The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare

by MG Buehrlen

  “I’ll see what I can do. There might be a way to cover the money trail.” He takes me by the arms. He smiles at me with pride. “Be happy, Alex. You did well. This is what our powers were meant for. We don’t change the past, we change the future.” He gives my arms a reassuring squeeze. “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  And then he’s gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  AFTON

  The jack-o’-lanterns are still flickering when I return home to the porch swing. I’m still holding the Polygon stone. The front door opens, and Audrey pads out in her bare feet to share the swing with me. She has no idea I’ve been gone for almost an entire day. For her, only mere seconds have passed.

  “You’re up late,” I say, tucking the stone in my pocket and wrapping my arms around her. She pulls her knees to her chest. I push the thought of her never getting to see the River Afton out of my mind.

  “I’ve been saving up energy,” she says.

  “You have?”

  She snuggles into me and shivers. “For a non-rainy day.”

  My cheek rests against her black wig and felt cat ears. Her skin smells like cloves and Smarties candy. Her wig smells like must. I rock the swing with my toes.

  After a few minutes, her head snaps up. “Look. A kitten.”

  The gleaming eyes of a small, black cat blink at us from the front yard. Audrey unfolds herself from the swing and creeps down the porch steps, her hand held out. The cat is shy at first, but eventually makes his way into her arms. He rubs his head against her chin with sweet determination. I can hear him purring from where I sit. Audrey brings him up the porch steps and into the light. Two black cats stare back at me. Both delicate. Both wide-eyed, innocent, trusting. Beautiful.

  “No collar,” Audrey says, setting him on the swing between us. “And he’s so thin. Do you think he has cancer? I heard cats can get leukemia too.”

  I frown at the little thing, his skin stretched over his ribs. He does look frail, but he has an energy about him just like Audrey. He climbs over our laps, back and forth, unable to decide on which to settle.

  Audrey scratches him under his chin. His purr is so loud, you can hardly believe it could come from such a tiny package. “Can we keep him?” she asks. “Just until he’s stronger? He could keep me company while you guys are gone during the day.”

  I bite my lip, watching the cat turn circles on Audrey’s lap. “I don’t know…”

  “Are you still afraid?”

  “No,” I say. “Not anymore.” And it’s the truth. Now that I know what my visions are, there’s no reason to be scared of déjà vu.

  “Can you ask Daddy, then? If he thinks you’re OK with it, then he might say yes.”

  I reach across and scratch the cat’s ear. He licks my thumb. “I suppose. But what are we going to call him? Nothing spooky just because it’s Halloween. And nothing stupid like Blacky or Binky.”

  Audrey snuggles him to her chest. “Of course not. We’ll name him Afton.”

  For me, that seals the deal.

  Keeping Afton doesn’t take much persuasion. The whole family is thrilled when they meet him. Dad gives me a nudge and says he’s glad I finally “came around.” Pops winks at me and tells me to watch out – long-tails can be “tricksy.” Gran sets to work making a temporary litter box, and says she’ll pick up all the necessities tomorrow at the store.

  They’re all so genuinely happy about it. It makes me feel good to mark one thing off my Normality Check List. I leave them alone to cuddle Afton and head to bed.

  Before I turn out the lights, I do an Internet search for Jack Baker on my laptop. I get a list of over a hundred Jack Bakers currently residing in Ohio. There’s a chance one of them is the guy from 1961. He could still be alive. But what good would it do to track him down?

  Whoever he was, he wasn’t Blue.

  And I’ve seen enough ghosts to last me until next Halloween.

  DRIVING SUPER POWERS

  The next day after school, I ask Dad if I can practice parallel parking the Mustang. He gives me a look that says, “Remember last time?” But I tell him I’ve gotten better and promise not to peel the rubber off the sides of his tires again.

  He must feel sorry for me because he agrees. Being the only junior in my Driver’s Ed class and not having my license yet does wonders for my pariah street cred. Like Claire said, most people think I’m not allowed to drive because of my seizures. But the truth is worse. I was a hopeless driver.

