Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

  Wade’s muscles spasmed. Pain ricocheted down his spine.

  Breathe. Wait. Don’t force it.

  Minutes passed. No way could he walk in such agony. Thankfully he launched where there was no rush to hide the time machine. Not another soul was awake for miles. The controls beeped and buzzed. The high-pitched whirring sound died down until it was a minor part of the din.

  He survived. It worked. He lived.

  The process of time travel meant that his whole body was deconstructed and reassembled in another era. Each molecule was fused upon reentry, hopefully in the right place. The process of welding his body back together necessitated agony. No getting around it.

  He tried to focus, to think about something other than the pain.

  If the experiment was successful and he rewrote the course of history, Carter never existed as anything more than a fetus. He didn’t go to jail or drug court. He and Ericka didn’t make out on her parent’s couch.

  Angela never met him.

  She might still be alive.

  Alive. Angela is alive.

  He blinked his dry eyes. Wade lifted his head a few inches. No. Too soon. He set it back down. No need to rush.

  Angela. She was out there somewhere. That little girl, the eight-year old with a toothy grin and pigtails, grew up. Remember how innocent she once was?

  She used to get so excited over his Christmas gifts. They played together on the swings, him pushing as hard as he could, her pumping her legs. No, not a little girl any longer, a woman now. She probably had a child of her own. How wonderful. How complete.

  But Carter was still with him. The memories stayed intact, even the way the young man smelled the last time they spoke.

  Was he still alive? Did he exist?

  No, he couldn’t. Carter was gone.

  Wade went to the clinic himself. He received confirmation of a successful procedure. But there was a nagging doubt. What if Carter’s abortion was only a pain-induced hallucination triggered by the electrocution of his body? You never knew with technology. It was possible.

  Wade dared to lift his head once more. The level of pain overwhelmed him. It took every ounce of energy to sit up. At some point he would have to push the time machine back to the garage. People might try to investigate the bright light and sounds emanating from the property. If a passing plane saw the electricity, or a weather station picked up on the sudden localized gusts of wind, he’d have a short window of time to hide everything.

  He slid from the seat and collapsed into a pile on the ground. Not good. A broken ankle would cripple his plan. Inch by inch he contorted his body until he stood up, leaning against the side of the machine. Hand over hand, he walked to the front, his feet sliding in the dust.

  Air cut his lungs like sandpaper. His joints cracked. He reached the metal bar at the head of the machine and leaned his full weight against it. Gravel popped beneath the tires. The beast started rolling little by little.

  One foot ahead of the last. Fully extended, Wade grunted with every inch gained. His hips hurt so bad he could faint. Nausea blurred his vision. It took ten minutes of torture to reach the driveway.

  The machine slid into its spot in the garage. Wade ducked inside and shut the door with his last remaining strength. As soon as the door closed, he collapsed on the ground, exhausted.

  He closed his eyes, and passed out.

  # # #

  Wade woke up looking at the side of his ratchet set, his spine twisted like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. A leak dribbled from the underside of the time machine. Birds tweeted in the distance. Sunshine glinted under the garage door.

  Daylight. He had slept through the night.

  A warm sensation trickled through his body. Success. It worked. The plan worked.

  He moved one finger, then another. Next he wiggled his toes. Yes, everything worked. The dull discomfort in his joints remained, but his limbs moved. Something in his brain clicked. Work remained.

  He pushed himself to a sitting position, the energy rising within. He existed in a new reality. He needed to make a quick survey of the belongings in the house, the numbers in his phone book, and the appointments on his calendar. Important to blend in. If his boss expected him on a video conference today, he ought to attend. If Tom and Linda booked a lunch at the pizza buffet, he should go. Nobody could know what happened. It was paramount that he look normal.

  Wade crawled to the wheelchair in the corner, and pulled himself to a sitting position. He'd practiced this maneuver a dozen times leading to this day. It was important to be prepared for every outcome. The wheelchair was there in case he couldn't use his legs. It sat next to a vast collection of crutches, oxygen tanks, splints, bandages, and even anti-venom in case of snakebite. Better to prepare in advance.

  He rolled into the living room, careful to avoid smacking his hands on the narrow door jam.

  Everything remained in its place. The walls held their dull, drab color, the furniture remained behind the style trends of the last three or four decades. Tools lined his work bench. The computer setup looked the same and, thankfully, his inbox was empty. Very considerate.

  Wade searched his belongings with obsessive precision. This was time travel, after all. Even the smallest oddity may indicate a potential threat.

  Then he saw it.

  An old orange plastic plate sat on the coffee table filled with breadcrumbs and bits of peanut butter.

  He didn’t remember eating a sandwich.

