Set in Stone

by David James Warren

  I pull onto Louisiana and hit the brakes, nearly sliding under the ER canopy.

  The cruiser pulls up behind me, but I ignore it and get out.

  Blood covers the back of my seat, and Eve is glaring at me, but I reach in and pull Shelby out, swing her again into my arms.

  The ER door slides open and I’m nearly running as Shelby writhes in my arms. “Help! We need help!”

  A nurse arrives, then an intern in scrubs and I put Shelby down on the first gurney I find.

  Eve takes her hand and I step back as the nurse pulls a curtain.

  Then I’m standing in the hallway of the ER, adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

  “Rembrandt!” My name echoes down the hallway.

  I turn and see a cop heading my way. And I’m nonplussed because I know him.

  Beefy Jimmy Williams, beat cop. His death, three years ago, was why I quit the force.

  His death and the fact I didn’t want to leave my daughter without her father.

  Sure, call it fear, but like I said, it’s getting easier for me to untangle the truths from my heart.

  “Is it Eve?” He glances into the room.

  “Shelby.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Is she going to be okay?”

  We can both hear her behind the curtain, making noises that no man wants to hear.

  Jimmy is quiet beside me. Then, “Sorry if this is bringing back memories for you.”

  I glance at him and he clamps a hand on my shoulder like we’re old friends.

  The curtain slides back and Shelby is hooked up to an I.V. and being wheeled out of the room. She has her eyes closed and is wearing an expression that seeps inside me, into my bones.

  Turns them fragile.

  Eve comes out and slips her hand into mine. Watches as Shelby disappears through the door at the end of the hall. “I know you’re thinking about her.”

  I’m silent because I know she’s not talking about Shelby.

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye.

  She turns to me. “You can admit it, Rem.” She touches my face, her eyes wet. “You can admit that you miss her.”

  And my body goes hard and ice cold because for a second, another memory flashes.

  I’m in the hospital with Eve, sitting with her on the bed and she’s holding a baby. Our baby.

  Ashley.

  I know this memory. Or do I?

  She leans her head against my chest. “I’m trying not to think about her … so hard. But being here, I can’t keep the images away.”

  I swallow, and I can’t take it. “Who?”

  Her intake of breath tells me I’ve hurt her, and the look on her face is a potent mixture of pain and confusion.

  And I know the answer even before Eve responds. It’s no longer a feeling. It’s a certainty seeping through me like a poison.

  “Who do you think?” Her voice is soft, but her eyes are sharp. “Who else would I be thinking about but our daughter—”

  No, please—

  “Ashley.”

  I stare at her.

  And then I see it. The tiny grave marker that has never been a part of my body of true memories.

  She was here. And now she’s gone. I am too late.

  2

  Back in my early days, I met the dawn with a morning run, a workout at Quincy’s gym, and a bran (okay, yeah, sometimes blueberry) muffin from the Dayton Deli.

  Those days feel painfully close as I stand at the window, watching the dawn press against the windows of the skyline, glinting gold and rose.

  I’ve been back forty-eight hours, and I’m already itching to return to the past. To find a timeline I can live in, one where my daughter still exists.

  And, of course, to hunt down Leo Fitzgerald.

  But I can’t, remember? I nearly reach for my wrist to rub the watch, a habit I’ve picked up, and I recall John Booker doing the same.

  Maybe he had the same itch.

  “I guess this makes you chief.”

  I turn at Burke’s statement, my hands in my pocket. I feel run over, stiff and grimy, whiskered, crabby and Eve’s words from last night are still irking me. “You’ve wanted this your entire life. Even before Booker died.”

  Maybe. But I know, right now, taking the job of police chief is the last thing I want to do.

  Not when the Jackson killer is still at large.

  And not when I can’t go back to stop him.

  “I suppose,” I say to him.

