“I know what you mean,” she says. “Every time I have to talk to my parents.”
We both grin at each other and she laughs. The sound almost makes up for the unreality of my situation. “You have a nice day, too,” I say, then take my food out to the car.
The rest of my drive is uneventful, my mind filled with thoughts of time and paradox and making things right. I killed my wife and went into hiding, disappearing into a variety of false identities and never at any real risk of being found out.
But I had to live with it. Every waking minute of every day. I kept doing wet work, of course, because it was better than sitting in that Manhattan penthouse and staring at the walls. But I never rushed a job again. Never proceeded without complete information.
This time, there would be two of me, and both of us would be in a rush.
The dirt road that leads to the resort appears on my left. I activate my turn signal and turn in. The road winds through pine trees, and I roll down the window. I have never been back here, and I breathe the scent of the mountains and the late summer air deep into my lungs.
As I go around a curve, a brief flicker in my rearview mirror catches my attention. The other me is not far behind. I must move faster. My plan is simple, but relies on arriving ahead of my other self.
Cabin Four is on the right side of the road, and I park the sedan near Cabin Three, across the road and in the shade of a large stand of pine trees. Moving quickly, I jog across the road. My other self hasn’t rounded the corner yet, but I recognize the quiet rumble of the truck engine.
The front door of Cabin Four is unlocked, and I step inside. Everything now depends on Diane. Does she trust me? She does not know that in a few minutes from now, my other self will be here to kill her. My other self does not know she is the target.
I must stand between them. I hear a door shut and water begin to run. She has heeded my advice and retreated here for a break from the campaign. I move across the main room and into the hallway. Open the bathroom door just as she’s about to step into the shower. Surprise marks her features and she lets out a yelp before she sees that it’s me.
Standing before me, naked and beautiful and flushed, I ache for this moment to last forever. I have not touched any woman since she died and I want to take her in my arms. Time is passing and I must resist.
“What are you doing here?” she says, reaching for a towel.
“No time,” I say. I grasp her arms. “Someone is coming to hurt you, Diane.”
“What?” she asks. Confusion washes over her features. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain later,” I say. “Get in the shower and stay there.”
She begins to ask another question and I stop her with a finger placed to her lips. Quietly, I ask, “Do you trust me?”
She nods. Yes.
“Then please do as I say. Get in the shower and keep the water running. Don’t come out until I say so.”
Diane reads the urgency in my eyes and does not ask any more questions. The towel drops to the floor and she climbs into the shower, pausing only once to look at me. I force a smile as she shuts the sliding door of the shower.
Listening, I hear the patio door open. It leads into the kitchen and my other self is congratulating himself right now on impeccable timing. He can hear the water running.
I step behind the bathroom door and draw the Glock from my shoulder holster, then quietly work the slide. I affix the silencer, and I wait.
My other self is coming down the hallway and the silhouette of Diane’s body in the shower will be an easy, inviting target.
I raise the gun to shoulder level, keeping the point up, and watch as the door handle slowly turns. My other self is about to step through the door.
I take a deep, steady breath. The door opens.
My other self steps through, pauses to appreciate the ease of this moment.
Then I shoot my other self in the head. THIP!
THIP! THIP! I add two shots to the body. The last two will do for “make sure” shots. It’s not the sequence that counts anyway.
The body of my other self lies on the floor, a look of shock and surprise on my face. I was not expecting to die.
I pick the towel up off the floor, toss it over the face of my other self.
“Okay, Diane,” I say. She shuts off the water and opens the shower door.
“Who . . .” she starts to ask, but I put a finger to her lips.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “What matters is . . . you are safe.”
“How . . .” she says, then shakes her head, trying to absorb the situation. Her political self surfaces briefly. “The press is going to have a field day.”
“No,” I say. “They won’t. I’m going to take the body far from here and destroy it. No one need ever know about this.”
