Time Echoes

by Bryan Davis

  “Thanks.” I squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the rough surface. “I thought you might be mad at me. It was a pretty risky move. He could’ve shot you.”

  “I was mad. For a second, I thought you were nuts. But you really came through.”

  “I’m just glad it worked out.” I settled back and folded my hands on my stomach. “Okay, somehow we got transported to Chicago, but it looks different.”

  “Different? How?”

  “Did you notice how people are dressed? One guy looked like a disco-hall reject. And the cars. I saw a shiny new Pinto. You can’t even find them in junkyards anymore.”

  “I saw the disco guy and women with poofy hair. It’s like we traveled in time or something.”

  “Or to some kind of parallel universe.”

  “You say that like it happens all the time.” She altered her voice to a computer-like monotone. “Greetings, new arrivals from universe eighty-six. You are now in universe ninety-nine. Enjoy your visit. But before you leave, be sure to purchase souvenir hats and key chains at the Ninety-Nine Boutique.”

  I laughed and let my gaze linger on her. As blood trickled between her gleaming eyes, she seemed the picture of contrasts — humor and femininity packaged in toughened leather. “Well, I’ve been through a lot, but nothing this weird.”

  Kelly glanced around with narrowed eyes. “We need to get our bearings. Figure out what’s going on. Maybe find a media source.”

  “A media source?” The article headline flashed to mind — Nightmare Epidemic Continues. What could it have meant? I looked at the night sky. With lights streaming from a hundred directions, the city’s haze glowed, as if emanating a light of its own. It seemed heavy. Close. Too close.

  Kelly nudged me again. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just getting a feel for this place. It’s stuffy. Kind of warm.”

  She nodded. “Too warm for October. More like June or July.”

  “Chicago in the summertime.”

  She raised a finger. “Which means the cottonwood tree at my house has green leaves now, just like in the photo.”

  “I see where you’re going.” I drew my knees up and draped my arms over them. “You’re wondering if we got zapped to that universe.”

  “Or that time. I’m thinking we should go home and see if the girl in the picture is there. Maybe we can find some answers.”

  I interlocked my fingers. “The answers have to be linked to the coffins. We saw them here and in our world. It’s the only connection we know about.”

  “Whoever the victims are, I’ll bet they were murdered by Gordon and that Mictar guy. Remember what they said about the burglar and the girl?”

  “Think it’s the same girl? The one who looks like my mother?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Okay, so we head for Iowa.” I reached for my back pocket and found nothing inside. “No wallet. We don’t even have bus fare.”

  She set her arm in a hitchhiker’s pose. “We have thumbs. We can bum a ride.”

  I twisted and looked over the side of the building. A tall bank clock showed 12:05. “Who’s going to give us a ride at midnight, especially with you bleeding like that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess we’ll see who’s brave enough.”

  When she started to rise, I pulled her back down. “Let’s stay put a little while longer. At least until we’re sure Gordon’s gone.”

  For the next half hour, we chatted quietly. She prodded me for stories about my adventures, and after each tale, she asked for another. My final story involved an escape with Clara from a terrorist in Saudi Arabia. We zoomed on motorcycles down rough stone staircases and through filthy alleys teeming with rats until we vaulted over a deep channel our pursuer couldn’t cross.

  When I finished, Kelly ’s mouth hung open, then she swallowed and said, “Take me with you next time. I want to go for a ride like that.”

  I rose to my feet and dusted off the seat of my pants. “Trust me. It’s not something to hope for.” I walked to the roof access, a wooden door in a small dormer that rose about eight feet above the gravel. Although it was locked, a hard kick splintered the jamb and banged it open, revealing a steep flight of dimly lit stairs.

  I tiptoed down. Kelly followed close behind. After the narrow first flight, the stairwell widened and brightened, finally coming to a dead end at a metal door. I pushed it open, revealing the seating area of a delicatessen, closed for the night and illuminated only by streetlamps outside.

  Kelly looked at her bloodstained fingers. “Let’s find the restrooms and get cleaned up before we hit the road.”

