by Rysa Walker
When the Templar finishes speaking, Mom leads Prudence to the stage and then returns to her seat. This speech, part of which was leaked to the press last night, is the reason the news cameras are here and, most likely, why most of the pews are full. Prudence grips the podium with one hand and reaches out with the other, groping around until her fingers find the microphone.
I’m all but certain that Prudence could see when she left the temple the other night. But Mom swears she’s blind now, completely. According to the doctors, the weapon damaged Prudence’s visual cortex, which Dad says is toward the back of the head.
That doesn’t make sense to me. I saw where she was hit, and it was in the front. Still, I don’t think Pru has the mental capacity to fake anything this thoroughly. The past few days have been hell on Mom, because each time Pru wakes up, she realizes all over again that she can’t see and freaks out.
I think this speech is a bad idea. So does Mom. But no one asked us.
“Children of Cyrus,” Pru begins. “We are here today to mourn a great loss to our faith, to our nation, and to the world. But our losses could have been far greater. As President Patterson has noted in recent press conferences, the terror cell was deep within our organization. If they had not been stopped, global fatalities would have been . . . immense.”
Pru’s voice is almost monotone. The speech was sent to her rehab center via messenger. Mom spent hours helping her to memorize it.
“So as we mourn this loss, we must also ask what seed within our faith allowed this viper to grow in our midst. In the coming months, Cyrist International will hold a global synod to examine our tenets of faith, our Creed, and our governing policies.
“At the conclusion of that synod, I will step down as head of Cyrist International and a successor will be chos . . . en . . .”
Pru’s jaw takes on a determined set, and she clutches the edges of the podium. When she speaks again, the monotone is gone and she speaks quickly.
“Brother Cyrus was a foul toad of a man named Saul. He loved no one but himself. He never blessed a single child, but he killed plenty of them. And he killed—”
She’s rushed from the stage and out of the chapel. Mom throws a glance at me over her shoulder and follows.
I can’t tell for certain, since her microphone was cut, but it looked to me like the last word Prudence said was puppies.
Trey and I are almost through the door when the Secret Service—the same woman who took me home the other night—pulls me aside.
“The president would like to have a word with you in the executive conference room. If you could follow me? I’m sorry, sir, you’ll need to wait here.”
Trey isn’t happy about that. He pulls his phone out, probably planning to call Dad. Or a lawyer, though I doubt it would do me much good.
I’m not happy, either, but I clearly don’t have a choice. I put my hand on his arm. “Wait on the call, okay? Grab something to drink. If I’m not back in twenty minutes or so, then call the cavalry.”
I leave him in the Cyrist Café and follow the guard down a long hallway.
Paula Patterson is alone when I enter. That kind of surprises me, but one wall is mirrored, so I’m guessing there’s at least one guard watching our every move. Probably recording us, too.
Patterson always looks perfect on television. Today, there are dark circles under her blue eyes, and her auburn hair, which is usually impeccably styled, looks like it could use a touch-up. I suspect the past few days have taken a toll on her, too, because her voice is tired when she greets me.
“Hello, Kate—and thank you for meeting me here. Please, have a seat.” I do, and she continues, “I believe you have something for me?”
I open my purse and pull out seven deactivated CHRONOS keys in a plastic baggie.
“And this is all of them?”
“No,” I say. “We’re waiting on three more.”
“Waiting? On whom?”
“You’ll get them.” Honestly, I’m starting to worry a bit. It’s been two days, and if the keys that Kiernan, Kate, and June took with them aren’t back soon, I’ll have to go looking.
“And once I have those three, that’s the last of them?”
“It’s possible that there’s one in Addis Ababa that might not have been destroyed,” I admit. “And there could be others. We never got a precise number. Then, of course, there’s Prudence’s key, and Julia’s, which must be the one you’re wearing.” I nod toward the left side of her blazer.
Patterson glances down at her chest, surprised. “Is the glow really bright enough for you that you see it through my jacket? I can barely even see it outside the fabric.”