  Burke is sitting behind me, in a chair, holding his newborn daughter. Fatherhood looks good on him. His little girl is a tiny football in his huge hands. She has the creamy dark skin that’s an interesting mix of Burke’s midnight dark and Shelby’s creamy white complexions, and curious golden-brown hair that lays in tiny curlicues on her scalp. She’s asleep, her lips askew, and laying on Burke’s chest, skin to skin.

  A whopping six pounds, three ounces, a decent size for a child born early. And she’s perfect.

  I nearly wept seeing her tiny fingers and toes, remembering.

  Remembering is dangerous.

  Shelby is asleep in the bed, hooked to an I.V., and a heart machine, her body ravaged from the preeclampsia that nearly took her life. Her blonde hair is matted, deep shadows well under her eyes, like a warrior who’s taken a hard fall.

  There’s a ready memory tucked away that I refuse to acknowledge because Eve looked exactly this way after our Ashley, the one I know, was born. Eve had complications too, which resulted in a hysterectomy.

  But we had Ashley and we were happy.

  Wow, were we happy. I wish I’d realized it sooner.

  Now, Eve is curled up in a nearby chair, her hands against her cheek.

  With Shelby’s emergency delivery, and subsequent bleeding, we couldn’t just leave.

  I sat in the waiting room with Burke, remembering too well the time he did the same for me, in my real life, the one that’s starting to dim, too many other memories poking holes through it.

  I’m starting to harbor the fear that the fabric of my past might become too porous and the memories from this timeline will pour through.

  I’ll lose my Ashley for good.

  Shelby is stirring, and maybe she’s been awake all along because she opens her eyes and looks at me. She’s on pain killers, so I don’t take it personally when she says, “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

  She has a tone I don’t recognize, something of authority, and I suppose it’s one she’s cultivated. It calls me up, however, and I shake my head.

  “Good. Because this is the wrong time to quit on me, Stone. I need a man who knows this city, and can keep a clamp on the situation with the Malakovs until I get back.”

  The Malakovs. I nod, and the name nudges something deep inside, but it’s not a ready memory.

  “They’re still trying to connect the residue from the bomb to anything in Malakov’s history, but we’ll get it.” This from Eve, who has also woken and she’s gathering herself. “Alexander Malakov can’t declare war on the police department and get away with it.”

  She looks over at me. “You’ll get another Porsche, babe.”

  My Porsche?

  And suddenly the image of my sweet ride in flames explodes in my memory.

  That was real?

  Or, well, you know what I mean.

  I hadn’t given it much thought, really, mostly because, well, you know, it happened two lifetimes ago.

  The Malakovs. They sound Russian.

  A Russian blew up my Porsche. And declared war on my department?

  Maybe I do want this job.

  “What about Leo Fitzgerald? Where are we on the Jackson killings?” I ask, but I keep my voice easy.

  Not overly obsessed.

  Burke looks up, and the baby starts to stir. Eve is watching her, wearing an expression I can’t name.

  “We searched Hollie Larue’s body for DNA, but it came back negative.”

  Poor Hollie Larue. She�
��s died twice now.

  “What about Meggie Fox? You said she had DNA and a footprint.”

  “Meggie Fox?” Eve says. “She’s not in my file.”

  I blink.

  I hope my surprise doesn’t reach my face. “Sorry. My mistake. Different case.”

  “Professor Gunter over at University says he thinks Jackson is getting more brazen. That his cooling off periods are becoming shorter.” Eve gestures to the baby, and Burke hands her off. “He thinks he’s preparing for something bigger.”

  My wife nearly glows with a newborn in her arms. Maybe it’s because she spends so much time with death.

  “Professor Gunter?” I ask. “I don’t—”

  “Oh, c’mon Rem. He’s only been consulting on the case for the last five years. Behavioral Analyst?” She’s frowning at me even as she rocks side to side.

  “I’m just tired,” I say.

  She’s still frowning, but now cooing to the baby.

  Who else would I be thinking about but our daughter—? Her words are echoing in my ears now.

  “Jackson isn’t your job,” Shelby says from her bed. “Your job is to keep my officers safe and keep Mayor Vega from getting in the way of us doing our jobs.”

