Time's Edge

by Rysa Walker

  I’d really hoped I’d have a partner for this, but I seem to be on my own. Damn it, Kiernan.

  I run to the window overlooking the parking area out back. There are two or three people standing around, but almost everyone seems to have moved closer to the front so that they can see what’s happening. The Buick is right where we left it, and Kiernan’s truck is missing.

  “Do you have the key to the Buick?”

  Grant nods, pulling it out of his pocket.

  “Okay, I think you can get to the car. Pull it up to the back door. When I see you in position, I’ll head downstairs with Delia.”

  “What about Kiernan?” he asks.

  “His truck is gone. Wherever he went, he’s on his own. We’re going to have our hands full getting Abel.”

  As soon as Grant leaves, I pull the gun out from under the mattress where Delia is sitting. She gives me a mildly concerned glance as I carry it over to the window, and then she goes back to the key.

  I open the window and wait for Grant, my eyes lingering on the spot where Kiernan’s truck should be. I don’t know why he lied, and I’m furious that I have cause to doubt him right now, when so much is at stake. He’s definitely hiding something. I don’t know what, and I don’t know why. But the bottom line is no matter which Cyrist is hanging out across the street, I don’t believe Kiernan would be a willing party to anything that would put Abel’s life at risk. Or that would put any of our lives at risk. He probably thinks he’s keeping me safe, which has me angry in an entirely different way.

  Grant reaches the car without interference. One guy looks his way, but that’s it, and I’m really glad, because I didn’t want to waste ammo and draw attention by firing a warning shot.

  I grab Delia’s arm. “We need to go. Now!”

  The biggest challenge is getting Delia to look away from the key long enough to walk down the stairs. We finally reach the bottom, and I half drag her past the kitchen, toward the back door where the car is waiting.

  The first thing I notice is that someone cleaned the Buick. It’s not a very thorough cleaning, and there are still smears here and there, but someone at least tried to rinse the crud away. I don’t have time to wonder about that right now, however.

  I push Delia into the backseat, and she immediately starts pulling up the stable point in the cell again.

  “Okay, Grant—I need you to loop around the block and come in behind the courthouse. I’ll either be there or in the block of trees behind the jail with Abel.”

  “How?” Grant asks at the same moment that Delia starts screaming Abel’s name, panic in her voice.

  “Go!” I yell, glad that at least I don’t have to try and answer that question.

  Because the truth is, I have no earthly idea.

  At 9:26 p.m., I jump in at the point I set in Beebe’s office. The patrolman at the desk, whose name tag reads L. Spencer, stepped outside a little over three minutes ago. He’ll be at the front door for two more minutes, then he’ll come back inside, make a quick phone call, and wake Deputy Beebe.

  The deputy sounds like he’s pretty well out. He’s snoring softly, facedown on the desk, his head resting on top of his folded arms. I see the keys as soon as I move to the other side of the desk, but the ring is unfortunately wedged between his body and his leg. I try inching the keys very slowly toward me, but Beebe startles, his left hand flying out and knocking a paper cup half-full of coffee onto the floor.

  I’d hoped to do this the easy way, but if Beebe makes too much noise, the other guy, Spencer, is going to hear us. I curve my right arm under Beebe’s neck, lining up the inside of my elbow with his Adam’s apple and grabbing my left bicep. Then I place my left forearm behind his head and push downward, squeezing his neck between my bicep and forearm. The move is called hadaka-jime, and every other time I’ve done it, my opponent has tapped for me to release the hold within a couple of seconds. It feels wrong to keep holding. But I do, for a full five seconds after I feel Beebe relax.

  The bad thing about this hold is that he’ll wake up almost as quickly as he went under, so there’s no time to waste. With any luck, by the time he comes to, I’ll have his keys back in place.

