by P. T. Hylton
“That’s the last show, kid. Go home. Your mom’s probably worried sick.”
The light moved away from his eyes and Zed got his first look at the speaker. It was a pimply faced teenager dressed in a red uniform. An usher.
Zed blinked hard as he remembered where he was. A movie theater. In, what, Atlanta? Nashville? He couldn’t remember.
It had been three months since he’d taken the watch from Charlie. Three months of trains and buses. Three months of looking over his shoulder for the police or Charlie’s mysterious boss or whoever else might be after him. He’d found he liked traveling. He liked the solitude. And he still had over half his money, so he could keep traveling for at least a few more months.
The thing he hadn’t counted on before leaving home was how difficult it was for an eleven-year-old to travel on his own. People asked so many questions. What was he doing? Where was his mother? Why was he riding the train alone? He had a slew of stories he used, never too elaborate. He kept his answers to a sentence or two when he could help it.
One other difficulty Zed hadn’t anticipated was the constant struggle to find a place to sleep. He could buy his own food without anyone raising an eyebrow, but sleeping…motels didn’t rent rooms to eleven-year-old boys. The few times he’d tried had led to questions that were difficult to answer.
He’d found a few solutions. Trains and buses made for excellent places to sleep. He’d spent much of his time traveling from city to city just for a semi-quiet place to rest his head without anyone bothering him. The downside was that the constant travel was a major drain on his money roll. A cheaper alternative was movie theaters. He could buy a ticket to the first show and happily sleep his way through the last. It was loud—he often had ringing in his ears after a day like that and he always seemed to smell of stale popcorn—but when he got tired enough, it was worth it.
The usher’s flashlight beam was still pointing at him, though mercifully not in his eyes. Zed stretched and slowly got to his feet, dreading another cold night of walking the city streets.
As he stood, his hand slipped automatically into his pocket, and a wave of peace passed through him as he touched the watch. His watch. Despite all the hardships of the past three months, he had to admit it had been the happiest time of his life. He had the watch, and he could touch it as much as he wanted. He could look at it anytime he wanted. He’d killed to get the watch, and he’d happily do it again. It was his.
If there was one thing about the watch that bothered him, one annoying little thing that grated him like a pebble stuck in his shoe, it was that he hadn’t been able to get the watch to do anything out of the ordinary. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting of it exactly, but he remembered back to Charlie and the way he had made himself go from one part of the room to another in an instant. Zed hadn’t been able to get the watch to perform any of those feats of magic.
Maybe his mother had been right. Maybe Charlie had just hypnotized Zed. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the watch itself. But Zed didn’t believe that. He could feel the power in the watch when he held it. It was like a pulse. Or maybe a building pressure. Zed sensed it had an energy different from anything he’d ever experienced, and something told him it wanted to get out.
Zed left the theater and stepped out onto the dark city street. He remembered where he was. Charlotte, North Carolina. It was a nice town. Small enough that it wasn’t overrun with crime, and large enough that he was able to wander the streets at night without attracting too much attention. Still, he thought he’d probably move on soon. He wanted to see the ocean. He thought of the map that had hung in his classroom and wished he’d paid more attention to it. What was the closest coast town of any size? Savannah, maybe? That was on the ocean, right?
The smell of cooking meat suddenly hit him like a bag of bricks, and his stomach cramped in painful hunger. He looked up and saw a diner on the corner. It had the beautiful words Open Late painted on the window. He stopped under a street light and considered. Did he dare? Would the waitress insist on calling his mother? Or, worse yet, would she call the police to report this boy out after curfew? What time was it, anyway?
He pulled out the pocket watch and flicked it open. 11:04. Late for a boy his age.
He ran his finger over the broken clock symbol on the back of the watch. The diner and his hunger were momentarily forgotten. He felt suddenly strong. Powerful. He squeezed the watch.
There was a click.
For a terrible moment, he was certain he’d broken it. If that had happened, he didn’t know what he’d do. He imagined it would involve stepping in front of a train. But, no, he hadn’t broken the watch. He’d simply pressed the broken clock symbol and it had depressed.
It was a button, he realized.
Three months and he hadn’t realized the symbol was a button that could be pressed. The watch held too much import for him. He’d always handled it gently, reverently.
Something felt different. There was a strange hum in the air, a feeling he’d never felt before. The watch buzzed with energy, but it felt different somehow. He’d always assumed the energy was imaginary, his way of externalizing the specialness he saw in the watch. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the energy was real and he had just used some of it.
A shiver passed through him. And with it, his stomach resumed its angry complaint. He shook his head to clear it and walked toward the diner.
The quiet hit him first. He walked in the door and heard nothing. It was still. As quiet as his old childhood home when his mom had been at work. Quieter even. At home there’d been the sounds of the radiator and the occasional car horn out the window. This was different. There was nothing.
For a terrible moment, he thought he’d gone deaf. He made a pathetic wordless vocalization, and was relieved to hear the sound of his voice.
Then he noticed the people.
