by Rysa Walker
Simon lets out a roar and swipes the monitor off the desk. It crashes to the floor. He stands and staggers in my direction, but he only makes it a few steps before he drops to his knees.
There’s no time to grab my CHRONOS key. I point the Colt at Simon, and he points his weapon right back at me.
It’s a strange gun, nothing like the Colt or the rifle I carried earlier. Neither of us says anything. He’s probably struggling to keep down his last meal, just like I am. Conwell’s cologne—an acrid scent that burns my nose—isn’t making things any easier.
My head begins to clear. I push myself up to a half-lotus position, gripping the tray of vials between my thighs, and move my hand slowly toward my key.
That’s when Simon finds his voice. “I’ll shoot before I let you jump out with the vials.”
“And I’ll shoot before I’ll let you have them.”
You should have shot him, Kate. Right square in the back. He’d be dead, dead, dead, and you’d be out of here.
That thought must be written on my face because Simon laughs. “You have to be willing to fight dirty to win. And if you were willing to fight dirty, I’d be dead already. And yes, I do see you back there.” Simon is glancing beyond me at the glass doors. “Connor Dunne, isn’t it? Pretty sure I know your great-grandpa.”
I can’t see Connor from this angle without turning around, and I don’t dare take my eyes off Simon. He has the clear advantage, because he can see both me and Connor’s reflection at the same time.
“Whoever’s back there behind you in the hallway? If I see any movement at all, I will shoot her. And just so you’re aware, mine isn’t the only weapon aimed in her direction.”
“He’s lying!”
“No, he’s not.” The voice behind me is weak, but unmistakably Patrick Conwell. He snakes one arm around my waist and jabs something against my back, hard enough that I wince. “Although I haven’t quite decided who I’d rather kill,” he adds in a softer voice clearly meant for Simon.
Connor says, “I’m not armed, Simon. Just here to make a trade.”
“Really?” Simon says brightly. “Whatcha got?”
“Kate for the keys. They’re all here.”
“Bullshit.” Simon keeps the tone friendly as he adds, “We both know there are others out there, including the one in your pocket.”
Connor moves a bit farther into the room, and I can now see him over Simon’s shoulder. He holds the red-and-white container in one hand. Pulling the key out of his pocket, he shows it to Simon. “Not a problem. You’ll get those, too. In fact, I’ll toss mine into the pot the second I know she’s safe.”
“No, Connor!”
“Kate,” Simon chides. “Stay out of this, darlin’. The men are doing business.”
His grin fades a bit when he sees my expression. Or maybe it’s my twitchy trigger finger that does it, because part of me wants to pull the trigger right this second, regardless of the consequences.
“Conwell, the whole idea of holding her at gunpoint is to make her lower the damned weapon.” Conwell digs his barrel in a little deeper, and once I comply, Simon goes on. “Before we do any sort of negotiation, however, Kate needs to slide that tray in her lap toward me.”
“No,” Conwell says. “I think I’ll keep it closer to me until we talk to Brother Cyrus.”
Playing these two off each other seems like our only hope at this point. “He’s dead,” I say. “Simon killed him. Slit his throat and dumped him in a bathtub at Estero.”
“True enough,” Simon admits. “He wouldn’t listen to reason. Saul’s way and only Saul’s way. You’ve seen that, Patrick. I seem to remember him making you give up something—someone—once upon a time, just to show your loyalty.”
Conwell is already on a pretty tight spring, but I feel him tense up even more.
Simon gives Conwell a sympathetic smile. “But you and me, man, we’re on the same side now. We both need those vials because I’m pretty sure that jolt we felt just now means Dora the Explorer there erased everything you accomplished on your recent trips abroad.”
“What jolt? The only jolt I felt was from your PEP gun.”
Then I see a flash of blue a few inches from Connor. I let out the breath I’ve been holding . . . and then I tense right back up. It’s Prudence.
She hates Simon, but she’s about as reliable as a tissue paper bridge. I can’t imagine any scenario where her being in this room improves the situation. She’s not even armed. Connor’s expression tells me he’s thinking the exact same thing.