  Mayor…Mariana Vega?

  Oh, this will be fun. My last memory of her, well besides the one where she turned down my permit to build a home office over my garage, was my arrest of her son.

  We’re going to get along just swimmingly.

  The room goes quiet, however, and Eve raises eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “Just try not to get yourself into a lather every time you talk to her, okay?” Shelby says and now I’m frowning at her. Me? Lather?

  “Why?”

  “Oh please. You haven’t exactly kept your feelings to yourself about her son being paroled,” Eve says.

  Paroled. “Ramses Vega got paroled?”

  “Rem—” Eve starts, and my tone might deserve it. But, cut me a break. It felt like I put the bomber in jail just a week ago. “It’s been twenty-four years.”

  “He took twenty lives!”

  Eve is still frowning. “Twelve. I mean, not that it makes a difference, since he pleaded not guilty. But…are you okay?”

  Right. Twelve. Sure. Except. “Not guilty? Are you kidding?”

  Eve cocks her head. “Rem, he was never convicted of the murders. The proof was inconclusive. They put him in jail for the attempted murder of a cop—you.”

  “What?” And shoot, of course I know this, but, really? I brace my hands on the foot of Shelby’s bed. Shake my head. “Yes. Right.”

  “This is what I’m talking about. You can’t come unglued every time Vega’s name is mentioned,” Shelby says.

  I hold up my hands. If time travel has taught me anything, it’s that I need to keep my mouth shut and a lid on my gut reactions. “I’ll behave.” I hold up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  Burke is grinning at that, giving a little shake of his head. “That’d be better if you’d ever been a scout.”

  “So, who’s heading up the Jackson cases?” I ask. Because last go-round, I was in charge.

  “Hey! I’m just taking a day of parental leave. Sheesh. I’ve still got this,” Burke says.

  Burke’s in charge. This I can live with.

  Shelby nods. “And Zeke will keep Burke in the know if anything changes.”

  “Zeke?”

  Again, the name sounds familiar. And I get it before they have to remind me. Zeke Kincaid. A kid I mentored after I put his father in prison.

  “You gotta cut the kid some slack, Rem. He’s good. Smart. And he looks at you like you used to look at Booker,” Burke says.

  I remember seeing myself in him. Eager. Maybe a bit of a troublemaker. I liked him.

  “He wants so much to be like you, he even bought a 1997 Porsche 911,” Eve says. “You have to admit, sometimes he even dresses like you. I think you have a groupie in Zeke Kincaid.”

  The baby is starting to fuss, hungry.

  Burke stands, and helps adjust Shelby’s pillows. “Rem, maybe it’s time to let go of this a little.”

  “Let go of—”

  “You’ve looked so hard at Leo Fitzgerald, you’ve lost focus. You’ve let it consume you. These killings aren’t personal. It’s not a game he’s playing with you.”

  I don’t know why, but the words from Burke sting.

  Except, he’s probably right.

  Just because my actions birthed a killer doesn’t mean I’m in the ring with him.

  He’s a killer. I’m the Inspector trying to find him. That’s all.

  And now, maybe I’m passing that off to Burke.

  Maybe.

  “This guy Fitzgerald might not even be good for the killings,” Shelby says. “Even Eve is starting to wonder if you have the right guy.”

  “Really?” I look at her and she doesn’t meet my eyes.

  Silence, and she finally looks up at me. “He’s just…he’s a ghost. And there are things that don’t add up.”

  “Like what—”

  She raises her hand. “Rem, we’ve talked about this.”

  No, actually, we haven’t. But I can read her face. She doesn’t want a showdown here.

  Maybe she’s right.

  In fact, as I look at Burke and his baby, his sweet family, I wonder what my investigation—notice I didn’t say obsession, but I can get focused, we all know that—has cost me in this lifetime.

  I glance at Eve. No, what it has cost us.

  So, I sigh, and nod. “I’ll let Burke run the show.”

  Because, really, they’re right. This isn’t personal.