The diner wasn’t full, not by a long shot. But six of the tables were occupied. Two waitresses stood behind the counter. None of them, patrons or workers, were moving. They were still as statues.
Zed wandered through the diner for five minutes, observing the strange frozen figures. A man in the booth in the back corner held a fork with a bit of pumpkin pie on it, headed toward his gaping mouth. Zed plucked the pie off the fork and stuck it in his own mouth. He didn’t normally like pumpkin pie, but this bite tasted especially sweet.
It was the stillness of the clock on the wall that finally made him realize the truth. He stared at its motionless second hand and realized he had stopped time.
Or, the pocket watch had.
No, he decided after a moment’s thought. The pocket watch was just a tool. A beautiful and life-changing tool, but a tool nonetheless. It was Zed who’d stopped time.
He realized he could very likely counter the effect and restart time by pushing the button again, but he wasn’t ready to do that yet. There was something peaceful about all this. Something soothing.
He left the restaurant and walked around the block checking to see how far the effect went. Everything outside was just as frozen as the diner. Which meant, what, the whole world was frozen? Everything but him?
If so…it was wonderful. There would be a million uses for this power, a million ways he could use it to his advantage, but the first that came to mind was sleep. If he stopped time, he could walk right through any person’s front door, lie in their bed and sleep until he woke up naturally. How long had it been since he’d slept in a bed? The mere thought of it made his knees weak.
But first he had to take care of a more pressing issue: his stomach. He went back in the diner and walked through the door to the kitchen. Next to the motionless cook, there was a large cheeseburger sitting on a plain white plate. He picked up the plate, walked to the nearest booth and sat down to eat.
He picked off the tomato and took his first bite. The meat was cooked perfectly, and Zed sighed in pleasure as a bit of juice dribbled down his chin. He quickly swallowed and took another too-large bi
te of the greasy, delicious burger.
“You’re a very stupid boy.”
Zed froze at the sound of the unexpected voice. A woman sat across from him. He hadn’t seen her arrive. One moment, he was alone in the booth, and the next she was there.
He started to speak, but the woman held up a hand to stop him.
“Please, finish chewing your food before you speak.”
He dutifully chewed his food, and as he did, he inspected the woman more closely. She had a face of sharp angles, and her most distinctive characteristic was her head of long, curly blond hair. If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to even guess at her age. She looked both older and younger than his mother. There was an ageless quality about her. Her eyes were a blue so deep they were almost purple.
The woman stared at him, not moving, not speaking, just waiting for him to swallow his food. As soon as he thought he could do so without choking, he gulped it down.
He started to speak, but the woman stopped him with a hand once again.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
He was surprised to realize he did. He nodded.
“Who am I?” she asked.
His voice sounded weak and childish in his own ears. “Charlie’s boss.” He had assumed Charlie’s boss was a man, but looking at her…he somehow just knew.
She nodded grimly. “Good. So you probably realize how unhappy I am with you right now.”
That wasn’t exactly a question, so he elected not to answer it. Instead, he said, “How’d you find me?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We are sitting here with time paused around us, and that’s your first question? Truth is, we’ve been on your trail for a month now. We would have had you within a week. There are those in our…organization who can track the Tools. But you used the watch, which made things quite a lot easier.”
He asked the only question that mattered, the one that had been burning a hole in his heart since she appeared. “Are you gonna take it away from me?”
Her mouth was a thin grim line. “That watch is only to be used by people in the employ of my organization. Are you in the employ of my organization?”
Zed slowly shook his head.
“Then there’s your answer.”
Zed considered bolting for the door, but something about the woman made him think that would be a very bad idea. She had an air about her, a feeling of power. The same feeling, come to think of it, he felt when he held the watch.
She tilted her head and regarded him for a moment before continuing. “As much as I disapprove of your actions against our man Charlie, it did show a certain initiative. And it did create an opening in the organization. The very fact that you were drawn to the watch shows a lot about your aptitude.” The hint of a smile played on her lips now. “Tell me, young man, how would you feel about coming to work for me and my friends? If are able to dedicate yourself fully to the tasks we set before you, and if you demonstrate absolute loyalty, you could find yourself with a very profitable and very lengthy career. I’m even prepared to let you hold on to the watch. On a trial basis, of course. How does that sound?”
Zed thought that sounded very fine indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE KEY WITHOUT A LOCK
1.
After Frank and Mason left the library, Joe led Sophie through the stacks. Her friends had gone to follow up on whatever Frank had found, but Sophie had insisted on staying behind to talk to Joe. She had to admit, she was suddenly feeling very good about this whole thing. She’d uncovered a lead! Frank could take his smug, Haven’t you ever investigated a small town with a secret before, and shove it.
As they were walking, Sophie felt a hand on her arm. She turned and saw a little old woman holding a thick historical novel. The woman looked at Sophie with wide eyes.
“Where are the others?” the old woman asked.
Sophie paused, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“The others!” the old woman barked at her. “Mason and Frank! They’re supposed to be with you.”
Sophie felt her mouth fall open. It took her a moment before she could respond. “They…they had to leave.”
The woman grew a shade paler. “Oh, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all. They’re supposed to be here.”