  I set a local point behind his desk and bring up the cell-block corridor, rolling the time back to 9:24. I spent a half hour planning this out in my room back at the townhouse before jumping into Beebe’s office. There are no perfect options. If I wait until 9:55, when Grant and Delia are in the car and headed this way, the mob will be storming the jail, and judging from Delia’s scream as they pulled away, I think they might already have Abel.

  There are two downsides to rolling the time back. The first is that Delia and Abel will have a few dueling memories. One set of memories is going to recall Abel stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling for the next half hour, and another is—hopefully—going to remember him leaving with me at 9:24.

  The bigger issue is that we’re going to have to find someplace to hide for half an hour until our ride gets here. Spencer can see the stairs from his desk, and this is the only time that he’s away from the desk long enough for us to possibly get down the stairs and into the bathroom at the back of the main floor.

  I don’t know if Abel is asleep when I pop into the corridor, but his eyes are closed. I tap the key ring gently against the door as I unlock it. When he finally glances over, I press my finger to my lips.

  “I take it you’re Kate,” he whispers as he steps out of the cell. “I was kind of hoping for a CHRONOS extraction team.”

  “Well, that’s not an option anymore.” He’s in better shape than I thought he’d be, considering the beating he took, but I can tell from the way he moves that his body is feeling every step.

  “Is Delia okay?”

  Her nose will need to be reset, she has two massive shiners, she’s stoned on laudanum and terrified out of her mind about Abel, but I give him the short version.

  “She’s fine. Follow me.”

  I unlock the cell-block door, and we move into the stairwell.

  After I relock the door, I say, “Wait here. If I put these keys back, it may buy us a few extra minutes.”

  I pull up the stable point at Beebe’s desk and blink back in. He’s still slumped forward, head on the desk. Attaching the key ring to his belt takes less than a second, but before I can get to my feet, I feel the chair move backward, and he starts to lift his head.

  Is it harmful to put someone in a second hadaka-jime when they’re still coming out of the first? I don’t know, but I can’t see any alternative.

  I yank his neck into the hold again and wait, counting off the seconds. Spencer is back in the front office, making his phone call, which means he’ll come through the door in less than a minute. Beebe finally goes limp—only a matter of seconds, but it felt like forever. I hastily arrange his arms and head back on the desk and blink out with a few seconds to spare.

  Back to the stairwell at 9:25.

  Abel whispers, “What’s the plan?”

  “You and I get out of the building through the bathroom and find a spot to hide for the next twenty-five minutes. Grant will pick us up.”

  He gives me an incredulous look. “Where’s that guy from the truck? Kiernan?”

  “No clue. The two officers outside will both be in the front office at 9:34, bringing in three guys they’ve arrested. Maybe two minutes after that, two trucks roll in with guys in masks. I think every eye is likely to be on those trucks and the front door of the jail, and that’s our best time to make a run for it. The bathroom window is on the back side of the building, between here and the courthouse. We go out the window and—”

  “This is the best plan Delia could come up with? I think I’d have a better chance waiting to see what the judge says in the morning.”

  “No, Abel. You wouldn’t. You haven’t seen the crowd out there, but I’m pretty sure you can hear them, right? About a dozen of them are going to storm the jail with guns a few minutes before ten. Still want to take
your chances?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m just . . . it’s been a rough day.”

  “I know I’m not the rescue team you’d like between you and a lynch mob. But right now, I’m all you’ve got, so we need to go.”

  We have about three minutes before Spencer makes his phone call and then wakes Beebe. The front desk is still empty when we reach the bottom of the stairs. We move quickly into the tiny bathroom, which reeks of pee and bleach, and Abel locks the door behind us. Glancing out the window, I see, straight in front of us, a wide-open space with absolutely no cover. The earth is turned up, like it’s a construction site, and I’m guessing it’s for the new courthouse Kiernan mentioned.

  Looking to the right, across Water Street, there are three empty cars, and two boys in their early teens are leaning against the hood of the car closest to the corner. The boys move toward the front as soon as they hear someone’s being arrested—or at least one of them does, because I saw his face when previewing the scene earlier.