“Damon, are you crazy?” she asks. “You just shot a man! There’s going to be an investigation and questions, and you can’t just hide a body!”
She is shaking now. A delayed reaction to death that I have seen before. I wrap her in my arms. “Shhh,” I whisper in her ear. “Everything will be fine.” Her body is warm next to mine, her long, dark hair dripping wet from the shower.
In a voice only I have ever heard her use, she asks, “Do you promise?”
I nod. “I promise.”
I want to stay, but prudence suggests otherwise. “I’ve got to keep moving,” I say. “I’ll take care of the body and then I’ll come back. We can talk more then.”
“You do have some explaining to do,” she says. She is still shaking a little, but calmer. I have always admired her ability to be calm under pressure. She looks at the prone body again and adds, “A lot of explaining to do.”
“You’ll get the whole story,” I say. “When there’s enough time. For now, go get dressed.”
She wants to say more, but nods and I can’t help myself. I watch her shapely form head for the bedroom.
On the floor of the bathroom there is a heavy mat with a rubberized backing. That will do for now. I roll the body of my other self onto it and wrap it in the mat, packing towels around the wounds to keep the blood spatters to a minimum. Then I lift the body and carry it to the dining room, where an area rug will serve as a more efficient disguise for the dead weight of my other self.
I wrap the body in the area rug and look outside. The sun is still shining, but it is late afternoon and I still have much to do. There is no one on the road and all is quiet. I lift up the area rug and put it over my shoulder. I am strong enough to carry it all the way to my truck and place it in the back. I slide the cover closed, then return to Cabin Four.
Diane is dressed and sitting in the dining area. “I . . . I cleaned up the bathroom,” she says. Her voice is shaking again. “The towels are in the fireplace.”
“Good,” I say. “Burn them after I leave.”
“You . . . you will be back?”
I cross the small room and kneel down, taking her into my arms. She sobs once, softly, and then stops. “Better?” I ask her.
She nods. “Come back soon, okay?”
“Before you know it,” I reply. Then I kiss her lips and they are the soft surprise I have kept in my mind for the many long days since her death. “Until then, just keep me in your heart.”
“Always,” she says.
“Forever,” I reply.
It is a silly word game we play with each other because the whole world is before us and we are still in love. We kiss once more and say I love you.
I do not know if I have the strength to leave, but I must.
And so I do.
After wiping my prints from the nondescript sedan, I put the key in the ignition and walk away. There is a lake in Montana that matches the color of my eyes. I get in my truck and drive there. I stop long enough to admire the view, trying to see it through her eyes. Someday, I think, she will come here and remember me. I am sorry to hurt her this way.
Nearby is the box canyon where we shouted “I love you”
echoes. I go there next, driving deep inside the canyon. When I reach a place where I can go no farther, I stop the truck and get out. I remove the body of my other self from the back, unwrap it from the area rug, bath mat, and towels, then hoist it on to my shoulder long enough to position it in the driver’s seat. I return the other items to the back of the truck.
I open the hood and remove the hose leading to the air filter. I use it to start a siphon out of the gas tank. Working quickly, I put gasoline in the back of the truck, on the area rug, the bath mat and the towels. An empty jug in the back is filled with gas as well, and I pour it liberally in the cab of the truck. I make certain to coat the body of my other self well.
I toss the jug into the back, leaving the hose in the tank.
My other body lies slumped over the wheel. When they find this, they will think I was killed—a professional assassination to send a message to Diane, no doubt. Many people did not want her to run. Her charisma would carry her almost as far as her intelligence. They did not know how far, not yet.
I do not feel regret. I take a book of matches from my pocket that I found in the glovebox. I strike one, and it flares a point of heat. I toss it into the back and the fire starts with a faint WHUMP! sound.
No, I do not feel regret. I feel clean.
The job is done, and this time I did it right.
On foot, I make the long trek back to the highway. It is not long before I am able to thumb a ride with a semi hauling logs and making the long run between the mills and the woods. We speak very little and when I ask to get out, he stops and says, “Take ’er easy.”