There’s also the key I’m wearing. I don’t mention it, but she probably knows anyway. What she might not know is that it has company inside the little leather pouch—the flash drive that was taped to Connor’s key, filled with the works that she very likely ordered Max to destroy. Katherine says about 70 percent of the library had been digitized. I’ve only skimmed the first few pages of the table of contents, but there’s a story called “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson, that for whatever reason never saw the light of day in this timeline. Two Shakespearean plays in their original form, before Cyrist censors changed them. Sonnets and sonatas, paintings, and history. The records of lives that never happened.
Mom says I should erase it. That this present is our reality and everything on this little drive is fiction.
She may be right. But there’s plenty of truth in fiction.
“I was probably the only person in the auditorium who could see your key,” I tell her. “Assuming Prudence—”
“No. She can’t see anything. The doctors assured me of that.”
The words are innocent enough, and there’s even a note of regret, but something in her tone is chilling. Or maybe it’s just because I’m all but certain Prudence could see when she tossed Simon’s spare key into my lap.
I don’t like thinking that the woman across from me would have authorized doctors to take her sight. Still . . . how else would you control Prudence? Remove the key from her arm and she’d no longer exist. Give her a chance to use it, and who knows what she’d do.
“You shouldn’t worry,” Patterson says. “Sister Prudence will be given excellent care. And I think she’ll be . . . happy. Your mother seems determined to take personal responsibility for her, and that’s admirable, but the attorneys will be talking to her over the next week or so to be sure she realizes all of Prudence’s wealth will revert to Cyrist International after her death.”
I’m trying really hard to be respectful. This is the president of the United States, duly elected, and I am well aware of the power differential here. Even though I know she could squash me and everyone I love with one official flick of her finger, her implication makes me angry. I’m already worried that Mom got more than she bargained for, that caring for Prudence will become a huge burden, and here she is implying that Mom is in it for the cash.
“Mom doesn’t want Pru’s money. She only wanted her sister back.”
“I’m sure.”
“You should be. Feel free to have your lawyers draw up any papers they like. As long as they don’t interfere with her access to her sister, I’m quite certain Mom will sign them.”
“Oh, they aren’t my attorneys,” she says. “I have no official connection to Cyrist International. It’s simply my religion, and obviously I have an interest in the national security implications of recent . . . events. And your role in those events. Just to put your mind at ease, all of the items taken from your residence and your actions during this entire affair have been sealed and classified for reasons of national security. The same goes for your friends and family. But please understand that this could change in an instant. If you start making statements to the press, or if there’s any indication you’ve withheld information, or, most importantly, if there are any changes whatsoever to the timeline, I will have to reassess that decision. As would those who follow me i
n office.”
“I understand.” She’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if she’s waiting for me to thank her. Perhaps I should. She could have taken a very different track here, one that would ruin my life and the lives of everyone I care about. But I can’t quite muster up a thank-you when she’s also the person who could have sent backup to the temple instead of putting the people I love in danger. Connor might even . . .
“What are your plans for the future?” she asks.
That came out of left field. “Umm . . . school? I’ve got a bit of catching up to do. And then college.”
“Have you considered joining the Cyrists? You’d make a wonderful Sister Prudence.”
I laugh, but apparently it isn’t a joke.
“They could make it worth your while . . . and I do think there will be some major changes in Cyrist International in the coming years. You’d be in a position to do a great deal of good, even if you’re not a believer.”
“No thanks.” Although I’m ready to get out of here, there’s still one thing I need to know. “What about Simon?”
“Oh. I thought you knew. DOA at Walter Reed.” I try to read her face, but I’ve no clue if she’s lying. “I thought it strange that he didn’t have a key. Conwell, either.”
I nod toward the baggie of dead keys. “They’re in the bag. What about the one you’re wearing? Do you plan to have it deactivated, too?”
