by Jill Cooper
I told him about the detective? I can’t remember anything that’s happened between now and school. “I don’t know. It’s just a dream, right?” I squint, and with a deep scowl, stare out the window.
Thanks to the never-ending construction work, we’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Mass Ave, heading into Cambridge. Back in the old days, before I became a time traveler, Dad, used to call spring ‘construction season’.
“Right. Sure.” Jax’s voice is unsure as he leans his elbow on the door. “You sure it was just a dream? Maybe it has…listen, you said you dreamt of Rex, right?”
Rex. The pink elephant in the room.
“It was just a dream. But what I did…” my voice trails off. I can’t bring myself to say ‘I killed Rex’ even if it was true. Even if the weasel deserved it.
“What you had to do.” Jax takes his eyes off the road for a minute to look at me. Rex was his brother, but Jax is the only one who knows for certain what I did. He was the only one I could bring myself to tell.
Because after everything he did, I knew he wouldn’t judge me. He’d understand.
He’d keep my secret and bring it with him to his grave. I just hoped that was no day soon. I don’t want to lose anything or anyone else.
“My brother was no saint. He would have been the first to admit it. You did what you did for you. For this family. I just wish…” Jax sighs. “I should have been the one strong enough to do it.”
I can’t fathom that. I shake my head. “He was your brother. You think someday twenty years in the future I could do that to Mike? Molly?” There’s no way. I don’t even want to think about it so I slam a bunch of freezing fro-yo in my mouth.
“You somehow always know how to make your old stepdad feel good. Even when nothing is going right.”
“We’re family.”
He squeezes my fingers when I say it. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I feel better. It’s nice to be able to tell someone the whole truth and nothing but. Jax isn’t my dad, but I’ve always been able to tell him stuff, even when things were tough. I think Donovan would understand, but I’m not sure. I’ve asked so much of him already and he’s lost so much. I can’t ask him to carry any more burdens.
This one is all on me.
Jax hits the brakes as some construction workers cut us off, carrying a large pane of glass. “Geesh, I could have hit those guys.”
The two men in orange hard hats stop to look hard at us but I barely notice. There’s something else I want to say. Fear creeps into my face and voice. “I think I’m losing time.”
Jax startles and then blinks his eyes rapidly. He turns on his signal light and turns down into an alley so we can talk. It’s not far from Tower of Records where this all started.
Where Mom was murdered, where I saved her life and took her place. Where I changed everything and brought us into this world, this future where everything is so uncertain.
Jax turns and his arm is thrown over the back of my seat. “What’s the matter, Lara?”
I take a lingering breath to prepare myself. “It started this morning. Donovan knew things I couldn’t remember telling him and just a few minutes ago, I was sitting in class and now suddenly, I’m here with you.”
“You don’t remember me picking you up? Everything we talked about at Orange Leaf?”
I shake my head no, watching as his face darkens with worry. It increases my worry because Jax is supposed to be in control all the time. He always keeps it together, for ten years he went about life pretending to be happy and go lucky, meanwhile carrying the huge burden of trying to keep Mom alive. I know I should blame him for Dad being in prison for the last decade, but I can’t.
“You think Rewind did something to you? You said they fitted you with something. Do you think it’s messing with you?”
I stroke the back of my neck and feel the protruding little lobe. “Maybe.”
Jax’s chest puffs up with anger. “I’ll take you home and then I’ll head there, get answers.”
My eyes widen with fear. That’s the last thing I want him to do. “You’re forbidden from going there. A hundred feet, Jax.” My eyes widen because I’ve seen this look on his face before. He doesn’t care. Jax is going to go there and protect me like he’s Papa Bear, but he can’t. It would be a violation of his agreement and then he would end up in jail.
“Your immunity agreement—.”
“Means nothing, if I can’t keep you safe.” Jax sits front and squeezes the steering wheel tight in his hands. “I’ve wanted nothing but to keep you safe and if I can’t do that…”
“I need you out of jail. Let me find another way.” He doesn’t look at me. Only at the steering wheel, but from his deep breathing and how hard his jaw clenches, I know Jax is going to a scary place. One I might not be able to follow him to.
“Dad,” I whisper out of desperation and squeeze his arm. I don’t get to call him Dad much anymore. Not with my real dad around. It feels weird and out of place. I think about how much it would hurt my real dad to hear it, but I rarely ever stop to think about how much it must have hurt Jax for me to give it up.
He just took a step back, because I needed him to.
Something releases and he looks at me. He strokes my cheek and I take a deep relaxing breath. “Okay, pumpkin.” Jax whispers. “I won’t go there. But we are going to find out what’s going on.”
“How?” Through my peripheral vision, I see a dark coat approaching the car. “Someone’s coming.”
Jax turns as the driver side door pulls open. “Can I help—?”
Pop
It happens so fast, I don’t see what’s happened, but I know the sound of a gunshot when I hear one. I’ve had a lot of experience with them.
I’m sprayed with Jax’s blood as he slumps forward toward the steering wheel. Thunderous footsteps charge away from the car and I scream, dropping my melted fro-yo from my hand so I can grab Jax by the shoulder.