  The hair on his arm stood up. The plate might belong to him in this new timeline, but he had no memory of it. He most likely ate the sandwich and left it there. But he didn’t remember. It reminded him of the time he fell off his bike and got a concussion as a child. He wandered around his backyard trying to put together the pieces of the accident, but assembled only shadows of the event. This plate mocked him in the same way. It represented a moment from the past that he didn't know but was a part of.

  Other things were askew. A new bookshelf stood proudly in the corner, lined with unfamiliar photographs. A smiling picture of Angela in her mid-twenties completed the group. She grinned at him, holding a college diploma in front of her like a fisherman with a large catch. Linda and Tom crowded around. Barb was clearly absent.

  Another photo caught his eye, similar to one he took at Tom and Linda's wedding. In it, Angela leaned against a handsome young man. Who was this guy? Dimples and thick, bushy hair. Nobody from Kitrich, that’s for sure. He knew all of the kids Angela’s age. This guy could be anything from a friend to Angela’s husband. No way to know for sure. Either way, Wade was elated at the sight of the beautiful, smiling young woman staring back at him through the photographs.

  He shouted, wheeling around the living room. Yes? Maybe? Sure. He possessed enough energy to stand. Wade nosed the chair into a table and used his arm strength to pull himself up. With a kick, the wheelchair left him and he was mobile again, though his hands remained locked to the far side of the table. He stood for the first time since the previous night. He kicked his legs and bounced up and down, shouting.

  Not only did he succeed in building a time machine, but there on the book shelf was proof that he made the world a better place. Because of his actions, Carter never existed. And because he never existed, Angela never got involved with the wrong kind of guy, she never threw herself in front of a train.

  Wade grinned from ear to ear and danced around the living room, one arm always within reaching distance of a solid object for balance. His feet sprang from the carpet, hips twisting. He rushed to another picture, dancing. It was an image of him at Tom and Linda’s wedding, hands in his pockets, staring at the camera.

  He stopped dancing and studied the photo. Linda was not with him. She was off marrying his best friend. He lost her. For all the good the machine did, it couldn’t fix his relationship with Linda. Though his research succeeded, he failed in love. She still got away.

  The familiar pang of regret returned. No, no time for despair. He grabbed a fr
amed picture of Angela and stared at it. The yellow trim on the frame spelled out “Jake” in big, colorful letters. A baby. Angela held a baby in her arms and his name was Jake.

  He raised Angela from the dead. Because of his heroics, justice was done. She had a family of her own, complete with an adorable child. Carter could not touch that, he couldn’t destroy her life anymore. Wade won the battle.

  Clutching the picture to his chest, Wade rushed around the room, gathering together all of the photographs he could find. There were so many pictures of Angela in her various stages of life. He spread them out on the coffee table and sat before them, admiring his handiwork. Angela graduating from high school, Angela standing in front of an empty apartment, which he assumed belonged to her. Yet another photograph showed her even prettier in the ten years since he’d last seen her. Her hairstyle was professional and her face filled in nicely with age. A true woman.

  Dossiers littered his desk. They profiled every person in his life down to their address and when they last saw each other. His work sat ready for him on the computer with detailed instructions on where to start. Newspapers dating back three weeks sat in the corner, ready to catch him up on all the current events. So much work to do. But at last, the guilt over Angela’s death rose from his shoulders. He did it. He protected Angela.

  And he’d never let anyone take that away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aaron’s finger hovered over the speed dial button marked with his wife’s name. Could he really ask Adrianna to hold dinner for a few more hours?

  Didn’t he promise her? No more late nights at the office.

  But the pile of papers on his desk held him back. Charts, figures, numbers. Buried in this mess was a story of greed; at least the computer seemed to think so. He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on his trash can. An ugly plaid tie choked his neck. He yanked it off and shoved it in his desk drawer.

  What was the story? He tapped the name of the suspect with the end of his pencil.

  “What are you up to, Wade Rollins?”

  The wall clock showed 6:23 p.m. He gritted his teeth. He should have walked into his house ten minutes ago and kissed his beautiful wife. Instead he sat in his cubicle while his coworkers left. They refused to stay. Many of them resented the fact that he replaced human intuition with the cold calculations of a computer. Some feared for their jobs. So he worked alone, staring at a pile of data on a Thursday night.

  Could he really walk out on a desk filled with work, work he created? This project would not happen without him. Nobody else cared about it like he did. Could he leave the workload hanging over his head for the rest of the night, or would he end up mulling it over while Adrianna tried to get his attention?

  The phone rang. His hand grazed the receiver only to jerk back as if it touched a hot stove. No, he would not answer the phone. This was wrong. No amount of beating his head against the wall could crack the case tonight.

  He sprang to his feet. With a few swipes of his nimble fingers he collected the piles of papers and shoved them into his briefcase. Maybe he couldn't leave the work, but perhaps he could compromise and take it with him. Maybe he’d sneak in a few hours of number crunching before bed. Either way, this was not going to become his life. He could not stay another minute under the fluorescent lights. This must end.