Her eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “No, Kate. I don’t. If reality changes around me, I want to know. I’m sure you’d feel the same . . . I mean, if you were in my position.”
In one sense, she’s wrong. I’ve wanted to take this key off since Katherine gave it to me. Yeah, life-threatening aspects aside, this has been an incredible adventure. I’ll probably look back years from now and wish I could relive the not-awful parts of the past few months. But I’ll take that bit of nostalgia in exchange for security—for knowing my family is safe and that the people around me might actually know who I am from day to day.
That the important things in my life happen in order.
But, on the other side of the scale, Pru’s key is still active. Patterson’s key is still active. One is unstable and the other . . . is a Cyrist in a position of power. Who might be lying when she says Simon is dead. Who has the resources to search for others out there who might have the gene or, for all I know, to create them.
So, yes, she’s right. I’m not sure what I could do about it, but if reality changes around me, I want to know.
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
September 14, 6:57 p.m.
Katherine’s contribution is a picture of a hotel in Naples, where the two of them spent Connor’s fiftieth birthday. The edges curl and brown when it hits the flames.
Dad’s next. He adds a handful of coffee beans to the fire pit, along with a pretzel rod, which he says is from Daphne.
Now it’s my turn. I toss in a piece of cardboard torn from the top of a Valenzia’s Pizza box.
We watch as it burns away. A tiny white flake of charred paper catches the breeze and takes flight. I watch for a moment, but decide I don’t want to see when it catches on a leaf or drifts to the ground. I want to believe the wind will take our burnt offerings to Connor somewhere in an alter-reality, where he’s sitting on his back porch eating pizza with Andi and Christopher.
I want to believe. And stranger things have happened.
When our private memorial is over, the others arrive, the ones who knew Connor, but not as well. Trey. Charlayne and Bensen. Sara, who didn’t actually know Connor at all, but who stops by anyway, because she’s barely seen Dad in the past few weeks. Not Mom and not Prudence. There are tentative plans for a dinner—me, Katherine, Mom, and Pru—next week. Maybe. Depending on how Prudence and Katherine are both feeling. And while I can tell Katherine wishes for more, it would be a step forward. I just hope they all stop being stubborn and actually take at least that one tiny step while Katherine is still alive.
It’s annoying that everyone has to park one street over and squeeze through the hedge, but there are still two cars out front with reporters wanting an update on Sister Pru. We trade Connor stories around the fire pit, which fittingly smells a bit like burned coffee.
When the doorbell rings a little before eight, Dad and Daphne go inside to answer, hoping that it’s the pizza delivery and not the paparazzi. I peek through the kitchen a minute later and see him in the foyer paying the driver, so Trey and I head inside to help him with the boxes.
But someone else is walking into the kitchen. It’s a young woman, tall and pretty—and at first I think Dad let a reporter in. Then I notice that she has a toddler perched on her hip who seems determined to get down. His eyes are fixed on Daphne, who’s sniffing curiously at his wiggling feet.
The woman looks surprised when she sees my face.
I smile politely and sigh. Because this is getting old.
Trey catches my expression and laughs. “We need to get you a sign that says Not Sister Prudence.”
“Sister . . . ?” she begins. “Oh, that one with the Cyrists. Is that what’s going on with the news truck outside?”
“Yes. I’m her niece, but we’re not . . . close.”
She looks a bit confused. “Okay. But that’s not what . . . stop wiggling, sweetie, and let Mommy get something.”
The woman puts the little boy on the barstool so that she can take an envelope out of the oversized bag she’s carrying. The kid wastes no time—he’s down before she even gets her hand into her purse. I kneel and grab for Daphne’s collar, thinking she might jump on him, but she just sniffs the boy and gives his outstretched hand a gentle lick.
“Your father said she’s friendly?”
“Oh, yes. Just a little too enthusiastic sometimes. But she seems to be reining it in around this little guy.”
Dad and Trey come through with the pizza boxes, casting a curious glance at us on the way to the patio.
