Paradox Bound: A Novel

by Peter Clines

“Tens of thousands,” agreed John. “Almost four hundred maps of the United States, stretching across almost three hundred years. The diagramming continues in the next car. And I’m always refining my data.”

  “How?”

  “Sometimes it’s easy. The son of a wealthy, successful businessman becomes a wealthy, successful businessman? That isn’t the dream’s influence, just plain old nepotism. Other folks just claw their way up through good, honest work. There’s nothing special or unique there.” He reached out and touched the Pullman’s doorframe, then sighed. “And a number of them are false positives. They’re people who were affected by the dream before it went missing. They’re part of its original path through history. The only ones I can use are from after it vanished.”

  “How do you tell them apart?”

  “With a great deal of difficulty.”

  “This is why you have a train,” said Eli. “You need the space.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “The Bucephalus? I can’t ever imagine leaving her, even when the search is over. I’ll probably stay with her until—”

  “The dream,” said Eli. “What will you do with the dream if you find it?”

  “Ahhh.” John reached out, set a finger against an orange thread, and traced it back across the country, across history. “If I were to find the dream,” he said, “if the stories are true that the finder could have an effect on the country…I’d like children to grow up in an America where the color of a person’s skin doesn’t matter. Where we all have the same rights and the same protections under the law. Where people can simply be free.”

  Eli managed a weak chuckle. “You know that sort of happens anyway, right? Back in the ’60s. Or forward, for you, I guess. I mean, there are still a ton of problems and issues because some people just won’t let go of things, but there was the Civil Rights Movement with Martin Luther King and—”

  John held up his hand and returned the smile. “I’m well aware of Reverend King’s work, my friend, and what he accomplished. And what still needs to be done. There’s just one small point that fascinates me.”

  “What’s that?”

  John lifted his finger off the thread, then tapped the map with it twice. “Reverend King, as people so often quote, had a dream. Something inspired him.”

  Eli felt his eyelids stretch wide. “You think he…is he a searcher?”

  “No, no.” John shook his head. “Or if he is, I’ve never seen him or heard of it. No, Eli, my point is, what if King is inspired because I’m the one who finds the dream? Suppose the dream needs to be taken somewhere, and in moving it through history, my will effects change in the decades before he’s born.”

  “So are you saying…you have to be the one to find it?”

  “Not at all. I have no idea. But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “I…” Eli juggled cause and effect in his head for a moment. “Maybe?”

  “I believe in fiction it’s referred to as a predestination paradox,” John said. “Our effect on the past has always been part of the past. Whatever happens is what always happened. Personally, I like to think of it as the transparent aluminum defense.”

  The reference sounded familiar, but Eli couldn’t place it. “So that’s what you’re going to do with it?”

  John nodded. “That’s all any of us tries to do, isn’t it? Make a better future?”

  24

  Gregson Russk sat in his room above the saloon in 1866 and studied the piece of paper. As rooms went, he’d been in far worse and couldn’t remember many better. He still drank in the two-bit saloon across town, but sleeping on a feather mattress felt damned good after two years of his lumpy camp bed.

  Or it had. Now he couldn’t wait to get out of the room. Out of the damned town.

  He studied the slip of paper. Letters and words had never been his strength. He wasn’t one of those men who could guzzle down whole pages the way some men guzzled booze. But he could force his way through, digging through the alphabet like he dug into the side of a hill. He knew his own name, and important words like “gold” and “California” and “Buchanan.”

  The woman who’d given him the scrap of paper was either a fool or a saint. Maybe his guardian angel. He would’ve signed the whole claim over to her for this information. At one point, he’d done far more drastic things for far smaller leads.

  The morning coach would take him to Kansas City, and from there to Memphis. He thought of sending a letter ahead, or even a telegraph, but in the end decided it would be better to just see Edmunds one last time in person before shooting him.

  He set the scrap of paper carefully between the pages of Aesop’s Fables, right where “The Farmer and his Sons” ended. He closed the book, then wrapped it in the sheet of heavy vellum that had protected it out to California and back. The volume went onto the wooden slats under the mattress, right next to the small bundle of papers that was his claim on the gold mine. He tugged the blankets this way and that until the bed looked undisturbed.

  His treasures hidden away, he pulled on his coat, dusted off his hat, and snuffed out the lamp with a puff of air that whistled across his jagged tooth. Supper awaited. And tomorrow, on his way to find Louisa.

  He pulled open the door to his room.

  Two men stood in the dim hall. Each wore a small-brimmed hat, like some kind of mashed-up derby. They had short-cut coats and odd, wide neckties. The taller man had his hand raised to knock. His eyes were closed, as if he’d been listening at the door.

  “Hello,” said both men in unison.

  Russk fumbled for words, but they’d never been his strength.

  The tall man pulled a small book from his pocket and swung it open like a bored preacher opening his Bible for the ten thousandth time. “Are you,” the man asked, “Gregson Edgar Russk?”

  “I am.”