  Behind the cars are woods—a nice, thick tree cover running alongside the road. We can hide in the trees and gradually work our way toward the corner where Grant and Delia will arrive.

  “Take off your shirt,” I tell Abel.

  He looks surprised, but then glances down and nods. His white shirt is torn and covered with blood, and it would both stand out in the dark and scream Escaped Convict. We look for a place to stash the shirt and my white hat, finally just shoving them behind the toilet.

  Abel moves over to look out the window, and the frame suddenly seems tiny next to his broad shoulders.

  “Do you think you’ll fit?” I whisper.

  Abel looks at it for a minute. “Probably . . .”

  I tug on the bottom, hoping to inch it up gradually so that the kids outside don’t notice. It doesn’t move. I yank a little harder, but the window doesn’t budge. “I think it’s painted shut.”

  Abel tries, too, and I wince when the wood creaks.

  I glance around the bathroom for a tool of some sort, but the only options are a plunger and a bar of soap. I finally pull out my CHRONOS medallion and dig the thin edge into the line of paint attaching the window to the windowsill, crossing my fingers that it’s not painted shut on the other side as well, because I think someone’s going to notice if we end up having to smash the damn thing.

  Or maybe not. The noise from outside is steadily rising. Several men are yelling, and I hear a gunshot in the distance.

  Spencer’s at the front desk now, talking on the phone, no more than twenty feet away. Abel starts to lift the window again, but I put a hand on his arm. “Wait until you hear him yell ‘Beebe’—maybe thirty seconds.”

  We wait.

  I never liked this part of hide-and-seek as a kid. My pulse pounds in my ears, and every sound seems ten times as loud.

  I keep my eyes on the window, watching for movement. The two kids finally take off around the side of the building just before I hear Spencer.

  “Hey, Beebe!” A distant knock. “Beebe? You awake?”

  Abel gives the window a yank. Nothing happens on the first try, but on the second there’s a loud creak and it slides to the top.

  I step on the edge of the toilet and hoist myself up and out. Dropping about four feet to the ground, I take the gun from my pocket. Abel squeezes through the window, working his feet through first and then one shoulder at a time. I crouch down to peek around the corner. The small stretch of lawn behind the jail is now empty, and there’s nothing but the cars between us and the trees across the street.

  I’m just about to signal that we should run for it when headlights turn onto Water Street from my left. I motion for Abel to hit the ground and drop to the grass, tucking my bare arms under my body and squeezing my eyes to tiny slits, praying that the driver looks straight ahead at the road. If not, I’m going to have to jump back, tell myself this won’t work, and try something else—and I really don’t want to do that.

  The vehicle slows as it reaches the corner, moving past us, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Then it reverses, the wheels rolling back into my field of vision as it parks on the side of the road. I tug out my medallion, getting ready to jump back, but I risk one glance upward at the car.

  Georgia State Patrol.

  Mitchell looks straight at me, shaking his head the way he did earlier when he said, “Lord, what a mess.” Then he gets out and slams the door. The two teenagers who were hanging out near the cars dart back around the corner and across the street, followed by two others who look about the same age, and they all take cover behind one of the cars.

  Mitchell doesn’t look our way again, just yells across the street, “Get home, Harlan! Does your daddy know you’re here?” as he rounds the corner toward the front of the jail.

  Harlan and his buddies don’t go home, however. They just squat down next to the parked cars, blocking our route to the trees.

  But Mitchell’s car is still running.

  I shove the idea away, but it comes right back. It may be our only shot.

  “Abel,” I say, “I’m going to cover you. On three, open the door and slide behind the wheel. I’ll be right behind.”

  “Are you insane? You want me to steal a cop car?”

  “It’s that or stay here. Go, damn it!”

  Abel runs forward, hunched over. I have a horrible moment when I’m certain that the passenger door will be locked, but it opens.

