“No, I would not give you false hope/On this strange and mournful day . . . ”
“’Mother and Child Reunion,’ Paul Simon, 1972,” I said aloud without thinking.
“Yeah. You like Paul Simon?”
“I do,” I said truthfully, feeling an irrational surge of pride and confidence as I heard my HIO meter tick back down.
See, you can do this. You know this stuff. Look, you’re talking to a cab driver about music like a totally normal person.
I had taken two semesters of “Music and Film of the 1970s” at the Academy and could identify all of the “Billboard Year-End Hot 100” singles from 1965-1980 in sixteen bars or less, a skill which had come in handy far more often as a parlor trick at drunk college parties than it ever had at work. (My mother had protested mightily, insisting that that time be better spent on another year of Advanced Social Skills & Customs – yet another reason to be glad she wasn’t in my ear right now – but she had never appreciated Blazing Saddles like I did.) I started to say more, but then stopped as my heart caught in my throat at a sight out the car window.
The U.S. Capitol Building.
I knew the silhouette of that iconic white domed roof like the back of my hand, but only as a symbol of things lost during the war. I’d never seen it with my own two eyes. As the car turned down Louisiana Avenue – and the building loomed into view in front of me, so real, so alive, teeming with human bodies flowing in and out of it – I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. I felt a fierce joy at seeing it standing there, tall and proud and majestic.
But that joy was tempered by wondering how many of the men and women I could see right now walking up and down its steps would be dead in ten years, crushed by falling masonry at their desks when the first bombs fell.
“And the course of a lifetime runs over and over again,” sang Paul Simon as the taxi rolled past all those people whose lives I had been sent here to save, and I closed my eyes tightly, unable to look at it anymore.
* * *
Calliope had mapped the circumference of the Chronomaly range and found me an apartment conveniently located right in the center of it. The cab driver transferred my luggage to the bellhop outside the lobby as I clip-clopped in my uncomfortable shoes over to the concierge desk. “First time in D.C.?” said the chirpy young woman as I signed the stack of forms she placed in front of me.
“Well, yes and no,” I said honestly. “It’s . . . very different from what I remember.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your time with us. Here are your keys,” she said with a bright smile. “Welcome to The Watergate.”
The bellhop carried my bags into the apartment and set them down in the hallway. The 1970s were widely reputed to be a fairly dismal era, interior design-wise, but I was relieved to see that the place was not as bad as I’d feared. One full wall of the living room contained a set of sliding doors leading out to a concrete balcony which, I soon saw, spanned the width of the apartment (my bedroom connected to it as well.) It was mostly one airy, open space with the kitchen separated by a half-wall from the living and dining area.
The furniture, though bearing the unmistakable curves and angles of the mid-20th century, was mostly pale wood, glass and soft gray fabric, with a few potted plants and some discreet accents of yellow. But there were no glaring patterns of orange and brown, no garish flocked wallpaper. It was remarkably un-horrible, and I made a mental note to tell Calliope so.
Then I stepped into the bedroom.
And changed my mind.
It was the most appalling room I had ever seen, papered top-to-bottom with a blindingly-bright tropical floral pattern, a tangle of hideous flowers and vines snaking their way up the walls and even across the ceiling. The bedding and the furniture were varied hues of grass-green, giving the impression that you were trapped at the bottom of some monstrous jungle cage.
Just looking at it all made me tired. Or rather, it made me more tired, since the exhaustion of Chrono-Jumping 140 years and navigating 20th century travel had already worn me out.
I “unpacked” by tossing all the suitcases into the closet in my bedroom and decided that, with nothing left to do today except show up at eleven for the meet, I was allowed a nap. I sent a brief message to Calliope letting her know that I had arrived safely and that her taste in wallpaper was deplorable; then curled up on the hideous but comfortable green bed and closed my eyes.
Thanks to the distressing scenery around me, my dreams that evening incorporated masses of writhing jungle snakes as a prominent stylistic feature. So when I opened my eyes a few hours later and beheld the grotesque wallpaper once more, it took me a moment to realize I was awake.
I had missed my first two alarms – or, rather, it appeared my subconscious had turned their sounds into the squawking of the massive tropical birds that had been chasing me through the Amazon – so there was no time for more than a half-hearted attempt to straighten my sleep-rumpled clothes and hair, and add a bit more makeup, before I put my earpiece in and dashed out the door to meet the Embed.
* * *
It was a pleasant walk of about twenty minutes along the water to the Lincoln Memorial, one of the D.C. landmarks I most wanted a chance to see. The path was largely deserted this late at night, and I felt occasional flickers of apprehension at any shadowy figure who passed me. It occurred to me that it was possible this hadn’t been a very good idea. I wasn’t combat-trained, after all, and I didn’t know if the Embed was. It was a risk to meet at night, even in a public place.
But if it was really all that dangerous, he wouldn’t have agreed to it, said one voice in my head.
He would if he’s the agency mole, said another.
