“That’s perfect!” she interjected. “You obviously have a decent understanding of electrical matters, right?”
“Well…” The soldier hesitated, then said, “I guess so, yes.”
“My office is on your patrol route.” Her tone softened slightly. “Just one minute to peek at the wiring, I promise. Please. To set my mind at ease.”
Winston shook his head. Man, she was good.
The soldier gave a small chuckle and said, “Since it’s on my route, sure. A quick look won’t hurt anything.”
“Thank you so much.”
Their footsteps moved away from the door and grew fainter. Winston allowed himself a sigh of relief.
Winston rested his hand on the doorknob and tightened his grip.
***
Winston was nearly spotted twice. With the first one, Amanda saved him from discovery when she spotted a janitor rounding up trash from a laboratory that Winston had to pass. Her warning let him make sure to wait until the janitor moved deeper into the room before he passed its doorway. With the second, someone approached from the opposite direction as Amanda, so she couldn’t warn him. He only had a moment to hear the footsteps and duck into the first open office — there to find a man asleep at his desk, desk lamp still on, a small pool of dark drool staining the papers under his mouth. Winston kept out of sight beside the door until the other party moved away, then stealthily retreated to continue following his mom.
When he finally reached the room she indicated, Winston ducked inside and quietly closed the door behind him, as he could hear her and the soldier talking close by. He turned and paused as he took in the scene. He had expected the usual sort of office he saw at school — half the size of a bedroom, a small desk, a smattering of artwork on the walls, and an overall lack of anything resembling character, much as the sleeping worker’s had been. This room had to be at least twenty paces long and ten wide, and the reason the walls lacked artwork was because they were blanketed from floor to ceiling with books. Four stout oaken desks dominated the room’s center, and half a dozen tall chalkboards, each mounted on wheeled stands, stood scattered around the chamber, all bearing densely packed formulas and scrawled notes. The place immediately reminded Winston of the basement of Multnomah Central Library, only Winston didn’t detect dust here, only the warm, dusky smell of old books — untold millions of pages, many of them in faded leather jackets — mingled with the stone walls. It was like a crypt for learning, and Winston felt his heart swell with pride that this was the sort of place where his mother worked. She didn’t belong in a cheesy diner, after all.
He waited patiently. Once they found a screwdriver and a flashlight, the soldier confirmed that he could see nothing wrong with Amanda’s electrical outlet. She sounded relieved, flattered him a bit more, and sent him back to his rounds. A moment later, she ducked into the room and closed the door behind her, eyes wide and expectant. She opened her mouth to speak, but Bernie intruded into both of their minds.
There was no time to waste.
“Mom,” Winston whispered. “Amanda. I came here for Bernie. I thought he was the only one who could help me in the future. Because—” He fumbled, then decided to play things safe. “Because my friends die. And I need help.”
Amanda leaned against one of the desks and set a hand atop its typewriter to steady herself.
“I came here looking for Bernie, but the more I hear from him, the more I think that might not be the right way. Apparently, I’ve done this a lot of times before. So, I’m wondering if maybe I needed to come here for you.”
“I don’t understand,” Amanda said. “Why me?”
Winston shrugged and offered the hint of a mischievous smile as he dug about inside the pack. “I dunno. But you know what I’ve learned in fourteen years of you being my mom?” She shook her head. “You always told me to keep my head down and go unnoticed. You said bad things would come from drawing attention.”
He pulled out Little e, his hand already gripping the crossbar as the device’s arms unwound. In his other hand he held the two chrono pieces. He placed these within Little e’s arms and enjoyed Amanda’s expression of wonder as she watched the pieces levitate and revolve.
“Well, I hate to tell you, Mom, but you were wrong. Bad stuff happened anyway. So, maybe drawing attention is exactly what we need to do.”
Amanda nodded, eyes wide. “I agree with him. I’m not ready.”
They heard footsteps approaching down the hall. No. Multiple pairs of footsteps, approaching quickly and purposefully. Perhaps the guard had found someone from maintenance to bring back.
Winston grimaced. “Crap!” he whispered. “Can’t we just get some time to think?”
He dropped his pack to the floor and crouched over it as he closed the main zipper.
The slider popped up in Winston’s vision showing the current time. His vision shifted and dimmed slightly as the target reality formed behind the present, although they both looked identical at the moment. He mentally leaned to the left, inadvertently forcing the control much more than he intended. Unlike when he used the Alpha Machine outside, though, there was no dizzying blur of alternating day and night. Down here, the lights were either on or off, and judging by how little his view changed, it seemed they were almost always on. At least one person seemed to be in this office around the clock, hunched over their work or scribbling on one of the many chalkboards. That also meant it was going to be hard to find a time for them both to land without drawing attention, plus it had to be far enough away from this moment to avoid overlap with when he was already in this time somewhere else.
Winston mentally nudged the time slider to the left. Eight hours ago…two people in the room. Ten hours…one person, which Winston jarringly realized was a young Claude Hawthorne. Fifteen hours…
Winston thought to her.