  Key word being was.

  The Mustang is a 1969 Mach 1 coupe, black with a red stripe down the side. She’s a beauty. Always has been, even when she was rusting on a pedestal of cement blocks in Dad’s parents’ garage. She was Dad’s first car. He bailed hay and shingled roofs for two summers to afford her. Then, after only one month of four-speed bliss, some drunk guy plowed into the front end while she was parked at a bowling alley. Dad was crushed. By that time school had started again, and his dad, Grandpa Wayfare, was strict about not letting his kids work during the school year.

  Then came graduation, then college, and the old Mustang sat in the garage, rusting away, but not forgotten. Dad always planned to get her running again. Maybe he daydreamed about working on it with a future son, but if so he never said. He seemed just as happy to work on it with me.

  We spent three summers rebuilding the engine and transmission, traveling around to junkyards to hunt for fenders and bumpers, and researching new performance parts that would make it safer to drive and pass inspections. He wasn’t worried about restoring it to perfection. He just wanted to drive it. To feel it grip the pavement and roar into the corners.

  Those three summers were some of the best of my life. I had an endless supply of oil and grime beneath my fingernails, a perpetual sunburn on the back of my neck, and skinned knuckles that turned to tiny, spiderweb scars, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Especially when Audrey helped out. She would skip around the car and play hopscotch, ready at a moment’s notice to hand us whatever tool we needed. She sang us all the songs she learned in Sunday School and music class, and practiced her ballet routines.

  She used to be an amazing dancer.

  Unlike me. I can balance circuits and tires, but that’s about it.

  All those memories flutter before me like a flip book when I nestle into the Mustang and breathe in the vinyl. Dad slides in beside me, a bit timidly. The car rumbles to life, and just as he opens his mouth to give me the usual pointers, I slam it into gear. We’re out of the driveway and tearing down the street before he knows what hit him. I move through the gears as smooth as butter. I take the corners on rails.

  After the initial shock wears off, Dad loosens up. He grins from ear to ear. I drive just like he does when he’s behind the wheel, after he winks at me across the dinner table and says, “What do you say, Bean? Wanna go for a spin?” He keeps a low profile driving to work or school, but lets it all out when we go for our After Dinner Spins. He says it’s good for the car. “She’s all muscle,” he says. “You gotta use it or lose it.”

  When we get back home – after I successfully parallel park three times – Dad says, “Did they teach you to drive like that in Driver’s Ed?”

  I laugh and toss him the keys. “Nope. You did.”

  He shakes his head as we walk to the screened-in porch. “I have to admit, you’ve made astonishing progress. What changed?”

  I hold the screen door open for him. “I’ve had it in me the whole time. I just had to let loose. Then it was like second nature.”

  He grins at me and ruffles my hair as he passes by. “Well aren’t you full of surprises?”

  If only he knew.

  MAKING AMENDS

  A week goes by, and I still haven’t heard one word from Porter. Half of me is rattled with nerves, waiting to hear what happened with the Raphael. My fingernails are bitten to nubs. I can’t wait to see the world’s reaction when it’s discovered. But the other half of me wonders if I’ll ever se
e Porter again. I called his number a few times but there was no answer. No return call.

  What if something happened to him? What if Gesh found him?

  What if he’s a supernatural con man? It would be the best heist in history. He gets me to deliver the most sought-after painting in all the world, then disappears into the night. Maybe he doesn’t care about helping me at all. Maybe he just wants the treasure for himself.

  Maybe he’s a supernatural liar.

  But on an unusually warm November morning, I wake up before dawn to an alert on my cell phone. I set the alert to crawl the Internet for any new articles about the Portrait of a Young Man. Seems The New York Times was the first American paper to get the news.

  While there are no specific details, the article states the painting has been found and is currently located in a bank vault in an undisclosed location. The Czartoryski Museum in Poland is excited to have the painting returned to them, and they plan to give a substantial reward to the unnamed person who found it, whoever that is.

