by Rysa Walker
We all thank him for his help, and I add, “Please be careful.”
“No need to worry about us. We’ll be fine. And if I find that other boy, I’ll do my best to keep him safe.” Once we’re down the ladder, he says, “Y’all might want to get settled before I close this lid. It’s gonna be mighty dark down there.”
Light isn’t a problem, actually. Even if one of us was afraid of the dark, we have four bright blue CHRONOS keys in a hole that’s maybe seven feet across.
It’s more the size of the cellar that bothers me. There are shelves on one side, and the whole thing reminds me of the linen closet at Holmes’s hotel in Chicago. I shiver, partly from that memory and partly because it’s chilly down here.
I transfer the local stable points I set outside the farmhouse to everyone’s keys as the trucks roll into the yard. The two cars hang back about fifty feet down the road. One of them seems pretty full. Several people get out, some of them climbing up on the hood.
“I can’t believe Grant took off like that,” Delia says. She’s sitting in front of Abel, wrapped in a blanket. Abel’s arms are around her, and Joe’s second shotgun is near his feet.
“I don’t blame Grant for running,” Abel says. “We aren’t exactly in an optimal situation. This hole is crowded enough with the four of us, and he’s probably safer on his own. He’s got a new ID. He’s got cash for a fresh start. He’ll be okay.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says.
When I look back at my key, one of the men is shouting something. They’re all dressed similarly, mostly in jeans and plain shirts, but I’m positive the shouter is Willis, judging from his build and the fact that he’s moving with a slight limp. I can hear noise from outside, but it’s too muffled to pick out words.
We do hear the bell, however, at 1:13 a.m. Martha rings it five times, waits a few seconds, and repeats the signal. Two of the men behind Willis look around nervously and get down from the truck bed, moving around the corner of the house.
“Do you think the sheriff will even come?” Delia asks.
It’s not clear who she’s asking, but Abel finally says, “Yes. Otherwise there’s trouble on all fronts. Some will complain because he allowed a mob to get the upper hand. Others will complain because a dangerous criminal escaped. And they’ve got grand-theft auto against me now as well.”
He shoots an annoyed glance at me, and I’m a little surprised when Delia speaks in my defense. “If she hadn’t gotten you out of there, those crazies would have you already, Abel. You’re wearing a key, so I think you know that as well as I do. I remember watching them drag you out of that cell. Grant and I were useless, and Kiernan wasn’t around—she did the best she could. Thank you, Kate.”
Tears spring to my eyes, maybe because I’ve been feeling a little underappreciated, but also because Delia’s thanks now seem misplaced. The “crazies” are mere yards away, and they could drag Abel out again—although with three guns down here, they’re going to find it a little more difficult.
“I never said I wasn’t grateful,” Abel says. “It’s just the planning could have been—”
“Shut up, Abel.” Delia’s words are harsh, but her tone is affectionate, and Abel shakes his head and then kind of chuckles, hugging her to him.
Kiernan has been very quiet, his eyes glued to one of the stable points. When I lean back to see which one he’s watching, he quickly shifts to a different view.
So I start jumping between them, trying to see what caught his attention. I watch Willis yelling from two different angles, with others in the trucks joining in occasionally.
Then I shift to look at the cars and find what caught Kiernan’s attention. I almost missed the blip of blue light inside the second car, probably because the entire cellar is flooded with the same shade.
“Simon’s out there,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He catches the suspicion in my voice and hisses back, “I just realized it myself!”
Of course, when you’re crammed in a cellar, shoulder to shoulder, whispers aren’t really private.
Delia says, “That’s the one with Saul, right? His lieutenant.”
Thug is more like it, but I nod.
“Why’s he here?” Abel asks. “Does he know we’re CHRONOS?”
“Yes,” Kiernan says, “and I suspect he’s here because he’s as bloody twisted as his grandda. He wants to be here when you hang or they shoot you or whatever the hell they’re planning.”