Joe turned toward the woman. “Mrs. Gilbert, are you all right?”
Mrs. Gilbert shook her head. “They’re supposed to be here and they’re not. I have to tell someone. But who? Who should I tell? What if they make me do it again?”
Joe motioned for Sophie to follow him. “She’ll be okay.”
As she turned to go, Sophie noticed a tattoo on the veiny flesh of the woman’s wrist. The Roman numeral VII.
Joe led Sophie behind the circulation desk and into a small office. He pointed her to a chair in front of the desk that dominated the room.
“I’m sorry about before,” Joe said. “Some of the Rough-Shod Readers are a little…paranoid. And not without reason. No doubt they’re less than happy with me for slipping out in the middle of the meeting.”
Sophie nodded. “No worries. I gotta ask, though, if the club’s a big secret, why the ‘All welcome’ sign?”
Joe thought for a moment before answering. “There’s something to be said for hiding in plain sight. And a book club on Tuesday morning at ten a.m. doesn’t bring in a lot of random stragglers, believe it or not.”
“Maybe try bringing a book at least one of you has read, though,” Sophie said with a smile.
Joe nodded. “Yes, that was a bit embarrassing. Actually, I’ve been meaning to read Old Man’s War. It’s just…difficult to concentrate lately.”
Sophie could relate. “You wanted to talk about Zed?”
“Yes. Well, him and some other things. The others might not agree, but I think your outside perspective might be able to shine some light on what’s happening in King’s Crossing.”
Sophie leaned forward. She was suddenly feeling every inch the detective. “And what is happening here?”
Joe shook his head slowly. “Strange things. Very strange things.”
“That tends to be the case when Zed’s around.”
“Actually, Zed’s only been here a few months. This started well before that.”
Sophie bit her tongue. She’d seen enough movies to know she’d broken the cardinal rule of sleuthing: if your source is talking, shut up and let them talk.
“It started a couple years ago,” Joe continued, “with a tree. This weird little tree started growing down by the river at Volunteer Park. It’s hard to describe if you haven’t seen it. It’s small, but it’s—I don’t know—twisty. Something about it isn’t right.”
Sophie reminded herself of the cardinal rule and didn’t respond. Man, it wasn’t easy.
“Then the weirdness started. All of the sudden, a bunch of people in town had those Roman numeral tattoos on their wrists. And people started knowing things they shouldn’t. I don’t know how else to say it. It was like the people with those tattoos suddenly knew the future.”
Sophie couldn’t help herself. “Give me an example.”
Joe grinned like he’d been waiting his whole life to be asked that question. “I can give you hundreds. That’s what the Rough-Shod Readers do. We collect examples of the weirdness. We’re trying to piece together what’s going on.”
For the next half hour, Joe told her about some of the things the Rough-Shod Readers had uncovered.
There was the story of Nate Sanders, the part-time movie reviewer for the King’s Crossing Tribune. One day about a year-and-a-half ago, he had emailed a movie review to his boss Cheryl, who happened to be a member of the Rough-Shod Readers. Thing was, Nate had accidentally attached his master file which contained reviews of over fifty movies, twenty of which hadn’t yet been released. As the movies came out, the Rough-Shod Readers carefully checked the reviews and found them to be amazingly accurate, including many details about character moments and special effects that would have been impossible to know
from just reading a leaked script. It was clear Nate Sanders had somehow seen these movies months—and in some cases over a year—before they were released.
Six months ago, someone had made an anonymous call to city hall, demanding someone inspect the bridge at Fourth Street within thirty days. The inspector had gone out and discovered structural damage that would have caused the bridge to collapse in the very near future. It was certainly possible the call had been placed by some concerned citizen with structural engineering knowledge. But was it likely?
And then there was the sports gambling. A strange number of King’s Crossing residents had suddenly become eerily accurate at predicting Super Bowl winners and filling out March Madness tournament brackets.
On and on it went. Mostly it was little things, a comment here, a strangely worded email there, and the Rough-Shod Readers collected them all. Most of these things could have been coincidences if taken alone, but when considered as a whole they made a difficult-to-refute case that some sort of psychic ability had taken hold of some of the residents of King’s Crossing.
The ability seemed to be tied to those with tattoos. The Rough-Shod Readers had spent a lot of time trying to understand the connection. What did the tattoos mean? Did those with higher numbers have greater psychic ability? Were the numbers some sort of leveling system? The Rough-Shod Readers believed less than two-hundred people had the tattoos, but two-hundred people with psychic ability could make a pretty noticeable impact.
And then, a few months ago, Zed had arrived, and the tattooed people of King’s Crossing had welcomed him like a conquering hero. Like he was the savior they’d been waiting for. They’d built a shed around the tree in the park as if they were trying to hide it away, to keep it for their own.
Joe was still discussing Zed’s welcome in King’s Crossing when Sophie’s phone rang. It was Frank.
After she hung up, she looked at Joe. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. My friends will be here to pick me up in just a minute. Can we finish this later? I know my friends are going to want to hear what you have to say.”