  As he passed the computer one last time it flashed the error message “PAPER JAM.” The printer made a terrible grinding sound and came to a halt. He took a deep breath and walked out the door. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  # # #

  Aaron pushed aside the floral comforter and leaned over his wife. Her slow breaths rolled across her pillow.

  Good, sleeping.

  The crime novel he pretended to read hit the nightstand with a thud. He dulled the thwack of his briefcase latches with his thumbs as they sprang open. Time for work.

  Piles of pages spread across his lap. Aaron pushed his back against the headboard, ready to go. Oh, the delicious possibilities.

  They were only printouts, but his belly fluttered like he was twelve years old on Christmas morning. To the untrained eye this stack of homework might qualify as reason for a migraine. But Aaron loved numbers. They were hard evidence, even if they were made up. Inside these digits was a story. They started with purchases made for individual items and, put together, formed the fabric of a crime. At least, that’s what the computer indicated.

  At the top of each page he wrote the words “Wade Rollins” in pencil. Who was Wade Rollins?

  He pulled his legs close, lost in the chase. With his right hand he made quick calculations in the margins, while his left held the papers steady. Adrianna’s rhythmic breathing comforted him, a big step over the hum of the industrial air conditioner at the office. He could get used to working from bed. It was comfortable, warm, and nobody threw a fit if you fell asleep at your desk.

  Adrianna rolled over, her eyes half open. Her hair wrapped around her head, spread across her pillow.

  “What's the matter?”

  She saw him. Act normal. “Nothing. Doing some reading.”

  “Is that office work?”

  He covered the pages with his hands to block her view. “A little.”

  “Aaron….”

  She sat up and leaned against the headboard, her arms around him. Guilt paled his cheeks. He regretted this little stunt. Caught, he packed the items back into the briefcase.

  “I'm sorry. It's consuming my life right now….”

  “Aaron,” she cooed. “Aaron. What am I going to do with you?”

  “I'm sorry….”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “We should go on a vacation. It might do you good to get away from the office for a while.”

  “I'm the only one taking this case seriously. What if this guy is some kind of terrorist or something?”

  “Then pass it off to someone else. You're not FBI, you're an accountant.”

  Aaron clipped the latches of the briefcase and hid it under his bed.

  She massaged his shoulders. “You're really worried about this, aren’t you?”

  How silly. A beautiful woman sat next to him and fraud dominated his thoughts. In a few hours he'd be back at the office for another full day of work. The pressing weight of his projects held him at bay. How could she understand?

  He hugged her back. “I insisted on this new system and now I have to prove it's going to work.”

  “I'm proud of you,” she whispered, running her hand down his cheek.

  “Thanks. I know this is difficult.”

  A kiss. They locked in an embrace. A wave of electricity rolled over him. Yes, he was a fool to ignore such a beautiful woman.

  She caressed his face again. “We'll make it work. Won’t we?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Another kiss and they laid back down. Aaron held her tight against him, his arms entangled in hers. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. What a gift. Not once in their marriage did she ever have trouble falling asleep. Adrianna drifted off like a child, without a care in the world.

  His heart beat hard. He loved the peace she had, the way her pajamas hung on her body. How sappy she got after sad movies. She lived for mango milkshakes with extra whipped cream. Gentle, kind, sensitive and solid. She was his rock.

  Adrianna was so patient with him. She deserved better. It was a miracle she didn't cheat on him already. Plenty of men would kill for a woman as good as her.

  Vacation. Not a bad idea. They’d honeymooned in Niagara Falls. Maybe they could go back there. Her parents lived a few hours away in Pittsford, New York. They could do a whirlwind trip and see the in-laws. No, that could wait. They should go to Hawaii and sit on the beach for a week. Aaron dreamed of windsurfing and swimming with sharks.

  Yes, they would go to Hawaii as soon as the Rollins’ case ended. He owed her that much.

  He turned out the light and settled into the womb of his comforter. They would go as soon as his conscience c
leared. But not a moment sooner.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wade heard the shouts and whistles from down the street.

  Cars honked at them. Thirty people came into view as they marched in circles holding banners with slogans that said “Life Begins at Conception” and “God Hates Murder.” Their chatter filled the downtown streets of Kitrich, prompting passersby to cross to the other side of the road and avoid eye contact at all costs. Those who happened to stumble into the rabble got lambasted with pamphlets and more than a few curious stares.

  They marched in front of an imposing brick abortion clinic. Signs out front advertised pregnancy counseling and food stamps. They performed the operations right inside. They were at ground zero. He’d never gone in, but pictured it as a cold and dark place, like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. Easier to think of it that way then to imagine a real doctor’s office.