I don’t know why I have a hard time believing that’s Simon’s only reason. He was perfectly willing to put me in the path of a serial killer in 1893. And while the vast majority of people in this county are at home, minding their own business, and wouldn’t hear about a lynching until it was long over, I suspect half of the people on Martha’s front lawn are there for the same reason Kiernan thinks Simon is hanging around. They wouldn’t kill Abel themselves, but they’re happy, maybe even a little eager, to watch someone else do it.
I shift from the cars to watching the front porch. Joe is pointing the shotgun at Willis, and I can read his lips perfectly. “Get off my property.” There are a few more words, and then Joe’s expression shifts from determined to terrified. Delia and Abel gasp at the same moment that Joe lowers the gun.
I know what’s happened before I switch to the other view. They have Martha. I shift my eyes over to Kiernan’s key and watch as Simon walks toward the trucks. Kiernan blinks twice before I can say, “No, Kiernan. You can’t go in there.”
I’m pretty certain he can’t jump in anywhere, but he keeps trying, his expression furious.
A truck is coming in from the other side of the farm, driving fast across the lawn. A middle-aged man in overalls gets out of the truck, his gun raised, then sees Martha. One of the masked men has an arm around her waist and the muzzle of his pistol wedged under her jaw.
Kiernan might not be able to jump out, but I can. I shove the gun into my pocket, freeing up both hands so that I can set the cellar and current time as a stable point. As I’m finishing, someone bangs on the cellar door.
“It’s Simon,” Kiernan says. “He just walked around the side of the house.”
Kiernan’s right. I pull up the stable point outside the cellar and see the back of Simon’s head. I can also see the wheels of a car driving up directly behind him.
Then Simon starts talking, his voice muted a bit by the wooden door. “I’m sure you’ve got guns down there, just like we do up here. Don’t start shooting yet. I’m here to negotiate. I know Abel and Delia are down there, and it’s mostly you I’m talking to. I’m sure Kate has been painting a dreadful picture of the Cyrists, but she’s been . . . I guess you’d say brainwashed . . . by her grandmother. The only reason she’s here is that Prudence is protecting her, although I don’t know how much longer their little agreement can hold.”
Kiernan tenses up beside me, and then he yells, “Get to the bloody point, Simon!”
“Kiernan! I thought you might be down there, buddy. My point is that there’s a way for Abel and Delia to get out of this safely, if they listen to reason. You, too. Kiernan. My earlier offer still stands, if you’re tired of babysitting for Pru.”
Kiernan curses under his breath, and Simon goes on, “Abel, there are Cyrist communities, even in 1938, where it will not matter one tiny bit that your wife is white. Where the two of you can make a difference, rather than being second-class citizens for the next four decades.”
Abel is still pointing the gun upward toward the door, but I can see his face. Simon has his attention. He’s listening. He’s thinking about it.
“He’s lying,” I hiss. When Abel doesn’t look at me, and I grab Delia’s arm. “You heard Kiernan, Delia. The only reason Simon’s here—”
I don’t get anything else out, because Kiernan’s hand is over my mouth. “Kate,” he whispers, “you need to get out of here, love.”
Simon keeps talking, elaborating on this bright, shiny Cyrist future he can offer th
em, as I struggle against Kiernan.
Delia looks over at me, an apology in her eyes. Then she yells up at Simon, “What about the woman those men are holding? If we leave with you, do they let her go?”
“Sorry, Delia. That’s an entirely separate situation, a mistake that should have been corrected long ago.”
“Then no deal!” Delia says.
“She speaking for you, too, Abel?”
“Absolutely,” Abel fires back. “No deal unless you guarantee her safety along with ours. I have no ties to Katherine, and I wouldn’t be in this damned hole right now if her granddaughter hadn’t screwed things up. But Martha put her neck on the line for us, and I don’t betray friends.”