I grin up at him. “I’ll take ’er any way I can get her.”
“That’s the spirit,” he replies, then puts the truck in gear and drives away.
I climb the hill to the pine tree. The duffel bag is gone, but the box is not. Now the box is black. I kneel down and open it. Inside there is the front page of a newspaper. The headline reads:
LOCAL CONGRESSIONAL CANDIDATE HUSBAND MISSING
POLICE SEARCH FOR CLUES, SUSPECT FOUL PLAY
The second newspaper reads:
CONGRESSIONAL CANDIDATE A WIDOW
POLICE SAY NO SUSPECT FOR MURDER OF DAMON BLAKE
The third newspaper headline says:
HISTORY MADE! IT’S MADAM PRESIDENT!
I smile and put the newspapers back in the box. I don’t know how I know what to do, but I pick it up and step forward to the pine tree. The doorway appears as I do, and it opens.
Before I step through to the white room, to the nexus sphere and the Weavers, I stop and when I look to the sky, it is blue and wide and stretches to the horizon. Far away, the woman is alive. The woman is my wife and she is not dead.
It is enough and I am satisfied with the wet work. That is not something I have ever felt before.
Rising to the surface of consciousness, my first awareness is of black. The blackness that lives behind tight closed eyelids or the strange hindbrain awareness of lucid dreams.
Then, silver. The gleam of stainless steel knives or the bright mental flare that comes from a sharp blow to the temple.
Finally, white. Untouched snow or a wedding dress worn by a virgin at the altar.
I am awake.
Aware.
I breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
I am back in the nexus sphere and my condition, I know, is the result of stepping through the doorway.
I shiver in the cold, but open my eyes.
“You have done well,” the female voice says. “Your task is accomplished. History is made right.”
“Now what?” I ask. “I’m dead now, right? So how can I go back to my own time?”
The male voice, the real employer, says, “We will return you to your own place in time, but your assessment is accurate. You will be dead. Stepping through the doorway will result in a negative matter occurrence in the continuum. You will simply . . . cease to exist in that moment.”
I sigh. “It was worth it.”
“Much of the work the Weavers do results in that sensation,” he says. “Still, there is another alternative to death.”
I sit up, forcing my cold muscles to respond. “What?”
“Work for us,” the female voice says.
“Wet work, you mean?” I ask. “For you?”
“People in all times and all places are often killed out of sequence,” the other male voice replies. “By removing the threat to them, we can ensure that while Time may be wrinkled, it is not unraveled.”
It is an interesting proposition. I do not want to die. Saving Diane has made me want to live again, but . . . “Do I have to stay here?” I ask. “In the nexus sphere?”
The odd laughter sounds again. “No,” the lead male says. “You can be anywhere, everywhere in time. Our existences—and yours, should you accept—are not constrained in the traditional ways of mortals.”
“Are you mortals?” I ask. “Can I see you?”
“We are like mortals,” the woman says. “Yet unlike them. We are more like you. Beings who have transcended death by invitation of the Weavers.”
“Will you work for us?” the leader asks. “Help us keep the tapestry of history woven as it is supposed to be?”
“I want . . . I want to see you first,” I say.
Suddenly, they appear before me. Two men and a woman. I recognize their faces instantly. In my world, each was famous in their own way.
“What do you say?” the woman asks. She is strikingly beautiful, with blonde hair and wide hips and lips the color of cherries. Long ago, she was an actress.
“Will you join us?” the man says. He is tall, with a Boston accent. He was in politics before he was killed in Dallas.
The leader reaches out a hand and I take it. He is overweight, with a piercing gaze and a direct voice. He, too, had been in politics. In Britain, during World War Two. “Please,” he says. “There is much still to be done. There always will be.”
I look at them and ask, “Are there other Weavers? Others like you?”
“Yes,” the woman says. “There are many of us, though not all are as notable as we are.”
