FutureImperfect

by Stefan Petrucha

  No, no, no! Jump, jump, jump!

  He pushed his back into the door, but his feet already wanted to resume the climb. Maybe he could lock himself in a closet and wait for the drugs to wear off so he could fight the Quirk-shard.

  What was around him here? Again, half the lights were off. That was good news. The night staff at Windfree was less than half that of the day shift. Still, they checked on him at least every hour, and Jesus wouldn’t stay asleep forever. It was only a matter of time before they realized he was gone. With a patient loose, the building would go into lockdown and he’d be trapped again.

  But how could he escape if he couldn’t trust his own damn feet?

  He panted, and noticed he was only a few yards from another godsend: a wall phone. If he couldn’t escape, at least he could warn Siara about her “boyfriend,” who was secretly the master of all evil in the world.

  Harry walked over and nudged the receiver off the cradle with his forehead. It sailed down the length of its cord, then bounced in the air like a bungee jumper. The dial tone was clearly audible. Using his nose, he punched a nine to get an outside line, then dialed Siara’s number.

  It rang once, twice, and a familiar voice answered the phone.

  “Keller?” it said, quite startled. “Harry Keller?”

  “Jeremy Gronson?” Harry answered back, equally surprised.

  There was a silence for a few moments, then, “Keller, why aren’t you dead?”

  Hearing that, Harry knew in a flash it was true, all true. Jeremy Gronson was the Daemon, the one who’d been stalking him in A-Time, the one who’d controlled Melody, who’d controlled Todd. The one who was dating Siara.

  Harry gritted his teeth and hissed, “You just did me the biggest favor in the world, you bastard. You just proved I’m not insane.”

  “No, Keller,” Jeremy answered. “The biggest favor would be to put you out of your misery and kill you. But don’t worry, I’ll get to it. And by the way? You are insane. Totally.”

  With a click the line went dead. Harry knew what would happen next. Gronson would go to A-Time and rearrange his trail so he’d wind up back in the cell, or worse.

  Adrenaline surged through his body. When he thought of the danger Siara was in, the suicide voice yielded with a whimper. He ran full tilt down the center of the hall, looking for an exit. As he did, one by one, all the lights came on.

  Jeremy was doing his thing in A-Time. How long did Harry have left? A minute? A second? He kept running. A bulletin board came loose from the wall, nearly tripping him, but Harry jumped over it. Soapy water sloshed across the floor from an unseen bucket, but he stopped and raced the other way.

  At a corner he turned. There, down the long institutional hall, fifty yards away, was the red-and-white light of an emergency exit sign.

  Footsteps came from behind; voices shouted. A door opened and a thin nurse wearing horn-rimmed glasses stepped out. She looked instantly repulsed when she saw Harry, as if he were some bad food she could swear she’d thrown away. Harry just smiled back.

  He dove to her side, nearly fell, but caught himself and picked up speed. He was there, almost there, almost at the exit. He could taste it, could feel the handle give, feel the door open at his push, sense the cold outside air against his face.

  He was just about convinced he’d made it when he felt something in his chest that made him stop short. All of a sudden, his body wouldn’t respond. Something twisted in his gut, moved his arms this way instead of that. It was a strange sensation, one he’d never experienced before, as if someone had stuck their fingers into him, into his soul, into his future, and was yanking things around.

  Jeremy.

  Harry twisted, gasped and fell. In no time they were upon him, shouting, calling for a needle. As the sharp tip plunged into his arm, he remembered that the outside of the building was surrounded by a fence. He’d never have made it out anyway.

  Tasting anger on his tongue as if it were the bitter tea, the Initiate yanked his hands out of Harry Keller’s life and wondered, How on earth did he get back in play?

  Blowing air through his nostrils, he straightened, feeling his black robes tumble back down around his arms.

  “Unk?”

  His Quirk looked at him pleadingly, whining, wondering what was going on. It thought it was going to happen, then all of a sudden it didn’t. It was tired of being yanked around.

  “Unk!”

  The Initiate kicked it, slamming it with the heel of his foot. With a pained howl, it ran off and hid behind a small bubbly hill in the future, occasionally sticking its single eye out from beyond the rim to look sheepishly at its master.

