Because it can’t be real.
“Rembrandt?” It’s Frankie. I can’t look at her. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” I say. “But thanks.”
She doesn’t leave though, just standing there beside me. And maybe there’s a cruel streak in me because I say, straight out, no emotion. “She was pregnant.”
Frankie sucks in her breath. “Oh, Rem.”
I lift a shoulder.
And before you think I’m too nonchalant, that I don’t care, you know what I’m thinking, don’t you? I’m guessing you’re thinking the same thing.
I have a plan. Only the fact that I was under heavy painkillers, and generally supervised by Danny, has slowed me down. I have the watch. And I’m going back.
I’ve figured out when, too.
I’ll go back to the day of Booker’s death. I’ll save him, and me, and keep Danny from becoming chief. I’ll propose to Eve and keep proposing until she says yes. Then I’ll track down Leo Fitzgerald.
And I will kill him.
I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t have a choice.
He’s going to kill forty-three women, two cops, my wife and my daughter. What would you do?
The world is a better place without Leo Fitzgerald and his crazy alter-ego Johnny.
This is justice. And yes, Eve is in my head, telling me I’m better than this, but I don’t think I am.
In fact, I know I’m not. Eve made me better.
And Eve isn’t here.
“I don’t know why this terrible thing has happened,” Frankie says softly. Her hand is on my arm. “But I do know that God has a plan.”
I give her a look. “Really?”
“C’mon, Frankie, I’ll take you home,” Zeke says. He holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Call us if you need anything.”
Frankie hugs me, gently. “I’m so sorry, Rem. But yes, really.”
I nod, give her a small smile. I know they’d all like it if I pretended to be okay, so I’ll try to.
At least for the next hour.
But what kind of plan is this, God? God has a plan? I hate those words. And most of what the pastor said at the service about eternity and hope and heaven.
Any hope I have I hold in my hands.
Shelby and Burke say goodbye too, and I press my hand on Daphne’s head, lean down and kiss it. I really hope I don’t steal this from them.
They leave and Bets is still cleaning, and Danny has gone to his office. Eve’s brothers are all in town, Lucas and his family from Chicago, and Jake, from his posting in the Navy. They’re staying with Sams and Asher.
I’m still soggy from the funeral, probably down to my soul, but I’m ready. “Bets,” I say, walking over to her. She’s been crying, her eyes puffy, but Bets is every bit as strong as her daughter was. “Thank you for everything you did for me—us—today.”
She looks up at me, gives me a sad smile and touches my hand. “Rembrandt, you are a son to us. That hasn’t changed.”
My throat tightens and I nod. I hope I still am in the future. I pull off my tie as I head upstairs.
Every time I jump, I return back in the same place, so I’ve figured it out. I’ll drive to the house, and jump there, and if all goes well, our house will be intact and Eve will be waiting for me.
And maybe—Oh, God, please—Ashley.
I can see it, can’t you?
I throw the tie on the bed and go over to the cold case files. From past jumps, I have to have the case in my hand, or near it, I think. And be wearing the watch.
I rifle through the case files and find Booker’s shooting. Before Booker was shot, the perp killed the clerk, so I’ll have a few minutes to save Booker.
This is going to work. It has to work.
I tuck the file under my arm, grab the gift bag, still on the nightstand, and head outside to Danny’s truck, nabbing the keys off the ring by the door as I leave.
I suppose I should ask if I can borrow his ride, but what does it matter? If it works I’m going to be gone anyway.
The house is still untouched. I stand in the rain imagining Eve sitting on the porch, tying her shoes before a run. Ashley drawing in chalk on the front walk. Me, the light on in the den window, typing away in my fruitless efforts to be a novelist.
I will get my life back.
The door is unlocked, and I push my way inside, to the smell of creosote and wet wood and sit on the stairs. Put the file on my lap.
Then I open the bag and pull out the box. It’s a watch box, inlaid with wood and marble—fancy. But maybe the right place for Booker to store something so precious, an ancient watch that can help a guy change time.
Booker is in my head. Here are the rules. The biggest one, the one that is never, ever to be broken…Don’t change the past.
Whatever.
As I open the watch case, he’s still talking. The watch was created to find answers, bring closure. To solve cases. And keep people from suffering.
And I’m suffering.
I open the watch box.
My heart rate spikes. What—?
It’s not the watch. I mean, it’s a watch—from when he became police chief. It’s a nice watch, a Rolex, of course. It’s gold and looks as expensive as I’m sure it is.
But it’s not our watch. My watch. The watch.
I stare at it, a band circling my chest. Panic claws the insides of my skull, leaving lines.
Maybe he was buried with it. Frankie’s words zero back to me.
Frankie. Maybe she knows where it is. I just didn’t describe it well enough. Of course she’d think of this watch, right?
I pull out my cell phone and scroll down. Frankie isn’t in my contacts. But Zeke is.
And he’s taking her home. I pull his name up, dial and steady my voice as he picks up.
“Rem?”
“Zeke, hey,” I say. “I have to talk to Frankie—”
“Sure, I’ll put her on.”
“No!” I take a breath. “I mean, face to face. Can I come over?”
