Abbey wound Farley’s leash around her hand as tightly as possible, and they inched up the stairs in single file. Ian cracked the door a little; they were at the back of a small shop with a single counter and a few rows of wares. Abbey could see a small set of stairs leading up to the street. The shop, as with most of the shops in this Coventry of the future, was below street level, although this one didn’t seem quite as subterranean as some. A dark-haired woman in a white coat and a navy jumpsuit bent over a tablet at the counter. There was absolutely no way they could sneak past her without being seen.
Ian closed the door silently and turned back to them. “I suggest we run.”
“Creative,” Caleb muttered. “I’m sure she won’t notice the dog in her store.”
“I’ll take suggestions,” Ian said.
“I’ll talk to her. You sneak out.” Caleb opened the door, donned a broad smile, and walked over to the woman with his hand outstretched. Ian closed the door.
They heard Caleb’s footsteps on the wooden floor, and then his voice. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but the battery for my phone fell out and rolled under your counter. I was wondering if you would mind if I looked for it on this side.”
This was followed by silence, and Abbey prepared to burst out of the door at a run, either to help Caleb or to bolt out the door. She wasn’t completely sure which.
Then came the woman’s voice. “Caleb? Caleb Sinclair?”
“Have we met?”
“Have I aged that much?” the woman said.
“Not in the slightest,” Caleb said. “You look stunning today…” Then there was a long pause and an almost strangled quality to his voice. “Anna?”
“Bingo. Well. I can only assume that you’re involved in some of the stuff that Russell got into. I know this was one of the listed properties. I bought it hoping that Russell would show up here one day. But no such luck. Are you working with him? Do you know what he’s doing?”
“No, no. I’m not. I don’t know what he’s doing.” Caleb sounded truly shaken, as if he had seen a ghost.
“But you are Caleb? And you are the past Caleb?”
“Yes. I guess here I’d be the past Caleb. To me I’m just the present Caleb.”
“Then you can do something about Russell. You can stop him. Please, promise me you’ll stop him.”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what he’s doing. Right now I’m on an important errand. But I can come back and talk to you and figure out if I can help, in like an hour or so? I’ll come back, I promise.”
“What exactly are you doing?”
“I have to go find my mother. She’s at a hospital here. Remember, she was sick.”
The woman’s voice got softer. “I remember.”
“I have some friends with me. They’re just downstairs.”
“Do I want to know how they got there?”
“Probably not.”
“All right. Just go. Come back and talk to me if you can. But if you can’t, please, please stop Russell. Whatever he’s doing, it’s dangerous. I don’t know if he knows that.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Caleb opened the door and beckoned to Ian, Abbey, and Mark. The woman at the other end of the counter stood watching them. Abbey would recognize that ivory skin and lustrous raven hair anywhere, even on a woman twenty years older than the girl she’d been the last time Abbey had seen her. Anna Andrews. Russell’s younger sister.
Anna said nothing as they left, and they made their way out of the shop into the street. Abbey looked back at the red brick façade. The sign above the window read “Abbott’s Apothecary” in large cursive script, with the words “Heritage Building” just beneath it, which Abbey supposed was probably why it was one of the few buildings that was almost at street level, instead of half underground.
“Why were you acting so weird around Anna?” Abbey said. “Why did she recognize you right away? Are you and she friends?””
Caleb marched down the street at a breakneck pace, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. People were starting to stare at their jeans and winter coats. “None of your business. Do you figure you can break into that locker of Sylvain’s?”
“You think we should get jumpsuits?” Abbey said.
“It might be easier.”
“It was a key lock,” Abbey said.
“No worries,” Ian said. “I’m an expert lock picker.”
16. Agrippa’s Cross
Mark sulked on the train to the hospital. He had wanted to go immediately to Kasey’s, but Caleb and Abbey had told him he had to come to the hospital with them first. The card Abbey had left in the locker was gone, and there were only three jumpsuits, so Ian had agreed to “fade into the woodwork” with Farley and see if anyone “important” was about. He said he would meet them back at the Apothecary at five o’clock.