Abel doesn’t even glance my way, so I don’t know how much of what he’s saying is truth and how much is negotiation.
“That part’s out of my control, Abel—”
“Bullshit!” Kiernan says. “What are you now, Simon? Just Saul’s errand boy? Since when do you check every decision with him? You can do whatever you want. Let her and Joe get into the truck with his brother, and all three of us leave with you. Saul will never know the bloody difference, unless you’re dumb enough to tell him.”
“What about Kate?” Simon says.
“Kate blinked out the second she heard your voice. Don’t know where she’s going, but I should probably tell you she has a gun.”
“Oh wow I’m so scared,” he says in a flat voice. “Seriously, Kiernan, what makes you think I’m in control of those idiots out front? All I did was tell them where you were. Otherwise, this is their little party, and I doubt they’ll let her go unless Abel gives himself up in her place. He’s the only reason most of them are here.”
“Yeah, right, Simon. How much did you pay that guy to grab Martha? You already admitted as much. Slip him another twenty—”
“You’re missing the point, Kier.” Simon starts rattling on about how it’s easy to start a mob but not so easy to stop it. Abel and Delia are arguing back and forth with him, but I can no longer follow the conversation, because Kiernan is talking into my ear.
“Save Martha, Kate. You know where she’ll be. Get her and Joe to his brother’s farm. Then go back home.”
He pulls his hand away from my mouth, slowly. I turn to face him, but I guess he can tell I’m still not convinced.
“I can do more on Saul’s side than I can on Pru’s. Trust me, and just go. Please.”
“I could trust you more if you’d tell me everything, Kiernan. What are you hiding?”
“When I can tell you, I will. When I know for certain. I promise—”
“On her wedding band.”
He inhales sharply, and I add, “I don’t care whether you drew that ring onto her finger from memory or from your imagination. Promise me on that, and I’ll believe you.”
He grabs my left hand and presses his lips to the ring finger. “I promise, Kate. Just go.”
I pull up the stable point on the far side of the house, the one Kiernan and I set before hiding the cars. Right now, at 1:19 a.m., the only thing I can see at that point is the side of an Oconee County sheriff’s vehicle, so I guess that answers Delia’s question. I don’t know how the police may affect the negotiations with Simon, so I show it to Kiernan. Then I roll the time back to 1:09 a.m., just as Joe locks us into the cellar, and blink out.
I didn’t realize how much we’d been able to hear in that cellar. It was hard to make out anything clearly, but there was a steady hum of noise from the cars above and from all of the shouting. Now, the farm is eerily quiet.
I run around to the back of the house and see Martha’s silhouette through the window. I tap quickly on the door and then open it.
She gasps. “Holy moly, Kate, you scared me! I thought Joe—” Then she glances down at the key around my neck and says, “Oh. That thing again.”
“Get Joe. The two of you need to go to his brother’s house.”
“I don’t think he’ll come, Kate. Joe ain’t the type to just leave those people undefended, or the farm undefended, for that matter. Me neither. We can’t just up and leave when—”
“Martha, this is the only way everyone gets out alive.” I try to keep the doubt out of my voice, because I don’t trust Simon, not at all. “Can you drive?”
“What? Yes, but—”
“I’ll convince Joe. You get the truck.” I reach in my pocket for the keys to Kiernan’s truck, but she’s already heading for their own truck, parked next to the barn.
“Do you have your keys?”
“In the truck!” she yells back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I can’t help but think that car theft must be really, really easy in 1938.
Joe is confused when he sees me, but he must have already accepted that something out of the ordinary is going on, because he never questioned how I knew that the mob would be coming through his gate in twenty minutes. All it takes to get him to leave is telling him that one of those men will soon have a gun to Martha’s head.
