by Rysa Walker
“You think Katherine what?”
“It’s just . . . they’d argue about all of this. You know they would. Katherine doesn’t need the extra stress, and neither do I.”
He nods, but his green eyes are wary.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. I promise I’ll take the blame if Mom finds out. I’ll say you absolutely begged me to tell her before she left on this trip, but I said no.”
“That might pull my ass out of the fire but not yours. I don’t want her angry at you, either.” His eyes flit up toward the library.
“That won’t happen. Mom and I will not end up like Mom and Katherine. Pinky promise.”
“Double pinky promise?”
I link our fingers on both hands. “Done and done.”
He smiles and squeezes my pinkies with his. Then he glances down at the knuckles on my index fingers, both of which I’ve gnawed to an angry shade of pink, and the smile fades. “I’m going to have a chat with Katherine. You take this at whatever speed feels best to you, okay? You need time off, you take time off. In fact,” he says, looking down at his watch, “you are under parental orders to not even think about any of this for the next twenty-four hours. Get dressed, and pick out a movie. I’m thinking something animated, but it’s your choice, as long as it’s a comedy. Then, dinner someplace that isn’t here. After which you will sleep a minimum of ten hours, with no freaky dreams.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m also smiling. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t argue with your father. You’re not to go anywhere near that diary until tomorrow. And if Katherine can’t handle that, she can find another time traveler to run her errands.”
Pixar and popcorn rock as a distraction combo. Then we go to Dave and Buster’s, and I kick Dad’s butt at Fruit Ninja. (And he kicks mine at Skee-Ball.) My mind slips back into worry mode a few times, but this afternoon is the closest I’ve been to stress-free in months.
We get back, and I work out for a little while, but I’m a bit sore from my marathon session last night. When I finish, I run a hot bath, toss in some lavender-scented flakes, and enjoy a long, luxurious soak. It’s still only a little after eight when I get out of the tub. I pull on pajamas anyway and curl up on my couch, debating whether to download a new novel or watch a movie.
I’m movied out, so I opt for the book, but a half hour later, it isn’t holding my interest. I keep glancing at the diary, which seems more tempting now, possibly because I’m under parental orders to ignore it.
I pick it up and click on link 34, recorded shortly after the Dallas trip in this earlier version of the timeline. Other-Kate is eating baby carrots dipped in something green that I can’t identify, so I get to listen to her crunch and talk at the same time. I’m both kind of disgusted and kind of thinking the carrots look good, especially if that dip has wasabi in it.
She starts out talking about training, but then the word “Sputnik” catches my attention, so I scan back to the beginning of the sentence:
Anyway, Katherine thinks Moehler’s there to observe a press conference about Sputnik, but this is based on her recollection of a weekly meeting where the historians went around the table and reported on what they were doing. There were thirty-six altogether, and when she was in that meeting, she had no way of knowing that it would be the last one. Also, that was over forty years ago, so who knows how much she really remembers?
Apparently no one in the U.S.S.R. thought the launch was a big deal, until they realized the American press was in a frenzy. What started out as a one-paragraph blurb on an interior page of Pravda on October 4th balloons into a multipage, patriotic frenzy in the next day’s edition. So, the conference could be on either of those two days.
She stops to crunch another carrot before continuing:
But Connor doesn’t think the Russians bothered with press conferences at all. Why hold a press conference when you have state-owned media? You’d just give Pravda what you wanted in the paper. He thinks Katherine is barking up the wrong tree, and I agree. Since Connor rarely argues with Katherine to her face, however, I had to challenge her on it.
The bigger question for me is what kind of idiots send observers to Russia in the middle of the Cold War? I mean, sure, they probably trained for years, and they probably could blend in with the locals a lot better th—
I hit “Pause.” Anytime this Kate strays away from talking about events that happened and ventures into the land of opinion, it’s a bit like watching myself in a mirror. It’s both freaky and boring, because she says what I’ve been thinking, using the same phrases and the same hand gestures. There’s a good seven minutes of this remaining, and I’m pretty sure she’s just venting and isn’t going to say anything I haven’t thought of already, so I fast-forward a few minutes and click “Play.”
—putting together an early 1900s outfit. I can’t say I’m wild about that, but going to Florida sounds good. There’s a stable point at Fort Myers, beginning 1895, labeled “Edison/Ford/Koreshans.” Thomas Edison and Henry Ford had summer homes there, and after a little digging, I found out that the Koreshans were an obscure cult who moved about ten miles outside of Fort Myers in 1895 to start their own little utopia. Here’s the thing that caught my interest—Koresh is the Hebrew word for Cyrus.
I stop and replay the last part to be sure I heard correctly and then rush down the hallway and into the library, eager to share my find. Katherine is at one of the three computers. I slide the diary in front of her and click to play that section again.
“It’s not Saul,” Katherine says before the clip even finishes, turning again to face the computer screen.
“How do you know? That would have to be a pretty major coincidence, right? Did you catch the last part?” I start to rewind the video, trying to hit the sweet spot after Other-Kate finishes complaining about Katherine and before she starts talking about Florida.