  The Initiate turned away and closed his eyes to the terrain, to everything, so he could think. His brain strained, trying to hold all the possibilities, wondering what happened. If it wasn’t for the phone call tipping Jeremy off, Keller might have done it, might have reached that door and freedom.

  But how? He’d checked it over a million times. There was nothing, nothing in Keller’s trail that could explain the seeming accidents, no sign his life had been interfered with by anyone other than the Initiate himself, no indication he was anything other than trapped, trapped in Windfree, trapped in linear time. But still he’d almost gotten out.

  It would take something just shy of a god to create those sorts of coincidences and not leave so much as a mark behind.

  A god, or a Master.

  He paused and opened his mouth into a small circle.

  So, was it them? Is this another part of my Initiation?

  They’d always spoken of Keller as if he was just a distraction from his trial, but maybe that was a trick.

  Yes. It made sense. It fit the facts. The Obscure Masters had put that bumbling fool in his way to test his wherewithal. Keller was a straw dog, and they were protecting him. That was why Jeremy couldn’t kill him, why he kept resurfacing.

  That was it, it had to be. Keller was part of his test.

  He whistled to the Quirk. It hesitated, smarting from the kick, so he had to whistle twice more. Cautiously, it trotted out and presented itself. It shied away a bit when the Initiate put out his hand, but it warmed as he patted it.

  “Unk! Unk!”

  “There, there. Sorry I was angry,” Jeremy said. “It’s all right now. I think I understand. I just have to change my plans again.”

  Siara was half-asleep when the phone rang, but she grabbed it immediately, if only to stop the tone from waking her parents. The CID was clear enough even through her sleepy eyes.

  “Jeremy? It’s after one in the morning.”

  “I know,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I was just feeling bad about how we left things. I know you’re worried about Harry, so I figure my parents will keep. They’ll be fine where they are for a while. If you still want, I’ll drive you to see him tomorrow morning.”

  “Jeremy, really? I can’t believe it! You are so…you’re…you’re the best ex-boyfriend, ever! The best!” Siara said.

  She didn’t know to what great and wonderful stroke of luck she owed this bizarre change, she only knew that tomorrow morning she’d be on her way to see Harry.

  7.

  Every life is like colored thread in a blanket that has no beginning or end.

  Jeffrey Tippicks’s words haunted his son as he maneuvered his old Toyota hatchback past the iron front gate of Windfree Sanitarium. Emeril Tippicks still had his headache from yesterday; the aspirin hadn’t helped in the least. Every time he’d hesitated at a light and the car behind him honked, he’d thought the sound would kill him.

  At least the air was cleaner this far north of the city, doubly so after last night’s rainstorm. The building’s quiet browns and whites were soothing, like mountain rock peering from forested hills. It had been built as a private home in the 1920s in a grand palatial style, but thick bars were now crudely bolted over each window, and a vast, gaudy, steel-mesh net hung over the roof.

  And this is where my father died.
>
  Head pounding, Tippicks tried to maneuver his small car into a tight space near the entrance. A slight pressure on the wheel and a horrid sound told him he hadn’t made it. He pushed at the door, chagrined to find he was too close to the next car for it to open all the way. He struggled, barely able to squeeze out, and saw the long, deep scratch his bumper had made on an otherwise shiny BMW.

  Annoyed, he slammed the car door, snagging his tweed jacket in it. Pulling it free, he tore a button off and earned a long smear of black grease above the pocket.

  What was wrong with him today?

  He thought about leaving a note for the owner but then checked his watch: 9:12 A.M. He’d have to move fast if he wanted to speak to Keller and make it back to school before lunch.

  Speak to Keller. And ask him what?

  Why do you see what my father saw? Can you tell me if I’m insane myself to be here? Despite the pain, he chuckled, realizing it was the perfect place to go mad, like having your car break down in front of a gas station.

  He tried to wipe the grease from his jacket but only succeeded in covering his hands. Still rubbing them, Tippicks tried to maneuver around a thick branch on the sidewalk, knocked down by last night’s storm, but only succeeded in stepping in a puddle.