They’re gone less than a minute when the first truck rolls into the front yard. The headlights shine through the curtains, and the driver revs the motor. I hear someone, Willis I presume, stomping up the front steps, and then he bangs on the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I can’t just accept that Simon will keep his word, but there’s no reason I have to watch events play out from here. I’ll have a much safer, much clearer view from my bedroom.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as soon as I blink into the room, but I ignore it and drop to the floor in front of my bed, clutching my key so tightly that the edge cuts into my palm. I’m suddenly queasy, and my head is spinning. It’s almost like the sensation when there’s a time shift, but it passes after a moment. Probably stress, lack of sleep, and too much caffeine.
When I’ve recovered enough to bring up the stable point at the cellar, I see three men with Simon, their guns drawn. One of them is Willis, and one is the guy who was holding the gun on Martha. A large black car is behind them, and someone I don’t recognize is at the wheel.
The one good thing about being the person who actually changes an event is that you walk away without the confusion, as long as you don’t run into your other self along the way. I remember that guy holding a gun to Martha. I also remember Martha driving away in the truck with Joe. Both things happened, but it doesn’t feel like they happened at the same time, because for me, they didn’t.
That’s not the case for Delia, Abel, and Kiernan. They all look disoriented as they climb up from the cellar. So does Simon, but I count that in the good-news column.
Kiernan is the first up, and he still has the Colt drawn. Abel comes up the ladder behind him, and one of the men steps forward to grab Abel. Kiernan shouts at him and raises the gun, moving it back and forth between the men until Abel and Delia are both in the car. Simon seems to be yelling at Kiernan, something I can’t make out, because all I can see is the back of his head now. Kiernan glares back and says something that includes “bloody hell” and a few other obscenities.
They argue back and forth briefly, then Kiernan shakes his head in disgust and gets into the car. What puzzles me most is Simon’s expression when he turns back toward the stable point. He still looks a little annoyed, but he also looks relieved. It’s the one time I’ve seen his face when he wasn’t sneering or glaring, and it’s disconcerting, because that expression doesn’t click with my mental picture of him.
Then Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. He peels off a few and hands them to the gunmen, then draws back his arm like he’s throwing a baseball. Something goes flying toward the front of the house. At first I think it’s a grenade of some sort, because the hired guns start running. But they run in the direction Simon threw it, so that can’t be right.
It was the roll of money. Simon stands there for about a minute, watching, the usual sneer back on his face. Then he gets into the passenger seat, and the car drives off.
I sw
itch to a stable point out front and watch as a fight breaks out between the man who reached the money roll first and the others, who’ve clearly decided he needs to share. I skip forward in thirty-second increments until they leave, making sure no one decides to burn down the house and that Martha and Joe are no longer in danger. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing that a lot, even after tonight is over, because I see no reason for Simon not to come back and finish the job. The yard finally clears out about five minutes later. Joe and his brother drive over to check the place out around 1:30 a.m. and talk to a Georgia state trooper, who I’m very relieved to see has located his car.
When I’m reasonably sure all is as it should be, I roll the time back and watch the stable point at the gate until the black car filled with bright blue light takes a left and zooms off into the night.
Then I tuck the CHRONOS key back into its pouch and stare at the carpet, trying to figure out how I’m going to explain to Connor and Katherine why I let Delia Morrell and Abel Waters, not to mention Kiernan, get into Simon’s car with their keys and drive away.
My phone buzzes again, and I pick it up, partly because I want to see if there’s news from Dad about Grandpa Keller, but also because I really want to delay the conversation with Katherine and Connor, if only for a few minutes. Dad’s message is confusing. Grandpa is out of the ICU, but Dad says he’s talked to Mom and wants to know what is going on. He says he’s worried and asks me to call as soon as possible. I sigh, realizing I didn’t call to tell him about my disastrous dinner with Trey. I must have been even more of a wreck than I thought for Mom to call Dad all the way from Italy.
The next two texts are from Trey. The first is a totally unnecessary apology for reserving the hotel. The second, sent about a half hour later, is another apology, along with a request to call him so that we can talk all of this through.
