by Walker, Rysa
I wrap a sheet around myself and walk to the balcony door. I’d like to go outside, get a breath of fresh air, and see if the scent of the ocean will clear my head, but when I press my palm against the glass, it’s obvious that mid-February is a bit chilly even this far south. And it looks unsettling—too isolated, too deserted. I can see lights farther down the coast, but this stretch looks undeveloped.
Something is shining in the moonlight. Not on the beach, but on the wide expanse of lawn off to my left. An airplane. Not a large one. Just one propeller. Something is written on the side. I can’t decipher the words, but I can make out the symbol near the front of the plane—it’s a Cyrist symbol. Either Saul has learned to fly, or there’s a pilot somewhere around.
The reflected glow of my CHRONOS key in the glass door catches my eye, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. This key is the only thing that keeps me from simply vanishing like Saul’s splinter did a few minutes ago. In a sense, I’m no more real than he was in this timeline. Just an aberration that could vanish with a simple yank of a chain.
I go back to the bed, pulling the sheet tighter around me. I’d planned to sleep here, but I want to go back now. I’m sure Saul expects me to stay. In fact, he was probably planning to spin off another splinter for a second round before I spoiled his fun. Which means he’s going to be in a foul mood, and I still need to set a time for an official visit to find out exactly what actions he’s been taking with Coughlin and the rest.
I need sleep. And he’s going to make me wait, by taking one of his marathon showers.
Ten more minutes pass. Screw him. There’s a pen and paper on the nightstand. I’ll leave a note with a time and a place for our next meeting. If he doesn’t show, I can always come back to this moment, tear up the note, and deal with his grumpy ass in person, since double memories don’t seem to bother him.
I lean over to grab the notepad, managing to knock the pen off the nightstand and under the bed in the process. So I crawl onto the floor and fish around. I don’t find the pen, but my fingers brush against a bit of silk . . . and a strap. When I tug on it, there’s a slight ripping noise, and then I’m holding a slinky black nightgown.
Dropping it onto the pillow, I pull up the stable point I jumped in at—the one facing the bed—and begin scrolling backward, beginning a few hours prior, before Saul started lighting candles to set the mood. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Night, day, night, day. No movement in the place at all for several weeks.
I could be overreacting. It has happened in the past, where Saul’s concerned. He could be renting this place furnished for all I know. Maybe it belonged to the last tenant. And even if he is fooling around, would he be stupid enough to give me the stable point facing the damn bed if there was anything I shouldn’t see?
But that’s the wrong question. He might not be stupid enough, but he’s definitely arrogant enough.
And then, between multiple scenes of the bed in the dark and in the sunlight, I see one with candlelight. I stop and scroll back at a slower pace. The black, silky next-to-nothing on the pillow is now inhabited by a young woman with dark, shoulder-length curls. I’m seeing only her back at the moment, with Saul’s hands lifting her slim bottom in a steady rhythm. Saul’s face is to the stable point, wearing an expression I’ve seen many, many times. There are no splinters in the room, just the two of them, very much caught in the act. I move forward until she’s facing the stable point. She looks familiar, but I can’t place a name to the face.
If I confront him, I’m sure he’ll point out that he only confirmed I was still around today. He thought it entirely possible that I’d been erased. I couldn’t really expect him to be a monk, could I?
And so I scroll forward. Day, night, day, night, day—and there she is. This time it’s her bare back, with sunlight streaming in through the windows.
Yes, it’s possible that he’s not doing his days in sequence here. This could be him at a time before he found me. Either way, Saul Rand can go straight to hell. This is not the first time I’ve caught him cheating. But one way or the other, it will be the last. He’s not even getting a note or an explanation. Let him wonder where I went and why.
I pick the black nightgown up with my fingernails and drop it back down into the crevice between the nightstand and the bed. Then I wrap the sheet around me and step onto the balcony, setting a stable point that shows the entire bedroom and another aimed at the yard below, including the plane and the small landing strip.
That’s when the dots connect. The woman in the bed is the pilot. The little Nazi who was embedded with America First. Laura something. As I step back into the bedroom and pull the door shut, the shower cuts off. Dragging the sheet behind me, I head into the hallway, where I set more stable points. Three more in the main room downstairs, which is massive. One in the dining room, one in the kitchen, and one at the front door. I’ll know when Saul is here and who is with him. Maybe we can figure out what he’s really up to.
A tiny voice in my head tells me I’m being unreasonable. Even though Saul is cheating on me, he could still be trying to defeat Team Viper. I know the voice is right. It’s not rational to assume that his infidelity to me means he’s willing to hand this world over to what is, essentially, an invading army. But my gut tells me it’s true, at least to some extent. Saul might not be working for the other side, but I don’t believe he’s working for us, either. More likely, he’s working for himself, and clearly, I’m at most a peripheral element in whatever future he’s planning.
Storming out will simply tip him off that I’m suspicious, though. I’ll set up a time for our next meeting, and then tell him I need to head back and get some sleep. I’ll even kiss the snake goodbye, assuming he’s not pouting when I tell him I’m not sleeping over.
“Kathy?” he calls from upstairs. “Where did you go?”