  “Good idea.”

  After washing, we met at the front door. “Easy enough to get out,” I said as I turned the deadbolt, “but we can’t lock it up again.”

  “So the manager loses a little pastrami from his fridge. He’ll survive.” When she pushed the door open, a horn blared in load pulses that vibrated the windows.

  “A burglar alarm,” I hissed. “Run!”

  We rushed out to the sidewalk and headed for a crowd of people streaming from a corner pub about a block and a half away. Just before we reached the next street, I pulled Kelly to a halt. “Just play it cool. We didn’t steal anything.”

  Slowing her breathing, she looked at me. “I’m not worried about the cops. I’m worried about Gordon. That alarm would wake the dead.”

  As we ambled toward the pub, a police siren whined in the distance. I pointed at the customers who were still filing out, most laughing, a few staggering. “Let’s just blend in with them. No one will know.”

  “Except that we’re underage, not acting drunk, and not smelling like booze.” Kelly picked up a castaway beer bottle. “We could fake being drunk.”

  I pulled her into the doorway of a closed bail bond office and leaned against the brick building. “Not a great plan. We’ll just attract more attention.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  I scanned the street. On the opposite side, a man in his early twenties wearing a muscle shirt was unloading a string-bound stack of newspapers from the back of a van marked Stoneman Enterprises.

  “Let’s ask him where he’s delivering,” I said, pointing. “Maybe we can get a lift.” After looking both ways and seeing that Gordon was nowhere in sight, I strode to the delivery man, Kelly at my side. “You heading out west at all?” I asked.

  “Yep.” His collar-length brown hair falling into his eyes as he worked, he dropped the stack and cut the string with a flick of a pocketknife. “I take the early edition as far as Des Moines. I’m heading out as soon as I deliver these.”

  “Do you have room for a couple of hitchhikers hoping to go a little farther than Iowa City? We … uh … lost our transportation home.”

  “It’ll take till morning to get there.” He narrowed his eyes. “You look kind of young to be out drinking in this part of town so late at night.”

  Kelly held up the bottle. “Oh, you mean this stage prop. We’re brother and sister. We were acting in a play at a theatre and lost our way on the ‘L’ train.” She set the bottle down, pinched her pant leg with one hand, and touched her still-bleeding cut with the other. “See our costumes and the cool makeup job they did on my machete wound?”

  The young man gave us a smirk that provided no clue whether he believed her or not. “With all my papers, there won’t be any room in the back, but you can squeeze in up front.”

  I extended my hand. “I’m Nathan Shepherd, and this is Kelly.”

  The man wrapped my fingers in a powerful grip. “Gunther Stoneman.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” The name matched the sign on the van. Could he be related to the Stoneman who helped me at the Walmart? “Your name sounds familiar. Have we met?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure thing. Go ahead and get in while I load this paper box. I’ll be right back.”

  After Kelly b
oarded the van through the front passenger door, I slid in next to her, hip to hip. Kelly reached back, pulled a newspaper from a bundle, and spread it over our laps. The date on the front page stood out, as if pulsing — July 29, 1978.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kelly whispered, “Nineteen-seventy-eight?”

  “Yeah. And it’s summer, just like we thought.” I flipped the newspaper to a page of ads. “Look. Four thousand bucks for a new car.”

  “That’s fresh off the press,” Gunther said through the window on the driver’s side. He opened the door and climbed into his seat. “Maybe you could read out loud while I drive. Pass the time. I noticed a hot-off-the-presses bulletin on the front page. Might be interesting.”

  “Sure. No problem.” As the van pulled away from the curb, I fanned out the page and scanned the headlines. A dark border squared off a short article at the top. “I found the bulletin.”

  “Perfect.” Gunther gave me a nod. “Let’s hear it.”

