Destroyer (Rewinder #2)

by Brett Battles

  “What is it?” Iffy whispers behind me.

  I silently read the note again and then move back down the steps and hand it to her. While she’s looking at it, I punch in the number from the bottom of the note into my phone. The line rings at least a dozen times before a generic message tells me that the subscriber has not yet set up voice mail.

  The note did warn me he wouldn’t answer, but the fact that it proves true makes me want to slam my phone into the ground. Though I doubt he’s inside the house, I march up the steps and pound on the front door.

  “Kane!”

  Iffy rushes up behind me. “Quiet,” she whispers. “You’ll wake up the whole neighborhood.”

  “I don’t care,” I say and then yell his name again.

  Iffy looks through the window and then says, “I don’t think anyone’s here.”

  At the very least, Lorna or the old woman should have come to investigate the noise by now. We should have heard the creak of the floor or even seen a light come on, but neither has occurred.

  Kane has been here and gone, taking the women with him.

  I knock again, but instead of yelling this time, I growl in frustration with the final slam of my fist.

  Concerned that Kane might somehow be keeping tabs on us, we don’t go back to Marilyn’s house for fear of leading him to Ellie and instead take a room with two lumpy beds in a cheap motel on Sunset Boulevard just ten minutes from his place.

  While RJ and Iffy seem to fall asleep almost immediately, I stare at the ceiling for at least an hour before I finally drift off. I’m not sure that I’d use the word sleep to describe my state over the following five hours. It was more a weave of different levels of semiconscious that were all far from restful.

  When my eyes open for good, it’s a little after 7:00 a.m., and I’m more exhausted than I was when I lay down.

  I can hear Iffy in the bathroom, taking a shower, while RJ is nowhere to be found. I grab my phone and try calling Kane’s number again, but the result is the same. This time I’m too tired, however, to even work up the urge to throw my phone on the ground. I lie back down and stare at the familiar spots on the ceiling.

  The front door opens several minutes later, and RJ comes in carrying bags in each hand. I smell coffee and immediately sit back up.

  “Hope you like doughnuts,” he says.

  I shuffle over to the dingy dresser where he’s set everything down, and grab a coffee from one of the bags, dump in some cream, and take a sip. It’s hot but not unbearable.

  “Thanks,” I say and take a longer drink.

  RJ pulls out a long, chocolate-covered doughnut and plops down on the other bed. Between bites, he says, “I called a friend of mine from school while I was out.” Another bite. “He works part-time at Verizon. Asked him if he could dig up any info about the number from your note. Maybe even tell us where it is.”

  I stop drinking. Verizon, I know from commercials, is a phone company. “He can do that?”

  “He said no promises, but he’d check. Oh, and it’s going to cost five hundred bucks. That’s okay, right?”

  I get to my feet, excited. “Absolutely. When will we know?”

  “Whoa, relax. He doesn’t go in until noon.”

  Noon? I was hoping we’d have the information before my ten o’clock call with Kane. “No way he can go in early? I’ll give him another five hundred.”

  “He’s already a little skittish about doing me the favor. If we push him, might back out.”

  My shoulders sag. That is a possibility we can’t chance.

  I wander over to the window and pull the curtain back. Another beautiful day in California. I just hope this place is still called by that name when the sun goes down.

  We leave the motel at nine thirty, and park on a street just a couple blocks from Kane’s house. None of us really think that’s where he’ll be, but on the off chance he is, we’ll be close.

  I try the number at 9:50 and again at 9:55, each time hearing the same recording. The second it turns to ten o’clock, I try again.

  One ring.

  “Hello, Denny.” Kane. It’s a voice I think I’ll never forget now.

  “What do you want?”

  “Right to business, huh? Okay then,” he says, nervous, almost as if he’s unsure of himself, “tell me, why is your chaser machine not working?”

  His phrasing is odd, but the mere fact he calls the device a chaser means he must have something to do with the institute, right? Of course, if he is from the institute, he should know why the device doesn’t work. But what about the pictures in his house? Pictures of a much younger Kane taken here, in this world. This is his time line, isn’t it? Or are they fakes?

  “You’re institute security, aren’t you?” It’s a stab in the dark, but the best guess I can come up with.

  “What?”

  “Administration, then.”

  A pause. “Oh, I understand. No to both.”

  This leaves only the possibility that I’ve already dismissed, but I say it anyway, “A rewinder?”

  There’s almost a boylike quality to his voice when he says, “I wish.”

  Clearly he knows what a rewinder is. But if he’s not one, and not security or administration, then what is he?

  “Then what—”

  “No,” he says, suddenly truculent. “It’s my questions that need to be answered. Not yours. Why isn’t it working? I know it should. You used it yesterday.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Maybe you think I don’t know what your machine does, but I do. It’s a time machine. You even used it to check up on me yesterday.”

  Again I remain silent.

  “I know you found my recording device on your roof and changed the memory card because you goofed up. If it had been completely blank, I would have thought there’d just been a glitch. But you left my tag with the date and time at the beginning. Only I hadn’t recorded that tag yet.”

