by Rysa Walker
That promise was, of course, a complete and total lie.
My only goal by that point was to get as much information from Julia as possible and then get the hell out of there. I don’t believe what she told me about Kiernan, and that makes me question everything else she said.
I can’t really talk about anything substantive in front of this Max guy, so I just give Trey a noncommittal nonanswer when he asks how the meeting went and lean my head against his shoulder for the ride back to Bethesda. I apparently drift off, because it seems like only seconds pass before I feel Trey gently shaking my arm.
Max stops at the spot where he picked us up. We’re halfway back to the hedge when he rolls down his window. “Hey, Kate. You left this in the backseat.”
He’s holding a book. It looks like a CHRONOS diary.
“Sorry,” I say. “Must belong to someone else.”
“No. It’s yours.” His eyes lock onto mine, and then he looks over his shoulder at a dark blue van parked near the curb. “Here,” he insists, pushing the book toward me. “Would you just take it?”
I do, and he peels off.
“What was that all about?” Trey asks.
“Not sure.” I look over at the van, which is usually parked on the street in front of Katherine’s. The van Kiernan says he hired to watch the house so he could funnel false information on our activities to Prudence.
Assuming he was telling you the truth.
The voice I hear is Julia’s. I hate that she’s planted that seed of doubt in my head.
If I’m totally honest with myself, however, what Julia told me simply nurtured a seed that was already planted. The doubt has been in my mind since I saw Prudence with Kiernan in his cabin. It grew when he lied to me about Simon being in Georgia.
But Kiernan explained all that. I believed him.
I really, really want to keep believing.
I give the van one last glare and follow Trey. We scale the fence into Katherine’s backyard, and the most trustworthy of our home security systems—Daphne—sounds the alarm a moment later.
Katherine and Connor are in the kitchen. One look at Katherine’s face tells me she shouldn’t have waited up. I wish Connor had slipped some of her sleeping medication into her tea. She looks drained. I doubt she’s had any more sleep than I have the past few days, but since I’m five decades younger and not terminally ill, I handle exhaustion a little better.
We move into the living room, and I try to calculate how much I can say when I’m certain we’re being monitored. If not by Julia’s people, then by Prudence’s. Or Saul’s. Or whoever the hell Kiernan is working for.
Connor starts asking questions before I’ve figured out what to say, so I make a little kill gesture with my forefinger. I glance around the room before looking back at him. He raises his eyebrows, then gives me a faint nod and slumps back into the couch.
I opt for the same lie I told Julia. There’s nothing they can do to help me if I run into trouble and nothing they can do to stop me from going, so . . .
“I’ve decided to wait on London. It’s too risky right now. Julia assured me that Mom will be okay.”
Trey and Connor both look baffled—not surprising given how adamant I was on this point before I met with Julia.
Katherine doesn’t even blink, just tilts her head to the side and watches me. Her eyes flick down to the tablet Julia gave me and the diary that Max insisted I take, both in my lap, and then she looks back up at my face. “And you’re sure that they can keep her safe?”
“I think so. They’re monitoring her movements, not just with traditional methods but also through the key. Mom and Prudence arrive in London day after tomorrow. Julia says they stay through the weekend, and then they go to a villa Prudence owns off the coast of Italy. So we have a bit of time.”
Katherine considers that for a few seconds and then nods. “I suppose we do.” She stands up, rubbing her eyes. “Let’s call it a night. You need to get some rest, Kate. We all do.”
“So I guess I should cancel the—ow!” Connor stops in midsentence, staring down at the floor where Katherine’s slippered foot is pressing very firmly on his pinky toe. “Um. Cancel . . . the . . . welcome home party.”
I’m not sure what that is all about, but I can’t really ask them when the whole Cyrist world is listening. I get the feeling Katherine knows I’m lying anyway, so I stand and tug on Trey’s arm.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to the door. You could use some sleep, too—and your dad and Estella are probably worried.”