  I began reading. “Police report that two musicians were murdered backstage shortly after their quartet’s performance at Ganz Hall.” I concealed a tight swallow. That’s where Kelly and I escaped Gordon just hours ago. “Their bodies were found in twin coffins surrounded by broken instruments. A woman who found the bodies claimed that their eyes had been burned out. Although police declined to comment about the victims’ identities and possible suspects, bystanders reported that two teenaged — ” I stopped and cleared my throat.

  “Tired, Nathan?” Kelly set her finger on the article. “Bystanders reported that two teenaged African-American girls left the scene, both wearing straw hats and purple miniskirts.”

  Gunther whistled into the fresh breeze blowing in through the windows. “African girls in straw hats? They should be easy to find.”

  Leaning close to Kelly, I whispered, “They didn’t call black people that in nineteen-seventy-eight. Lying is going to get us in trouble.”

  She turned my way, also whispering. “Lying is keeping us in this van. If he thought we did it, he’d dump us at the police station for sure.”

  “If we told him the whole truth, maybe not.”

  “The whole truth? You gotta be kidding — ”

  “Is something wrong?” Gunther asked.

  “No.” Kelly straightened and focused ahead. “Nothing at all.”

  I folded the paper and set it on my lap. “Actually, Gunther, there is something wrong. We’re the two teenagers the witnesses saw, but we’re running from the murderer ourselves. We were going to be his next victims, but we escaped on the ‘L’ and got off at the station up the street. The police would never believe us, so we had to bolt. Now we’re just trying to get home as soon as possible.”

  Gunther turned sharply onto a new road. “I already read the article, so I thought you might be the fugitives.”

  I tightened my grip on the newspaper. “Are you going to take us to the police?”

  “I was, until you came clean. You two don’t look like murderers to me. Your sister’s a bad liar but not a murderer.”

  I sneaked a peek at Kelly. She clenched her fingers on her lap, her head low. “All right,” she said, “now that I’m busted, do you have any Advil? My head’s killing me.”

  “Advil?” Gunther asked. “What’s that?”

  “Ibuprofen. It’s like aspirin … sort of.”

  “I have aspirin in the glove box. Help yourself.” He pointed at a cup in a holder attached to the dashboard. “There’s water, if you don’t mind drinking after me.”

  “I don’t mind.” Kelly retrieved the bottle, took two aspirin, and washed them down. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem. I can stop and get you a Band-Aid for that cut if you want.”

  “That’s all right. I think the bleeding’s slowing down.”

  “Suit yourself.” After driving the van up a ramp and merging into traffic on a major highway, Gunther settled back in his seat. “Why don’t you tell me your story while we head west?”

  As the breeze stiffened and swirled through the van, rattling the newspapers in the back, I explained how I had found my parents dead in the props room at the same performance hall, and how tonight, Kelly and I were searching for clues, trying to figure out how they had died.

  Although I left out the strange time shift and the visions in the mirror, every word I spoke was true. Finishing with enough details about our harrowing escape over the rooftops to make the story believable, I finished with a long sigh. “I guess that sounds pretty crazy, huh?”

  “Not really. You know what they say. Truth is stranger than fiction.” After offering a few sincere words of sympathy, Gunther took over the conversation, chattering on and on about his favorite books, his evening classes at college, his beloved Chicago Bears, and his life in general. Although his night job kept him up until dawn, he caught three short naps a day and subsisted on turkey-and-tomato sandwiches and Hawaiian Punch. And so the monologue continued as the van tunneled into the dark outskirts of the city.

  Soon, Kelly’s head listed. She leaned on my shoulder, and her breathing deepened to a rhythmic rumble. I tried to keep as motionless as possible. She had mentioned not getting any sleep the night before because of her allergies. Not only that, the crazy chase and her loss of blood gave her every reason to be exhausted. Even Gunther’s frequent stops and door-slamming didn’t faze her.

  After a few hours, I caught myself dozing. The van door awakened me as Gunther battened down the hatches after another delivery. The sun’s early-morning rays stretched across the horizon and painted the sky and clouds in a wash of orange and blue.

  “We’re just past Iowa City,” Gunther announced as he slid behind the steering wheel. “I can take you straight to your house if you want.”