  Both men gave a single nod. The tall, square-jawed man held up a leather billfold. He flipped it open to reveal a multipointed silver star—maybe a sheriff’s badge, or a US Marshal’s—and then flipped it shut just as quick. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about a pair of fugitives we believe may have been in the area.”

  “A…what?”

  “Criminals,” said the other man. He packed a lot into the word. The coarse edge reminded Russk of someone lowborn trying to put on airs. He’d seen a few men strike gold and act this way. He’d done it himself. The thought gave him a brief smile.

  “Is something funny?” asked the shorter man. He had a trim waistcoat on beneath his jacket.

  “No. Pardon. You’re looking for…what, some kind of robbers?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said the tall man. He stepped into the room, forcing Russk back. “We believe they’re trying to acquire stolen property.”

  The smaller man followed him in and closed the door behind them.

  Twice during his years in California, men had wandered into Russk’s small camp and made him itch. The first had been a lone Mexican. The second time, eight months later, were two men who sounded like limeys. They’d all eyed his equipment, asked if he’d been lucky, and eventually gone for their guns when they thought his attention was elsewhere. He’d given them all Christian burials, even if they didn’t deserve it.

  These two men gave him the same itch.

  “The two fugitives are a man and a woman,” the tall man told him. “They’d most likely be wearing unusual clothes, and may have been riding a horseless carriage.”

  Russk thought of his guardian angel and her skinny companion. Thieves or not, they’d done right by him. “Lots of men and women in Independence,” he said. “Can’t right remember any that stood out like that.”

  “He’s lying,” said the smaller man. “He’s seen them. Recently.”

  The tall man stepped forward.

  Russk brushed his coat back, exposing his holster, and screamed in pain as the bones in his hand shattered.

  The smaller
man stood next to him, having crossed the room in a blink. He squeezed again. Russk felt two more snaps that made his whole body shudder.

  “Stop that,” said the tall man. “It’s unnecessary.”

  “He was reaching for his weapon.”

  “Then disarm him. We’re here to talk.”

  “He’ll talk now,” the smaller man said. He made an odd noise, something between a cough and a laugh, as if his mouth were covered with a heavy bandanna.

  The night beyond the room’s window brightened. There’d been some clouds, and now the moonlight hit every snow-covered roof in town. Russk’s room brightened enough for him to get a better look at his two attackers.

  The light from outside gleamed across their faces. Each man wore a mask of thinnest glass, almost a glaze. Lips, wide eyebrows, and flushed cheeks had been painted onto the fragile forms. The smaller man’s mask had a swooping mustache and a narrow beard as well.

  Beneath the glass, through the tiny holes in the glass face, Russk could see the square-jawed man’s eyes still sat mostly closed. Entirely closed, in fact. Both men could’ve been asleep beneath their masks. Then he focused his eyes a little better in the dim light. He turned his attention to the smaller man. The smooth skin beneath the glass mask flexed and wrinkled, but…

  Gregson Edgar Russk, who had killed five men, two Chinamen, and a pair of mountain lions without more than a flinch, sucked in air to scream.

  The smaller man punched him in the gut. Russk’s breath blasted out and something in his stomach flared with hot agony. His knees gave out and he tried to fall, but the man still held his hand. His wrist twisted as he slipped to the floor, something popped, and the pain almost distracted him from his gut.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. He needed to survive. Louisa needed him to survive, even if she didn’t know it.

  “He’s talked to them,” said the smaller man, staring over Russk’s shoulder at the bed. “She gave him something. It’s hidden under the bed.”

  “I know. It isn’t important.”

  “It might tell us where he’s going.”

  “He,” said the tall man, “isn’t important.”

  Russk threw his left arm across his body, grabbing at his holster. He fumbled his side iron out. His finger hadn’t even touched the trigger guard before the smaller man lifted the weapon away and tossed it onto the bed.

  The broken hand shifted into new painful shapes as it settled against Russk’s body. He stared at the faceless men. “What’n hell are you?” he spat through gritted teeth.

  “You may refer to me as Fifteen,” said the tall man. The empty eyes of his mask stayed aimed at Russk’s face. “It’s important we find the man and woman you spoke with before they escape justice. Any help you can give us would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Don’t know where they went,” he said. “They left the saloon a good half hour before I did. I swear on my mama’s grave.”

  “Did you see anything unusual outside before or after you left? An unusual carriage, perhaps? Some kind of odd vehicle?”

  Russk shook his head.

  “What did you talk with them about?”

  Another shake of the prospector’s head. “Nothin’. They didn’t want nothin’.”

  “We didn’t ask what they wanted,” said the smaller man. “We asked what you talked about.”

  Russk thought back over the odd conversation he’d had with his guardian angel, trying to think of anything the two men would want to know. “Nothin’, I swear. I offered to tell ’em where my claim was and they weren’t interested. They just…”

  “Yes?”

  “It…it weren’t anything special. They just wanted to know why I went out to California.”

  “And why did you?” asked Fifteen.

  “I just…I met a fella back in N’Orleans. He told me about his trip out west and I thought, ‘I could do that.’ ”

  “His name?”

  “Hawkins. Frank Hawkins.”

  “When was this?”

