Rewinder

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I don’t know what room Iffy is in. I assume she’s still at her parents’ house because the Prius hasn’t moved from where she left it.

Seeing no other choice, I approach the front door and knock. Several moments pass before a light flicks on inside and I hear footsteps heading my way.

The door is opened by an older version of the man I saw in Iffy’s past — her stepfather. He’s wearing a wrinkled white T-shirt and short pants and doesn’t look happy.

“Who the hell are you?” he grumbles.

“Denny. I’m, um, looking for Iffy.”

“You mean Pamela?” I take it he’s not particularly fond of Iffy’s nickname.

“Yes.”

“It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

It is late, though not for the reasons he thinks. I just hope it’s not too late. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have disturbed you if it weren’t important.”

“You’re a friend of hers?”

“Yes. I’m the one who rode down with her from Los Angeles.”

His already narrow eyes close some more. “She didn’t mention traveling with anyone.”

“Oh, well, uh…”

“Wait here.”

The door closes and the lock reengages. When I hear someone approaching again, the steps are lighter and hurried.

“It’s okay,” Iffy says from the other side of the door. “He’s a friend.”

I hear her stepfather say something from farther back in the house.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “It’s fine.”

She opens the door wide enough for her to slip outside, and then closes it behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I just…I…” Suddenly all I was going to say to her seems self-serving. I have a plan now, but I’m scared I’ll be stopped before I can pull it off. In a way, it doesn’t matter if I give her hope. She’ll either see later I’m telling the truth, or wink out of existence without ever knowing otherwise. The problem is, I’ll know.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I…wanted to see you one more time.”

She hesitates before pulling me into her arms. “I’m glad you came back.”

We kiss, soft and tender, and hold each other, the world — all worlds — disappearing around us.

Finally I say, “When I travel back, you’re going to feel pain again.”

“I know. But then it’ll all go away.”

Again, I’m tempted to reveal what I’m planning, but I resist. I tilt her face toward mine and kiss her again. “I’m glad you were chosen as my companion.”

“So am I.”

Nine A.M. is the deadline, so if I stay a second after that and one of the other Rewinders has figured out when the break occurred, I’ll cease to exist like everyone else. I could leave at any time, but I must go as close to nine as possible to give my plan the best chance of working.

I make it to 8:57 before my patience runs out. When I pull out my Chaser, I don’t set it to May 12, 1702, like Lidia instructed, but to several decades later.

More precisely, to 1775.

As I hit the GO button, I feel Iffy through the mist. I try to send her a message.

I can’t tell if she hears me, but there is a peacefulness in our connection that wasn’t there before. Four hops later, I’m standing in the field behind the Three Swans Tavern. According to the Chaser, it’s 8:10 p.m. and 9 seconds.

I move over to the wagon farthest from the building, hunker down, and scan the area. If one of the other stranded Rewinders has discovered when the break in history occurred, then one or more of them would be around, trying to make things right. The road and grounds around the tavern appear exactly the same as on my last visits, so I’m pretty sure I’m safe.

As I wait, I keep looking over my shoulder in anticipation, but I remain alone. A check of the local time again shows it’s 8:13 and 30 seconds, almost time. I turn my attention to a point only ten feet from my position. For several moments, there’s nothing but the field and the silhouette of the forest behind it. Then I see me, the me destined to create a twelve-second gap that will bring Iffy’s world into existence. Or I should say, would have brought, if not for—

“Denny,” I whisper. While I have seen myself before — in fact, this very version of me — I’ve never spoken to myself.

Other Me turns in surprise, his eyes widening even more when he realizes who called his name.

I wave him over and move to the side so he can crouch next to me. From here, no one can see us, which is especially important given that the scout version of me is still in front of the tavern and must never know what’s going on.

Other Me eyes my shoes as he joins me. I’ve changed back into the same costume he’s wearing, but my 1775-era shoes were misplaced somewhere in Iffy’s 2015. I’m wearing the black sneakers I picked up while I was there.

“What are, uh, you doing here?” he asks. Here’s a fact most people never think about: Pronouns are tricky when talking to oneself.

“You can’t go in the building,” I tell him.

“Why not? It’s an observation mission.”

“I know. I’ve done this before. You can’t go in there. Something…happens.”

“What?”

“Everything will be fine if you stay out here. It’s better if you don’t know.”

He looks toward the tavern and then back at me. “Did Johnston send you?”

“No. I…we figured it out ourselves. You can’t talk about this to anyone. Not even Marie. No one must ever know. Trust me.”

“Trust you.”

We look at each other for a second and then smile the exact same smile.

“All right,” he says. “If you’re telling me I shouldn’t, then I won’t. But what about my mission? How am I supposed to verify if Cahill—”

“He’s the one,” I say. “In a few minutes, he’s going to meet with a couple of British agents and receive orders to observe a rebel meeting, and then he’ll report what he learns to the British.” I pull the wooden box that caused all the problems out of my satchel and hold it out. “Here. Their conversation’s recorded on this. You can use it as proof.”