  I’d put the card in so that he might think the recorder had failed to work properly, but I had forgotten about the recording at the beginning. If I’d erased that, we’d probably still be playing our game of hide-and-seek in San Diego, and I might have even already gained the advantage on him.

  It’s the little things. The twelve-second mistake I made in 1775 that allowed George Washington to live, and now the four-second recording I should have erased but didn’t.

  “Why isn’t the device working?”

  There’s a way I can make everything right, I realize, and it even involves telling the truth. “Because it’s keyed to me.”

  “Keyed?”

  “It’ll only work if I am the one who activates it.”

  Now it’s his turn to remain silent.

  “It’s no use to you,” I tell him. “Just give it back to me and we can go our separate ways.”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Once you were alone with it, you’d go back to some point where you could make sure I wasn’t a problem for you, maybe even keep me from being born.” He pauses. “Which is kind of funny if you think about it, since I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  I don’t know how, but he knows I’m the one who brought this world into existence.

  “I promise you that I won’t do anything to harm you.”

  “I know you won’t. What you are going to do, though, is help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Keep your phone close, Denny.”

  “Help you what?” I repeat.

  But the line has already gone dead.

  I try calling back, and am sent once more into the land of a dozen rings and generic messages.

  Having no choice but to wait for Kane to contact us again, Iffy has RJ drive us to the Alcove Café, a place she used to frequent when she lived in LA, and where, she tells us, we can hang out for several hours without anyone telling us to leave.

  We sit out front at a table under the trees, but say very little. I’ve forced myself to set my phone
on the table and not clutch it in my hand, but I can’t stop looking at it every few seconds.

  At 11:40, RJ’s friend calls. He’s apparently gone to work a little early to see if he can find out anything for us. I try to glean what I can from RJ’s side of the conversation, but he’s mostly saying, “uh-huh” and “all right” and “okay.” When he hangs up, Iffy and I look at him expectantly.

  “The number belongs to a pay-as-you-go phone,” RJ explains. “It’s not a Verizon phone but from a smaller niche phone company that specializes in disposable devices.”

  I can’t hide my disappointment. “So he can’t track it down?”

  “Hold on. Apparently there’s some kind of reciprocal information deal between a lot of these places. He snooped around a bit and found that the only time the phone’s been on and traceable was at ten when Kane called you.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Hollywood. My friend says it looks like he was walking around.”

  “Where in Hollywood?”

  “Near the Chinese Theatre.”

  “So that’s all we know?” Iffy asks.

  RJ grimaces. “Sorry.”

  “We should go there,” I say, reaching for my phone.

  “He’ll already be gone,” Iffy says calmly. “We’d just be wasting our time. We should wait here until he calls again.”

  Though I agree with her on principle, I’m growing antsy just sitting here.

  Sensing this, Iffy strokes the back of my neck. “Save your energy for when we’ll really need it.”

  I hold on to my nervous tension for a few more moments before I let out a long breath. I give Iffy a thankful half smile and then say to RJ, “When you talk to your friend again, please thank him for trying.”

  “When you give me the $500 you owe him, I will.”

  Iffy squeezes my shoulder and then pushes her chair back. “I’m going to the restroom.”

  As she stands, RJ does the same. “And I think I need a piece of chocolate cake,” he says. “You two want anything?”

  Both Iffy and I decline, and then she and RJ head inside the café.

  The first eighteen years of my life, I never once considered the possibility of time travel. The important things for me were school and chores and avoiding my father as much as I could. But in the past year and a half, traveling wherever and whenever I want has become such an ever-present part of my life that it’s hard for me to remember how to live without the ability. Not having access to my chaser feels like I’m missing a limb.

  These are the selfish thoughts I have. And as guilty as they make me feel, they pale in comparison to my potential guilt over what Kane might do if he somehow gains control of the device.

  I start to pick my phone up, but quickly force my hand away. “Come on,” I whisper. “Call me.”

  RJ rejoins me a few minutes later, carrying a new cup of coffee and a piece of cake on a plate. He must live on sugar, I think. I didn’t even touch the doughnuts he’d brought to the motel, and know that Iffy had only one, but the bag was all but empty when we left. And now dessert.

  I must have been staring at his plate, because he says, “Want a bite?” He holds a forkful of the pastry toward me.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  With a shrug, he shoves it in his mouth and then proceeds to devour the rest of the slice.

  As he’s putting his fork down, I look past him at the café, thinking Iffy should have been back long ago. “Was there a line for the bathroom?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the building. “Want me to go check?”

  I need to do something other than sit here, so I push myself up. “I’ll go.”

  Grabbing my phone, I head inside. The bakery is on the right-hand side of the building, with a full bar—empty at this early hour—on the left. Another customer directs me to the restrooms, which are located in an interior seating area farther back.

  There is no line in front of the woman’s restroom. I hesitate and then knock on the door.

  “Iffy?”

  “The men’s is the next one over,” a woman sitting at a table behind me says.