When we reach the door, he leans down for a good-night kiss.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For the kiss? My pleasure.”
“No. For being here. For going with me.”
He gives me a troubled look. “Kate, are you sure about canceling the trip? You seemed so certain earlier, and—”
“I’m certain,” I say, placing a finger over his lips. “Things change.”
∞2∞
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
September 9, 8:15 a.m.
The sun, peeking insolently through the tiniest gap in the drawn curtains, finally drags me awake. My alarm clock may have played a supporting role, but it would’ve been a very minor one, since it’s been ringing for more than fifteen minutes. I resist the temptation to hit the snooze button and the even greater temptation to use the CHRONOS key to jump back five or six hours and crawl into bed again. It’s a really big bed. As soundly as I was sleeping, I’d probably never notice a duplicate me. I could just curl up on the other side, and . . .
No. Get your lazy self out of bed.
And even though my body insists it could use more rest, my mind is buzzing. So I get up, shower, and pull on some clothes. Although part of me wants to do the jump to London right this second, I need breakfast, and I should at least glance through the files from Julia and the diary Max gave me.
I’m troubled by Julia’s warning that going to London might derail the Fifth Column agenda, but I’m equally troubled by Julia herself. I don’t know her. And although I don’t believe, or at least I mostly don’t believe, what Julia said about Kiernan, I didn’t get the sense that she was actually lying to me. She really seems to think Kiernan is allied with Saul, so the question is why she believes that.
It would help to talk things through with someone else. If we’re under surveillance, however, then I have to assume that extends to our phone and text messages. I called Dad before I went to sleep last night, both to check on Grandpa, who is recovering pretty well from his stroke, and to give Dad the same false cover story about London. He asked me twice if I was sure, and I could tell from his voice that he knows something is up. I have a hard time remembering another occasion I’ve outright lied to my dad. In retrospect, that was smart, because I don’t seem to be very good at it.
I’m sure the tablet contains files I should read, but I grab the diary instead. Max is pretty obviously a by-the-rule-book sort of guy. If Julia knew about this diary, he’d have given it to me before we left, when he was programming the destination for our next meeting into my key. Whatever’s in there must be fairly important for Max to risk going behind her back.
I put on a pot of coffee and pour myself a Connor-sized bowl of Cheerios, then head out to the patio to catch some of the rays that woke me up. When I open the diary, a folded scrap of paper flutters out, landing in my cereal bowl. I fish it out and open it. It’s a handwritten note, two sentences. Don’t watch this in the house. Delete when finished and return diary to me only. The last two words are underlined, and it’s signed with the letter M.
I wad up the note and focus on the diary. It looks like the others—a computer disguised as a book, although it wouldn’t be likely to fool anyone, even from an earlier century, if closely inspected. The spot inside the cover where the historian’s name usually appears has been marked through with blue ink.
Thumbing through, I see that all of the pages are blank except the first, where there’s just one l
ink with the standard CHRONOS format for dates: 09192009.
That’s odd. I expected to see pages of text entries or a list of links like the ones at the back of Other-Kate’s diary. I spent days clicking those links and watching entries recorded by the me from the other timeline. Kiernan’s Kate, the alter-me who was erased by one of the time shifts that propelled the Cyrists from a sick idea in my grandfather’s head into the largest, most powerful religion in the world.
I’m outside the house, so I’ve met the requirements in Max’s note. I doubt surveillance equipment would pick up a CHRONOS video entry anyway. People without the gene can’t operate the diaries at all, and even with the gene, I still need the tiny clear disk behind my ear to pull up video entries. But I decide to put a little more distance between myself and Big Brother. I carry my cereal and the diary out to the swinging bench in the backyard.
After I click the link, a holographic display of an elderly woman in a wheelchair appears in front of me. There are trees all around and heavy ground cover, which strikes me as strange. The terrain doesn’t look like it would be accessible to someone in a wheelchair.
