Set in Stone

by David James Warren

  A crane is parked in the middle of my street as we pull up in Eve’s father’s truck. (Our Ford Escape is currently a burned-out hull in our garage.)

  A tree removal service has already severed the arms of the tree and the crane is removing the massive trunk in pieces.

  A woodchipper grinds up the debris and is shooting it into a truck.

  I’m not sure why the rattle of the machine grates on me as I get out, but it’s loud and violent and the sight of my ravaged house doesn’t help my mood.

  The tree removal service has roped off the area, but I’m heading toward the house when a hand on my arm stops me. “Whoa, there, Rem. You trying to get yourself killed?”

  Sams. He’s a big guy, and I know he can handle himself, so I don’t really want to get into it with him, but I am going in my house, thank you.

  “I need to get in there,” I say.

  Sams pulls me back, though and points to the crane overhead, which is hauling a tree across the very spot I just stood. “Just trying to keep you from getting pancaked.”

  Most of the tree is off the front part of the house, just the debris of the leaves left to clutter the demolished porch. “When will they finish?”

  He shrugs “Tomorrow?”

  I nod and head over to the crane operator. “Hey!”

  He’s the usual tough. He wears a gimme cap, a T-shirt and leans out the window, one beefy hand on the door. “Get back!”

  “That’s my house. I have to get in.”

  He frowns. There are a half-dozen other guys working the area—picking up branches, using chainsaws. A couple of them look over at me.

  “Can you take a break?”

  Crane man considers me a minute, then nods, and shuts off the crane. “Take fifteen, guys!”

  I’m not sure what convinced him—maybe I’m wearing something desperate in my expression. But as he climbs down, I head toward the ruins of my home.

  “I’m going with you!” Eve says as she runs up to me. I catch her arms. “Hon. I just need my journal.” And then, “Do you remember where I keep it?”

  She frowns at me, and I deserve that, but I’m going to have to take a chance. “In your office desk.”

  Right.

  “Be careful, Rem.”

  I mouth, “I will” and approach the steps. The front porch is precariously perched on the ancient foundation, and I tread carefully as I head inside. The place is dark, soggy and smells of smoke. It’s a good thing Eve stayed outside. The insurance man is right—it might be easier to take it down to the foundation.

  My office is at the front of the house, and still intact, although my awards have been knocked off the shelf by the power of the fire hose, and my desk is puckered. My computer is, of course, dead, the carpet soggy.

  But as I pull out my desk drawer, I see it there, on the top—the fat composition book I gave myself twenty-four years ago. The edges are worn, and as I open it, I see my handwriting. Dates, details of crime scenes, my investigations and, hopefully, enough information to fill in the swiss cheese memory of my life.

  I’m turning to go when I spot a picture I don’t recognize.

  It’s my dad and me. I’m about seventeen, and I’m standing on the ice, bundled up, holding a stringer of fish. We’re grinning.

  I pick it up and just like that, almost with a whoosh, I’m there, back in the memory.

  The lake is frozen, just like in my dream, but we’re sitting in an ice house, drinking hot cocoa, and my dad is telling my Uncle Bert a story. I don’t remember the words, but I do remember the sound of my father’s laughter. It’s like a summer wind, fresh and unexpected.

  Booker told me once that time travel was a gift. A way to give people closure. To let them live in peace.

  I didn’t believe him then, thinking I could do better.

  I was so arrogant back then. All of two weeks ago.

  Grabbing the picture, I tiptoe back out of the house.

  Crane man is standing by his truck. I lift my hand.

  He nods and gets back in.

  Eve and I stand on the street for a while, watching. “It’s just a house,” she says.

  Not on your life. But I say nothing as we finally drive to the Mulligans.

  Eve is quiet and I look over at her as we pull into the drive. “You okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says and looks at me. “I hope so.”

  I frown, but we go inside to the smell of pot roast and baked potatoes. Bets is old school, and I’ve never left their house without a solid meal in my gullet. Still, my brain is busy, and I’m feeling edgy. Although I want to dive into the journal immediately, I instead change into a pair of shorts, a shirt and running shoes and take off for a run before dinner.

  I’m not sure why, but I think reading the journal will make me feel a little like a voyeur, looking back into my past. Like the voice won’t belong to me, but a different version of myself.

  Someone I don’t really know.

  I turn my headphones onto my favorite radio station and take off at a fast clip, heading down the road past the mansions that border the lake. This part of town is more modest—older homes built in the fifties and sixties when lake property was still affordable. I pass groomed lawns, sprinklers awakening in the late afternoon. The sun will still be up for hours, but people are coming home from work. A few boaters are out on the lake, and my body is starting to slick with sweat, my pace settling into a rhythm.

  My brain is unwinding, beginning to flatten out, and Bryan Adams helps with “(Everything I Do) I Do it For You.”

  I’m so sorry, Eve. She looked wrecked as we drove home.

  I’ll build her a new house.

  We’ll make it through this. I’ve lived through three timelines to get her back.

  I won’t lose her again.

  I turn onto Cottage Wood, my gait settling into a solid rhythm.

