Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3)

by Rysa Walker

  Jess seems to realize this might be an awkward conversation for me, because his smile fades. He clears his throat and says, “Follow me, and we’ll get what you’ve come for.”

  He disappears behind the counter, and I follow, standing at the edge as he crouches down and opens a large wooden chest. I can’t see inside, but a tiny gust of cold air hits my ankles, so it must be an icebox. One by one, he pulls bottles out and arranges them on the shelf near his head until he finds the red-and-white container full of medallions near the bottom.

  “They might be a tad cold. I had them down under the bottles. Figured if anyone did come around looking—” He stops as the bell over the door jingles.

  A man is stepping inside, his body outlined by the sun streaming through the doorway. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s Simon. I leave the keys in Jess’s hands and lean a few feet over to grab the gun under his counter. The man takes two more steps toward us, and I freeze.

  Not Simon.

  He’s the same height, about the same weight, but now that he’s away from the glare of the windows, I see that he’s at least thirty years older with an olive complexion and thinning black hair. And if he was a few feet closer, he’d be able to see that the gun I’m holding beneath the counter is aimed straight at his chest.

  Jess chuckles softly when he sees my expression, but his eyes are a little worried. “Easy does it, girl.” Then he says in a louder voice, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.”

  I take a few calming breaths and put the gun back. “Sorry, Jess,” I whisper, bending down to retrieve the keys. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me.”

  “I can see that. It’s been a rough coupla years for Kiernan. You give him my best, okay? And . . . tell him I’m not expecting to see my Irene back, although if by some miracle it happens, I’d be mighty grateful. But I am expecting him to make those sons a bitches pay, you’ll pardon my language.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  September 12, 7:40 p.m.

  Connor is standing at the workbench, wearing gloves. One of those masks that cover your nose and mouth hangs around his neck, and there’s a small torch and several bottles, along with an eyedropper, in front of him.

  He casts a dubious eye at the container I’m holding and tugs the dust mask down. “I’d have thought they’d be in a flashy gold-plated urn or something.”

  “Nope. Nothing but a Ziploc logo on the bottom.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Ha. Funny. Now go. But leave the door open, okay? I need some ventilation.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No you cannot. Go. Just . . . you and Harry keep an eye out, okay? I’ll be a lot less nervous once I turn these things into cheap costume jewelry.”

  “Sure, but first . . .” I snag one of the keys from the bucket. “For Daphne.”

  Connor sighs, giving me a sad smile. “Okay, Kate. But . . . not for long. Once you stop the Culling, we destroy the rest of the keys. The timeline we get is the timeline we get. And it may not be one where Daphne’s running around the backyard. If it’s any consolation, I feel sure she’ll be running around somewhere, but . . . we can’t keep a key around in order to hold her here.”

  There’s suddenly a lump in my throat, making it hard to breathe. It’s not just the idea of losing Daphne, as bad as that would be. It’s what Connor’s not saying that has my eyes on the verge of spilling over. He means we can’t keep a key back for him, either. And while I can easily imagine shoving this time train back onto a track where we have Daphne, I don’t even remember the track where Connor existed without that key, the track where his children were alive.

  “Connor, no—”

  “Kate.” His eyes hold mine for a long moment. “I need to focus on what I’m doing here, sweetie. Go outside and wait with Harry.”

  I don’t move at first, just stare back at him, torn between the impulse to punch him and the impulse to hug him. “Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll go. But this discussion is not over, Connor. Not one bit.”

  Dad’s on the bench outside the shed, the Colt sticking awkwardly from his belt. I can tell he heard everything we said. He pats the spot beside him and puts an arm around me. I’m glad he knows me well enough to keep quiet, because if we start talking about this, I’m going to lose it. So we just sit there silently and watch as Connor destroys another key.

  There’s still no sign of Kiernan. I pull out my phone and check the geo app, pressing my finger to the dot on Sixteenth Street.

  “She’s still at the temple. Unless it’s just the phone,” I add, because I know that it could be and assuming it’s not seems like it’s a jinx or something. If Simon or his henchgoons found out she was carrying it, this would be the perfect trap. Leave the phone there, take Mom and Katherine somewhere else, and just wait.