Also, there’s something different about this video compared to the others I’ve seen, although I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, at first. Then the woman adjusts her hands in her lap, and it hits me. All of Other-Kate’s entries, and all of those I watched in Katherine’s diaries, began with a close-up view of the hand or the body of the person recording the entry, until they moved away from the device. This time, however, there’s just a glimpse of fingertip and then I see the woman, seated a few yards away from the camera.
Whoever’s recording the video takes several steps toward the wheelchair, and I recognize the woman as Delia. Her eyes are still the same deep blue, but they’re now set in a face that’s lost the distinct lines of youth. The jaw is softer, and her hair is white and much thinner than before. I do the math quickly—if she was in her early thirties when they were stranded in 1938, then Delia is over a hundred years old here. She looks very good for a centenarian, and that has me wondering if she’s still alive. Unlikely, I guess, but what’s the average life expectancy for someone born at the end of the twenty-third century, with who knows how many genetic alterations?
A voice says, “It’s recording.” Then Delia clears her throat and begins speaking.
Hello, Kate. If Max here does as I’ve asked, you’ll be the first and only person to see this. I hoped I might still be around to talk to you in person. Doctor June says I might have made it if I’d eaten more broccoli and drank less bourbon, but as you may recall, I never was a fan of doctors or their advice. Anyway, I tire quickly these past few months and I decided I couldn’t risk putting this off any longer. So I had Max bring me out here to the middle of nowhere so I can talk to you without people listening in.
Julia means well and her heart is in the right place, but you’ve probably realized that she’s most definitely her father’s daughter. I loved Abel with all my heart and soul, but he had his share of faults, and one of the worst was that you were either his friend or his enemy. No shades of gray for my Abel, and I’m afraid Julia is much the same.
Delia laughs softly and then continues, her eyes focused a bit to the left.
And Max here inherited more than a touch of that attitude himself. If you’re watching this, it’s not because Max agrees with anything I’m saying. It’s because he’s a good boy who loves his Nana Dee enough to honor her last wishes and keep this one little secret from his Grandma Julia.
She turns back to look directly at the camera.
Keeping this secret shouldn’t trouble him too much, because what I’m about to say isn’t all that earth shattering. Just two things.
First, thanks to you and Kiernan, Abel and I had fifty-four more years together. They weren’t without their problems, and I doubt it’ll surprise you to learn Simon painted a rosier picture of life with Cyrists than we saw. But he was right that they accepted an interracial marriage without prejudice, which is more than we’d have gotten elsewhere in 1938—hell, in 1978, for that matter.
Any issues we faced were due more to Simon’s fear that our being within the Cyrist fold might upset the apple cart and affect some of the historical changes they’d made. We kept a low profile, although Abel made some contacts on the outside that helped get the external branch of the Fifth Column started. I know you had some doubts about the three of us leaving with Simon, but I really do think it was for the best.
We weren’t supposed to have children because Simon said Saul was worried that any offspring might be able to use the keys. Julia was an accident as far as they knew. I waited until the last minute to let anyone know I was expecting, and I did it in the most public way possible—right in the middle of Sunday services. Julia was born two months later, and they watched her like a hawk, but I made sure she never let anyone know she could activate the equipment. She’s never been able to jump anyway—Julia can see the light and even pulled up a stable point a few times, or so she claimed, but she was never able to lock it in. Still, being able to activate it would probably have been enough for Saul to have her taken out.
That’s what happened to Max’s dad. Anthony always had more ambition than common sense, and I think the Cyrist message resonated with him. He thought Saul might allow him into his inner circle if he was a jumper, but he turned up dead a few days later. Accidents seem to happen pretty frequently to those who hang around Saul.
Max here has never let anyone at the Farm see even the slightest sign that he can use that key, and he never, ever will. Isn’t that right, Max?
I hear a mumbled “Yes, Nana Dee,” and Delia continues.