  “Sure.” I nudged Kelly. “Can you give Gunther directions?”

  “Directions?” She jerked her head up and glanced around, blinking rapidly. “Where are we?”

  Gunther pointed at a wrinkled map attached by a rubber band to his sun visor. “Ten miles west of Iowa City.”

  Kelly yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Do you know where the Walmart is in Newton?”

  “Walmart? There’s no Walmart in Newton.”

  “Right.” Kelly laughed nervously. “I must have been dreaming.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having one there.” Gunther shifted the van into gear. “That would be a great delivery job. I hear Walmart’s a good company to work for.”

  As we pulled back onto the Interstate, Kelly leaned forward and squinted at the map. “Do you know where the exit for Highway fourteen is?”

  “Sure do.” Using his finger, he traced a line on Interstate 80 from Des Moines to Newton. “About seventy miles. I have a stop there.”

  “Good.” She nodded toward the windshield. “I’ll guide you from the exit.”

  Gunther narrowed his eyes at me. “Why couldn’t you give directions?”

  “Oh, he’d get us lost,” Kelly said. “He knows he’s terrible at — ” She halted, squirmed for a second, and cleared her throat. “Nathan’s not as familiar with the area as I am. He’s been traveling overseas a lot, and you know how fast things change around here.”

  Gunther shrugged. “If you say so.”

  I focused on the road, not wanting to give Gunther a chance to read my eyes. He was suspicious enough already.

  After about an hour of quiet travel, he turned off the main highway. Kelly seemed lost, frequently shifting forward and swinging her head back and forth. Finally, after several miles, she pointed at a street sign. “There it is. Turn right here.”

  Gunther pulled the van onto a narrow dirt road, narrower than the familiar road to our house. As we passed between cornfields, the van’s draft brushed the stalks, shorter and greener than the ones we had seen not long ago.

  Kelly extended her finger again. “There. There’s our house.”

  Gunther rolled alongside the huge estate and whistled as he came to a stop. “Nice place. Looks brand new.”


  “We just moved here. That’s why I had a hard time finding it.” Kelly set a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get out.”

  I pushed the door open and jumped to the dirt road, then helped Kelly down. “Thanks,” I said, nodding at Gunther. I held up the section of newspaper I had read earlier. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “Not a problem.” He smiled and winked. “Keep your sister out of trouble.”

  “I will.” I tore off the front page, folded it, and put it in my back pocket. As Kelly and I walked toward the house, Gunther wheeled the van a few feet into the yard, made a U-turn, and drove away.

  Kelly plucked a leaf from the cottonwood tree. “Green. And the tree’s shorter.”

  I nodded. “Just like in the picture.”

  “It’s spooky.” She bent to the side and looked around the house’s corner. “I wonder where the black-haired girl is.”

  “Let’s check.” I marched straight toward the door.

  “Nathan, wait.”

  I spun toward her. “What?”

  “We need a story.” She caught up with me and touched the wound on her scalp. “No one’s going to want to talk to a stranger who looks like this, especially so early in the morning.”

  “Another lie?”

  She flashed an angry glare. “Get off your soapbox. It’s getting old.”

  “Maybe, but the truth is always easier.” I hopped up to the porch. “If we pretend not to notice our appearance, maybe whoever lives here will go along with it.”

  She joined me, raising her shoulder to wipe blood from her cheek to her shirt. “That’s like pretending there’s no elephant in the room when he’s sitting on your lap.”

  “Scratch the elephant on the back and maybe he’ll go to sleep.” I knocked. “In case I haven’t mentioned it, my mother’s name is Francesca.”

  The door swung open, revealing a thirty-something redheaded woman wearing a blue smock. “May I help you?”

  A graceful smile decorated her slender face, but her bloodshot eyes gave away an inner weariness, and the cane she leaned on revealed some kind of crippling handicap. Except for the red hair and hazel eyes, she looked a lot like Mom. The resemblance destroyed my confidence. “Uh … I …”