by Rysa Walker
While he’s figuring out how to adhere the disk behind his ear, I open the Log of Stable Points and discover that it’s exactly what the title claims. Flipping through, I see that there are hundreds—no, it’s easily thousands—of locations. As with the key, they all have date ranges during which the spots are viable. A lot of them are dark, but I’m guessing that’s because they’re tucked away in an alley or a closet or whatever. None of them go past 2160, which seems to be a strict cutoff date for time travel.
“Okay, here’s what I don’t get,” I say to Jack. “If the title is based on what RJ said that day in the living room, who created all of these stable points? Who tested them to make sure the dates were accurate? That’s what I was supposed to do, right? I was supposed to come up with a menu of jump locations as part of this package we’d deliver along with the key.”
Jack gives me a weak smile. “Looks like you already did it. So I guess you can skip that step.”
“But the work has to be done at some point, or the book will cease to exist. Right?”
“Not if some other version of you in another timeline already did it. Like I said, the diaries have a CHRONOS field, so they’re protected even in this timeline. Or at least, that’s my best guess.”
I start to say, yet again, that it doesn’t make sense. Because it truly doesn’t. But I’m starting to feel like that song is stuck on repeat, so I just ask the question that’s still circling in the periphery of my mind.
“Why didn’t you tell your father that I can use the key?”
Jack is quiet for a moment, staring down into his wineglass. “Remember the day when we were sitting in the quad eating lunch, about a month after we met? A squirrel came over and swiped a piece of your bread. You told me how different the squirrels here look from the red squirrels in the nature preserve where you used to hike with your dad. At Glen . . . something.”
“Glendalough.”
“Yeah. And we started talking about coping with losing someone you loved. About the way it carves out a hole inside of you.”
I nod, because I do remember the conversation, vividly. I’d spoken with people who had experienced grief, but our conversations had been fairly superficial. They’d all said it gets better with time. Which I had found to be true, for the most part, but also not true. Jack was the first person who understood that. The hole gets smaller every day, he’d said when he told me about his mother dying. But it never fully heals. And maybe you don’t want it to heal completely. At least, I don’t. I want that space inside of me to be the one place where she still lives.
In that moment, I’d felt like we really connected. But then Jack looked away and shifted the topic abruptly. A few minutes later he’d shoved his things back into his pack, saying he needed to stop at the library before class. I’d tossed the last of my pita to the squirrel as I watched him walk away, mystified by his sudden change of mood.
“I was already attracted to you,” he says, with his eyes still locked on his glass. “That was true from the beginning, even though I knew it wasn’t smart, given the reasons I was seeking you out in the first place. But I can pinpoint that afternoon in the quad as the moment I fell in love with you.”
Jack’s hand moves almost imperceptibly toward mine, and then he moves it back to his wineglass in silent acknowledgment that he knows things have changed. That I will have to be the one to make that first move, to give him the green light.
“But the other reason is because what you said in the basement is dead on,” he adds, looking down at the table. “My father is a good man, but he’s got a very utilitarian point of view, like pretty much everyone else in the military. They’ll give lip service to the whole thing about no soldier left behind, but it doesn’t disguise the underlying core belief that the good of the many outweighs the good of the one. If I let them know you can use that key, you will more or less be drafted into whatever they think we need to do to prevent our enemies from launching a global pandemic. Most likely, that will include you being sent back to kill Elizabeth Forson or erase—” Jack stops suddenly. He stares at me for a second and pushes up from the table.
I follow Jack as he runs toward the staircase that leads to the library. “Elizabeth Forson?” I ask. “I’ve heard the name. Who is she?”
“It’s they, actually. Elizabeth Forson developed an ethnic bioweapon in the early 2070s. She’s dead, but one of her two cloned daughters, Liza Forson, is carrying on her work. And based on the intelligence my dad has seen, she’s ratcheting things up a notch.”
Alex is at one of the tables, running a tiny scalpel along the edge of the binding of a CHRONOS diary, as we enter the library. The computer I’ve come to think of as the Anomalies Machine is dark. Jack pokes at the display, and when it comes up, he opens the database.
He types in the name Forson and selects search all.
Two entries pop up:
Elizabeth Anne Forson II
Elizabeth Anne Forson III ✓
Both erased. One significant.
“What are you guys looking at?” Alex asks, glancing up from his book surgery.
Jack slides down into the closest chair and gives me a look of abject misery. I hold his gaze for several seconds and discover several very important things in that silent moment.
First, everything Jack has been telling me is true.
Second, despite the fact that this time shift conveniently wiped away a genocidal maniac, he agrees with me that we can’t let it stand. That we will have to find another way.
Third, I’m in love with him. That’s probably been true for quite some time, but it’s a crystal-clear fact at the very front of my mind now. Undeniable. Big, bold, flashing letters. I’m not sure if I’ve entirely forgiven him for not telling me the truth from the beginning, but I will forgive him. Because I’m in love with him.
And finally, I realize Jack and I are doing that same couples-telepathy thing that Lorena and RJ are always doing. That last flash of insight comes, in part, from Alex’s expression, which I catch out of the corner of my eye as he goes over to inspect the Anomalies Machine. He looks annoyed and more than a little baffled.