I try not to stare, try not to feel anything, to focus on the import of this decision. It is a choice of death or undeath, a type of living that I have never before imagined or experienced.
“Damon Graves,” the leader says, “time is passing outside the nexus sphere. We would have your answer, sir. Will you join us?”
I speak one word. “Yes.”
They all smile and the nexus sphere changes colors. Now it is a rainbow and there is not one doorway, but hundreds.
“You have made, I think, a good choice,” the leader says. He gestures at the doors. “Where did you want to go next?”
—for Monica, first time, last time and every time
Under a variety of names and in several different genres, Russell Davis has written and edited both novels and short stories. Some of his recent short fiction has appeared in the anthologies In the Shadow of Evil, Gateways, and Maiden, Matron, Crone. He lives in Nevada, where he’s hard at work on numerous projects, including keeping up with his kids. Visit his website at www.morningstormbooks.com for more information about his work.
THE SUNDERING STAR
Janny Wurts
THE BIRTH NAME she used to swear in as a WorldFleet recruit was Susan Amanda MacTavish. She appeared to be no one remarkable, then. Just another stick-figure teen with dishwater-blonde hair, fidgeting in line with the gangling mob of predominantly machismo applicants. Neatly dressed, her taut posture reflecting her grounder origins, she accepted the scan-link to verify honesty. Her monitored bio-signs showed routine anxiety. Nothing to flag the notice of oversight, as she filled out the induction forms with her stylishly fussy script.
The surgical mind unveiled by her psych tests brought a specialist’s assignment to Cultural Liaison. There, her alert manner and linguistic fluency drew the acquisitive notice of covert intelligence. The burning ambition that insisted on m
aking a difference brought Private S. MacTavish a promotion to junior officer within the first year. Now a skinny intellectual with a military buzz-cut, and her spacer’s blacks creased like honed knives, she blazed through her mid-twenties in a meteoric rise of upwardly mobile determination. When she cracked the ranks of the higher brass, everyone from WorldFleet’s admirals on down thought they knew her, inside and out. Their probes had her vetted for classified status. The exhaustive dossier on her private life neatly filled in her career profile of reports and statistics.
Yet the name under which she committed high treason was Jessian, without any surname or title.
The morning that upended the straight course of her fate also started without undue incident. Regulations allotted all WorldFleet officers a brief recreational leave between postings. As S. MacTavish, she leaned toward lazy. That meant waking up in the sheets of a pleasure house, warmed into a daze from the athletic attentions of her past night’s partner. That gorgeous, male creature was nowhere in sight, which suited her loner’s preference. She rolled over, content. The breeze through the window smelled of warm sea and jungle, not the gritty industrial taint of the orbital station left behind with her last assignment.
For the moment, spun free of her dual identity, she was a vigorous young woman with an appetite for luxury, who rang for a sumptuous breakfast. Food raised under sunlight, rooted in dirt, and not synthesized inside a shipboard gel tank, or processed from municipal waste matter. She stretched, her mouth watering in anticipation.
Soon enough, the house matron herself bustled in, bearing a laden tray. She seemed the usual, grandmotherly woman, whose smile was tailored for comfort; but not today.
Crisp, without sentiment, this madam said, “Jessian.”
Breath froze. MacTavish’s heart skipped a beat, before racing. Fear and discipline warred, while she held herself watchfully still. By one secret name, awarded at oath-swearing, all sister-initiates were summoned to serve.
“You’re well rested?” The house madam prattled on without pause as she placed her steaming burden on the side table. “Good. You’ll need your mind sharp. WorldFleet orders will shortly dispatch you to Scathac. You’ll find other instructions sent from the order tucked inside of your napkin.” Hands clasped, something more than professionally reticent, the old woman finished off, shaken. “You’re sent to salvage a tense situation. The first sister given this mission has failed. Our race against time is now critical.”
Under Cover of Darkness Page 21