A pause. “Sure. I guess.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Frankie’s place.”
I make a face and then, what do I have to lose? “Can you text me her address? I don’t remember it.”
“Yeah.” There’s no suspicion in his voice.
I hang up, and by the time I’m in the truck, the text comes in. She’s on Hopkins street, just down the road.
The rain has slowed to a miserable drizzle. Her house is a tiny gray bungalow with the garage off the alley. I park at the curb and head to the front door.
Hit the doorbell.
The light turns on and Frankie opens the door. I’m standing out of the rain, under a small awning. She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants, a T-shirt, and slippers. Her hair is down, and her eyes are red. She’s been crying.
“Rem. Do you want to come in?”
I shake my head. “Frankie, I need Booker’s watch.”
She frowns. “But I gave you his watch—”
“Not the right watch!” Oh. I didn’t mean to yell, I don’t think. She recoils and Zeke appears at the door.
“Rem, are you okay?”
I’m shivering now, and I shove my shaking hands into my pockets. “Yes. No.” I look at them. “Sorry.” They just stare at me. “Listen. Booker used to have this watch. It was old. Very old. It had a worn leather band, and an open face, so you could see the gears, and it didn’t work.”
She shakes her head.
“He wore it every single day. You have to remember it!”
“Rem,” Zeke says, and now he steps in front of her. “You’re sorta freaking out here. Take a breath.”
“Why would he wear it if it didn’t work?” Frankie says, pushing Zeke back.
“Because—it—it does work. And I need it.” And I might be crying a little, gimme a break, I can’t stop. “I need it, Frankie. I have to have that watch.”
I take a step forward and lift my
hand, as if to grab her wrist, but Zeke steps in front of her. “Listen, Rem. She doesn’t have it, okay? And you’re scaring her.”
Maybe I am, because her eyes are wide, and she’s backed away.
“Frankie, I’m sorry, but I have to have that watch.” And now I can’t breathe. I bend over, taking in heavy gulps.
“Hey, why don’t you come in,” Zeke says. “Or, let me drive you home.”
“No!” I stand up, still breathing hard. “I—no. I’m fine.” I turn and stalk back out to the truck.
Maybe he was buried with it.
I saw Frankie wander off today, stand over a grave. It might have been her mother’s.
But it might have also been Booker’s.
I head back to the Mulligans.
It has to be done.
I find a shovel in the garage, throw it in the back of the truck and pull out.
It’s the only way.
Eve is buried in a cemetery not five minutes from her parents’ home, in a family section. It’s next to an elementary school, and at the edge of a park, and I suppose the fact that she might hear children playing should comfort me.
Not in the least.
I pull up, and the chain link gate is closed, the place cordoned off by fencing.
Not a problem. I throw the shovel over and leap the fence, still in my dress pants and shoes. The ground is soggy, muddy, so it’ll be soft. Good for digging.
That’s just where I’m at.
Her grave is easy to find. They’ve closed up the dirt, but a green blanket lays over the mound. I don’t even pause as I walk by.
This is not my world.
I stalk over to where I saw Frankie wander, and read the gravestones, shining my phone light on each one.
Booker’s is a black marble stone, stately and fierce, but I would have expected something a little more rough-hewn. Something made of granite, maybe, chiseled out with a pick.
But at least he’s here.
I set my shovel in the ground, and it gives.
Stop. I know this is a crime. But…
It might be buried with him.
I start digging. The ground is dense, heavy and impossible. But I move the dirt, digging down, then across, then down again. I slip, getting into the hole, and my entire body is muddy. My shirt, my pants.
My face.
The rain and mud mixes with tears that I can’t stop. I just keep digging.
It’s an hour, maybe more, by the time I hit something. My shovel pings, the sound of it dull in the night and rain, which has died to a fine mist.
I hit it again. And then I realize.
Cement.
Of course. His casket is encased in cement. I close my eyes. And then, I release a sound that frightens even me. It’s soul wrenching and raw and I heave the shovel out of the hole and fall to my knees in the grave.
“You did this! You did this, you stupid…” I have words, but they aren’t enough, and all I can do is lean over, my forehead to the cement, my hands over my head, and weep.
I wish this damn watch had never come to me. That I didn’t let my regrets tell me how to live my life.
That I chose happiness instead of the what-ifs.
I was wrong. There are happy endings.
I had one.
“Oh wow—Rembrandt!” The words come from above, and I’m too wrecked to be ashamed that Zeke and Frankie have found me in a muddy hole, kneeling on the grave of a man who destroyed my life.
I sit up, lifting my face to the drizzle.
“What are you doing?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I’m doing nothing.” My voice is eerily hollow.
Zeke holds an umbrella over Frankie, who is wearing a slicker. But, she’s holding a box. “I found this.”
I glance at it, at Zeke, and then back to her. “What is it?”
“Come out of there,” Zeke says.
I almost don’t take his hand as he reaches down. But I finally let him pull me from the grave.
Frankie is standing a few paces back, surveying the destruction. “I’m sorry, Rembrandt. I didn’t understand…I would have—”
“Give him the box, Frankie,” Zeke says.
