by Tim Powers
“I want you to know,” said the old man abruptly, “that I hate my father too.”
“Why do you want me to know that?” asked Marrity.
“It’s something you and I have in common. For a father to just leave his poor wife and children—what excuse could there be?”
Marrity laughed in evident surprise. “Well, you tell me, old man. I can’t think of one. Not blackmail and the threat of imprisonment, for example. I wouldn’t abandon Daphne to avoid those things.”
“No, I know you wouldn’t. Not even to save your soul. I know you wouldn’t.”
“To save my—” Her father seemed to consider getting angry, then just relaxed and laughed. “No, not even to do that.”
The old man spread his shaky hands and frowned. Daphne wondered if he was quite awake yet, after his nap.
“Eventually it winds up costing everything,” he said. “But remember I hate the old man as much as you do.”
Marrity was frowning. “Which old man? Your father, or…my father?”
“That one,” the old man mumbled, nodding.
Daphne heard the front door slam inside the house, and then there were footsteps coming through the kitchen.
“Who’s here?” came her uncle Bennett’s voice from the dimness beyond the open back door. “Why is the door unlocked? Frank? Daphne?”
“Out back, Bennett,” said her father loudly. He gave Daphne a look, and she knew he meant Good thing we didn’t start prying up the bricks.
She imagined the two of them on their knees in the shed—covered with mud and with a treasure chest full of gold coins half exposed in a hole under the bricks, blinking up in confusion at her grandfather and Uncle Bennett—and her father smiled at her before looking back to the back door.
Daphne wondered if her uncle Bennett would yell at her father again about coming here without him and Aunt Moira—but, in fact, he didn’t seem upset.
Bennett was standing there on the back step, blinking and smiling nervously. “Well, this is lucky!” he said. “I got a free bicycle from an ad shoot, and I was going to give it to you next time I saw you, Daphne! But I’ve got it right outside, in a van!”
A van, thought Daphne. A free bicycle. If this was a stranger, I’d run away as fast as I could. She could feel reflexive caution in her father too.
But, “Okay,” she said. “Thanks!”
“I’ll go look too,” her father said, stepping forward. Daphne stared hard at his briefcase on the cement, and he hurried back to pick it up. “Thanks,” he muttered.
“Yes,” said Bennett eagerly, “you come look too, Frank.”
“I’ll come too,” said her grandfather, and Bennett jumped, clearly noticing the old man in the shadows for the first time.
“Who are you?” Bennett asked.
The old man didn’t answer, and didn’t seem to want to look at Bennett.
“He’s my father,” said Marrity.
Bennett frowned at the old man. “Moira’s father?”
Marrity nodded. “Probably he inherits the place, actually. All Grammar’s stuff.”
Bennett touched the lapel of his jacket. He started to say something, then just said, “Fine! Let’s go look at the bike!”
Daphne and her father followed Bennett through the musty-smelling kitchen and living room to the front door. As Bennett pushed aside the creaking screen door and stepped out onto the porch, Daphne saw two vehicles parked in the shade of the big old curbside jacaranda: a brown van and a gray compact car. A man with a white brush cut sat in the driver’s seat of the compact.
“That’s the—producer, in the car,” said Bennett, almost babbling. “His name’s Sturm.”
Daphne’s grandfather had followed them out onto the porch. “Sturm?” he said gruffly. “Where’s Mr. Drang?”
Daphne knew that Sturm und Drang was some kind of German literary term, but Bennett blinked at the old man in confusion. “How do you know them?” Again he slapped at the lapel of his jacket, as if to be sure something was still in his pocket. “Have you made a deal with them?”
“Relax, Bennett,” the old man said, still not looking at him. “Life—trust me—is too short.”
As Bennett led the group from the house down the walkway, the Sturm man was getting out of the car, smiling like a chef on a label, and Daphne noted that the man’s gray suit looked expensive but didn’t really fit his figure. Bennett stepped ahead of the others, apparently wanting to talk to him.
Daphne’s grandfather was staring at Sturm, and his mouth was open in evident dismay.