He takes it. “You’re sure?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Probably.”

“True. But he’s the one, all right. No lie.”

“Okay. I’d feel better if I can at least re-verify his arrival,” he says.

“All right. Sure. We can do that. But give me your box. You don’t want to show up back home with two.”

He gives me the box in his satchel. Together we then watch as Cahill rides up on his horse at 8:20 and disappears around the front of the tavern.

“What now?” Other Me asks.

“Now you go back and forget we ever talked.”

He pulls out his Chaser, but hesitates. “You sure you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on now. We fixed it.”

He looks as if he’s unsure, but with a nod, he disappears.

Step one is done. There’s no going back now. While I should feel relieved, I only feel more stressed. There is still so much to do, including one more step here before I leave this night.

From my satchel, I pull out my notes and check them. These are the same notes that Scout Me is recording right now. When I have memorized the two times I need, I put the notes back and input the appropriate jump into my device.

When I hit GO, I move approximately twenty feet forward and ten to the left from my position behind the wagon, and travel back in time only a few minutes to 8:14 and 20 seconds. My stay in the mist is no more than a blip, but even then I know Iffy is no longer there.

From this new position, I can hear the two other Dennys whispering behind the wagon. I check the time to make sure I’m in sync, and then start counting the seconds as I walk toward the front of the tavern.

I’m a little worried about the shoes. Not so much about anyone from the past seeing them, but more about Scout Me seeing them. It’s dark, though, and the shoes are black, so I’m hopeful he won’t notice. Besides, there’s nothing I can do about them.

I reach the tavern door right on cue at 8:14 and 53 seconds. Inside, I take a seat in the corner as far as possible from where Cahill and his friends will be sitting. I have a moment of panic that I won’t be able to pay for my meal, but then find a Spanish dollar at the bottom of my satchel.

For the next half hour, I pretend to eat my stew while ignoring Cahill and his friends. When he finally leaves — at his original time, not after the twelve-second delay — I wait for a few minutes, pay the woman, and leave at 8:51 and 11 seconds.

As far as Scout Me knows, everything is fine.

It’s time to move on. But not to 1702. Not yet.

I set my Chaser for a series of jumps that will end on the day before I left Iffy’s world, at nine p.m. Before I hit GO, I see that the power level has dropped to nearly seven percent. Already down thirty percent from what I had in Iffy’s world, and I still have a lot of jumps to make. Hoping the battery lasts, I press the button.

The first sign I get that my Chaser is trying to reconnect with my companion is on the final hop to my home time. I meant to disconnect before I made the jumps but totally forgot, which means I’m heading for the institute and not for the cemetery in New Cardiff. I’ll have to disconnect right there on the return platform as quickly as possible and jump again. If I’m not fast enough, I’m done for and all my planning will have been for nothing.

But then I realize something’s wrong. The connection with Palmer is fading in and out.

For a microsecond, I see a flash of the inside of Upjohn Hall but then it’s gone, and I materialize in the middle of a busy road.

Carriage alarms ring out and the beams of headlights swing back and forth as drivers swerve around me. The nearest curb is to my left, so I zigzag through the traffic until I reach safety.

Where am I? I wonder as I catch my breath. Obviously not the institute, and not my mother’s grave, either.

I definitely am in a city, and from the lamppost banners celebrating the king, I gather I’m somewhere in the Midlands.

Chicago, maybe?

No, it’s too warm for late March.

At least I’m far from New York, and that’s all that really matters.

I pull out my Chaser and physically disconnect it from Palmer. As I do, I realize what must have happened at the end of the jump. There are two of me here in 2015, me and the version I stopped from entering the tavern. That means until I just disconnected my Chaser, Palmer was being pulled on by two devices. He would’ve had a full connection to the other before I showed up, and wouldn’t have been able to fully control us both.

I check the power supply—5.62 %. It’s going to be close. Shoving the Chaser in my bag, I take a look around.

Because of the late hour, the only shop I see open is a fueling station down the road. Unlike the one where Iffy and I filled up on our trip to San Diego, the stations in the empire sell few things that aren’t vehicle related.

I head toward it anyway, hopeful I’ll find what I need. On the way, I pass a carriage parked under one of the streetlamps and am able to read the tax sticker in the window. Printed at the bottom is LOUISIANA, which means I’m somewhere in the gulf region.

Through a break in the traffic, I run across the road. When I reach the far curb, I hear voices behind me and turn to look. Three men are standing in the halo of one of the lights a little more than a block away. I start to swing back around but then freeze.

Where three men were standing a second before, there are now four.

No, five.

Time travelers. But not Rewinders.

They’re too far away for me to be sure, but they look like they’re wearing the institute’s security uniforms.

I crouch behind a parked carriage and move around the front end so I can peek at the men.

They must have figured out via Palmer where I diverted to and have come for me. But instead of looking around, they’re just standing there in a loose group. The reason soon becomes clear when a sixth man arrives.