Prudence glances from Connor to Simon, then over to where I’m wedged up against Conwell, then back across the room. And then she bursts out laughing, holding one hand up to her face. “Oh my God! Lover boy’s over there in the doorway, too. He looks like a Ken doll playing GI Joe.”
She clearly cracks herself up, because it’s a good ten seconds before she catches her breath long enough to speak. When she finally sobers, she looks at Conwell and shakes her head sadly. “You’re picking the wrong team, Patrick. Your father would be sad.”
“Get the hell out, Pru.” Simon glares in her direction. “Go back to the Farm, and I’ll leave you be. Go ride your stupid horse. Listen to your crappy mix tape, and leave the business to the people who still have brains enough to manage it.”
Pru takes two menacing steps toward Simon, and then everything happens at once. Simon whips the strange gun toward her. Behind me, I feel something move quickly across the back of my hair. Conwell makes a gurgling sound, and something warm and wet gushes against my back. Then someone yanks me up and over Conwell’s body.
I hear the thwommp sound I heard earlier, but it’s louder this time. Longer.
The bloody knife clatters from Kiernan’s hand, and he whips his rifle upward, pointing it toward the library, where Simon is still sitting on the floor.
Beyond Simon, Connor and Prudence are sprawled on the ground, so Simon’s PEP gun must have hit both of them. The container of keys was open, and deactivated medallions are scattered across the carpet.
Connor’s fingers rest on the very edge of the only bright blue key. I try to push through, but Kiernan blocks the doorway.
“Kiernan, I have to—”
“Not yet, Kate.”
“Maybe they’re just stunned, like Conwell was?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “The weapon has different settings.”
“You’re helping her?” Simon stares at Kiernan, mouth open, eyes wounded. “But why?”
Simon still has the gun, or whatever the thing is, pointed in our general direction, although I’m not sure he’s even aware he’s holding it. “I kept her safe for you, man! Just like I promised.”
“Drop the weapon, Simon.”
“She’s with June at the Farm. The baby’s fine, too. I’ll give you the coordinates. I’ll show you.”
Kiernan’s jaw is clenched tight. “She’d never have been in any danger in the first place if it wasn’t for you and Saul and this whole Cyrist insanity.” Kiernan turns slightly toward me and whispers. “Go, Kate. Get the vials to Estero.”
But I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the scene in the other room, looking for any sign that Connor is still alive. And yes, Prudence, too. I’m never going to feel all warm and fuzzy about my aunt, but I don’t want her dead.
Simon keeps talking, shaking his head slowly as he looks at Kiernan. “You saw the same things I did, Kier. People don’t stop. Saul was wrong about a lot, but he was right about that. The world needs a fresh start. A guiding hand, not a haphazard, half-assed evolution.”
“A guiding hand with that much blood on it isn’t a fresh start, Simon. I told you that years ago.”
“Yeah, but then you . . . Christ! I thought you’d finally grown up. Gotten a clue how the world really works. But . . .” Simon’s voice is strained, almost like he’s on the brink of tears. “It’s her, isn’t it? What is it with you? I saved your Kate. The one you claim to love. So what are you doing with t
he spare? She wouldn’t even exist if Pru had—”
I didn’t realize Kiernan’s hand had relaxed on the rifle, but it must have, because now he yanks it back up. “She’s not a bloody spare, Simon! There are . . . no . . . spares! People aren’t expendable.”
Simon is silent for a moment and then says, “You sure about that? Because the way you’ve got that gun pointed at me, I’m feeling a little expendable.” Simon laughs softly and pulls the CHRONOS key from his pocket. “You must’ve thought Patrick was. The man wasn’t even armed, just poking a keychain flashlight into her back, and you slit his throat.”
I glance down at Conwell’s body. Simon’s right. Kiernan’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t look down to confirm what Simon said, so I’m guessing he realized it when he pulled me into the room.