He turned to Daphne and her father. “Run,” he said quietly. “This is the crowd that tried to shoot you this morning.”
Peering around the old man’s shoulder, Daphne saw Sturm squinting at them, ignoring Bennett, and he reached into his jacket and opened his mouth.
Daphne’s father had grabbed her hand and yanked her back, but she saw Bennett brace himself and then drive his fist very hard into Sturm’s stomach.
“Wait, Dad!” she yelled. She heard her father’s heels tear the grass as he halted.
The white-haired man folded and tumbled facedown onto the sidewalk pavement, and Bennett was right on top of him, fumbling inside the man’s jacket.
The door to the van rumbled back, and two younger men in T-shirts hopped down to the sidewalk—then stopped. Bennett, crouching above Sturm, was holding a pistol, pointing it at them.
“Get in the car!” Bennett screamed. He hammered the butt of the pistol down onto the back of Sturm’s head, and Daphne flinched at the sudden hard pop of a gunshot.
But her father was pulling her toward Sturm’s now empty gray car, and Bennett was on his feet and running around toward the driver’s side. As if the accidental shot had taken away his inhibitions, Bennett paused before getting into the car and fired the gun three times at the van; Daphne saw dust fly away from the left front tire and then the van sagged on that side.
Her father had yanked open the back door and bundled her and his briefcase into the backseat and slid in behind her. Bennett was in the driver’s seat, and without even closing the door he twisted the ignition key and jerked the engine into gear.
The car’s back door was still open, and Daphne struggled up to look out at her grandfather, but the old man was backing away, toward the house.
“Wait for my grandfather!” said Daphne. “Get in!” she yelled at him over her father’s shoulder.
The old man shook his head. “No,” he said clearly.
A slim, dark-haired woman in sunglasses had stepped out of the van and seemed to be staring very hard at the people in the car.
Her grandfather saw the woman too. “Go!” he yelled, waving them on.
The tires screeched as Bennett gunned the engine and steered away from the curb. The back door swung shut.
Though her ribs were aching, Daphne was craning her neck to look out the back window. The woman held up a hand, either waving or signaling the men in the van not to shoot. Daphne didn’t wave back.
“Did you make a deal with those people?” Bennett yelled as he pulled his door closed. He turned right onto the wider street at the end of Batsford. “Sell them something Grammar had?”
“No,” said Marrity, helping Daphne straighten up on the seat. “Belt, Daph!” he said. Acceleration pressed them both back against the vinyl upholstery. Daphne fumbled for her seat belt, noticing a burnt smell in the air. Maybe it was the tires.
“They paid me,” panted Bennett, “they want you and Daph real bad. I think—I saw he had a gun—I think they want to kill you! Shit. Shit. Now they’ll want me real bad! Maybe I can just give ’em back the money.” Daphne saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, glaring. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know,” Daphne’s father said, tucking his briefcase down in front of his knees and groping to find his own seat belt, “but there’s a guy I’ve got to call. Are you heading for the police station? Take a left on Colorado.”
“Yes. No.” Bennett was b
reathing hard. “Do you want to go to the police? Your father’s back there.”
“He knows them,” said Marrity. “And he didn’t want to come with us.” He bit his lip, and Daphne got a quick vision of the old man pushing the sunglasses lady from behind, in the hospital lobby. “He didn’t want to come,” he said again. “Actually I should call this guy, before we go to the cops.”
There was a familiar shoe box by Daphne’s foot, and she kicked the lid off it—and squeaked in surprise. Bennett swerved in the traffic lane, then angrily said, “What now?”
“Rumbold!” she said. “Daddy, they’ve got Rumbold here!”
Her father peered over her at the open box on the floor, and his face went blank with surprise. “What the hell?”
“You mean the teddy bear?” Bennett’s voice was loud. “Burned up?”
“Yes,” said Daphne’s father, “her teddy bear. We buried it. Why do they have it?”
“They probably saw you bury something.” Bennett sped up as they passed a Holiday Inn. “They want something from you.”