“Could one of you please explain who Elizabeth Forson is?” Alex asks. “And maybe what she did to earn that blue check mark?”
“She killed nearly a billion people,” Jack tells him. “The time shift erased her. And unfortunately, we’re going to have to risk unerasing her.”
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (AUGUST 20, 1966)
(Memphis, Tenn.) The second of two performances by British singing sensations the Beatles was disrupted on Friday when a man tossed a cherry bomb onto the stage. A crowd of 12,500 fans, many of them teenagers, attended the show at Mid-South Coliseum last evening.
An individual in the regalia of the Ku Klux Klan told a television reporter earlier this week that his organization took issue with Lennon’s statement and were planning a few “surprises.” Tomatoes and light bulbs were tossed at the stage prior to detonating the cherry bomb.
Members of the audience near the front stated that they were initially concerned that the explosion was a gunshot. Security personnel apprehended the culprit, and the concert continued without further incident.
∞23∞
TYSON
MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA
MARCH 23, 1965
The four Klan members drop their voices almost to a whisper, forcing me to crank the volume up all the way on my earpiece in order to hear them. It’s hard to filter out the background noise at this setting. Each time they put a glass down, it sounds like someone dropped an anvil onto the table.
“I got two devices in a suitcase in my trunk,” Chambliss says. “All I gotta do is connect some wires and we’re set.”
Collie Wilkins’s eyes grow wide. I’m guessing he rode down from Birmingham in that car without any clue what Dynamite Bob had packed for the trip.
“And where are you thinking of placing them?” Shelton asks. “The march is supposed to end on the step
s of the state capitol. The governor has been pretty good about giving us cover, but that won’t extend to blowin’ shit up on his front steps.”
“Then we hit ’em before they get to the capitol.”
“During the march?” Wilkins asks. “Wouldn’t that be a little hard to set up?”
“Well, no,” Chambliss admits. “During the march ain’t a good idea, since we don’t know exactly what route they’ll take. But we do know where they’re stayin’ tomorrow night.”
Shelton snorts. “Yeah. On church property. Because blowin’ up a church went really well for us last time. And now you want both dead kids and dead nuns? The press will crucify us, even if they can’t prove anything. The feds, too, for that matter.”
Chambliss is silent for a moment. “So you’re sayin’ we should just pack it up, then?” he asks sullenly. “Let the feds, the NAACP, the Reverend Doctor, and the rest of those commie bastards just take over the goddamn state? Hell, they even got celebrities comin’ in. I thought you said—”
Shelton leans across the table. “Lower your damn voice, Bobby. You know full well I ain’t sayin’ that.”
Campbell has been quiet up to this point. “I think what he’s saying is that we need to do something, but it needs to be a little more strategic.”
The look Chambliss gives Campbell is downright poisonous. And while I can barely see Shelton’s face from this angle, his spine definitely stiffens as he glances over at Campbell. Despite the ludicrous titles, the United Klans of America claims to operate within a military structure. As Imperial Wizard, Robert Shelton considers himself the commander in chief. I doubt he’s a big fan of one of the troops cutting in to interpret his words for him.
Campbell doesn’t seem to pick up on that, though. “The FBI’s got experts who look for bomb signatures,” he continues. “They’ll recognize yours and tie it back to Birmingham. I’m thinking it needs to be more of a surgical strike. Something that makes a strong statement about all the sympathizers flocking into the South instead of minding their own damn business. We got pissed off men all over the state who agree with us, but they’re too chickenshit to take a stand. That includes all of the little splinter Klans. Wouldn’t mind seein’ one of the other groups catch some flak for a change. What we don’t need is something that can be tied back to us.”
Am I the only one noticing the way Campbell’s accent comes and goes? And is his comment about the FBI analyzing bomb signatures even accurate in 1965? They may have been looking for commonalities in the design of explosives, but I doubt they called them bomb signatures back then.
I’ve been trying to push my questions about what he’s doing here aside for the time being, partly because I need to focus on what they’re saying, but also because I still can’t entirely wrap my head around the fact that Morgen Campbell is using a CHRONOS key. Or rather, he was using a key a few decades back, since the Morgen across the bar looks like he’s thirty, max. Although, the guy could be a clone, I guess.
I don’t have any questions at all about how he got a key. You can buy almost anything on the black market when you’re as wealthy as Campbell. But you have to acquire the CHRONOS gene before you’re even born. Plus, the key doesn’t function on its own. He’d have to have bribed one of the techs—or, more likely, a bunch of them—along with security personnel, and who knows how many others in order to pull this off.
“Sounds like you got somethin’ in mind, Wayne,” Shelton says softly. “Why don’t you enlighten us about your plan?”
Campbell must notice the undertone of venom in Shelton’s voice. “Well, it ain’t really a plan,” he says, his accent miraculously in place again. “More of an idea I just had. Maybe a sniper would be better this time. They expect us to use a bomb, so instead we take up position in one of the houses across the street and just pick off a few people. Maybe one of their celebrities, even. I got an old army buddy I served with in Korea. He’s over in Prattville now. He’d take care of it for fifty bucks, no questions asked.”