  Dad shakes his head. “She’s there, Katie. They might have taken a purse, which she never carries, or a backpack. They might even have checked her pockets. But this is your mom.” He glances down at the phone in my hand, the one I just pulled out of my shirt. “Where was her phone?”

  He’s right. It’s tucked under the left shoulder strap of her bra, in front and on top, where she can discreetly snag it without digging around too much. She’s at least as bad about sticking her phone there as I am. There are some styles of bra that both of us refuse to buy simply because they don’t provide adequate phone support. It’s still no guarantee they didn’t find it, but I push the thought away. The odds are good that she’s still got it, and dwelling on the negative isn’t going to get me through the next few hours.

  Daphne begins to bark as blue light flickers briefly between the branches of the hedge at the back of Katherine’s property. I reach over Dad to grab the gun, just in case it’s not Kiernan.

  But it is. I glance at the time and realize Daphne’s intruder alarm is probably what woke Pru up when I watched her through the key earlier.

  I squeeze Dad’s hand. “Keep an eye on Connor. Kiernan and I are going to talk to Prudence. I just hope she has some idea when and where the virus was stored.”

  Pru is halfway to sitting, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, when Kiernan and I step into the kitchen. He pushes me toward the breakfast nook, pressing a finger to his lips. There’s a dab of something that looks like taco sauce on the front of his shirt. “Coffee, love?” he calls out.

  I think he’s talking to me until Pru says, “Yes, please. I feel . . . funny. Fuzzy.”

  There’s about an inch of coffee at the bottom of the pot. Kiernan snags a mug, which I’m pretty sure is used, from the sink. He adds the coffee and some milk before sticking it in the microwave.

  “Where are we?” Pru asks.

  “Just a temporary stop. I’ll bring it to you. Wait there.” He looks at me as he says the last two words, and I slide onto the bench.

  When the timer rings, he starts hunting around for something. The sugar bowl is in front of me, so I tap twice on the table. He heaps three spoonfuls into the mug, sips it, and then adds one more before carrying it out to her.

  I wait, annoyed that I can’t see into the living room. Annoyed that they’re not saying anything. But since he knows her better than I do—much, much better—I just wait.

  “More coffee,” Pru says finally. “And I need to pee.”

  “Um . . . that’s the last. I can make another pot, if you’d like. And the bathroom is . . .”

  He probably has no idea, since the only room he’s been in prior to this is the kitchen.

  “Actually, someone else is here,” he says, a bit louder. “In the kitchen.”

  That’s apparently my cue to enter. I do so hesitantly, peeking around the corner first. The conversation so far has given me little clue as to which Prudence we’re dealing with. Is it the placid, childlike version, or the one who hurled a lamp at Dad’s head?

  “This is . . .” Prudence is loo
king around the room when I enter, like she’s trying to get her bearings. Her right hand clutches the remnants of the pillow she destroyed. “I was talking to two men. They were going to help me . . . help me find Deborah. Simon has her . . . at least I think it’s Simon . . .”

  She stops, her eyes narrowing as she looks at the kitchen door where I’m standing. “You.”

  I’m not sure what I’m going to say until I’m already speaking. “I got them, Prudence. Like I promised. I got your key from Victoria Woodhull, and Tate and I kept you from giving the keys to Saul. Now we just have to stop them from killing everyone—and find . . . and find your sister.”

  Prudence just stares at me. It feels like we’re teetering on the edge of a cliff. I’m scared to speak again, and Kiernan looks like he’s holding his breath.

  Then her chin comes up defiantly. “It will be better . . . after. You’ll see. And it won’t kill everyone.”

  “No. Not everyone,” Kiernan says, “But close enough. Pru, you can’t really . . .”

  Even though he’s still talking, I’m too intent on her eyes to follow what he’s saying. Maybe there’s a moral compass in there somewhere, but we don’t have time to search. And maybe that’s not the safest route to take.