“Same thing you did to Saul,” Kiernan says. “And how many other people? I can think of five off the top of my head. Patrick killed more than a few himself and was on his way to killing a whole bunch more, so . . .”
“Saul got what he deserved,” Simon says as he looks down at his key, preparing to jump. I wait for Kiernan to say something. To do something. But his hands are shaking on the rifle.
A slight movement pulls Simon’s eyes away from the display, toward the single bright blue CHRONOS key.
I see it too. Connor’s hand flexes, grabbing toward the key. Any hesitation I felt about shooting vanishes instantly.
I lean through the doorway with the Colt and do what I should have done earlier. I do what Kiernan can’t.
My bullet hits Simon in the back of the neck, but my gun isn’t the only one firing. I hear shots from the hallway, and Kiernan’s gun fires, too, a moment later. Trey calls out my name, and behind him in the hallway I hear shouting. “Federal agents! Drop the weapons and come out with your hands over your head.”
I fire again, and Simon crumples forward as the last bullet hits him, his head inches from Prudence and Connor. His body twitches a few times, and then he’s still.
But not before he pulls that last active key toward him.
Not before Connor vanishes.
∞25∞
ESTERO, FLORIDA
July 13, 2030, 12:54 p.m.
“Easy, love. The idea is to destroy the nasty stuff in the vials, not send them crashing to the floor.”
Kiernan’s right. While the bleach in the tub is industrial strength, there’s no point in taking chances. I should stop letting anger and frustration rule me. This is the last tray. June managed to disinfect the vials we brought back from Addis Ababa, even with her wounded arm in the sling. She’s in the other room now, on what’s left of the bed Pru dismantled.
I drive the pick into the next vial with a little less force, but I still move quickly. I want this over. I want it done.
Not because I’m worried there’s anyone to jump in and prevent me from finishing the task. Anyone who can both use the CHRONOS key and who thought the Culling was necessary, or even a necessary evil, is dead. Except maybe Prudence. I don’t know what she thinks. I’m not even sure she knows.
I hurry because I want to get back. I want to find a way to fix this.
At the very same time, I know I can’t. If Connor was dead, then yes, I could change things. I could empty every single bullet in that gun into Simon before Connor ever walked into the room and prevent his death.
But I can’t prevent Connor from not existing in this timeline. The CHRONOS field was the only thing that held him here. To anyone not under a key in this reality, Connor Dunne never existed. It won’t matter if they’d interacted with him daily. Even the Valenzia’s Pizza guy wouldn’t remember him.
I wonder if the company’s profits are down, and that stray thought has me somewhere between laughing and crying. And I don’t want to do either of those things. I just want this over. I want it done.
“So . . . June’s going with you?” I ask, mostly to get my mind on something else.
“Yes. Kate’s worried Katherine is going to argue against us keeping the keys at all. Having all three of them in the past, so that we can get them to you immediately in your present, is the safest option.”
I nod, pretending that makes sense. And maybe it would if my brain wasn’t still replaying the scene in Conwell’s office.
“You’ll be in Georgia, then?” I ask.
“We might go there occasionally, but I kind of lost track of what days I’ve been in Georgia over the past few years, and I need to minimize interaction with Martha since I have no idea how that might affect the future. I bought a little place up in New York.”
“Let me guess. You’ve been gambling again.”
He gives me a half grin. “As I’ve said before, it’s not gambling if you know you’ll win. It’s just a little house on the Finger Lakes, near Skaneateles.”
The way he pronounces it, it’s almost a rhyme for Minneapolis, but it seems familiar. “Was that . . . ?”
“Yeah. It was on the note I told you to give to the driver of the surveillance van. Kate and I spent some time up there once. It’s beautiful.”
“I think I’ve seen it. Through Katherine’s key, the first time I touched it.”
Kiernan looks a little confused, but then he says, “I’ll leave you the coordinates when we go. If the keys don’t arrive, whatever plans I made for getting them to you fell through, and you’ll need to let me know.”