The second thing is just a bit of advice. Follow your instincts. Last time I saw you, you were beating yourself up thinking you’d mishandled Abel’s escape. Abel wasn’t making the situation any easier, but my point is that you went with your intuition, and I think it served you well. I’m pretty sure Abel would have died in that cell if you hadn’t intervened.
Julia is going to tell you Kiernan is with Saul. And he may be. Julia may even think he had something to do with Anthony’s death—I know Abel thought that.
Max says something I can’t make out, and Delia sniffs disapprovingly.
Apparently Max believes it, too, but since he wasn’t even two years old when it happened, he’s going entirely off rumors. And he should know better. Abel and I saw Kiernan a sum total of three times after we left the root cellar at Martha’s house. Truth be told, we don’t know what happened. But I think Abel needed someone to blame when Anthony died, and Julia probably did, too.
She starts to say something else, and then she shakes her head. After a moment, she goes on:
Whether Kiernan was involved in Anthony’s death isn’t something that makes much difference to me, Kate, although I’d like to believe better of him. The bottom line is this—Anthony embraced the wrong set of ideals and trusted the wrong people, and he paid dearly for that mistake. But I suspect the issue of Kiernan’s loyalty will matter to you, so . . . again, trust your instincts, because Julia—well, she might be thinking more with heart than with head. And while I’m sure she thinks she has everything under control, you’ll need all the allies you can find, especially if one happens to be right smack in the middle of the enemy camp.
Just remember Julia needs you—partly because you can use that key. The Fifth Column has a lot of people who can be support staff, but they’re short on keys. Simon took mine and Abel’s after we left you in Georgia. No need to go into details, but Abel got his hands on one back in the early eighties. Unless something has changed between now and the time you get this, the key Max is wearing is the only one they have. Second, they lack jumpers. Max can use it once a day, maybe twice, and it may take him a few tries.
Max mutters something off camera. The only words I catch are “. . . be telling everybody my business.” Delia just waves her hand dismissively and says:
Hush, Max. Stop acting l
ike it’s something to be ashamed of when it’s just the God’s honest truth.
Anyway, Kate, even if Julia had a full roster of jumpers and every key CHRONOS ever created, she’d still need you, because you’re the only one who’s a dead ringer for Sister Prudence.
So don’t let her bully you. As her mother, I haven’t the slightest doubt she’ll do precisely that if you let her.
And that’s really all I have to say, except good luck. You can cut it off now, Max—
The display sputters for a moment, and Delia is gone. I rewind, and about halfway through the second watching, Daphne joins me, carrying her ratty old green Frisbee. She drops it by my feet, then settles down on the grass with a huff when she sees I’m not in the mood to play.
When the clip finishes, Daphne nudges the Frisbee against my bare feet. Hint, hint.
“Sorry, Daph. I’m kinda busy.”
She rests one auburn paw on top of my toes and looks up at me with big brown eyes. In Daphne’s world, it’s inconceivable that anything could be more important than Frisbee.
“All right, all right,” I laugh. “One time, but then I really have to go inside.”
Three tosses later, Daphne is momentarily distracted by one of her squirrel frenemies dashing behind the garage. She takes off barking, and I retreat to the kitchen.
Katherine is buttering a slice of toast, cinnamon raisin judging from the aroma. She gives me a smile over her shoulder. “Good morning, Kate! Lovely day, isn’t it?”
She’s unusually chipper, but her voice has a false ring. Katherine’s moods can be mercurial, what with the tumor pressing against her brain and the medications she takes to control its growth. There’s an edge to her voice right now that often comes just before she explodes, and I instinctively brace for a storm. But . . . maybe she’s just putting on a show for whoever might be listening in?
“Mm-hmm,” I say, pulling a coffee mug from the cabinet. “I was just outside, looking over . . . some files. I’m going to get some coffee and then go upstairs and . . . and read some more. I guess.”