“Dad!” I scream. My heart pounds and my blood pressure goes through the roof. My vision starts to darken, but I can still make out Jax’s motionless features. His frozen eyes.
He’s gone. Dead.
But I don’t believe it. I won’t. I tear through my purse looking for a phone, but I can’t make anything out. My vision is fading.
I’m going to pass out.
“No,” I whisper. I struggle to hold on. The only thing I can feel is how cold my foot is, covered in a river of frozen yogurt like melted dreams. A young girl’s favorite thing to do with her step dad and now it’s washing away.
Everything is.
****
“Lara, the test has started.”
I start and my eyelids flip open. I’m in my classroom and everyone is staring at me. “What?” How can any of this be? I’d just watched Jax get murdered so what gave me the right to take a history test?
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s just past lunch and I’m in the same clothes I was wearing in the car. Class has just started. “Sorry,” I mumble and pick up my pencil. Some kids snort and others roll their eyes. I used to be Lara Montgomery trendsetter, but now I’m just the punch line in a series of really lame time travel jokes.
As I flip over my paper, I realize my foot is throbbing cold; there is a small splatter of frozen yogurt on my toes.
My heart skips a beat and my breath lodges in my throat.
I haven’t been losing time. I’ve been moving forward in time without meaning to. And if I can’t stop it, in a few hours my step dad, Jax will be murdered.
That means I have to get out of here.
Tossing my pencil down on the desk, I grab my bag and sprint for the door.
The teacher stands and rushes after me. “Lara! Lara Montgomery, where do you think you’re going?”
I pull open the door to the stairwell and toss him a shrug. “To save a life.”
7: Future: Cassidy
There’s not much need for me to have a desk because most of my job is on the street. I head to
the precinct, into the officer’s pool. Except for a few warm bodies, it’s empty. It gives me time to sit and collect my thoughts while I shuffle papers and fire up my holo display.
I synch my link up wirelessly and comb through the data. Most of what I’m doing I can do anywhere over my link, but sitting allows me more time to process. To think. Collect my thoughts.
On my monitor, everything I’ve experienced over the last day has finished downloading. I zip past everything with Jeff and land right back at the subway platform where I arrested Reynold Jackson.
Pausing the video, I zoom in and study his face. The flowers in his hand. There’s nothing out of sorts, because how could there be.
But there is something sticking out of his pocket and I realize it looks like a bunch of folded papers, almost like a docket. Something a lawyer would give you if you had just left his office.
Divorce maybe? A decree?
Curious, I minimize the window and fire-up his arrest record to see what he had on him when he was processed.
Everything is listed there. Glasses. Jacket. Even the boutique of flowers he had with him, but if there was something in his pocket, it’s not in evidence.
And everything a suspect has on him is supposed to be cataloged and stored until sentencing. So why isn’t it there? In the video it clearly is. If something was lost or stolen, I need to find out why.
I was the arresting officer. It would fall on me if something came up in discovery that I missed. My job, my responsibility.
“Follow up with evidence locker,” I say aloud and my link takes note, flashing it against my retina lenses before it’s saved on my link.
I bring up a biography on Reynold next and comb through his personal files. He was married young, right after high school. They’d never had children and instead lived simple, happy lives. I reviewed scenes from their life:
Dancing in the kitchen.
Walks in the park.
Romantic gestures over coffee.
It was all so simple. Everything was pure, just. Innocent.
He had planned to murder his wife? It spooked me not because I don’t believe it, but because I do. Not every husband that kills his wife is a bastard who beats her nightly. Sometimes, just like Reynold, it’s the good ones. Maybe that’s all this is. A man who won’t face the truth about his actions as he stares down the injection needle of death.
But if he knew Xavier…if somehow they were connected…
If that’s true, there’s no evidence of it. I can’t access Xavier’s file because it’s restricted for my clearance level. If I’m going to know, I’m going to have to go to the source. As I stand from my chair, I call over to holding.
“This is Officer Winters; can I get in to talk to Reynold Jackson? I have a few unanswered questions.”
The officer on the other end huffs. What I’m asking is uncommon and breaks protocol, but I’m hoping he’ll look the other way because I’m the arresting officer. “He’s not here.”
Scowling, I step into the elevator and push the descend button. “Where is he?”
“Termination D. The judge pushed through a rapid execution. Look, Winters, I don’t know what your questions are, but it’s not going to matter in a few minutes.”
“Unacceptable.” When the elevator door opens, I sprint sideways through it and hurry across the street toward the subway. “Can you stall them? I need three minutes alone with him. Three minutes!”
My comm turns to static as I run down the stairs toward an arriving train. It squeals and comes to a stop and impatiently, I pace, my hands on my hips.
There was no way Reynold should’ve been executed before morning. I was the arresting officer, I should’ve been notified. I should’ve been there as a witness to the event, to verify that everything went according to procedure.
I was always notified; that’s how it was done.
But I hadn’t been. The judge was trying to do away with this, whatever it was.
What the hell was going on?