“I caught it. I’ve checked this before. Koresh is not Saul.” She opens a browser window and pulls up a picture of Cyrus Reed Teed, a.k.a. Koresh. He’s a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and a square face, and he doesn’t look anything like Saul.
“I’m not saying there’s no connection or that Saul didn’t know about him,” Katherine continues. “He was a religious historian, and he studied a lot of these fringe groups. But they were definitely around before he started tweaking the timeline. They’re an obscure group, but you’ll find several mentions of them in the library.” She inclines her head toward the shelves behind her, where hundreds or, more likely, thousands of books fill the walls from top to bottom on three sides of the room.
The books in this library were all written before Saul made the changes that created Cyrist International. They’ve been under the constant protection of a CHRONOS field, thanks to the gizmo Connor rigged up that makes this house a safe zone. It also makes the library look bizarre, at least to anyone with the CHRONOS gene who can detect the brightly colored tubes that stretch from floor to ceiling and meet in the center of the room in a large X.
“The Koreshans are, as you put it before, ‘real history,’ not something Saul manufactured, and Cyrus Teed is certainly not Saul.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll get back to it, then.”
“Wait. Could we talk for a minute?”
I nod, even though I can tell from her expression and clipped tone of voice that this is likely to be an uncomfortable conversation.
“First, your mother called while you were out. She said she’s already discussed this Italian trip with you and you’re fine with it, but she wanted to be sure that it was okay for you to be here full-time while she’s away. And I told her of course it’s okay.”
I hesitate for a moment and then decide to ask straight out. “So you didn’t know about the trip until she called?”
Katherine looks confused. “No. Why would I?”
“Well, you worked at a university in Italy, and . . .”
She laughs. “There’s more than one university in Italy, Kate. You make
it sound like Italy is a tiny village. I can assure you Deborah didn’t get this opportunity because I pulled strings.”
Katherine seems sincere, but I don’t entirely believe her. She’s a skilled actress, and it’s less the location that makes me suspicious than the timing. This opportunity landed in Mom’s lap just when it became convenient for Katherine to have her out of the way for a while. But I’m not sure it really matters either way, since I wouldn’t tell Mom even if Katherine confessed she instigated the whole thing.
“Second, I had a long talk with your father this morning. I’m . . .” She stops and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you too hard. That’s the last thing I want to do, Kate.”
I shrug. “It’s okay—”
“No,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “It’s not okay. It may be somewhat unavoidable, but that still doesn’t make it okay. I love you, and I would give anything for you to be able to return to your regularly scheduled life. If I’m pushing too hard, it’s because I’m frustrated I can’t do this for you.”
I give her credit for not stating the most obvious source of her frustration—the tumor that is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room, even though it probably only weighs an ounce or so. Absent that, Katherine wouldn’t feel like her clock was running out, like she might never know if we stop Saul. And even though she doesn’t say it, the fact that she’s dying, that she may only have a few months left, hangs in the air like something tangible.
I give her a sad smile and reach over to take the diary from the desk. “Well, if it’s not Saul, I should get back to it. You said you had a Russian language program of some sort?”
“On the shared drive. You’ll also find a file labeled Agenda, although it’s really more my detailed recollections of who was going where the day of that final CHRONOS jump. Take a look at it, and then let us know what you’re willing to do and when you’re willing to do it.”
Her apology a moment ago sounded sincere, but I can’t help feeling that this last statement is a bit of a dig at me, as though I’m acting like a prima donna or something. “Katherine, I’m not trying to call all of the shots here. I just . . .”
She presses her lips into a thin line and holds my gaze for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is strained. “You’re the one making the jumps, so you’ll be the one setting the pace and deciding what happens when. Harry made that quite clear this afternoon. I’m working now on getting together the costumes, but otherwise, the only thing Connor and I are good for is background research. So, like I said, just let us know.”
With that, Katherine turns back to the computer screen, a clear signal that I’m dismissed. I return to my room, feeling that I’m being childish and unreasonable but also resenting the fact that she’s made me feel that way. She has an uncanny ability to make an apology feel like a scolding.
I open the diary again and click on the next entry. This is one of the rare clips that’s actually named instead of just numbered: Fort Myers 040302. When Other-Kate pops up on the screen, I see that she’s on location in this video. Maybe that’s why it gets a name?
Her hair is pulled back in a bun, with a few wilted strands sticking to her neck and forehead. The bed behind her is wrapped in some sort of thin cloth, and she’s seated in a high-backed wooden chair, wearing a white camisole that’s plastered to her body, the glow of the CHRONOS key showing through the fabric. A long-sleeved, white blouse-and-skirt combo hangs from one of the bedposts. It’s similar to the one that I wore in Boston, except the blouse buttons up the front.