Confusion crossed her face.
Winston realized he had stopped scrolling though past times. It was hard enough trying to converse, not get shot, and keep the past view active in his vision.
Two quick knocks sounded on Amanda’s office door. “Doctor Dabrowski?” called a man’s voice. They heard the creak of the door opening.
Winston nudged the time slider again, and this time he had it. Almost twenty hours ago, no one had been in this room. Winston didn’t know how long it would be empty, but he’d have to chance that.
Amanda nodded slightly and rested a hand tentatively on his arm. He noticed the Alpha Machine’s fleeting electric arcs dance in her eyes.
Everything around Winston flared into a flashbulb burst of white and blue sparks. For the briefest instant, he felt the floor shift under his body, then it was back again. The sparks fell away and winked out around him.
His mother-to-be’s hand had pulled away from his arm. Lifting his head, he searched for her but found himself alone in the office. She hadn’t gone back with him. That was very b
ad. And then it got worse.
15
Fatal Fray
Bledsoe stared out his childhood kitchen window, which now stood cracked and thickly coated in spiderwebs. The corners of the windowsills and many sections of the gray ceiling were dark with black mold. Grime layered the kitchen’s green linoleum floor, interrupted by the tracks of small animals and their scattered feces. The air hung thick with the sickly-sweet stench of rot, and Bledsoe suspected the walls were stuffed with God knew how many generations of rodent corpses. This place, this moment, represented everything he was fighting against. What had once been great and noble had fallen to repulsive decay. He had found several of the rooms cluttered with garbage left by years of squatters, including assorted bits of drug paraphernalia. Bledsoe spotted a large syringe and slipped it carefully into his jacket pocket.
This place made bile rise into Bledsoe’s throat, but he willingly breathed it in. It was all a bitter but necessary reminder. This was the whole point.
He tried to tell himself that he was making the right decision. Command One had said COME HERE, not COME HERE NOW. Bledsoe didn’t understand how the man could have known that he would be looking at the Area X entrance at that moment, but he knew two things for sure: First, Management was dialed in with alien technology deeper than QVs, which meant they might know some of not all about his Alpha Machine aspirations. Second, he didn’t trust Management at all. Command One’s invitation was probably a trap meant to land Bledsoe in a holding cell if not kill him outright.
And fair enough, he thought. I did just kill two of their guys.
Once he could ignore his surroundings, Bledsoe had to focus on the red-headed agent for a long time before he found him. Maybe that was because he kept getting distracted by memories of Smith covered in paint. Bledsoe tried to believe it was that and not that he didn’t really want to kill the man. He knew Smith was a good kid, and maybe with time he might have come around to Bledsoe’s cause. Unfortunately, he had struck against Bledsoe and taken Winston’s side. If not for Smith, Bledsoe would have had that Alpha Machine piece from the tunnel and already been rid of Winston.
Some sins could be forgiven, which was why he was content to let Lynch remain in the hospital for now. The oversized agent had repeatedly bungled matters, but at least he had been loyal to Bledsoe. Later on, somehow, Bledsoe would reward him for that.
But Smith’s sins? No. The time for forgiveness was long past.
Finally, Bledsoe stilled his emotions enough to hold a clear image of Smith in his mind. With the dim layer of his vision, Bledsoe saw Agent Smith at his desk in a basement, dressed in a gray bathrobe and slippers. The place was a duplex, half of an old-style, dilapidated home just off a busy road in North Portland. Wooden stairs coated in flaking white paint led down into a dingy space illuminated by two bare bulbs and a cheap gooseneck lamp on Smith’s desk. An old washer and dryer sat in one corner. A wall of wooden slats divided Smith’s side of the basement from his neighbor’s.
Bledsoe was careful to survey what Smith was doing before he materialized, just in case. He had a laptop connected to a second screen. One showed an FBI database while the other showed a photo gallery filled with the contents of various crates. Many of the pictures were black and white, and it didn’t take Bledsoe long to figure out that these were historical records for Area X. He had hoped to find something significant as soon as he arrived. Of course, nothing was ever that easy.
Instead of showing up in the basement and giving Smith a chance to strike, Bledsoe floated up to the main floor. At the top of the stairs, he found a kitchen so small and ill-equipped that one corner contained a portable dishwasher with a hose line that snaked over and dumped into the sink. Good God, how little did agents like Smith get paid? Or was he the type who lived frugally and socked everything away to retire as a multi-millionaire?
It wouldn’t matter in a moment. Bledsoe made the jump and arrived in a cascade of sparks that danced across the linoleum floor and vanished. The place smelled of garlic and bacon. He double-checked his surroundings and listened. As he did so, his pulse hammered across his head, now veering into a full migraine. He wondered if he might just rest here and try to refill whatever in him was so depleted. The thought of sleeping on Smith’s bed made him decide he probably had at least one more small jump in him.
The back door stood between the kitchen counter and a narrow pantry cupboard. Bledsoe placed the black Alpha Machine torus in his pocket and tucked the black ring under his belt at the small of his back. He rapped loudly three times against the back door.