It’s a file box, and she sets it down in front of me. “They sent this over about a year after his death. My mom put it in the closet and after she died, I just…I just moved it with my things. I didn’t realize that…”
I’m staring at her. “What?”
“It’s his things. From the day he died. The police had them for evidence for a while. But they finally released them to my mom.”
I’m still sorting out her words as I crouch and lift the cover from the box. Inside, in baggies, are his clothes. His pants, still blood stained, his shirt, also stained. His badge is in another bag, his wallet in yet another.
And in yet another, way on the bottom, under his shoes, a tiny bag that holds a watch with an old leather band. I pull it out.
Swallow.
“Is that it?” Frankie says, also crouching. She reaches for it, and I look at her. “I’ll give it back.”
My hand trembles as I drop it into hers. She rubs her thumb over the face, through the plastic. “It is old.”
“I don’t get it, Rem,” Zeke says slowly. “Why do you need this watch?” He’s looking at the desecration of the grave, then at me. And I have a lot of explaining to do.
And you know, I don’t care. I’m tired. Tired of the lies and of dodging the truth. I’m just…tired. “It’s a time-travel watch. It lets the wearer travel in time, solve cold cases—”
“Fix the past,” Frankie says. She doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. Just takes a breath and nods.
Like she knows. Or at least, isn’t completely wigged out by this idea. She hands me back the watch. “Have you…used it before?”
That is not the question I expected. I take a breath, and whisper, “Yes.”
Glance at Zeke. He’s considering my words, a strange expression on his face. “You’ve changed the past.”
I nod.
“Which changes the future,” Frankie says. “You can stop Eve from getting murdered.”
I hope so. Again, I nod.
Zeke is looking so hard at me, it feels like he might be looking through me. Finally, “How does it work?”
“Not now, Zeke,” Frankie says, her hand on his arm.
He takes a breath. Nods. “Will we know?”
I think there’s more to his question, fears about him and Frankie, and maybe even his life.
“No,” I say. “But I already…well, if all goes well, then maybe, Frankie, you don’t grow up without your father.”
She nods slowly and gets up. “Are you going now?”
I blow out a breath. Look at the grave. “Yeah. Soon.”
“Get out of here,” Zeke says. “Before someone shows up and sees the mess you made.” He offers a tiny grin. Something releases inside of me, as if suddenly I have partners, or at least friends.
I look at Frankie. “Thank you.”
She’s holding Zeke’s hand. “Go save my dad.”
I start to walk, then sprint in the slippery grass, back to the truck. Get inside. I know I should probably go somewhere…safe. But then again, who knows where that is, really, anymore. And I can’t wait. With shaking hands, I open the baggie and pull out the watch.
The band is worn and soft, and I put it on, tighten it down. It’s an old friend.
Please, please work.
I won’t go for long. Just to save Booker, propose to Eve. Maybe take down a tree.
And kill Leo Fitzgerald.
And then I’ll come back to a life I can live with.
My chest is tight, and I’m blowing out hard against a surge of panic, maybe anticipation.
I need this to work more than I need my heart to beat.
I pick up the file, still on the seat.
Then I wind the watch, close my eyes and pray.
The epic series continues with Rembrandt Stone in two months
. Check out a sneak peek of book five. Join us in October for the next installment.
Blood from a Stone - Preview
This is not my world.
Not my life.
Not my time.
Sure, it resembles a life I knew—from the snow piled up along the blackened, salted streets, the icy wind buffeting the frosty diner window, to the sound of Celine Dion singing how her heart will gone on, and even the smell of oil in the fryers of the late-night diner. It could be any one of the diners I used to frequent in downtown Minneapolis after a long day of investigations.
But this is not my life.
My life is twenty years in the future, and right now, if fate were kind, or even fair, I would be reading Llama, Llama, Red Pajama to my seven year old blonde cherub as she clutches a ratty one-eyed bear named Gomer and tells me to slow down, to read it again.
My gorgeous wife, Eve would be standing in the doorway, of our partially remodeled craftsman located in a suburb of uptown. Or maybe she’d be across the hall in our king bed, bundled up in her wool socks and thick bathrobe, her reading glasses down on her nose, deep in the latest issue of the Journal for Forensic Scientists.
Downstairs, the light in my den would be on, the cursor at my computer blinking, waiting for me to continue my half-finished novel.
And I would be happy. Until now, I wouldn’t realize how happy, but as I sit here, I know.
I had a happy ending.
This is not it. But this time around, if I’m smart, I’ll win.
I must win.
To time travelers, until you’ve been someplace for a long time, traveling feels like a game. We jump into the moment, armed with knowledge we shouldn’t possess, the older and wiser versions of ourselves, with the goal of rewriting our lives, this time for the better.
For us, the game isn’t win or lose, but rather, scored on the what-ifs that we grab, the shoulda’s we accomplish. And, all the while, in the back of our minds, if we make a wrong move, we’re buoyed by the surety it can be reset.
It’s taken me four rounds, but this time I know.
This is not a game.
Time is playing for keeps and there’s no reset if I fail.
But don’t worry—this time, I will not be bested.
I swear it on my life.
Set in Stone Page 17