“I’m in the kitchen!” I yell back. “It’s now officially Valentine’s Day. Please tell me you didn’t forget to buy champagne?”
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID
ON THE RECORD BY DOROTHY THOMPSON
WHEN VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE
(February 27, 1940) On February 22nd, at the woefully misnamed “Pro-America Rally,” Col. Charles Lindbergh was gravely injured by an attacker, who shot himself before police could apprehend him. This marks the second year in a row that a preventable tragedy has occurred at Madison Square Garden, as thousands of spectators, including hundreds of children, watched. Last year, a woman and her two daughters were crushed in a stairwell by the crowd. Indeed, last night’s rally was intended as a memorial to Joan Slater and her daughters, Marta and Eliza. Their pictures hung from banners on both sides of the auditorium—not as large as the massive painting of George Washington, but still a somber reminder, according to Bund leader Fritz Kuhn, of the violence perpetrated by men of a “lesser race.”
I was in that auditorium last year. My decision to laugh openly at the absurd nature of remarks by the Bund leader, by Brother Charles Coughlin, and by others who seek to create a very different kind of America was met, as I expected, with removal from the arena. What I did not expect was for dozens of people to be injured and three to be killed only yards away from where I stood, as crowds stormed through the police barriers to protest their tax dollars being used to protect those who spread hate from facing the anger of those they would erase.
In my column on that event, I predicted that if no culprit could be found, one would be created. I firmly believe this to be the case. The two men in prison for last year’s bombing hoax have solid alibis for their whereabouts the day of the rally, having only arrived at the Garden shortly before the crowd stormed the barriers. While the response from city leaders has been measured, the Dies Committee dumped dozens of subpoenas on leftist groups, especially the Communist Party, despite no credible evidence linking either suspect to that organization. Hundreds of people have had their homes raided and their lives upturned as Fascists within our government seized upon flimsy excuses to
begin a purge. The fact that many of those targeted are Jewish should surprise no one.
The words spoken from the podium at this year’s rally were similar, casting the Jewish people of this nation and of the world as villains and expressing sympathy for the Nazi cause. This year, however, there was a key difference. The tone was slightly moderated, the words a bit more polished, but they were spoken by a candidate for US Senate.
I have made my views on Col. Lindbergh quite clear in this column over the past few years. Likewise, he has been open with his laughable accusation that I am an agent of the British government, intent on dragging this country into war. The attempt on his life last week does not change my view that Lindbergh is a Fascist. While I am glad to learn that he will live to continue his slander against me, I am also glad that he has decided to end his campaign for the Senate. There are too many Nazi sympathizers in positions of power in this nation without adding more to their numbers.
∞22∞
MADI
SKANEATELES, NEW YORK
AUGUST 26, 1966
I blink into the stable point on the living room sofa to find a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table in front of me. The lights are low, but someone is in the fully lit room off to the right. I head for the light, both in search of Jack and hoping it will wake me up. I’d very nearly fallen asleep waiting on Katherine to doze off in the other twin bed. I’m pretty sure she was doing the same damn thing. Finally, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, flipped my feet over the side of the bed, and blinked out.
“Jack?” I say, stepping into the kitchen, where he’s placing a package of crackers on a plate with some very yellow cheese and dried fruit.
He gives me a hello kiss, and then says, “I’m afraid our appetizer options are rather limited. There’s more than enough food in this place to last me for months, but most of it is of the nonperishable variety. The box says this is cheese, but I’m not entirely convinced.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m more tired than hungry. The wine sounds good, though. I have a sleeping pill Clio gave me, which she says won’t make me groggy, but I’d rather not risk it. I’m thinking I’ll try the wine and other natural methods of relaxation first.”
I press my body against his with those last words, and he grins. “So that’s what I am, hmm? A ‘natural method of relaxation’?”
“Well, that and a research assistant,” I say as I follow him back into the living room. “Unpaid. Overworked. And speaking of . . . Did you find anything?”
“A CHRONOS key in the crowd that was not attached to you or Tyson,” he says as I pour us a glass of wine. “After you left. A tall, thin man. Couldn’t really see his face, but I’m pretty sure it was Saul. He’s on his own, and he doesn’t do anything while he’s there, as best I can tell. Just sits in the upper level, on the opposite side from where you and Tyson were. Watches as the Nazi leader—Kuhn, I guess?—starts speaking. A reporter heckles the speaker, and the police escort her out.”
“Dorothy Thompson, right?”
“Yes. She has a syndicated column, and she really, really doesn’t like Nazis. From what I was reading, she was the first American journalist Hitler kicked out of Germany when he took over. Anyway, she’s escorted out just when all hell breaks loose inside the arena. I can’t hear anything, obviously, but judging from the reaction, the protestors ram through the police line at the same time people start reacting to the noise of the explosion. Or what they think is an explosion. Here, it will be quicker to just show you. I’ll transfer the point back to you, because it will take you forever to find the right one. I now have the relevant points labeled and in folders, by the way, like a good research assistant.”
“Remind me to give you a bonus.”