Mark had a hard time seeing where Ian was going to find any woodwork, and how a man dressed so vibrantly with an overly familiar Chesapeake Bay Retriever was going to fade into anything. And who was he talking about? Selena and the two extremely bad men? Sylvain? Dr. Ford? Mark had no idea. Mark thought he might have caught a glimpse of Selena and the two extremely bad men at the train station, but he decided not to say anything, as that kind of thing tended to excite everyone and might interfere with him getting to see the map (which at this point was of paramount concern).
They found the hospital in the southeastern part of town—potentially, Mark decided, in the precise spot where the hospital in present-day Coventry was located. Geography was like that. It tended to have a permanence, with culture after culture rebuilding the same types of buildings on the same sites, until nobody remembered who built it first, and ruin after ruin was layered one on top of the other like a modern architectural midden.
Mark had hoped to remain outside the hospital, as the prospect of future germs was even more terrifying than present germs. Who knew how bacteria and viruses could mutate over the course of twenty years? But Abbey and Caleb insisted that he come in with them for safety’s sake. So while Abbey and Caleb tried to find what room Ms. Beckham might be in, Mark studied the architecture.
This hospital was lower to the ground than the one in present-day Coventry, with a warren of floors extending underground. Mark suspected it was to lower heating and cooling costs and protect against storms. Even in the middle of winter, the warmer temperature of this future was evident, and today, the cumulonimbus clouds hovered ominously on the horizon. Mark could see the sky clearly as he followed Abbey and Caleb down a hallway illuminated by skylights. Hospitals of the future definitely had less stressful lighting.
A handsome dark-haired man rose from a chair as Abbey and Caleb ran into one of the rooms. Ms. Beckham lay pale and thin on a hospital bed, and was hooked to an IV. The dark-haired man greeted them, and the three of them spoke in low tones while Mark cast about looking for a place to focus, as he was clearly unwanted in the conversation. The dark-haired man smiled and gave a little wave at Mark, then went out into the hall, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Abbey and Caleb went to the bed, and their mother took one of each of their hands and reassured them that she was fine. Then Abbey and Caleb said a lot of things quickly about Ian, trolleys, the swamp, stones, excavators, Mr. Sinclair, and Selena, and Mark had a hard time following. Ms. Beckham sat bolt upright, and asked a lot of sharp questions, especially about Mr. Sinclair and Selena. Then she squinted her eyes and lay back down on the bed.
Mark felt more uncomfortable than usual, but he wasn’t totally sure why. There was some pointing at him and mention of Kasey, and explanation of why it was important that they see the other map, and Mark became hopeful that they would leave soon. He was glad Ms. Beckham was okay, of course, but he really needed to see that other map. But Ms. Beckham seemed to feel strongly that they should all just go to a tea shop across the street and wait for her with Simon. (Mark did not understand how Simon was going to get
here.)
Mark was just beginning to get quite agitated at the prospect of not seeing the map, when Caleb suddenly grew white and had to go and sit in the corner chair in the room. The dark-haired man returned and reported that Ms. Beckham would be ready to go in two hours, and then there was a bit of excitement and loud talking when the dark-haired man saw Caleb slumped over in the corner. He immediately escorted Caleb out of the room and down the hall. Abbey told Ms. Beckham, in a rather hurried voice, that they needed to go help Simon with Caleb, and that they would come back to pick Ms. Beckham up in two hours.
Then Abbey started to push Mark out of the room.
Mark shook his head, but Abbey shook her head back and half dragged him into the hall. Mark would normally have resisted, but something about Abbey’s demeanor suggested that he should not.
“We’re still going to get the map,” she said through clenched teeth. “Come on. We need to go find Simon and Caleb.”
Mark blinked at the name and the change of plan. Simon? He hadn’t even considered that the dark-haired man could be Simon (although he supposed that he should have). He didn’t understand what exactly was happening, and decided he wanted to have a bit of a breakdown, but Abbey had said they would get the map, so he managed to pull himself together (although it was a rather creaky and precarious sort of together).