  “You’ll be great, Rem. Just, keep the place running until I get back. Six weeks, tops,” Shelby says, her gaze landing on her daughter, then Burke. Now, she gives him a smile that tells me we’re interlopers.

  “C’mon, Eve,” I say as she hands off the baby.

  Eve settles her into her mother’s arms. Lets her touch linger on the baby’s head.

  I take her hand, and she grips it as we start to walk out.

  “Hey, Rem. Don’t forget the press conference today,” Shelby says when I reach the door.

  I nod. Sure. Probably about Jackson. I’ve been here before.

  When we walk out, Eve is silent for a long time. We find the elevator and I hit the button.

  “I can’t do it, Rem.”

  I look at her and she’s wearing an odd look, her eyes watery.

  Oh no—

  “I can’t keep trying. I think…I think we should just stop.”

  I freeze, because deep in my bones, I know what she’s saying.

  “I can’t go through losing another child. And I don’t want to risk it.”

  I draw in a breath, and her question is hanging there. “Will you still love me if we never have another child?”

  Of course.

  The words hollow me out, however, as I pull her close.

  Never have another child? Never hear the laughter of a little girl, see the look in her eyes when I come home, have her throw herself into my arms? Never hold her when she cries, stand at her bedside when she’s hurt…never find myself tiptoeing into her room at night to watch her dream?

  Of course.

  The elevator dings, but I don’t care who sees us. My world is imploding, and I need someone to hold onto.

  Yet, someone has stepped out and I feel the presence behind me even before a voice says, “Boss? You okay?”

  I let Eve go and turn.

  Zeke.

  I remember him.

  The relief at this carry over from my last timeline is so rich I nearly gasp. He’s in his mid-twenties and wears his hair in a man bun. He’s built—I remember going a round with him down at Quincy’s. He has moves and can handle himself and like I said, he reminds me of me.

  I used to think that was a good thing.

  He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, his badge hanging around his neck, but he’s unshaven
and looks like he dressed fast. “Sorry to interrupt. Everything okay with the chief?”

  I nod. We’ve come through a secure area, so I’m not sure what he’s doing here. Except, Shelby’s words are hanging in my head. “Zeke will keep Burke in the know if anything changes.”

  “Do you need to see Burke?”

  He is looking past me, then back. Nods.

  “What’s going on?”

  He hesitates, then, “We found more of them. Lots more.”

  His words are shuffling around in my head. More of…

  “Except these are old. Really old. Like, twenty years or more old.”

  “Zeke,” Eve says, putting a hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?”

  I could kiss her.

  “The Jackson murders. We got an anonymous tip last night that there were more bodies and we drove out there this morning.” His mouth tightens. “We found the first one about an hour ago. And Silas and the CSI team found four more on my way here.”

  “Four more bodies.”

  “Five,” Eve the math whiz says.

  Five bodies. “Where?” I feel myself shaking, even as Eve curls her hand over my arm.

  “On an abandoned farm outside of Waconia.”

  Even as he says it, something doesn’t feel right, a coldness seeping through me.

  And that’s when Zeke stumbles. His mouth is trying to form the words—it opens, then closes, then opens again and finally, “It’s your farm, Rembrandt. The farm you grew up on. All of the bodies are buried in your backyard.”

  3

  This must be my fault. Something I’ve changed in the past. I have no other explanation.

  No one realizes this but me, of course, but the weight of it sinks into me as I stand on the edge of my family farm, watching the crime scene team dig up the past. Cadaver dogs roam the field, sniffing for more remains, as well as CSIs with ground penetrating radar machines.

  I’m holding my breath.

  You know how it is when you’re standing on the sidelines, your body buzzing as you glance at the coach, hoping he’ll put you in the game? That feeling that simmers deep inside when you know, with every thump of your heart, that if you just get your hands on the ball you can smash through the defense into the end zone?

  I’m seventeen, antsy, adrenaline hot inside me as I stand on the sidelines watching Silas O’Roarke and his crime scene team dig up the small field behind the house I grew up in.