“I will definitely do that.” He transfers one location to my key. “To be honest, I think this is really the only one you need to see. This is from the edge of the balcony. I tried the one from the main floor, but the view is mostly blocked by people, especially once the chaos begins. Start at 9:47 p.m., and pan slightly left and down.”
I follow his instructions, and after a couple of seconds, two police officers come into view with a woman between them. From this angle, I wouldn’t have known it was Dorothy Thompson, but they’re clearly escorting her toward the exit. Everyone yanks their heads up toward the balcony, almost in unison, and then the police continue moving. Just as they pass the stairs leading up to the balcony, a wave of people, mostly male and mostly young, enters the auditorium. The first group is looking toward the balcony, too, and so I’m guessing they heard the explosion. Maybe those behind them didn’t, however, because they push onward down the center and left aisles toward the podium, which I can’t see from this observation point.
Another smaller group breaks toward the aisle where the officers and Thompson are standing. Two of the protestors rush the guards, one of whom pushes Thompson into the wall behind him, shielding her. At that instant, people begin pouring out of the stairwell, but one of them, a rather large guy, halts abruptly on the bottom stair.
It’s not clear why for a second, and then I see the gun carried by one of the two men who rushed Thompson and the police officers. One of the cops draws his gun in response. The heavyset guy tries to back up into the stairwell, but everyone else is still trying to get out. A mass of bodies slams into him, and he falls facedown onto the floor. Two women land on top of him. One scurries to her feet and dashes for the exit. The other stops and looks behind her, back up the staircase.
“You can’t see when they’re killed,” Jack says. “I even tried the stable points on the staircase, and there are just too many shoving bodies to get a clear view. I see the chubby guy heading down, and then it’s just elbows and backs for a bit. Then later, you see the emergency personnel heading up there, and carrying out the three bodies. I think they stumbled, and then other people fell on top of them.”
I watch the crowd for a couple of minutes, looking for the guy with the gun and the cop who chased after him, and also for Dorothy Thompson. “She makes it out okay, right?” I’m pretty sure that she does, but I’m still relieved when Jack nods.
“Yeah. The other cop gets her outside. I caught a brief glimpse of her from the stable point outside the auditorium. And her next column was published right on schedule.”
“So . . . did it look to you like she was the target?” I ask. “Because it kind of did to me.”
“Not the target of most of the people who stormed the gates. They were going after the tin-pot Nazi at the podium . . . who also got away unscathed, of course. But she was definitely the target of the two guys who broke off from the pack. And I’d have been a little suspicious anyway because I started doing some digging on Thompson. She does stop writing, or at least, she stops writing about political events the next year. Her last column is one covering the Republican convention in late June. Her son is home from boarding school, so she agrees to take him to the Fair for the Fourth of July celebration. She was near the Court of Peace when the bomb went off. Received minor injuries from the blast.”
“Okay, that doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Oh . . . and one more thing about the Bund rally. Saul is standing right at the railing staring down at the scene, until Thompson gets away. Then he just blinks out, right in the middle of a group of people. It’s a miracle there wasn’t another panic on that side of the auditorium.”
“You say you couldn’t see his face?” I ask.
“No, but it’s definitely a guy, and the build is wrong for Morgen, from what you’ve said. I suppose it could be one of the observers—”
“I’m not doubting that it was Saul,” I tell him. “I’m just wondering which Saul.”
“Oh,” Jack says. “That does not sound good.”
Once I catch him up on the pertinent details, Jack shakes his head. “The lighting is too bad for me to say for certain whether he’s got the scar, but I haven’t check
ed all of the points on that side of the balcony yet. Once I figured out that it was him, I moved on.”
“You didn’t know we might be dealing with two . . .” I stop for a yawn. “With two Sauls. I’m pretty sure it’s the one from our reality anyway. All of this stuff with Coughlin is apparently his attempt to set the timeline straight, although I have no earthly idea how or why he thought it would help. If we actually manage to reverse the changes the Viper team made to the timeline, we’ll still have to deal with the repercussions of what Saul is doing.”
“We need to get you to bed,” he says, pressing his lips against my hair. “I don’t think you’re going to require the sleeping pill or my natural relaxation techniques.”
“Hey, I didn’t hire you for your research skills alone, mister.” He’s right, though. I’m out almost instantly afterward, with no need for Clio’s magic pill.
Jack set two alarms before falling asleep, just to be on the safe side, but he still has to nudge me to get my lazy behind moving.
“May 9th,” he whispers into my ear.
Curiosity kicks my brain into gear—low gear, admittedly, but at least I’m awake. “That’s one of the dates Alex and RJ gave me.”
“Yep. It’s one they gave me, too.”
“How did they give you any information? They can’t come here, and you can’t go there yet, so . . .”
“Pull up the library on your key, on the morning of the 19th. Then pan around to the wall screen.”
“Oh, wow. They’re using it as a bulletin board. It’s like the doctor, June, did at that beach house at Estero. There was a little board near the door where they left her messages.”
At the top are the five dates they gave me. In addition, there are two notes at the bottom.
Serum ready.
Tourist name misspelled in paper. It’s Tomonaga. Japanese physicist. Super-many-time theory. Come get info.
“What is a super-many-time theory?” I ask.