****
I should have stayed at the courthouse.
Running, I take the stairs down to the lower level because I don’t have time to wait for the elevator. I might already be too late.
When the officer at the door sees me, he opens the door. My cheeks are flushed with exertion as I step inside the observation room. All the viewing chairs are empty and the black curtain behind the window is closed.
It was as if no one was ever here.
With haste, I swipe my badge against the access panel off to the side. The black door rises, no longer flush with the rest of the wall and I yank it open hard and step through, afraid to see I’m too late.
Reynold is still in the execution seat and there’s a black bag over his head. His arm is slack and falls to the side of the chair. The officials around him gather his arm back up and gingerly put it on his lap.
They are taking vitals, going through the process, but we all know the score. There are fresh injection marks on his arm and unless he’s a junkie, he’s already been injected with the compound that snuffed out his life.
He’s gone. Dead. Before I can ask him anything.
Enraged I kick the wall and punch it. My knuckles crunch under the pressure and the searing heat robs me of my vision. I shake my hand out as one of the medical officers calls out time of death.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I bring up my comm and lay claim to his belongings. I want to go over them before returning them to his widow. Turning toward the door, sadness engulfs me; I should have gotten to speak to him. I didn’t get to say my piece or hear his.
I always gave that to the suspects. Always.
But this time I was robbed. Why?
There’s no answer I can find, not one that brings me comfort. I head away from the execution chambers, up the flight of stairs toward the main floor. In no hurry, my legs move slowly. The urgency I felt before is gone. The well of depression is a downward spiral that I cannot shake and when sunlight hits my face from the grand, floor to ceiling windows of 100 Federal Street it doesn’t stir me. Doesn’t warm my soul.
My soul is frozen.
But then the judge from this morning walks across the grand lobby. His robe swaying behind him, posture rigid, with a folder file tucked under his arm. Self-important and the air he exudes says he’s off limits, unapproachable.
A fire is light beneath my foundation and I charge toward him. My jaw sets firmly with rage and my footsteps cross the breadth of the room in a fraction of the time.
I know that judges feel superior to the rest of us and malice lines his face, as I’ve the gall to grab his hand. “How dare you execute him and not tell me.” My voice shakes and I know my emotion is rising to the surface, about to claim the better of me.
That’s what always happens to the women in my family. I’ve been told we’ve always been hotheaded. Getting ourselves into trouble.
“Officer Winters, if I were you, I’d remove your hand before you regret it. And watch your tongue, young lady.” His eyes narrow as they regard me.
Slowly but with calculated movement, my hands releases the fabric of his robe. “Your honor,” my voice seethes, “it was my right at arresting officer to be informed so I could choose to be there or not.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Cassidy,” the judge sighs. “I have seen you in my courtroom enough to know you do your job, but you wear your emotions too close to the top. This time, we decided it was in the interest of time and your wellbeing for you not to know.”
“Who?” I demand. “Who helped you come to that decision, your honor?” Because I would like to talk to them and boy, would I love to crush them.
“Good day.” The judge mumbles and glares at me, shaking his robe as if he is trying to rid it of my stench. He exits down the hall and I’m not going to get any answers from him. Not today.
But. I still have a job to do. I alert evidence storage that I’m headed that way to collect Reynold’s personal belongings and they conf
irm they are awaiting pickup. I don’t know what good will come of it, maybe there’s nothing there at all except the life of a man that was snuffed out, while the world was oblivious.
Oblivious because a judge decided the world didn’t have a right to know, but on who’s authority?
He might be trying to bury it, but I was going to unearth it.
Or my name isn’t Cassidy Winters.
****
Reynold Jackson’s belongings aren’t much. The flowers are wilted. In his jacket, there’s only a half a pack of gum and a wallet.
I go through it and I feel morbid, as I always do. There’s no cash. Only a few credit cards and the key card to the apartment he shared with his wife. I pull out his Global ID and read the address off the front. Immediately it’s stored in my link; that’s where I plan to go next.
As I slide everything back into the wallet, my fingernail hooks on the back of the Global ID and the opaque plastic sheathing starts to peel off. Curious, it shouldn’t do that. I’m pretty sure it would only do that if someone had done it previously, on purpose.
Glancing around the office, I make sure no one is looking at me. Turning the ID over, I peel the plastic off; taped under it is a blue piece of paper with a series of numbers written on it: 222756
What is this? I’m not sure, but think it could be a combination. An access code of some sort. I’m pretty sure that Reynold hid this information within his ID for safe keeping, but what it was for…who he was hiding it from I have no idea.
I tear the tape off and slip the blue paper into my pocket before I put the ID back in his wallet. Packing everything up into a box, I map my route to Mrs. Jackson’s home and plan what to say.
And how I plan to say it. Talking to a would-be-murder victim is always tricky. They’re high on emotion and exist in a state of denial. Shock. If I don’t want to tip everyone off that I’m investigating something I shouldn’t, I need to be careful.
The box tucked under my arm, as I head for the elevator my link rings, and Jeff’s face flashes against my wrist. Relief washes over me as I answer.