  I smile to myself. Porter really is a genius. An honest, supernatural genius.

  Two hours later, I get a text from him, asking to meet in my garden.

  “Anything new happen while I was away?” he says, walking beside me through my soulmarks, his hands folded behind his back.

  “Well, we got a cat. Audrey named him Afton. I earned major points with Claire for that one. She doesn’t think I’m a total loser anymore. Just half a loser. Oh, and I took my driving test.”

  His brow lifts. “And?”

  I can’t help but grin. “I passed.”

  “Congratulations.” He squeezes my shoulder. “That’s a significant rite of passage, Alex. You’re well on your way to becoming an adult.” Then he adds, “Yet again.”

  “Hey, I figured if I’m going to be traveling all across time, it should at least be legal.”

  His belly laugh echoes throughout the garden.

  “I also aced an algebra quiz,” I say, “got called out for daydreaming like a hundred times because I couldn’t stop thinking about the Raphael, and I ran an eight-minute mile. Eight-minutes! My best time ever and no asthma attack. Do you think I can run better now because I could run so well in 1927?”

  “It’s definitely possible. You can retain certain abilities after you descend, just like you retain some of your injuries. They’re called residuals. They’re not constant, and they’re never certain, but it’s one of the perks of being a Descender.”

  “How is a bloody knot on the back of my head a perk?”

  “Well, not the injuries, obviously. That’s one of your defects. No other Descender retains injuries like you do. But residuals can come in handy. They can also be addicting. Gesh has collected hundreds of different residuals from his host bodies. He knows how to fly planes, navigate oceans, perform brain surgery, take a sniper shot, play the most manipulative mind games…”

  “So, residuals are like super powers.”

  Porter nods and rubs his pinky knuckle. “Which is why Gesh is untouchable in Base Life. He’s too powerful. Too knowledgeable. That’s why we have to hit him where it hurts: his treasure hunts. His ego.”

  “Why do I retain my injuries and other Descenders don’t?”

  “I suspect it has something to do with the link you share with your past bodies. It must be powerfully strong.”

  We stroll, and I think about this for a while. What other abilities did my past bodies have? Within the blink of an eye, could I know how to perform brain surgery? Or fly a plane? Could I ace all my classes, graduate early, and head off to Harvard by the end of the semester?

  We stop at the edge of my grove of soulmarks. Where there was nothing but black before now stands a tall, narrow stone fountain and two ornate stone benches on either side. The ground is bricked with round, flat stones. Tall, squared hedges form a backdrop behind the fountain. It’s a garden lit by moonlight. By soulmark light.

  “I thought you deserved a proper garden,” Porter says. “It’s a work in progress, but I’ll keep adding to it whenever I have the strength. It’s the least I could do to repay you for all your hard work with the Raphael.”

  I step up to the fountain and dip my hand in the gurgling water. It’s warm, just like it would be at the end of summer. “Thank you, Porter.”

  “I know it’s not Buckingham Fountain, but it’s all I could muster for now. I thought perhaps it could be a memorial to Nick. To help you grieve.”

  I nod at him, a small knot forming in my throat. I can’t believe I ever thought he was a con man.

  “How did it go in Cincinnati?” I ask to change the subject, clearing the knot from my throat and sitting beside him on one of the stone benches.

  “As smooth as I could have hoped. I retrieved the Raphael – gorgeous, isn’t it? – and moved it to another vault. I won’t go into all the details, it’s best for you not to know, but I managed to ensure a tidy, untraceable donation makes its way to your sister’s foundation.”

  I sit up, a weight lifting from my shoulders. “Are you sure the money’s safe?”

  “I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t foolproof.”

  The warmth of pride and accomplishment unfurls inside me. I finally did something with my ability. I did my part for Audrey. Letting her keep the kitty version of Afton was one thing, but making it so she could see the real Afton… That makes me feel like I’ve truly done something with my life.