It took Daphne a moment to realize that her father was picturing the videocassette she’d taken from Grammar’s VCR, because she was picturing it too. And her father was also picturing a sheaf of creased yellowed papers. The Einstein letters, she was sure.
“I’ve got to stop and call Moira,” said Bennett as he made a rocking left turn onto Colorado. “Tell her to leave work right now and meet us at the Mayfair Market on Franklin, in Hollywood. We’ll be there before she is, we can wait for her. We’re all in some real trouble, I hope you know that.”
Daphne wondered how he could imagine that they might not know that.
“And then what?” asked Marrity.
“I know a place where we can all hide, and decide what to do. Hollywood Hills, panoramic view with Hollywood sign and easy access.” He sighed. “I’ve still got the keys to the place.”
Bennett had turned right, onto a street called Garfield, but now he sped right past the police station and the high red dome of City Hall, and made a left turn onto a broader street.
Daphne stared out the left-side rear window at the white headstones of a cemetery wheeling past. For a moment she thought of asking Bennett to stop so that she could bury Rumbold there, but she just sighed and kept silent.
Charlotte could joggingly see herself standing on the sidewalk, and Rascasse lying facedown on it, as Golze hurried up, staring.
“Backup car says sixty seconds,” Golze panted. “Bradley shot him?”
“No,” said Charlotte, “he hit him with the butt of the gun, and the gun went off. The bullet went into the tree, I think.” Through Golze’s downward-staring eyes she noted the red blood trickling down through Rascasse’s spiky white hair to puddle on the sidewalk pavement under his chin. She was mildly surprised to find that she didn’t feel anything at all about him.
“Have the boys be ready to lift him,” Charlotte said.
“I may do that,” Golze snapped, “or I may leave him right here. I think he’s dead.”
Golze’s vision shifted to the right, and focused on the old man who had refused to get into Rascasse’s hijacked car with the Marrity family.
“Who are you?” Golze asked.
“He’s the guy who was driving the Rambler,” said Charlotte. “Frank Marrity’s father.” And he gave me an awful shove, she thought, this morning at the hospital.
The old man smiled, though his face went blank again when Golze said, “Bullshit, we killed Marrity’s father in ’55, in New Jersey. Who are you?”
The old man licked his lips. “Do you have Frank Marrity’s fingerprints?”
“Yes,” said Golze.
The old man visibly took a deep breath. “Good, you’ll want to check this. I’m Frank Marrity, the same guy who just drove away in that car, but I’m from the year 2006. I want to make a deal with you people.”
For several long seconds Golze’s gaze was fixed on the old man, and Charlotte stared right along with him. Her face tingled, but she couldn’t tell if it was hot or cold.
I knew it was possible, she thought breathlessly, I knew Rascasse and Golze were on the track of something that could be attained. I can save my young self, save her vision, save her soul from all my sins…if this guy isn’t lying.
The old man who claimed to be Frank Marrity licked his lips again. “Killed my father?—in 1955! Why?”
Charlotte’s view of him was blacked out for a moment: Golze had blinked heavily. “Ask the dead guy on the sidewalk there,” Golze said. His gaze swung back toward the van, and one of the men who had been inside it was growing in apparent size as he strode up to them.
The man waved back over his shoulder. “Car’s here.”
“Frisk this guy,” said Golze, nodding toward the old man, “then get Rascasse into the car. Charlotte and Hinch and the old guy come with us in the car, you and Cooper stay with the van. Tell the cops one of those guys was shooting at the other, missed and hit the van’s tire. You don’t know who they were. Give a bad description of them, and of the car. Say we were just strangers who stopped to help, and drove off with this injured guy to find a hospital. You don’t know who anybody was. You’re bewildered and angry, right? Toss your guns in the car trunk right now.”
Golze turned to the street, where a white four-door Honda was slanting in ahead of the van, so Charlotte switched her attention to the man Golze had been talking to, who now proceeded to pat down the old man.
