“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Agent Vernon Smith.”
33
Present Peril
Winston felt the hem of Alyssa’s dress — an ankle-length, white-belted blue outfit with a lotus-flower print and lace around the hems — tickle across his cheek. His emotions swirled in a frenzy. She was shockingly beautiful, with her auburn hair blowing behind her in the breeze and the sun sparkling in her dark eyes. Winston had the urge to pull away, both because her dress was dangerously close to billowing over his head, which would have been horrifically awkward, and because she held her Algebra textbook out at arm’s length, ready to drop it on his face.
Her fingers let go. The dress’s lace hem whisked across his forehead—
And Winston awoke.
No Alyssa. No textbook.
Winston’s first thought was that he needed to suggest that dress to her, because she would look amazing in it. Then, he realized that she would probably gut punch him for suggesting such a thing. Only then did Winston fully take in that he was sitting upright in a field of wheat grass under a clear, warm, early-morning sky. The Alpha Machine pieces lay by his side. The hem of Alyssa’s skirt had been the wind-nudged head of a grass stalk brushing over his face.
“Typical,” mumbled Winston as he got to his feet.
His joints popped and protested at returning to service after a night on the ground. Winston consoled himself that he didn’t hurt as much as when he’d slept on the Columbia River’s shore, wet and shivering. How did wild animals do this every day?
Still, he felt bad enough. The events of the previous night returned to Winston one by one. His run to this field. Retrieving Little e and losing the geoviewer to Bledsoe. The Alpha Machine resisting all of his attempts to find a solution by jumping back in time. His father’s sudden stroke and death.
He scooped up the artifacts from the ground, intending to put them in his backpack, but a thought struck. At first, it was only vague loneliness, a sense that he wanted nothing more than to go home. He wanted his mom’s embrace, the warmth of his bed, the smell of his workbench.
Then he realized — what if he did go back? What if, here in June, long before that fateful day when his classmates saw his skin turn blue and he drew the attention of Bledsoe and his superiors, he made his way back to Beaverton and warned his mother? He could tell her what was to come and give her instructions to keep from getting captured. This time, she would stay safe. He didn’t have to give her a ton of time, not enough to freak out and spend weeks changing everything. Just a day or two…
Before that thought had finished, Winston already had the chrono pieces spinning in midair above his cupped palms. He nudged the chrono controls from June to October. They changed from green to red.
He tried backing up into September. Still red.
“Crap!” he yelled as he threw the pieces into the grass at his feet. “Why?! Just let me help her!”
Then he remembered the other person who probably needed his help even more.
Shade.
Winston recalled the trail of flames and seeing his friend’s distant shape bicycling for his life up the road toward where Winston now rested. Agents had gone running after him. How long had Winston been out? Six hours? No, probably closer to eight, judging by the sun’s position. Eight hours that Shade would have been either fleeing or captured while Winston slept.
It might not be too late, though. This was Shade, after all. If anyone could hide in the woods, it would be him — for a while. In the end, though, it was Shade’s tricks and camouflage against trained federal agents and guns. Every minute mattered.
Winston tucked his artifacts into his pack, making sure all was safe and in order. Not knowing what might lie ahead, Winston plucked one of his last three energy marbles from his pocket and fed it into Little e’s wrist guard. On cue, a hole opened in the small bulge, and Winston dropped the blue ball into it.
“Welcome back, buddy,” said Winston.
The opening sealed shut with the slightest snick, and Winston closed the pack before cinching it onto his shoulders and setting off at a jog.
Winston returned to the gate across the road. Rather than mess with the chain and padlock securing it, Winston took one glance about to confirm that no one was in sight other than a few horses watching him in the distance. He quickly climbed over. At a jog, he crossed the farm’s field, heading for the tree line at the far side.