“Are you sure June won’t use the key?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “I can’t promise she won’t use it. But she won’t use it in a bad way, not to change anything. And she can’t stay here. Have you looked outside?”
“No. Why?”
“The Farm looks like no one has been here in years. I think the Cyrists are on a very different trajectory now.”
“I’d be happier if there was no trajectory. I’d like to go back and erase those vile little books from existence.” And with that thought, I turn back to jabbing the stupid vials as hard as I was before.
“And maybe erase yourself along with them, Kate? I wouldn’t want to test how that little conundrum played out.”
“It might not change anything. Connor was working against Saul before I even came into the picture, and nothing happened when Simon erased him.”
My voice breaks at the end. Kiernan steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders. That one touch is enough to start the tears I’ve been holding back. Even though he’s behind me and can’t see my face, he knows. He always knows.
“Why don’t you let me finish these?”
“No,” I say, pulling away from his hands. “There are only a few more, and I need to stab something. I’m okay.”
Kiernan sighs and goes back to leaning against the wall, probably thinking that I need to stab something and I’m okay don’t really belong in the same sentence.
Blinking back the tears, I manage to drive the pick through the last few seals. I’m scrubbing my arms at the sink when Kiernan speaks again.
“I am so sorry, Kate. For all of it. If I’d fired the gun earlier, Connor would still . . .” He’s on the brink of crying as well. “I’m sorry.”
Part of me wants to agree. An angry voice is yelling, You’re damned right! Why didn’t you just shoot him?
But that same voice is yelling the very same thing at me. Why didn’t YOU kill him?
“I had the chance to shoot Simon when he was talking to Patterson, Kiernan . . . and I couldn’t. Even though he was willing to kill billions of people, would have killed them if we hadn’t changed things, and would have gone back to kill them again if he’d gotten away—I still couldn’t fire the gun until I saw him grabbing for Connor’s key. So if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
I don’t mention the other question in my mind, the one I’m pretty sure is going to haunt me. Was I able to shoot at that moment because Simon now posed a direct and immediate physical threat to someone concrete, someone right there in front of me, rather than the faceless, nameless multitude who would die in
the Culling? Or was I able to shoot only because he now posed a direct threat to someone I loved?
“That’s not the only thing I have to apologize for, Kate. What Simon said . . . about you being a spare? I never thought that, but my actions? They put you at risk. They . . . made it seem that I valued your life less than hers. And that’s never been true. You’re as much her as she is, at least to me. I never, ever thought of you as expendable.”
He takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine. I think he meant it to be brief, almost platonic, but that doesn’t seem possible for either of us. And although I know I should fight it, I don’t. Because this will be the last time I kiss Kiernan. Even if I see him again before they leave, this will be our last moment alone before he goes back to his time, his Kate, his wife. And I can’t stop my mind from wondering about that other life, my own road not taken. I love Trey, I’m in love with Trey, but whatever the future holds for us, part of me will always wonder.
When I pull away, he says, “What I told you in Georgia? That I’ve only ever loved one girl? It’s still true, and I count myself lucky beyond belief that she is alive and waiting for me. That our child . . .” He laughs softly and shakes his head. “I still can’t even wrap my head around that.”
I hold back the question of whether he’s certain the child is his, remembering what he said before. Whatever happened during the time his Kate was missing is between the two of them, and I don’t want to dim the smile on his face when he mentions the baby.
“What I’m trying to say is, you are my Kate, too. My first Kate. The girl with the funny painted toes, whose eyes were still young and who could laugh in a way my Kate had lost by the time we met. I’m just glad I have the chance now to set that right. And one day, if I see your smile on her face, maybe that’ll keep me from feeling I’ve left a piece of my heart behind.”
OUTSIDE THE SIXTEENTH STREET TEMPLE
WASHINGTON, DC
September 12, 9:39 p.m.
The Gray Ghost is parked half a block down. I wave to get Dad’s attention, and a few seconds later, he pulls up next to me. Other-Kate is riding with him. As soon as the window is down, she asks, “Where’s Kiernan? Is he okay?”