You’re a woman in a public place, said a third. If this goes haywire, you can call for a policeman.
I froze as a cluster of loud, laughing men came around the corner and towards me. Their faces were invisible, the angle of the street lamp over the brims of their hats casting dark shadows. I tried to shrink back, make myself invisible. They saw me, and I braced myself, but nothing happened. One of them nodded at me, but then they passed on.
You’re a woman out at night alone, said one of the voices.
Not a good idea . . .
I shook my head to clear the worried thoughts out.
Nothing happened, said another voice. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re safe. But if it makes you feel better, you can call Calliope.
That thought helped somewhat, so I tapped my Comm and paged her. It buzzed in my ear, but she didn’t pick up. I was trying to decide whether to hang up and try again later, or just let it keep buzzing, when a figure separated itself from the shadows and the man in the suit was suddenly standing beside me.
“Well hello there, girl from the train station,” he said with a smile – a smile that felt wrong somehow, although I didn’t know why – but still I dropped my hand away from my earpiece and let it buzz silently.
“It’s Reggie,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Call me John Smith,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry. I’m new. Do we not use real names? Is that safer?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Much.”
“Well, that’s fine then. I didn’t know. You can call me . . . ” I cast around desperately, thinking of an appropriate alias (why hadn’t Calliope prepped me for this?) before the lights of the monuments in the distance gave me an idea. “Mary Todd,” I said. He looked at me very strangely, but finally shrugged in acceptance.
“If that’s what works for you,” he said, “then it works for me. Miss Todd.”
“Great, then. Mr. Smith.”
“You were very forward at the train station.”
“You spoke to me first,” I said, a little defensively. I didn’t think I was quite as bad at this as he was making me out to be.
“Yes, but you were staring first,” he pointed out.
“I was staring because you were staring,” I said, feeling
for the first time like maybe this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to go. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”
I checked over my shoulder, but there was no one within earshot – just a few clusters of people on the path, a man reading a newspaper on the next bench over, but that was all. I decided it was safe. I motioned John towards a nearby park bench. I sat down, and after a moment, he sat down next to me. “So, what now?” I asked.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, look, I’m new. I just got here. I’ve never done one of these before.”
“You’re doing all right for your first time,” he said, and I felt a little better.
“That’s reassuring,” I said, and he smiled. “Really, I’m just trying not to screw up so bad that I get a lecture from my mother.” This made him start visibly for some reason.
“Your mother knows you’re doing this?”
“She’s the one who sent me,” I said in surprise. ‘I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “This whole stupid job was her idea. So, if I seem bad-tempered about it, I promise it’s not you, it’s just . . . you know, this was always her thing. This was never what I wanted to do.” I sighed. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m blathering. That’s not what I came here for. Should we get started?”
In hindsight, the sheer scope of my obliviousness should have been obvious long before. But in the moment, I was completely unprepared when he whipped a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and slapped them on my wrist.
“Goddammit, Reggie!” shouted Calliope, who I hadn’t even realized was there. “What the hell have you done?”
“I don’t know,” I hissed, then turned to the man in the suit. “Hi, um, what exactly is happening here?”
“You know exactly what’s happening here. I don’t know where you got off the train from, lady,” he said coldly, “but prostitution is illegal in the District of Columbia. You’re coming with me.”
* * *
I had seen enough old 20th-century films and television shows about life in prison to instill a high level of panic about my fate. But once we got to the station, Driver’s Seat and Passenger Seat just tossed me into a large cell with one other woman in it and left me alone. Nobody frisked me, or took my clothes. I hadn’t brought anything with me except the apartment keys in my pocket. So as long as nobody checked inside my left ear for 22nd-century Chrono-Technology, I was safe, and Calliope could shriek at me with impunity.
Calliope was apparently working on a plan, though she wasn’t sure how long it would take and had informed me that I was likely to be stuck there until she could arrange for the right phone calls to the right people. I could not shake the sneaking suspicion that she was enjoying holding this over my head, since several hours had gone by and she had not, as of yet, informed my mother. I suspected this would continue to pay off as a blackmail opportunity for some time to come.
I leaned my head back against the cold cement block wall and heaved the dramatic sigh of the wrongfully imprisoned.
“First time?” said the woman on the bench next to me.
“Yep.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s almost always just for the night. They’ll toss you out in the morning. With a fine. It’s really the money they want. Cigarette?” She held out a pack.
“They let you have those in here?”
“Big Jim offered,” she said, nodding at the beefy guard sitting outside the cell, who heard his name and gave us both a friendly wave. “These are his, but he doesn’t mind sharing. Want one?”
“I’m good, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, should I not? I don’t mind.”
“No, no. Go ahead. It’s okay.” She smiled at me, then pulled a cigarette out and stood up from the bench, dusting off her dress, to hold the cigarette out for Big Jim to light.
“Kitty,” she said politely as she returned, holding out her hand.