  There’s something bothering me that I’ve never really nailed down. Why was Gretchen Anderson killed two years earlier than her previous date of death?

  Something spooked Fitzgerald.

  I met her in the emergency room, after having gone round with Fitzgerald. According to my memory, they were already dating.

  Did she confront him about our fight?

  I’m trying not to blame myself for her earlier death, but if I was looking at the case, I’d at least call me an accessory.

  I turn onto Minnetonka Boulevard and run downhill, past the school. I can’t help but glance toward the ditch where I totaled my beautiful Camaro some twenty-four years earlier and last week.

  Saved Danny’s life doing it, though. Worth it.

  Boston kicks in with, “More Than a Feeling.” I crank it and ramp up my speed.

  But it’s not so loud that I don’t hear the car coming up on my tail. An engine revs behind me, and I realize I’m on the wrong side of the road.

  I edge closer to the ditch and look over my shoulder.

  The car—a Lexus, mind you—is coming at me, dipping over the white line, arrowing toward me.

  What the—I leap into the ditch, falling and rolling down the small gully.

  The car skims the side of the road, as if it might cartwheel down after me, then rights itself and the driver floors it.

  I scramble to my feet and up to the road, hoping for a glimpse at the license plate. ENJ997.

  Maybe it was an accident, but I don’t think so, do you?

  I slow to a walk, my heartbeat on high. My body is shaking, and I bend over, holding my knees.

  Then I hear the engine again. I look up, and it’s turned around. The Lexus is black, a two-door sedan and I squint for a stupid second at the driver before I realize he’s coming for me again.

  For the love of—I take off again, angling down the ditch and this time the car slides over the side, tearing up the grass.

  I’m near the school, and it just takes two steps for me to leap for the chain link fence. I haul myself up and over just as the car bumps through the ditch behind m
e.

  I fall to the other side and the Lexus careens back to the road. Brakes squeal and he nearly front ends an oncoming car. But the other car veers into the ditch and the Lexus jerks onto the road and speeds off.

  I’m in the dirt, stunned.

  The driver of the other car has stopped. It’s a woman and she’s driving an orange Kia. She gets out, runs around her car, her hand on the hood, looking for damage.

  “I don’t think he hit you,” I say.

  She looks over at me. “Did he try to run you down?”

  I brush myself off, working my way to my feet. “I think so.”

  Her eyes are wide. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  I puff out a sarcastic laugh. “I am the police.”

  She says nothing as I climb over the fence again, staring up the street, my blood hot.

  “Are you okay?”

  She’s looking at my hands, and they’re shaking. I jam them into my pockets. “I’m fine.”

  But I’ll admit it has me unnerved. I cut through the school, then take a back street home, running faster than I need to.

  I’m still on edge as I walk into the house.

  “What happened to you?” Danny rises from a stool at the counter. I look down and see that I’m bleeding—a giant scrape down my calf. Probably from where I went over the fence.

  “Someone tried to run me down,” I mutter. Bets is in the kitchen too and she grabs a couple paper towels and hands them to me.

  “You might need a stitch or two.”

  I study the cut. “It’s just a scrape.”

  “Someone tried to run you down?” Danny says now. “Did you get plates?”

  “ENJ997.” I rattle the numbers off to him, and he writes them down.

  “I’m on this,” he says and disappears into his office next to the kitchen.

  “Is Eve upstairs?” I ask Bets.

  She nods. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

  I try not to leave a bloody trail up the stairs as I climb to the second floor, hit the bathroom, find the first aid kit and bandage the wound. Then I strip off my running clothes and jump in the shower.

  I’ve stopped shaking by the time I get out, the residual adrenaline pooling in my gut. I hope Danny found an ID.

  I check out the gunshot wound Gene mentioned in the mirror and find at least two scars I don’t remember, one on my shoulder. The other on my thigh.

  Maybe I should just be glad this old body still works.

  I wrap a towel around my hips and head into the bedroom.

  Eve is standing at the window, looking out at the lake.

  “Hey,” I say, closing the door.

  She says nothing.

  “Eve?” I walk up to her, reaching out but she turns, and stiff arms me.

  Huh?

  “I knew it,” she says, her voice soft, broken. It’s now I see that she’s crying.

  “Knew what?” I say quietly, because you know how it is. I’m entering a minefield.

  “I knew you blamed me for Ashley’s death.”

  And she’s got me. Because there’s no way I’m getting out of this one. My mouth closes.

  Then I glance down, to her hand, and see that she’s holding my journal. I look back up at her. “You read that in my journal?”

  Her mouth tightens. We stand there a long moment in silence, my brain racing.

  What happened in Miami? And what does that have to do with Ashley’s death?

  “Eve,” I say, but she steps back as if I’m a leper. I hold up my hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that you meant it when you said it didn’t matter.”

  I blink at her. “I meant it,” I say quietly, hoping I did.

  She stares at me, a tear falling off her chin. “I just wish I believed you.”

  Then she tosses my journal on the bed and leaves me there, bloody and cold, standing in my towel.