There was a two- or three-second pause, then Agent Smith groaned in the basement. Bledsoe heard his desk chair creak as he pushed back, followed by the shhhk-shhhk-shhhk of his slippers rasping across the cement floor. Bledsoe hung back out of sight from the stairway. There was no good hiding place in the cramped kitchen, but Bledsoe figured that if he was within two steps, the element of surprise would be more than on his side.
Each stair creaked as Smith tromped up. Bledsoe tried to judge the man’s distance by his steps, but it was hard to tell through the walls. It was only at the last instant before Smith reached the top step and came into view that Bledsoe heard the distinctive click of a pistol hammer pulling back.
That crafty bastard. He must have already been wary and kept a gun on him. Bledsoe had probably erred in knocking on the back door, as that was unusual, especially at night.
Bledsoe lunged forward just as Smith rounded the doorway, gun up and at the ready. His eyes were on the back door, though. It took him a fraction of a second to register Bledsoe on his immediate right. He tried to swing the pistol over.
Bledsoe grabbed the agent’s gun arm and pushed out a wave of energy that should have dropped him in his tracks. Unfortunately, Bledsoe hadn’t taken the bathrobe into account. He was holding Smith’s forearm, which was covered in plush terrycloth thick enough to insulate the man from most of the shock. Bledsoe clamped down with his free hand, but between the inertia of Smith’s swing and the adrenaline burst that came from his surprise, Smith was able to bring his gun in line with Bledsoe’s body. As Smith cried out in pain from the mild shock, his fingers squeezed the pistol.
The gun roared in the small kitchen, and Bledsoe’s shoulder felt like it had been struck with a fiery cattle brand. His grip on Smith nearly dropped as the agent pulled away, trying to widen the gap between them. The move was his undoing.
Bledsoe’s fingers slid down Smith’s sleeve until they encountered the bare skin of his wrist. He latched onto the wrist, letting Smith pull him forward. His right shoulder screamed with pain, but he managed to keep his hold on Smith’s wrist. In the time it took him to draw a short breath and force every bit of energy he had left into their connection, the tide turned. Smith’s legs melted under him. His body spasmed uncontrollably.
Bledsoe followed him down. Smith collapsed onto his back, trembling all over, the muscles in his face and neck contracting in a rictus of pain that seemed to echo Bledsoe’s own. Bledsoe crouched over him and let the force of his attack slacken — not enough to give Smith back any control, and perhaps enough to kill him if it went on much longer, but Bledsoe didn’t need much time.
With his right hand, Bledsoe pulled the syringe from his pocket and jabbed the needle into the bulging line in Smith’s neck. He was careful to keep his thumb on the plunger.
“If you move,” Bledsoe panted, “I’m gonna inject a hundred cc’s of air into your jugular, and you’ll be dead as soon as it hits your brain. Understand?”
Bledsoe slacked off a little more energy flow, enough that Smith could draw breath more freely, focus on Bledsoe’s face, and blink his eyes rapidly. The agent didn’t dare speak.
He understood.
“When did Management recruit you?” Bledsoe asked.
Smith only whispered, “You should get that shoulder looked at.”
Despite himself, Bledso
e smiled. He had misjudged this guy, after all. He’d taken him for a bumbling do-gooder who got lucky on that Willamette River dock. Apparently, there was more to him than met the eye.
“Last chance,” Bledsoe said. “When?”
Smith’s eyes held Bledsoe’s for a moment, then he seemed to reach a decision.
“After the tunnels. I was in the hospital. They approached me.”
“What did they ask you to do?”
Smith’s nostril’s flared. “Protect Winston.”
“Why?”
Again, Smith paused, and Bledsoe could see the man’s mind churning as sweat beaded across his forehead.
“I can’t tell you.”
Bledsoe’s hand trembled around the syringe. He wanted so much to make this man squirm. There were so many problems in this situation beyond his control that filled him with rage. He just wanted to take it out on someone, in case it relieved even a bit of the pressure.
“I really suggest you tell me,” he hissed.
Smith closed his eyes and, of all the things, began to chuckle until he winced at the pain in his neck.
“What’s so funny?” Bledsoe asked.
The agent opened his eyes. “I’ve seen what happens. It makes sense. It’s worth it.”
Fury swelled within Bledsoe. Shocking him wasn’t enough. An air bubble to the brain was too merciful. He would make this guy beg for—
Without warning, Smith’s arm shot up. Bledsoe saw Smith’s hand dart toward the syringe, so Bledsoe reflexively clenched down on it, depressing the plunger its entire length. The effect was virtually instantaneous. Smith’s back arched, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His body shook as if Bledsoe was pouring every bit of energy he could muster into the man, trying to turn his heart to ashes, even though Bledsoe had let go.
“No!” he shouted into Smith’s face. “Don’t you go like that! We’re not done here! Smith!”
The agent’s body went limp. He head lolled to the side. The whites of his eyes stared up eerily into Bledsoe’s face, syringe still jutting from his neck.
Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy Page 73