“R-i-i-ght,” Chambliss says. “He gets caught and suddenly he’s singin’ like the goddamn Beatles.”
Shelton shrugs. “No more of a risk than one of you doing it. Why does this guy work so cheap?”
I get a good look at Campbell’s face this time, because he turns to give Shelton a grin that sets my teeth on edge. “Let’s just say my friend loves his work. He’d do the killing for free. The fifty bucks is for the no-questions-asked part.”
“And he’s available?” Shelton asks.
It’s Campbell’s turn to shrug. “Won’t know ’til I ask. He’ll want payment up front, though.”
Shelton stands, pulls out his wallet, and tosses some bills onto the table. “That should cover the tab, too. And, Wayne?” He waits until Campbell looks up at him. “You’ll be payin’ the treasury back that fifty bucks if I ain’t happy. And don’t use the damn phone. Drive over and ask him.”
After Shelton leaves, the other three order another round. I debate going back to HQ to tell them about Campbell. But I still don’t know for certain who the shooter is, or where he’s firing from, and Angelo said we need to minimize the back-and-forth jumps as much as possible. So, I head up to my room to scan the stable points and see what information I can find on this Wayne guy that Campbell is impersonating and why he’s here with Collie Wilkins tonight, instead of Tommy Rowe. It’s not like I can follow him to his war buddy’s house. I don’t have a rental car, and I’d look kind of conspicuous tailing him in a taxi. Plus, I’ve got a sneaky feeling this whole thing with his homicidal friend was already arranged.
Once I’m in the room, I scan through my files for Klavern 13, to see if there’s a Wayne mentioned. The only one I notice is about sixty years old, so I don’t think it’s him. What jumps out at me, though, is the information about Gary Thomas Rowe. He’s mentioned only in passing as a suspected informant for the FBI who the United Klans ran out of the state, along with his wife and kids, in November of 1964. I’d bet a significant amount of money that he was ratted out by Campbell. That would have allowed him to gain credibility with the group in pretty short order.
No one with either the first or the last name Wayne is mentioned in the newspaper accounts of the shooting at City of St. Jude. No one with that name is in the transcripts of the House Un-American Activities Committee hearings, either. There is one significant thing in that account, however, that has changed—only Robert Shelton winds up with a prison sentence. Both Scoggin and the North Carolina Grand Dragon Bob Jones pay a fine, but escape jail time.
That makes me want to put my fist through the hotel wall. And while that might be a decent stress reliever, it doesn’t seem likely to change anything, so I take out my CHRONOS key and get to work. My best bet is to figure out which house they’re planning to use, jump in early, and set up a stable point. Then I’ll come back to the hotel and watch the events unfold, just to be certain, before going back to clear things with Angelo and the others. Because I want their official buy-in if it actually comes down to killing someone.
I open one of the stable points on the athletic field at City of St. Jude and scan forward to tomorrow night at 9:20 p.m., which is when the shooting begins, according to the newspapers. The place looks very different. For one thing, the lights surrounding the field are on now, casting an odd, yellowish glow over everything. There’s also a decent-sized temporary stage on the field. I know from my research that it was built from the boxes that coffins arrive in, with sheets of plywood nailed to the top. In the previous timeline, that was just a quirky factoid. In this one, it’s downright macabre.
I pan around, looking at the crowd, until the first shots ring out at exactly 9:22:38. While I can’t hear them, of course, I can tell from the reaction of the crowd. Since I really don’t want to watch the bodies fall and people screaming, I pan over to where the military vehicles are parked to see the reaction from the security forces. Something else catches my eye, and I pan back a bit. It’s the blond girl I saw getting
out of the cab yesterday. I think she’s even wearing the same clothes. She’s not with the rest of the crowd. Her back is pressed against one of the buildings, and she’s looking toward the houses across the street, probably trying to figure out where the hell the shots are coming from. I hope she stays put. She doesn’t really look like the pictures of either of the two women who were killed along with Mary Travers, but those both looked like yearbook photos, so they might have been a few years out of date. I scan forward a couple of minutes, relieved when I see the girl retreat into the shadows between the two buildings.
I switch over to the stable points I set along Oak and Stephens Streets. All of the houses on these streets are small, neat single-story buildings. The newspaper accounts of the attack noted that the sniper was probably on a rooftop or possibly in an attic, based on the angle of the shots.
The house that seems most likely to me is the one with the FOR SALE sign jammed into the front lawn, so I jump to 9:22 p.m. and wait. Lights are on in one of the back rooms of the house, and two people are sitting on the unlit front porch. I can’t really tell anything about them, except that they’re in rocking chairs and must be listening to the concert across the street, because one of them is tapping out a rhythm against the arm of the rocker. Both of the people on the porch spring to their feet at 9:22:39. The woman scoops up something next to the rocker closest to the door. Neon-green eyes reflect back from her arms—is it a dog or a cat?—as the couple takes cover inside the house.
There’s no movement on the roof. So apparently the shots didn’t come from there. I move on to the next house, the next observation point, rolling the time back to 9:22, and again see no sign of the shooter.