“I was actually thinking you look more like her.” The woman hands me a small photograph album. A sealed envelope sticks up out of the pages, and there’s a family photo on the cover—a tall, dark-haired man with a very familiar grin holding a little boy. He’s standing behind a young woman who does indeed look quite a bit like me. She holds a baby in her lap, and an older girl of maybe seven or eight stands next to her.
“The woman who’s seated is my great-great-grandmother. She’s a little older here, but there’s a photo inside taken a few years after they were married, and . . . you could be her double.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Jennifer Meeks. And this little guy is Connor Dunne Meeks.”
Oh, wow.
I look away from the album. The boy’s coloring is dark like his mother’s. He looks nothing like Connor. But his inquisitive brown eyes do remind me a bit of a somewhat older boy I met at the 1893 World’s Fair.
“Hi, Connor.”
He grins when I say his name, but then Daphne licks his cheek, and he’s too busy giggling to pay attention to anything other than her.
“This is technically Connor’s job,” Jennifer says, “since the will decreed that the youngest Connor Dunne in the family deliver this envelope to Katherine Shaw at this address. We were supposed to be here two days ago, but Connor had this tummy thing, and we had to cancel the flight.”
Katherine closes the patio door behind her. “Hello? I’m Katherine Shaw. Harry said you’re looking for me.”
“Yes. I’m Jennifer Meeks. As I was telling this young lady, you’re the reason we flew in from Ohio this afternoon. I believe you knew my ancestors back in the 1950s, when you were a little girl. Kiernan and Kate Dunne?”
Katherine smiles. “Why, yes. I do remember them.”
“Well, apparently you made a very strong impression, because you’re part of a rather strange provision in their will. They named their oldest son Connor. That’s the one Kiernan is holding in the picture. And they asked that the tradition be passed down in each generation. But . . . no boys in my family. My dad—C
onnor Dunne the Third—passed away unexpectedly six years ago, and we thought my older sister would be the one to deliver this to you, but then this little guy was born two years ago, and . . . well . . . here we are.”
She hands Katherine the manila envelope. “There’s an odd diary of some sort in there, written in Gaelic, as best we can tell. I’m supposed to leave you that and a copy of the photograph album they handed down to my grandfather, which I gave to . . .”
“Kate,” I say, glancing down at the envelope sticking out of the photo album. It has my initials, PKP-K, written on the front.
Jennifer laughs, shaking her head. “I swear, you must have been reincarnated. That was her name, too. Oh, and the other . . . I don’t know if you’ll even remember these things, Katherine, but you must have liked them as a kid.” She looks over to see if Connor is occupied. He is, with his tiny palms pressed against the glass patio door, looking out at the others sitting at the picnic table. She lifts a chain that holds three CHRONOS keys. Then she quickly drops them back inside. “Don’t let Connor see what’s in this envelope because he’ll pitch a fit about me giving them away. I don’t know why, but he’s fascinated by those pendants. I’ll be honest—I think they’re ugly. But Connor would rather play with them than with my phone.”
She closes the envelope and hands it to Katherine, then scoops Connor up into her arms.
“Have you had dinner?” Katherine asks. “We’d love to have you join us. There’s plenty of pizza.”
“Pee-dah.” Connor looks out at the patio, then back up at his mother.
“Oh, dear.” Jennifer laughs. “I’m afraid you’ve said the magic word. You’ll never get rid of him now.”
Katherine opens the door, but I hold back. “I’ll be out in a moment, Katherine.”
I duck into the living room and open the envelope. The letter inside is just a single page in my own handwriting, although it lacks some of the little flourishes I like to use.
March 2, 1969
If you’re holding this, it worked. We’ve revised our plan every few years . . . first leaving the keys with our attorney, and then later, after the children and grandchildren came along, we decided to keep this in the family. We’ve also rewritten this letter every few years, adding bits and pieces and dropping others. It seems to get a little shorter each time, because in the end, the photographs in the album tell our story.