The dark-haired man—Simon—came striding back up the hall toward them. He looked so intense that Mark darted a look behind them to see if there was someone else he was coming for. When Mark turned his head, he caught a glimpse of a redheaded man with a beard lying in the bed in the room next to Ms. Beckham’s, but his view was cut off by Simon’s tall form.
Simon curved his hand through Abbey’s arm and led them down the hall. “Caleb feels better now that he’s outside,” he said. “He tells me you’re looking for a map. Please, please be careful. I’ll have Mom out front in two hours.”
“Can’t you tell us anything about Dad, Si? What’s he doing? Is he okay?” Mark noted that Abbey didn’t mention that Ms. Beckham had suggested the tea shop instead of the map.
They had reached the entrance to the hospital, and Simon pressed the knuckle of his forefinger against his lips before shaking his head. “I’m afraid to tell you anything, in case I make things worse somehow. Like I told you last time, things are changing in strange ways. Once when we traveled to this future, we arrived the day after a municipal election. A man named Abraham Dunham had just been elected mayor, and people were celebrating in the streets. But even though we visited that very future, that will never happen now—because Abraham Dunham was murdered six weeks ago. And that’s just one example; there are other things, too. I don’t know what we’ve set in motion. I don’t want to make it worse by telling you too much. I don’t even know if the timeline as I experienced it will be the same as the one you experience. Maybe my memory has been wiped clean, over and over, to accommodate an ever-changing past. I lie awake at night worrying that I’m going to get up in the morning in a different house, with a different wife and different children, and I won’t even know that it’s all different. I don’t know whether to tell you to go home and do nothing, or to carry on doing what you’re doing. So I’m not going to tell you anything, other than to try to stay safe.” Then he gave Abbey a strange and stiff hug and hurried away, back toward Ms. Beckham’s room.
Caleb was standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital. His skin had a pasty green undertone that didn’t meld well with his freckles and red hair, but Mark was too anxious to get to Kasey and the maps to give it much thought.
Kasey had given Mark his home address after Mark had given him the map photocopies, and had said it was only a couple of blocks off the Southwest Spoke train. Kasey had also informed Mark that he had Saturdays off, and so, since presumably it was also Saturday here (although they agreed that they should have checked this), they decided to try Kasey’s house first. As they made their way down the street past the sunken houses toward the train station, Caleb seemed to recover some of his energy.
Outside Kasey’s house, they discussed the best strategy for approaching Kasey, but in the end, they decided they should just all go in. After all, Kasey had clearly realized that Mark was on the spectrum—it should have been apparent after their stilted attempts at conversation last time—and therefore Kasey would probably accept Abbey and Caleb’s presence as his helpers.
It occurred to Mark then that just a few months earlier, he really would have needed a helper to do this, not someone masquerading as his helper. This realization gave him a curious feeling that he couldn’t quite identify. He wished he still had the little yellow laminated cards in his pocket, the ones that identified emotions, so he could review them.
It was nevertheless Caleb who knocked firmly and confidently on the door. Kasey answered it, and two orange-striped cats ambled out past him and onto the step. Kasey cocked his head to the side at Caleb, but then Mark pushed his way to the front and donned what he believed was his most friendly smile. Kasey immediately smiled back and stuck out his hand.
“Oh, it’s you. I can’t thank you enough for those maps. They were definitely the ones missing from the series. It was quite the find, I have to tell you.”
Mark stared at the outstretched hand in horror. Did Kasey mean for him to shake his hand? Mark had never shaken hands with anyone. Handshaking was a clear means of picking up germs (he had been very careful not to touch anything in the hospital, not even the railing that led down to the floor that Ms. Beckham was on).
Kasey raised an eyebrow over Mark’s shoulder at Abbey and Caleb, then blessedly withdrew his hand.
“You want to see the other map, I assume?”