She was still dizzy. As she watched the hands slap and slide over the potbellied torso and the new-looking clothes, Charlotte wondered if this could really be Frank Marrity from…nineteen years in the future. If he was, the years had not been kind. How was your light spent, Frank? she thought. In what dark world and wide? You’re a nice-looking guy in ’87—what happened?
A hand grabbed her elbow from behind, and she reflexively switched attention—Golze was looking at her, pulling her toward the car.
“You in back on the left,” Golze said to her, “Marrity in the middle, Rascasse on the right. Hurry.”
Rascasse wasn’t dead—when he had been hoisted up and was being folded into the Honda, he raised his blood-smeared face and muttered something in French.
“Oh la la,” said Golze, shoving the old man’s head down to get him into the car, then wiping his hand on the shoulder of Rascasse’s suit.
As she hurried around to get in on the other side, Charlotte was thinking about the little girl she had waved to in the fleeing car. Charlotte had seen her through Golze’s eyes and then jumped to the girl’s viewpoint—and it had been the girl’s viewpoint, because Charlotte had seen herself behind the car, on the fast-receding sidewalk—but suddenly she had glimpsed a quick image of the little girl herself, up close, in profile.
It only seems to happen with Frank Marrity and his daughter, thought Charlotte as she slid into the seat next to the old Frank Marrity and pulled the door closed, this falling into one viewpoint from the other. What does that mean?
And why did I wave at her?
Seventeen
Shit,” said Bennett shrilly, “a cop.”
In the backseat next to Daphne, Marrity didn’t look around. “Has he got his lights on?” They were driving north on Fair Oaks Avenue, over the bridge that spanned the 210 freeway.
The stolen car rocked as Bennett hit the brakes.
“No, but he’s right behind us! How fast was I going just now? What if he pulls us over? I haven’t called Moira yet! And I’ve got fifty thousand dollars in my pocket! My God, what have you people done to me? You fucking Marritys—”
“Lay off the brake and just drive straight,” Marrity said sharply.
“This car is stolen! I’ve got a gun in my pocket! And it was fired only a few minutes ago! Oh Jesus—” His hands were visibly shaking on the steering wheel.
Beside Marrity, Daphne turned around and knelt on the seat to look out the back window.
A moment later Marrity heard a muffled boom, and
with a sudden cold chill in his stomach he guessed what had happened. He twisted around to look, and sure enough there was a car receding behind them, its hood up and billows of steam whipping around it in white veils.
“Make the first—” Marrity began.
“The police car blew up!” interrupted Bennett.
“I know. Make the first right turn you can, and pull over. I’ll drive.” Marrity smelled burning plastic.
“Jesus, now the car’s on fire!”
“It’s just your ashtray,” said Marrity, feeling ready to vomit. His own hands were shaking now. “It’ll—”
“It’s the stereo,” said Daphne. “There isn’t an ashtray.”
“Get off this street and park, dammit!” said Marrity loudly.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” said Daphne, “I thought I had to!”
“Maybe you did, Daph.” They swayed on the seat as Bennett wrenched the car into a right turn. Marrity wasn’t sure his anger and dismay were justified, and he tried to keep them out of his mind, where Daphne could sense them. “Are the cops all right?”
Daphne was crying now. “Y-yes, I just grabbed the radiator!”
Bennett had turned right on Villa, and now steered the car to an abrupt stop against the curb. Black smoke was pouring up from the dashboard and curling under the windshield.
“I think we just abandon this car,” said Marrity, levering open the right-side door and grabbing his briefcase. “Come on, Daph.”
“I’ve got to bring Rumbold!”
“Sure, bring Rumbold.”
Bennett climbed out of the car, and Marrity took Daphne’s free hand and began striding away up the sunlit Villa Street sidewalk.
“Did Daphne blow up the cop car?” Bennett demanded breathlessly, catching up with them.
“Bennett, that’s crazy,” snapped Marrity. “Don’t go crazy now.” He peered ahead, not wanting to look back at the car. “I see some stores. Is that fifty thousand dollars of yours in cash?”
“Of course not,” said Bennett. “But you asked her if the cops were all right, and she said—”