  “I hope you didn’t go to much trouble,” I say.

  “No trouble. You deserve part of the reward. You’re the one who found the painting. And at such a humiliating price.”

  I assume he’s referring to Ear Nibbler and the River of Nakedness. “Yeah, how did you do that, anyway? How’d you know I’d be Jim Mitchell’s girlfriend in a past life?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t. I knew you’d be close to the Mitchell family, but I didn’t know in which capacity. Gesh did his research on the Rhine River Castle painting. He knew it was last seen with the Mitchells. So he had Flemming start that particular Newlife of yours in Ohio. Flemming made sure you were born into one of the area’s affluent families so you’d grow up in the same circles as the Mitchells. That way, come the early Sixties, you’d be able to visit the estate one way or another without suspicion. The girlfriend part was an added bonus. Made it easier for you, didn’t it?”

  I roll my eyes. I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. “He did that for all my lives? Made them best suited for his treasure hunts?”

  “Almost all of them, yes.”

  “What about my 1927 life? What was my purpose then?”

  Porter narrows his eyes at me knowingly. “You don’t get to know about that life, remember? That’s your penance.”

  Drat. He remembered. “How about Jamestown?”

  “Isn’t that one obvious? He wanted access to the early colonies.”

  “And the time I was on the ship in the ocean?”

  Porter scratches at the stubble on his chin. “Sailing from England to Roanoke, I believe.”

  “Get out,” I say, punching his bicep. “I was a member of the lost colony?”

  “Yes,” he says, rubbing his arm. “But trust me, you don’t want to go back there.”

  My head is foggy with possibility. “Heck yes, I do. I could be the person who discovers how they disappeared. Mr Lipscomb would flip.”

  “Hm,” he says, nodding. “I know all about your Mr Lipscomb. But the discoveries can’t ever be credited to you personally, remember? And we don’t use our travels to get back at people.”

  “But isn’t that what we just did with the painting? Getting back at Gesh?”

  “No.” Porter looks out at the fountain, his watery eyes reflective. “That’s simply making amends.”

  CHAPTER 19

  RUMORS

  That Friday after school, I head to the library to do all the research I can on the year 1876. Porter filled me in on my next mission: to find a hoard of gold coins stolen in a train robbery in M
issouri by the Carter Gang.

  The Carters weren’t quite the James Brothers, but they managed to make a name for themselves. Mostly by being bumbling idiots. Within three months of embarking on their new train-robbing venture, they were all either imprisoned or killed. All their loot had been found and accounted for, except one chest of gold worth millions today.

  The leader of the gang, Cask Carter, always buried his loot near the sites of the robberies to collect later, but he died four months after this particular robbery, and the location of the coins died with him.

  It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  It’s also my job to cram as much as I can before Sunday, because that’s the day Porter wants me to descend.

  Since it’s Friday, I have the library mostly to myself. The only sounds are the heater kicking on and off, and the librarian, Mrs Hazelwood, sucking on her iced coffee through a straw at the front desk. There are a few people hunched over at the computers and a handful of kids in the children’s section, but the rest of the place is empty. Which is why it surprises me when I turn a corner, leaving the nonfiction section, and almost bump right into Jensen.

  “Hey, Wayfare,” he says, looking at my stack of thick, hardback books. “Doing a little light reading?”

  “Heh. Yeah.” I veer past him and head for a table in the back, hoping he doesn’t follow.

  He does.

  Great.

  The books topple from my arms and onto the table. A couple tumble to the floor. Jensen retrieves them for me and looks at the titles.

  “Famous Train Robberies of the 1800s,” he says. “Rare and Priceless United States Coins.” He quirks a brow at me. “Going treasure hunting?”

  I actually let myself smile. “Yep. I’m traveling back in time to thwart a heist. Want to come along?”

  “Sure. Is your time machine a two-seater?”

  “No, but it’s got a trunk.”