Mark nodded.
“Well, come on in, then. There was another man at the library just last week looking for it. A doctor from the university. Ford, I think his name was. He’s made an appointment to see it this afternoon, but we have a bit of time before he gets here.” Kasey turned and made his way into the house.
Mark froze. The very bad man (or was it very very?—he couldn’t remember) was coming to see the map. Mark sensed the rustle of Abbey and Caleb shifting behind him, and then heard Caleb murmur, “He won’t be able to get here.” Mark relaxed slightly. Caleb was probably right. The Coventry Hill stones were gone.
Kasey’s house was decorated in a proliferation of artifacts. Old urns, carpets, and wall hangings festooned every available corner. The result was homey, but a little claustrophobic. Mark wondered what kind of germs, dust mites, and bacteria some of the items might contain. But he nevertheless followed Kasey down the burgundy-walled hall.
*****
Abbey was reviewing the things that Simon had told them and trying to listen to Kasey at the same time. “Okay, so be very careful when you touch the map. Don’t touch it without the gloves.” Kasey administered a stern glance at Caleb, who had not taken a pair of Kasey’s gloves. “Absolutely no sneezing near or on the map.”
They sat around a map table in a windowless room illuminated by two beautiful blue and green Tiffany lamps—from 1910, Kasey had informed them, designed by Clara Driscoll herself. Mark looked to be sweating in the leather gloves that Kasey had loaned them, and they stretched tight over his large fingers.
With his final admonitions given, Kasey drew aside a landscape painting on the wall behind the lamp, revealing a safe. He dialed the combination and withdrew an ochre map sheet.
Even Abbey, with no sense of appreciation of maps, almost gasped at its beauty when Kasey laid it reverently on the table. Coventry was depicted in almost pictorial fashion, with squares for houses, and some of the key buildings, such as the Dorset Hotel and the Heximer Building, drawn in fine detail. The hills were drawn using odd, side-by-side lines that gave the illusion of depth—hachures, Kasey explained, an old-fashioned method of showing relief, which were unusual even at the time. The Stairway Mountains by the Granton Dam looked positively forbidding and stately.
Mark had emitted almost a moan of rapture at seeing the map, and after a few seconds he started to fiddle with the clasp of his satchel, which he was having trouble opening with the gloves on. Abbey bent down to help him. From the level of the table, she was struck by the degree to which the hachures on the map really seemed to show depth, like an optical illusion.
“You’re trying to get out your maps, so you can look at the location of the dots?” Kasey said. “No need. I’ve already plotted them on an exact replica of this map. And I have two copies of the replica, so you can even draw on it if you want. Lightly, with a pencil,” he added with a smile, lifting the old map gently off the table and replacing it in the wall safe. He closed the safe and moved the painting back into place. Then he removed a map tube from the top of the map drawer that occupied the back of the room, unfurled a white piece of paper, and placed it on the table.
“You can see I’ve plotted your dots, along with the dots that were already on my map, as well as your cross, and the watermark. Interesting, no? It’s still missing some dots in my mind to complete the pattern, but it looks to me, based on the distances between the existing dots, that there could be an inner and an outer circle around the downtown. Of course, as you probably know, Coventry used to be based on a circle plan, with girdle streets forming rings around the downtown core, like Paris. Those roads are gone now, but they were the basis for the train spokes. So maybe the dots mean nothing. They just marked the locations of houses that lined the streets.”
Mark had pressed his still-gloved hands against the paper, staring at the dots. Then he fumbled with his satchel, opened the clasp this time, and withdrew a pencil. He looked at Kasey. “You said it was okay to draw.”
Kasey nodded.
Abbey watched as Mark started to plot out the locations of the coordinates that had been printed across the bottom of the card that Ian had given them. First the stones on Coventry Hill, then Sylvain’s house, the Granton Dam, Salisbury Swamp, and—with more difficulty, because there were no landmarks—the ones to the northeast. Then he carefully wrote “BP” at the bottom of the cross.
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