  “ ’Bout three years ago.”

  Fifteen settled back on his heels. “And you told this to the fugitives? All of it?”

  Russk nodded.

  “New Orleans, 1850,” said the smaller man. “We can track them. Railroad log books. Unexpected trains on the track.”

  “It’s an odd period for a train,” said Fifteen. “Records will be spotty at best. John Henry will either be easy to find or next to impossible.”

  “Cross-reference with Hawkins?”

  “Agreed.”

  Russk looked back and forth between them, understanding none of it. His hand swelled. The ring finger and pinkie stuck out a little too straight, as if they’d cramped. They tingled, but the sensation didn’t seem connected to the rest of the hand.

  Fifteen reached up and adjusted the knot of his necktie. “We may return with further questions, Mr. Russk,” he said. “It would be best if you remained here. Do not attempt to leave town.”

  The prospector coughed. “My sister,” he said before the torn thing in his gut flinched, and he coughed again. Drops of blood landed on the back of his damaged hand.

  The faceless man turned the sockets of his mask toward the bed, then back at Russk. “The information came to you through illegal means,” he said, “but poses no security risk to the country or its history. I’m willing to overlook it this once, in view of your current and continued cooperation.”

  The shorter man stepped forward. “What?”

  “We’re done here.”

  The smaller man’s left hand opened and shut, clenching into a quick fist three times. “We’re not done. He’s a collaborator.”

  A shiver ran across Russk’s shoulder blades and slipped down his backbone. He’d heard those words before, with just that fire beneath them. Justice dealt out by locals who didn’t want to wait for the law, or didn’t like the way it had ruled. The smaller man had a bad case of badge fever, all excited by his own authority.

  “We’re done here,” repeated Fifteen. He directed it at his partner this time. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Russk.” The faceless man reached up, touched the brim of his hat, and walked out into the hall.

  The smaller man pointed his blank face at Russk for a few moments. His hand twitched open and closed. Open and closed. Open and closed.

  Then he followed his partner into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

  25

  The Steel Bucephalus came to a halt in the morning sunshine. Its wheels shuddered on the rails with the fading squeal of the brakes. A last puff of steam erupted into the air as the train settled on the tracks.

  Harry leaped down from the platform. Weeds had forced their way up through the gravel that lined the track, but not enough to muffle the crunch of her boots on stone. “You sure it won’t be a problem?” she called back at the engine as Eli landed next to her.

  John appeared on the platform and crouched low. “None at all,” he said. “Getting her unloaded is always easier than getting her stowed away.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded and pointed at some large buildings half a mile away. “I’ll leave her over in the Uptown warehouse district, just west of the docks. Lots of searchers use it for parking.” He handed her a square of paper with an address scribbled on it.

  Harry took the paper and glanced over at the buildings. “Anyone there right now?”

  “No one I know of.”

  Eli walked to the edge of the gravel, lifted one foot, and rotated his ankles as he looked around. His shoes felt restrictive after hours without them. He’d rinsed out his clothes, but they still had the matted feel and faint odor that too many days of wear brought. John had, thankfully, offered him a clean shirt with a stiff collar.

  The Bucephalus had halted on a long stretch of track that looked abandoned. Lots of weeds. Some rust. Eli looked around at the half dozen or so shacks and small houses on this side of the train, but nobody seemed interested in the train ste
aming a few hundred yards from their homes. Maybe everyone had left for work for the day. Or maybe trains were already so commonplace that people ignored them.

  John held one of the platform’s gleaming handles and swung himself down to the ground. “We’ve politely not discussed what you’re doing here.”

  “Yes,” said Harry, “it’s been wonderful.”

  “There are only three notable people you could be looking for in New Orleans, 1850,” said John. “If you’re coming from an 1853 town on the California trail, it isn’t Etienne Barbier or Sarah Welles.”

  “Maybe we found someone new.”

  “Then you wouldn’t’ve called in a favor. You would’ve paid for your passage with information like most searchers.” He studied her face. “You have a solid lead, don’t you? One you’re not willing to share.”

  Harry said nothing. She dusted off her tricorne and pushed it up onto her head.

  John shook his head. “Eli?” he called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “It was good talking with you last night.”

  “You too. Thanks for the ride.”

  “It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, John,” said Harry, “as always.”

  He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. “As always, the pleasure is mine.” He turned, reached for the rail, and pulled himself back up into the cab. “I’m fond of both of you now. Take care of each other out there on the road.”

  —

  Eli watched the dockside hotel and tugged at his collar. He’d expected the hat to bother him more—he’d never been a hat person, even in the dead of New England winters—but the collar could’ve been a shackle on his neck. A tight, thin shackle of linen that had been starched into steel.

  In the belly of the hotel sat a tavern. Not so high up the sea captains, their officers, and the occasional dock foreman didn’t feel welcome to spend their money there. Not so low in the gut that the hotel couldn’t attract a higher level of guest just before or after their voyage. Eli knew its type. Bars and restaurants in the resort towns of southern Maine often made the choice between catering to locals or to tourists. A few careful ones managed both.