  “Just looking for my friend.”

  “You won’t find her there. Been empty for a couple minutes.”

  I turn. “Are you sure?”

  “You can check for yourself. Should be unlocked.”

  I pull the door open. The room is designed for one occupant at a time, and is currently not in use.

  I approach the woman I’ve been talking to. “The last person who left, was she a small woman, dark hair? Wearing a, um, pale green T-shirt?”

  The woman thinks for a second and then shakes her head. “A blonde, I think. Maybe about forty years old.”

  “What about before her?”

  “I got here about the same time the restroom freed up.”

  “Oh, well, thank you.”

  I look around. The only other person in the room is a man at a table against the far wall, working on a laptop and wearing earbuds. I hurry over to him.

  “Excuse me.”

  It takes a moment before he looks up and removes one of the earbuds. “Yeah?”

  I ask him about anyone he might have seen coming out of the women’s restroom.

  “Wish I could help, but I’m kinda focused here, so . . . um, sorry.”

  He quickly puts the bud back in his ear and returns his attention to his screen.

  I look around and spot a door leading to an outdoor area along the side of the building. It’s the only other direction she could have gone. If she’d come out the front of the building, I would have seen her. Maybe she ran into a friend and stopped for a few minutes to catch up.

  When I exit, though, I find that only half the tables are full, and Iffy is not sitting at any of them. From the lack of plates and glasses in front of the majority of people who are there, it’s obvious most have just sat down.

  I quickly scan the area. To my left, the seating area feeds out into the front portion, where our table is. And to the right, the patio soon narrows to a pathway that leads to what looks like a driveway.

  If she went left, then she’s probably already back at our table, so I go the other direction, and in my rush toward the back, I bump against one of the tables and nearly knock over a glass of water.

  “Hey, buddy. Slow down,” a guy with a full dark beard says.

  “Sorry,” I reply, but I’m already two tables away, and it is unlikely that he hears me.

  Thankfully, the pathway is clear, and I get to the other end in only a couple seconds. I was right. A driveway. It curves between the café and another building to a small parking area.

  “Iffy,” I call as I move into the lot.

  All but one of the slots are filled. Two women are getting out of a car that’s just pulled in. When I call Iffy’s name again, they glance in my direction, then just as quickly dismiss me as someone they don’t know.

  I go clear to the back of the area to make sure I check everywhere, but Iffy isn’t there.

  I missed her in passing, that’s all, I tell myself. I’m sure she’s with RJ now, wondering where I am.

  I head back to the café and weave through the side patio. The man whose table I hit glares at me, and I apologize again, making sure he can hear me this time.

  When I reach the front area, I find RJ at our table, still drinking his coffee and still alone.

  “Did you see her?” I ask.

  He looks up at me, brow furrowing. “You didn’t find her?”

  I shake my head. “She’s not back there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  As I say, “Of course, I’m sure,” my phone rings.

  I pull it out and see Kane’s number on the display.

  Not now, I think, but I accept the call and say, “Yes?”

  “There’s a building on Casitas Avenue in Atwater Village.” Kane recites the address. “Be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I need a little more time than
that.” There’s no way I’m going anywhere until I find Iffy.

  “You have twenty minutes.”

  “Please,” I beg.

  “Twenty minutes. Just you. Make sure your friend stays in his car.”

  Not only has he said friend instead of friends, he has identified RJ as male. He must have been hiding near his house when we were there last night and followed us to the motel and then to the Alcove. My phone pressed hard against the side of my head, “You have her,” I say, my voice barely controlled.

  “Don’t be late.”

  Click.

  On one side of Casitas Avenue are businesses and warehouses and parking areas, while on the other sit homes and apartment buildings and townhomes. The address Kane has given me corresponds to a building on the business side that has a FOR LEASE sign attached to the front. There’s a fence around the adjacent parking lot, with a car entrance gate that’s closed and locked. The pedestrian one beside it, however, has been left partially open.

  “Let me out here,” I say as soon as we pass the building.

  “I don’t think you should go in there alone,” RJ says as he pulls to the curb. “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “And tell them what? That Kane took my time machine and won’t give it back?”

  “If he’s really got Iffy, that’s kidnapping.”

  He has a point about that, but I can’t chance the chaser falling into the hands of the authorities. Who knows who’d get hold of it then? As much as I wish it weren’t true, the device’s safety is more important than any of our lives. Besides, I don’t think Kane is interested in hurting Iffy. He wants me. She’s just the lure.

  I open my door. “Wait here. I’ll get her out, then you two get as far away from here as you can.”

  It doesn’t really matter where they go. Once I’m inside, if I can get my hands on my chaser—strike that, when I get my hands on my chaser—I’ll rewrite all of this, and this period of temporary time will finally be erased.

  The only windows on the front of the building are too high for me to look in, but even if I could, they are so covered with dust that I wouldn’t see much anyway. As I pass through the gate, I note the dusty windows continue down the side of the building. Below them at various points are several closed doors.