  I dash after him, slamming the door just as Abel accelerates. He spins the wheel sharply, turning the car in the opposite direction. The rear fishtails slightly, and then we’re off.

  The four kids run out into the street, pointing and yelling. One of them follows us for about half a block, then stops, doubled over. I’m pretty sure he’s laughing.

  “Where am I going? And maybe you should be driving,” he adds. “Georgia didn’t hire black officers in 1938.”

  “And you think they hired female officers?”

  The only place I can think of to go is Kiernan’s cabin. I’d probably be able to backtrack and find it, but we’d have to turn left on Main Street and drive past the Eagle and the jail, and that’s not an option right now. “Take a right. We’ll have to find another way around.”

  Abel turns right at Main, speeding away from the crowd. The gas station we stopped at earlier, now closed for the night, flies past the window. I shove the gun back in my pocket and open the glove compartment.

  “What are you doing?” Abel asks.

  “Looking for a map.”

  “You mean you don’t know where we’re going?” He’s shouting, and while I get his frustration, it would be nice if he could scrounge up just a tiny bit of gratitude. “Any time you’re on a mission, every step needs to be planned—”

  “This isn’t a CHRONOS mission, Abel. In real life, sometimes you have to improvise.”

  “Stealing a cop car when you don’t even know where we’re going isn’t what I’d call improvising.”

  “I was supposed to have a driver,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “Kiernan is the one who knows his way around here. Just get us out of town, and pull off on a side road. As long as I have the key, I can jump back and get directions.”

  “How are we supposed to get up with Delia?”

  “Again, I have the key. I just can’t use it until we find a place to stop, okay? It’s kind of hard to set a stable point to get back to here when we’re going sixty miles an hour.”

  There’s no map in the glove compartment. When I look up, however, I notice headlights flashing in the rearview mirror. I turn to get a better view, and the lights flash again, twice. Then the driver leaves the lights off long enough for me to see a black truck filled with the bright blue light from a CHRONOS key.

  “Pull over as soon as you find somewhere you can hide the car,” I say. “It’s Kiernan.”

  About a quarter of a mile up, a dirt path shoots off behind an old shed. Kiernan idles at the intersect
ion while we park, and then I run over, sliding into the seat next to him.

  “I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you. Where the hell did you go?”

  “I could ask the same thing,” he says. “I got back to the hotel, and you’d disappeared. You should have waited. I wasn’t even gone half an hour.”

  Abel gets in the truck, and Kiernan takes off again.

  “Didn’t see any alternatives. Things were kind of heating up across the street,” I say.

  “So? We were jumping back to fix the problem, Kate. Waiting wouldn’t have changed a thing. Ten more minutes—”

  “So then why didn’t you jump back and lend a hand once you realized what I was doing?”

  “Because I saw that you and Abel made it out the window. I was coming around to pick you up in the truck, and then you zipped by. If you’d waited, maybe we could have avoided stealing a police car!”

  “We didn’t steal it. We borrowed it.”

  I also think there’s a decent chance that we borrowed it with permission, because I know Mitchell saw us. But I don’t want to get into that with Kiernan right now. I want to know why he lied.

  “And maybe I’d have waited if you’d told me the truth about there being a CHRONOS key in the middle of the crowd across from the jail. Given that you lied to me, I didn’t know for certain you were even coming back.”

  He turns and stares at me, his eyes wounded. “Of course, I was com—”

  “Eyes on the damn road!” Abel interjects. “Where are you taking me?”

  Kiernan looks back at the road, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “It’s about five miles up. You’ll be safe there.”

  I thought the cabin was a bit farther away, but I also thought it was in the other direction. The road is winding, so maybe we’re taking a different route.

  Abel says, “What about Delia?”

  “She’ll meet us there. I caught them before they went to the jail. That’s when they told me where Kate was.” He shakes his head. “And then I had to jump back and get my gun. I thought it was in your room.”

  I glare at him. “My gun was in my room. Yours wasn’t, because you took it from me this afternoon.”