you had something to drink?”
“Early this morning, I guess—a couple swallows.”
“And did you say you traveled down out of the forests? Five or six miles, right? That’s what you said.”
“Yeah.”
“And then passed out in the sun here?”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded.
“You may have a respiratory illness, but right now you’re suffering from sunstroke and dehydration.”
“Really?”
“Trust me, I see a lot of it. People come to the surface and don’t realize the difference a real sun makes.”
“A real sun?”
Cha ignored him and turned to Pax. “We need to get the Darwin out of the sun, into a cool place, and reintroduce fluids and electrolytes.” Cha pulled Ellis’s canteen from around his neck, unscrewed the cap, and smelled.
“It’s just water,” Ellis explained.
“Then drink,” Cha ordered.
“I’m actually feeling nauseous now.”
“Of course you are, and soon you’ll start to have trouble breathing if we don’t fix you. Now sip. No big gulps, just sips.”