  10

  I am so young. So idealistic. So arrogant.

  So full of hope.

  I’ve changed into clean shorts and a T-shirt, and after a very quiet dinner with Eve, who made a good show of acting like she’s upset about the house, I escaped to her room.

  Just me and the past.

  My story reads like it should be accompanied by Thin Lizzy singing “The Boys are Back in Town.” Like I said, I really thought I was something.

  * * *

  December 1997.

  Burke is out of the hospital, out of rehab—Gene fixed him up good—and back on the job. Shelby is still assigned to me, but she’s catching on fast. Got a medal for saving me from Hassan. Fine.

  I got a lead on Gretchen Anderson’s murder from her roommate, the address of her boyfriend, Leo Fitzgerald.

  Booker keeps pestering me about meeting him for breakfast.

  Eve has it bad for me. I think I might ask her to marry me.

  * * *

  I stare at the page. Really? Okay, kid, well done. The next date is in early January.

  * * *

  Leo Fitzgerald is in the wind. Visited this address—his mother’s place. She’s sold it and moved to Florida. No sign of Fitzgerald.

  Talked to Danny. He said yes.

  * * *

  I skim the next couple entries, about a couple cases I remember solving.

  The next entry isn’t until March. And my heart goes cold.

  * * *

  I’m finally out of the hospital. They had Booker’s service without me. No leads on the shooter. Burke’s case, but we fought about it. He might be right—I’m too close.

  But the shooter is in the wind. And I can’t help but wonder if it was Leo Fitzgerald and our unfinished business from November. I still don’t know why I went after him, but the strange out-of-body memories seem to have vanished.

  Eve said no.

  * * *

  Eve said no?

  But at least he (me? What do I even call myself?) answered my question about how my travel affects, well, my brain.

  The next few months read a little like a bad novel, me waxing poetic about Eve and my lonely life. There’s mention of a couple other women, but nothing noteworthy.

  * * *

  Then, in June of 1998,

  * * *

  Eve moved to Miami. I understand, of course, with her father the chief. She says I’m too protective. Yeah, right.

  But this is worse.

  I can’t think.

  Danny has offered me an undercover position in Duluth, working narcotics. I’m going to take it.

  * * *

  I went to Duluth? My first undercover gig was in Minneapolis, not a city up north, but as you know, things change. I page through, but the next date isn’t for five—five—years. What? And it sends a chill through me.

  * * *

  I lived. And Eve heard about it all, I know, because she called me. She was crying, even though I told her I was never in danger, but that was a lie. She misses me.

  Yeah, well, she should have never left me.

  * * *

  Rembrandt, ol’ pal, you are a certified idiot. I almost can’t turn the page, but I do.

  * * *

  Danny says I need to take some time, so, I’m in stupid Miami. It’s hot. And Eve doesn’t know I’m here, yet. I’m going to surprise her.

  Because, you know, I miss her, too.

  * * *

  I check the date. Two months later.

  Took you long enough.

  The next entry is the next day, however, and the words are in big block writing.

  * * *

  I can’t believe she did this.

  I don’t know why I came down here.

  I’m over Eve Mulligan. We’re done. Forever and ever, Amen.

  * * *

  I still.

  Did what?

  A knock, and I look up from where I’m sitting on her bed. The door opens.

  It’s Eve. “Hi.”

  I put the journal down. “Hi.”

  “How
’s your leg?”

  I look down. The bleeding’s stopped. It’s not as bad as I thought. “I’m fine.”

  “Dad says the plate comes from a stolen car. Not a Lexus.”

  “Figures.” Although, I have a few ideas who might have lifted it.

  She closes the door. “Reliving old decisions?”

  “Eve,” I say. “I know what I wrote, but I was young, and stupid and—”

  “I know.” She comes over to me. “I know, Rem. Sometimes, I just can’t help blaming myself.”

  “Why did you…” And I’m not sure what to say, except, “Why did you tell me no when I proposed?”

  She looks away. “I ask myself that a lot.” She sighs, and I don’t think I’m going to like her answer. “You’re still overprotective, Rem, but back then—I don’t know. I just never thought I’d be able to become someone with Dad—and you—hovering over me.”

  I stare at her. “Me? I don’t hover.”

  “Are you kidding me? Someone broke into my house and you…you lost it.”

  That doesn’t sound like me, does it?

  Except, there’s a tiny roil building. “Someone broke into your house. Did you expect me to stay calm?”

  “I didn’t expect you to sleep on my sofa for the next two weeks with your gun. Or stalk me home every night.”

  Shoot. Sadly, that does sound a little like me.

  “Truth is, Rem, after Booker died, after you were shot, you changed. You were…angry. And reckless. And it…it scared me.”

  I’m trying to see myself in her beautiful hazel-green eyes, see the man I was.

  Unfortunately, it’s a little too easy.

  “I know you were hurting, but I just couldn’t stand by and watch. So…”

  “So you went to Miami.”

  “And you went undercover.”

  I did, didn’t I? And probably, for sure, got in over my head. I look away, toward the window, the darkness pressing in, despite the starlight.