  “Simon is going to kill your sister, Pru. And CHRONOS will never exist. Tate will never exist if we don’t stop the Culling.”

  I’m about to add that none of us will exist, at least outside of a key, but Prudence is twisting the shell of the ruined sofa cushion so tightly that it looks like her knuckles will slice through her skin.

  “Give me the key. My key. The one you took from Woodhull. So I can see him.”

  I untie the cord from the belt loop of my jeans and hand the key to her. “You can see the coordinates. But you won’t see Tate. He’s not there anymore, Pru. Whatever Saul told you, the Culling won’t fix anything. The keys still exist, but CHRONOS is never created in this timeline. So Tate is never born . . . at least, not the Tate you knew.”

  Prudence slides her fingers over the key, and for several minutes she browses through the local points, her expression growing more desperate with each one she tries. Finally she flings the key onto the carpet at her feet and grinds the heel of her boot into it. Pointless, and she probably knows that, but maybe it makes her feel better. There’ve certainly been times I wanted to do the same thing.

  Kiernan waits a moment and then asks, “Will you help us fix this, Pru?”

  She doesn’t respond, just stares down at the still-intact medallion on the carpet. There’s a stubborn set to her jaw as she flips her arm over to activate her embedded medallion.

  Kiernan grabs her hand. I’m trying to think of something else to say, something to convince her, when I remember the promise I made Tate.

  “Tate told me to give you a message when I saw you.” She’s still staring at the CHRONOS key on the inside of her arm, but her eyebrow flicks upward in a silent question, so I continue. “He said he’s sorry. He doesn’t blame you . . . for this mess with CHRONOS or for the baby. And he wishes he could make you another mix tape.”

  She’s completely still, staring down at her medallion for so long that I start to worry she’s gone catatonic. Then her eyes close, and I expect her to vanish, but she must have broken contact with the location at the last second. A solitary tear leaks from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. Otherwise her face stays blank.

  “I don’t know where they’re keeping the virus,” she says in a small voice. “And I don’t know where to find Simon. But Saul can’t jump. I can find him.”

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  July 13, 2030, 9:50 a.m.

  “I’ve been here before,” Kiernan whispers. “The last meeting . . . they wiped the location from my key.”

  “Not mine,” Pru says. “I left early. Shh. This is the door.”

  We listen, but I don’t hear anything. Apparently neither does Prudence, because she inches the door open, looking around, and then shoves it inward.

  It’s a conference room, with a shiny black table at the far end. The wall to our left is glass, overlooking the ocean. It’s stunning. And it’s also empty.

  “He was here!” she fumes. “I peeked through the door. I saw them in the mirror. Saul and two guards.”

  Kiernan spins around nervously, eyes flicking between the door we just entered and one at the other end of the room. “You forgot to mention the guards. Kind of important, Pru!”

  “Why? You’ve got a gun. And Evie says your friend there is a baby ninja.” She kicks one of the chairs aside. “Simon must have changed something. Damn . . . him . . . to—”

  Prudence stops abruptly, bending down to pluck something from the carpet. She holds it up to the light streaming in through the window and grins.

  Kiernan nods and pulls out his key.

  I’ve no clue why. She’s holding up a clump of straw.

  ESTERO, FLORIDA

  July 13, 2030, 9:53 a.m.

  I open my eyes to a larger, more modern version of the barn where Kiernan and I watched three people slit their own throats. We’re on the ground floor this time. There are dozens of stalls, but I only see one horse, a palomino, housed a few doors down. There’s a faint, oddly familiar smell—sweet, but not in a good way. Horse manure, maybe?

  Pru walks over and holds out her hand for the animal to sniff. It immediately nuzzles her arm. She’s cooing something when we catch up to her, rubbing the horse’s neck as she reaches for the latch to open the stall.

  Kiernan clears his throat, and Prudence looks at him, puzzled.

  “You can ride later, Pru. We’re here to locate Saul, remember?”

  She shoots him a petulant look. “I haven’t ridden Wildfire in ages—”

  “But Simon has Deborah. Remember?”