She doesn’t look happy and speaks in a low whisper:
Remember when I said that going to Florida sounded good? Well, it’s not. This is a godforsaken jungle with mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds. I found a fat green lizard sitting smack-dab in the middle of that bed, like he owned the place. I couldn’t catch him, so he’s still around here somewhere. Very glad I’m not actually sleeping in this room. I’ve set it as a stable point, however, so I can come and go from here, and I’m waiting now for my luggage to be delivered from the boat—the story is that I’m a reporter doing a feature on Koreshan Unity for a newspaper up north. And the room will give me some place that I can retreat to so that I don’t pass out from wearing multiple layers of clothes in this insane heat. This is April, but it feels more like August.
Anyway, tomorrow is Sunday—
Her body tenses for a second, and then she raises her right hand and slaps her left shoulder. She wrinkles her nose in distaste as she stares down at her palm and then holds it up to the camera. A large black-and-red smear decorates the inside of her hand.
See? They are huge, bloodthirsty monsters, but at least I got one of them.
Part of the mosquito still clings to her skin. I reflexively wipe at my own shoulder, which is, of course, free of mosquito splatter. It’s hard to concentrate on what she’s saying with that reddish-black streak staring at me, and I wish I could reach into the holographic display and wipe it off my—her—shoulder.
Okay . . . what was I—oh, yeah, Sunday is when the Koreshans have musical concerts. There’s an open invitation to people in the surrounding area—they have several flyers up here in Fort Myers, and a boat will be at the docks to take people to the settlement at 1 p.m.
I know Katherine is right, and this place was around before the Cyrists were formed, but several things bother me. The fact that Koresh means Cyrus. The fact that they were in Chicago for several years around the time of the World’s Fair, when Katherine and Saul made dozens of jumps to that city. Finally, a few of the dates don’t match up. According to what Katherine has in the CHRONOS-protected files, Estero was founded in 1904, but when Connor started digging around, he discovered the group incorporated three years earlier in this timeline and seems to have a larger following. The date could be a typo, but we agreed it was worth checking out—
So do I. Curious to see if the dates have also changed in this timeline, I close the diary, grab my tablet, and open a Wikipedia search for Koreshan Unity. I’m instantly redirected to a different page. I stare at the words at the top of the entry for a minute, then jump up and rush down the long, curved hallway to the library.
“Katherine! I thought you said—”
But Katherine is no longer there.
Connor holds up his hand. “Downstairs. But I’m pretty sure she’s napping, so it’ll have to wait. What’s up?”
I drop into an office chair, roll toward him so that we can both see the screen, and point to the little link under the words Cyrist International. It reads “Redirected from Koreshan Unity.”
Connor nods. “Yeah. That’s one of the groups the Cyrists gobbled up. It was perfect for Saul, since Koresh is another word for Cyrus.”
“But Katherine said, just a few minutes ago, that they weren’t connected. That Saul might have known about them but nothing more. And, yeah—I mean, he’s definitely not Saul, based on the picture she showed me, but if Wikipedia redirects . . .”
“Because Wikipedia is infallible?” he laughs, setting the iPad down on the desk.
“No. But why did Katherine tell me they aren’t connected when they clearly are?”
He leans back in his chair. His elbows are on the armrests, and he rubs his temples, his mouth forming a grim line. It’s probably just that I’ve seen Kiernan do the temple-rubbing gesture several times, but this is the first time Connor has ever reminded me the slightest bit of his great-grandfather.
“What?” I ask.
Connor still doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and then tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. “She’s sick, Kate. You know that. She’s always saying she’s fine, but this isn’t the first time she’s forgotten some difference between the two timelines. And the mood swings—she gets annoyed a lot more easily, especially at you. Minor personality changes can be ’roid rage from the steroids, or maybe the tumor is growing faster again. Either way, she won’t take time out to go back into the hospital when there�
��s really nothing they can do. Hell, she won’t even let me hire a nurse to help keep track of her medications, because she’s worried it would be too difficult to hide this CHRONOS insanity from someone coming in and out of the house on a daily basis. You remember the fit she pitched about the whole karate thing, and that was only two hours a week.”
I definitely remember. I was in my room, going through some diary entries last Monday. When I glanced up at the clock, I realized it was nearly four thirty, which meant I’d completely missed my three o’clock karate lesson with Sensei Barbie. Katherine was downstairs when she rang the bell and turned Barbie away at the door. She canceled the lesson, saying there’d been a change of plans. The only reason I found out is that Barbie called my cell and left a message, noting that Katherine not only didn’t pay her but didn’t even apologize for making her drive all the way over. I called back to apologize and promised she’d be reimbursed for her trouble but only got her answering service. I’m guessing Katherine was incredibly rude, because Barbie still hasn’t called back. Katherine’s response? She decided I was too busy with research to take time off for a lesson. I told her not to cancel my plans without asking and chalked it up to the fact that she’d been lukewarm about lessons all along. Now I wonder whether it was another of these mood shifts.
“So you think she’s getting worse?” I ask.
“She’s terminal, Kate. That means she will only get worse. Based on what the doctor said the last time, I think she still has several months left, but there are no guarantees, especially when she isn’t resting like she should. I mean, the whole drama over the diary when you got back from Dallas . . .”
“Yeah?”