The last building on the property was a sloping, two-story corrugated aluminum structure with an attached, fenced-in area for the sheep and goats within it. A man appeared in the building’s dark doorway carrying a heavy bucket in each hand. “Hey!” he called, and Winston’s steps faltered. However, the man made no move to come after him or even set down his buckets. Winston waved as he loped along, hoping to silently convey his thanks. The man shook his head and lumbered to the corner of his barn until he disappeared from sight.
The tree line began where the flat fields met a broad hillside. Winston gingerly ducked between two lines of barbed-wire fencing that marked the property’s edge, only slightly snagging his backpack as he went through. As he ascended, old evergreen and dogwood trees towered above him. Winston’s footing slipped every so often on the dry bed of old needles underfoot. The smells of dust and grass quickly gave way to earth and bark. In his normal life, Winston rarely found the time to hike, but he and Shade typically arranged at least one or two days each summer in which to explore Tualatin Hills Nature Park, the closest old-growth preserve near their homes. As an Oregonian, he loved being surrounded by green foliage and fresh air. Today might be an exception.
Winston realized that he had no idea where Shade might be hiding, or even if he’d been seized during the night. Running around in these woods might only serve to give Bledsoe more time and, as his mom kept reminding him, get in his daily ten thousand steps. He slowed and tried to study his surroundings more closely.
What would Shade do? Would he want to disappear into thick cover or keep an eye on open areas? Off to the right, Winston saw the barest hint of a path, no more than a foot wide. It was more of a shallow brushing aside of the needles and sparse undergrowth than anything else, and Winston suspected it might be a path made by deer or some other sizable creature. A couple of squirrels chittered at each other from the treetops, punctuated by the occasional call of a crow and sporadic tapping that had to be the work of some distant, hungry woodpecker.
Figuring he was unlikely to encounter large animals during the day, Winston sped along the path, sensing that heading toward the hillcrest somehow would be smarter than wandering the long length of the hills all day. Before he reached the top, though, Winston spied a clearing off to his left.
The open area wasn’t some picturesque meadow. An old deadfall lay rotting away into burgundy powder near its center, and several very large but also rotten stumps indicated that perhaps the clearing had been made by logging long ago. Shrubs accented the space, and bugs flitted above the tops of the tall brown grass clumps like dust motes in the sunlight.
Winston walked around the clearing and liked the feel of it. He activated the Alpha Machine pieces and scoped out the area in his present. Except for the gray October drizzle, the clearing looked much the same. He moved around the perimeter. No traps in sight, no agents walking about. On a second pass, he did notice a six- or seven-inch segment of shoelace dangling from a sinuous root jutting from the deadfall’s end, swaying gently in the breeze. Winston couldn’t be sure, but he suspected it was from Shade’s boot. If so, that was encouraging. At least his friend had come this way and maybe even sat on the fallen tree. Why would his lace have broken, though? Perhaps he had to run off in a hurry, and it had caught on the stray root?
Winston zipped up his jacket to seal in what warmth he could and took one last deep breath, savoring the stillness and safety of the place. He wanted to stay here. He wanted to notice every detail and sound.
He recognized his hesitation for weakness and mentally kicked hims
elf. “Sorry, Shade. Be right there.”
Winston jumped to his present.
The damp chill immediately embraced him. Winston put the geoviewer and geojumper rings in his backpack, but he kept a grip on Little e. He didn’t know if he could bear to attack anyone with it, but he liked the security of having the option.
With the backpack returned to his shoulders, Winston knelt and picked up the shoelace. It felt firm and new. Then Winston noticed the bottom end. The string didn’t seem ragged and frayed, as it probably would have been if it had snapped under sudden pressure. Rather, the end was neat and even from having been cut.
The shoelace being there was no accident.
Winston heard the gun click behind him, near the shadows at the clearing’s edge.
“Stop,” said the agent with crisp authority. “Toss that thing away, nice and slow, and get your face on the ground right now.”