“Reggie,” I said, and shook it. She was probably about my age, and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a passing resemblance to the movie star Dorothy Dandridge. She was the first person I’d met since I landed that I found myself able to talk with normally, so of course I liked her immediately.
“Do you mind if I ask,” said Kitty, “where they picked you up?”
“Rock Creek Trail,” I said. “There was . . . a slight misunderstanding.”
“I don’t know their names, the two that brought you in,” she said. “I’ve seen them around. We call them Bugs and Daffy. But I wondered if there was a white guy, good-looking, gray suit, kind of light brown hair—”
“That’s the one,” I said. “He handed me off to the other two.”
“That’s Barlow,” she told me, “and he’s awful.”
“Pompous jackass,” Big Jim agreed from across the room.
“He’s an undercover guy from Vice,” said Kitty. “He pockets the fines, we think. If you get picked up by Barlow, the fine’s always in cash. No paperwork, see.”
She arched one perfect eyebrow meaningfully, then went on. “He hangs out all over town in public places, hunting for girls at work. The train station, the airport, the parks – any place people tend to go and bring their kids. It’s part of some big clean-up-the-city crusade.”
That brought a chuckle from Big Jim.
“You have to be careful around the Mall in particular,” Kitty went on. “There’re always cops lurking around. You’ll learn to pick them out eventually. They dress like normal people, but a little too normal, you know? Like something’s not quite right? And their shoes are always wrong. No matter how sleek the suit is, they always wearing these clunky cop shoes.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Yes, these are very helpful D.C. survival tips,” said the voice in my ear. “Don’t worry, I’m writing this all down.” I waited until Kitty turned her back to politely blow smoke away from me, then tapped my earpiece to spell “BITE ME” in Morse code, which made Calliope laugh.
The hours ticked by. Kitty and I mostly sat in amicable silence. She smoked thoughtfully and I listened to the noises of the Time Travel Bureau through Calliope’s desk Comm – beeps and buzzing from her computer, occasional voices in the background.
Calliope could jump me back, I suddenly thought with a pang of homesickness. She could just pull me out of here. It would all be over. I could just go home. I want to go home.
And then I remembered that an emergency jump in front of two civilians would send my HIO meter straight into the red zone, triggering an automatic alarm to Director Gray and my mother. I pictured the look on their faces when I stepped off the platform and decided that would be a fate far, far worse than one measly night in a quiet city jail.
“Are you cold?” Kitty asked suddenly, startling me back to reality. “Big Jim can get you some coffee if you want.”
“I’m good. But thank you.” I looked at her suddenly, as a thought popped into my mind.
“Hey, Kitty?”
“Yeah?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Born and raised,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke into the unoccupied corner of the cell.
“Then you might be able to help me,” I said. “I’m looking for information.”
I could see her stiffen, and the friendly light went out of her eyes. “I’m not asking you for names,” I went on hastily, “I totally respect your professional boundaries. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But if I asked you general questions, could you give me general answers?”
“I don’t know,” she said cautiously. “We’ll see.”
“I’m not a prostitute,” I told her. “I’m . . . investigating. Undercover. I thought Barlow was my contact, but it was a big mix up, and he arrested me instead.”
“You a girl spy or something?” said Kitty with great interest.
“Yes,” I said. “Something like that. Have you ever – and obviously yo
u don’t have to tell me who – but have you ever met anyone who worked at—” I lowered my voice, “the White House?” That made her laugh out loud.
“Reggie, you’re adorable,” she said. “Men from the White House are how every girl I know pays her rent.”
“Even the Nixon White House?” I asked, a little surprised. “They always seemed so . . . I don’t know. Strait-laced. Law and order. Family values.”
“Of course they are,” she said reasonably. “In public. But if you think the things a man says into a microphone on national television and the things he does in the dark when nobody’s looking are the same, you don’t know men very well. The things these guys get up to . . . ” She shook her head.
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to sound eager. She looked at me appraisingly for a long moment, then nodded.
“What the hell. I’m gonna trust you,” she said. “You have a trustworthy face. So, you want to hear a crazy story?”
Calliope had been silent for so long and I was so bored that I would have consented to letting Kitty read me the warning label on a jug of industrial cleaning solvents, and told her so. She laughed.
“You’re funny, Spy Girl. I like you.”
She folded her legs underneath her and I watched her settle in, as it were, in that universal way all great storytellers do before they begin, and I wondered how many times she had been in this cell before, who she went home to, whether her family had cut her off or whether there was a screeching mob of aunts at family Christmas critiquing her outfits and life choices.
“I don’t mind telling you this story,” she said, “because she never heard from the guy again anyway. And it was real fishy. You’ll see what I mean.”
I nodded at her to proceed.
“I heard this story from a friend of my roommate,” she began. “A couple months ago, one of her regulars, this big-shot attorney, calls her up and says he’s in town for the weekend and is she free for a drink, he’s got a business proposition for her. A big one.”
The Rewind Files Page 11