Sir Wilfred. Head of security.

He gathers the men around him and begins pointing in several directions, his voice loud enough for me to hear his anger but not his words.

My hand slips inside my satchel and onto my Chaser before I realize what I’m doing. When I do, I jerk my hand back out, empty. I can’t risk making a jump yet. My device is dangerously low on power and I still have much to do.

I glance toward the fuel station. It won’t be easy, but I think I can get in and out and jump before Sir Wilfred and his men ever catch sight of me.

Staying low, I move back to the walkway and hurry to the station. The business is surrounded by a wide, well-lit paved area. When I reach the edge, I pause to check on the security team.

At first I don’t see any of them, but then I hear the sound of steps and am able to pick out two shadows down the street on the other side, heading slowly in my direction. I scan for the others but don’t spot them.

I move around the corner and hasten down the edge of the lot, away from the street. When I’m directly opposite the fuel station’s main building, I take a breath and head across. My instinct is to run, but I know doing so will draw attention so I keep my pace slow and steady.

As I open the door, a bell dings twice. To me it sounds like a giant church bell yanked hard by a dozen men and I can’t help but cringe as I hurry inside.

There’s just enough room in the customer area for a few shelves of fluids and replacement parts, and a counter behind which sits an old, bored-looking man.

He eyes me for a second, taking special interest in my centuries-out-of-date clothing. “May I help you?”

“Newspapers?”

He nods across the store. There I find bins for three papers — the Louisiana Chronicle, the St. Louis Sentinel, and the American Times. The two regional papers will provoke unnecessary questions, but the American Times is a territory-wide paper and exactly what I need. The problem — its bin is empty.

“Are there more?” I ask, pointing at the bin.

The clerk takes his time looking over. “Any more what?”

“American Times. Do you have any more?”

“Not if it’s empty.”

I walk over. “You’re sure? You don’t have anything in the back?”

He stares at me, annoyed. “I’m sure.”

I look out the front window and see two security men turn onto the fuel-station property and head for this building. Their pace is deliberate as they scan side to side.

I look back at the clerk and notice the door along the back wall on his side of the counter. “Where does that go?”

“What?”

“The door, where—”

I stop myself as I catch sight of the corner of a newspaper sticking out of a rubbish bin against the wall. On the visible part, I see the beginning of a familiar masthead: Amer…

I point at the bin. “Can I have that paper?”

As he looks to see what I mean, I take a quick glance out the window. The men are halfway across the lot now. I have maybe twenty seconds at most.

“What? That?”

“Yes! Please, can I have it?”

“Hey, settle down.”

I feel the seconds ticking off in my head and know I have no time to argue with this idiot. So I hop over the counter, but as I step toward the bin, the clerk blocks my way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He pushes me back, reaches under the counter, and pulls out a three-foot-long club. Raising it, he says, “Get out of here!”

With the institute’s security men only seconds away, I whirl and open the door behind the counter.

“Hey, you can’t go back there! That’s not a public area!”

Before he finishes speaking, I’m through the door and into a back room that’s twice the size of the one out front. There are shelves full of stock but more importantly, another door.

As I reach the exit, I hear the clerk coming into the room behind me. I undo the lock, turn the knob, and rush outside. I know I’m not free yet, but I also know Sir Wilfred and his men will never know I was in the fueling station. If they ever learned that, at least one of them would have made a time jump and been waiting for me as I opened the outside door.

It’s a weird cat-and-mouse game that can bend your mind in ways it was never meant to go. A snake eating its tail. But if I don’t stay vigilant, they will find me.

In the alley off to the left, I see several shadows of varying shapes protruding from the back of the buildings. Hoping one might provide a place to hide, I head in that direction. As I near, I realize the shapes aren’t part of the buildings themselves, but the tents and huts of a small vagabond camp. Most of the occupants seem to be asleep, but two men sit by a fire burning in a can off to the side.

I get an idea and work my jacket off.

“Stay warm,” I whisper as I walk by, tossing the jacket to the oldest guy. If this delays my pursuers even a few seconds, it’s worth it.

I peek over my shoulder and am relieved to see no one has followed me into the alley yet. So far so good, but I don’t allow myself to slow down. Not far past the camp, I come to a group of large rubbish bins and decide they’ll do the trick. I tuck in behind one of them and wait.

Two minutes pass. Three. Four.

No one comes.

I’m about to continue down the alley when it occurs to me that if there was a copy of the American Times in the small bin at the fuel station, there’s a very good chance I’ll find another copy in one of the much larger bins around me.

The dim light of the alley hinders my search but doesn’t prevent me from finally unearthing a copy. It’s from two days earlier and there’s a stain on the front corner, but it’ll do.

I climb out of the bin and brush myself off. But as I start to lift the flap of my satchel so I can grab my Chaser, I hear Sir Wilfred’s voice.

“Mr. Younger, you’re a long way from the institute.”