34
Homeless and Heartbroken
Awash in the stench and clamor of traffic, Bledsoe tried to maintain his calm and focus. He stood on the sidewalk at the western base of the Burnside Bridge, essentially dead center for downtown Portland. Behind him, a stairway topped with an arched sign reading SATURDAY MARKET OLD TOWN led down to the lower street level. To its right stood a brown, many-windowed building that propped up the city’s iconic Portland Oregon neon sign, showing a larger-than-life white stag leaping within a yellow outline of the state. To the left of the Old Town sign squatted a bland three-story with a gray brick facade and a neon sign jutting from the building’s corner announcing this as the Portland Rescue Mission. A line of homeless people, most of them in droopy sweats and oversized coats, extended from the doorway and along the front of the building. More vagrants milled about in the Old Town blocks below. A man sat cross-legged on a frayed blue tarp just a few feet to Bledsoe’s right. Beside his knee, a jar with a single dollar bill in it accompanied a cardboard sign that noted: LONELY VETERAN - ANYTHING WILL HELP.
Bledsoe observed all of this only dimly as he gripped the artifact in his left hand. Most of his attention concentrated on another layer of reality filled with trees, underbrush, and a boy meandering about a forest clearing.
A black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up along the curb before Bledsoe, hazard lights flashing. Lynch emerged from the driver’s side, still moving with strange fluidity despite his bulk, low sleep, and having his left arm in a sling. He walked around the vehicle and helped Amanda Chase — Bledsoe still preferred to think of her as Amanda Dabrowski — to her feet. Steel handcuffs bound her wrists, but Bledsoe had allowed her hands to stay in front. The three of them drew glances from many of the homeless, but soon they went back either to staring vacantly at the traffic or fixating on the rescue mission’s entrance, beyond which their free breakfast waited.
“Morning,” said Bledsoe as Lynch guided her to him. “I thought you might appreciate finally having some fresh air.” He sniffed at the damp breeze and wrinkled his nose. “So to speak.”
Amanda’s expression tried to maintain accusation and anger, but her wandering gaze indicated that she wanted to know why they had come to this specific place. “What do you want?”
“Take a look around,” Bledsoe said. He wiggled a shoulder toward the beggar at his right. “Look at this poor sap. Seem familiar?” He pointed at the mission entrance. “When was the last time you saw lines like this?”
Amanda surveyed Burnside, and Bledsoe could see her taking in the scene, although she refused to speak.
“You know the answer. The Depression. We’re supposed to be in this booming economy now, right? God bless America! But cities across the country look just like this, riddled with block after block of tent villages filled with people who either can’t or won’t catch a break. They’re just left to rot. All that potential — wasted.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. You brought me here to hear about your new passion for social justice and economic reform. Please continue.”
Bledsoe blinked at her, head cocked, then burst out laughing. “Actually, yes. In a way.” He grew serious. “We had these dole lines everywhere in the Depression, but then they went away. Do you remember why?”
“The WPA.”
“The Works Progress Administration and National Industrial Recovery Act of 1933. We didn’t bail out banks. We bailed out the people! We built bridges, dams, schools — whatever we needed to have a better future and get people working. Head two miles that way—” Blesoe beckoned down West Burnside. “—and you’ll hit the Burnside Tunnel, completed in 1940 thanks to the WPA. Portland International Airport? Same thing.”
Amanda mustered a sigh to show her disdain.
“Wait, wait,” said Bledsoe. “I worked hard to read up on this over breakfast. My favorite Portland WPA project was a spot you might know. Council Crest?”
At those words, Amanda froze, and the haughty smugness drained from her face. Bledsoe had to consciously purse his lips to keep from smiling.
“Started in 1938,” said Bledsoe. “Twenty-six WPA workers — people just like these unemployed folks — had to remove the amusement park that had been there for two decades. The new public park opened in 1941, and families have been meeting and playing there ever since. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Maybe we should rent a tour bus,” said Amanda.
Bledsoe admired her ability to stay cool, even now that she knew he was building up to something she would dread.
“All that work,” he continued. “No one starved. No tent cities crowding between city blocks. People worked and left a legacy.”