  “Deborah’s right behind you,” she says with a little smirk. “That’s what she called herself in New York. Funny how you keep calling her Kate.”

  He’s about to argue with her, but I just say, “Your sister. Simon has your sister.” She still doesn’t move, so I add, “Are you really going to let him erase Tate? He’s counting on you to fix this. So . . . do you want to fix it or do you want to ride a horse?”

  “Fix it,” she huffs in a singsong voice. And yes, I feel a little guilty for manipulating a mentally ill woman, but I don’t have much choice.

  “Then come on.” I relatch the gate and look behind me for Kiernan. There’s a door a few feet to the right, but he’s hurrying off in the opposite direction.

  Something is wrong.

  “Kiernan?” I run after him. The odor is stronger in this direction. It’s not manure. It smells a little like the linen closet at H. H. Holmes’s hotel.

  When Kiernan rounds the corner at the end of the stalls, he steps back sharply, almost like someone has shoved him. One hand is over his mouth. He holds the other toward us, cautioning us to stop. I do, but Prudence pushes forward, so I follow.

  An old-fashioned tub, exactly like the one I remember from the other barn, is shoved into the corner. It might even be the same tub. This time, however, there’s no sheet of glass on top, and the glow of the CHRONOS key isn’t coming from above the tub. It’s coming from within it.

  Saul’s knees are bent and tilted toward the back of the tub, but his hands are folded serenely across his shirt. A CHRONOS key hangs from his neck on a leather cord, resting on top of his hands. He’s older than I remember, and although his face is nearly as pale as the tub, the collar and upper half of his white shirt are now the dark, reddish brown of drying blood, like the jagged slit across his neck. A large fly crawls up the side of his face, while several more circle around the tub.

  I gasp and cover my nose and mouth, but Prudence shoves Kiernan aside so that she can get a better look. Her eyes are open wide as she stares into the tub. She lowers her head, hair falling forward over her face, and her shoulders begin to shake. Kiernan reaches out for her, but she shrugs him away.

  She’s not crying. The laughter
bursts out of her in waves as she braces herself on the edge of the tub.

  “Oh my God,” she gasps. “It’s perfect! No matter how much I hate the Rat Bastard, this is so, so perfect.”

  “What? You think it was Simon?” Kiernan says.

  Pru wipes a tear from her eyes, still fighting back the laughter. A speck of Saul’s blood must have been on her hand, because there’s now a faint pink trail running across her cheek.

  “Who else?” she says. “Wasn’t me. Wish it had been, but—”

  She looks up as the door behind us creaks open. Kiernan pushes me behind him, whipping the rifle up to his shoulder.

  The woman jumps back when she sees the gun. Then her eyes shift to his face and she relaxes. “Kiernan. Put that thing away.”

  “June.” He lowers the gun slightly, still looking past her.

  She’s somewhere between Mom’s age and Katherine’s. Her hair was probably a lot like mine when she was younger, but it’s mostly gray now, and her nose is slightly hooked, like Eve’s. And . . . the name is familiar. Kiernan’s mentioned her. I glance down at her hands. She’s wearing clear gloves like doctors wear.

  Right. She’s the doctor at the Farm, Nuevo Reino, or whatever they’re calling this place in 2030.

  June follows Kiernan’s gaze, looking back into the garden behind her. “Unless someone else showed up in the past minute, I’m the only one around. Except for my patient. Almost every soul at Estero is gone . . . everyone who wasn’t under a key, at any rate. And I’m thinking Simon made sure most of them weren’t under a key.”

  Prudence laughs again, a single snort.

  The look June gives her is sad and maybe a little protective—but there’s a healthy dose of fear in that expression, too. Kind of how you might look at a pet rattlesnake that’s escaped its terrarium.

  “I was coming out to deal with the body,” June says. “Or to jump back a few days and stop Simon from killing him. I hadn’t quite decided which.”

  Pru reaches down into the tub and yanks her arm back, hard. The bit of Saul’s knee that was visible above the rim vanishes and specks of blood fly into the air before evaporating.