Someone in a red Chevy Mustang pulled up behind Lynch’s sedan and honked, annoyed that a fraction of his lane was blocked. Lynch calmly strode to his rear bumper, arms crossed, and stared at the offended driver. The man considered his options, signaled, and quickly merged back into traffic.
“So, in Devlin’s brave new dictatorship, we’ll have legions of formerly homeless worker drones?” Amanda asked.
“You know, even insect drones have a sense of purpose. They would give their lives for the cause. Do you think any of these bums feels a purpose like that? America needs my vision.”
“Oh, God,” Amanda said dismally.
“And I want you to help me. I want us to do this together, side by side.”
Bledsoe put a hand on her shoulder. Amanda cringed, but she didn’t pull away. She met his eyes with determination.
“I already have a job,” she said. “I have a purpose. I have a son and a husband.”
The way she emphasized that last word and tried to stab it into his heart like a stiletto made the last of Bledsoe’s levity vanish. His fingers clenched into the muscles of her shoulder as the fingertips of his thumb and index finger found bare skin above her T-shirt’s collar.
“You haven’t had a husband in a very long time,” Bledsoe countered. “And the one you had, or what was left of him, is dead.”
The muscles around Amanda’s mouth and eyes twitched as she tried to keep her emotions contained. She must have known this news would come, but hearing it still brought tears to her eyes. Bledsoe had lied to her boy about making her watch Claude’s death, exactly because he didn’t want to push her too far over the edge. Her hands clenched into fists, and Bledsoe wondered if she would try to strike him despite the handcuffs.
“I can’t wait to see the payback you get,” she growled. “Winston is still out there, and he’s got a plan for you. Hopefully, it involves you burning in Hell.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But that payback part? Mmm, maybe not. Care to see?”
Even with tears flowing down her cheeks, Amanda couldn’t refuse. She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she wasn’t about to turn away the prospect of seeing her boy.
Bledsoe used the contact with her to share his vision of Winston in the forest. He had guessed that if Amanda could travel forward in time with Claude controlling the Alpha Machine, then she should be able to participate in his use of this o
ne artifact. Her reddened eyes grew wider as her sight changed.
Together, they saw Winston standing in a grassy clearing, his back to them, hands raised. In one, he held that tapered tube device and in the other what looked like a thick black string or shoelace.
“What is this?” whispered Amanda.
“The forest near the Tillamook Air Museum, where I left him last night and he was kind enough to give me this.”
Bledsoe willed their view of Winston to pull back slightly, and an FBI agent came into view, gun drawn. He fired the gun, and though it was muted, Amanda still jumped under Bledsoe’s hand. The boy dropped the large device on the ground. His shoulders slumped. He was done.
Bledsoe released Amanda’s shoulder and slid the artifact back into his pocket with a satisfied smirk. Honestly, he could not have timed this any better.
“It’s like magic,” said Bledsoe, with some of his former cheer returning. “I just wish to see Winston, and the piece takes me right to him. Or maybe it’s to the other artifacts he has. Doesn’t matter. I can see where he is and whatever he’s doing whenever I want. I mean, I can see anything, but you know. Who needs to see inside the halls of power when I can watch your boy being captured?”
Amanda tried to hold herself together, but it was too much terrible news arriving too quickly. She gasped as a sob escaped her, and her body began to hunch forward as tears fell with new insistence.
Bledsoe looked down on her and smiled. “Wait, it’s not all bad. I still know something that you don’t know. Not even Winston knows, I think, although that gets a little tricky.”
Amanda sniffled and forced herself to stand straight. “What?”
“My good man Agent Lynch here got a call from a mystery girl this morning. I think your boy isn’t quite finished. Yet.”
Bledsoe watched as the sobs tried to take control of her, but she battled against them heroically. Yes. That was exactly the kind of woman he needed in the coming world, only without all the years of misdirection and disdain. That could be fixed.
Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy Page 57