  His shoes wet now, he passed between the stone columns at the front entrance, opened the glass and aluminum door, and stepped into the waiting room. It was small, with barely enough space for a couch and a potted plant. There weren’t even any magazines. It looked as if no one ever waited here.

  A blue-haired woman seated behind a Plexiglas screen was roused from her paperwork at the sound of the opening door. Tippicks stepped up, trying to look cheerful, and immediately knocked over a cupful of pens that sat on the small counter in front of her. He rolled his eyes as they clattered to his feet.

  “I have an appointed with Dr. Shinn,” he said, bending to pick them up.

  She didn’t answer, but as Tippicks recovered the last of the pens, a buzzer sounded. A pleasant Asian man stepped out from an inner door and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Tippicks. You’re here to see Harry Keller.”

  “Yes,” Tippicks said, shaking his hand, forgetting about the grease. Remembering the scratch, he added, “Do you know who owns that green BMW outside?”

  Shinn’s grin widened. “It’s mine. Brand new. Do you like it?”

  Tippicks tried to smile. “Oh, yes. Wonderful car.”

  Dr. Shinn waved Tippicks in and guided him into an elevator. As the numbers above the closed doors indicated they were going up, Tippicks rattled off what he knew about Harry, the trauma, the erratic behavior, but also the sparks of lucidity.

  Shinn eyed him with disapproval. “The boy does all this, has all these strange behaviors, but up until he goes totally berserk, you think he’s fine?”

  Tippicks felt himself turning red as the elevator stopped and the doors creaked open. Nervous, he rubbed the grease on his palm with his thumb. “I just thought he had a chance to recover on his own. That it would be better that way for him.”

  Shinn shook his head and exited. Silent, he slipped his card through a reader and led Tippicks into a narrow hallway. When they reached the third door, he motioned for Tippicks to look through its small window.

  “Here is the young man you thought could recover on his own,” he said.

  Tippicks leaned in toward the glass and frowned. Curled up in a far corner of the padded room was what looked like a pile of dirty linen. The unruly brown mop of hair on its top was the only thing indicating it was a human being.

  Shin shrugged. “He’s been violent since he arrived. Lashed out at the ambulance attendants, gave our interns some nasty bruises. Tried to escape last night. We’ve doubled his meds, so he’s pretty calm now. I doubt he can even stand.”

  Unable to conceal his anger, Tippicks asked, “If you’ve got him so doped up that he can’t move, why is he still in a straitjacket?”

  Shinn opened his mouth to explain when the mop of hair rustled. Both men turned as Harry Keller raised his head, brown eyes peering through strands of long, dirty hair.

  “Mr. Tippicks?” Harry said hoarsely.

  Shinn’s annoyance fled. “He’s responding to your voice. He didn’t even respond to his aunt. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since he’s been here.”

  “Yes, Harry,” Tippicks called through the door. “It’s me.”

  Harry struggled to his feet and slouched toward the door. He rested his forehead against the window, giving them a perfect view of his haggard face as his shallow breath made little clouds on the dirty glass.

  “Hi, Mr. Tippicks,” Harry said.

  “Hi, Harry. How are you?” Tippicks said back. Harry was always pale, but now he looked jaundiced. The spark Tippicks had often seen in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dull sheen, like a marble covered in thick grease.

  “Been better.”

  “I can see that. Harry, if I can get Dr. Shinn to take you out of there for a while to talk to me, will you promise to behave, not to run away?”

  Harry’s brow furrowed. He looked down at his feet.

  “You mean, I’m not running?” he said.

  “Harry.”

  He looked up and blinked. “Yeah. Sure. Promise. I’d cross my heart, but…”

  Tippicks turned to Shinn, whose mouth was still open wide.

  “What do you think, Dr. Shinn?” Tippicks asked. “Can you bring him out of there so I can talk to him?”

  Shinn hesitated. “The jacket will have to stay on. But yes. I think that would be a good idea. We can bring him upstairs for a bit. The courtyard is secure.”

  “Excellent. And…well, there’s something I have to tell you about your car.”

  When Shinn mentioned a courtyard, Tippicks assumed it was downstairs. Instead, while some beefy interns discussed how best to transport Harry, Shinn took him to the roof, to an open area covered with the metal net he’d seen from outside. It was pleasant enough, with benches and potted trees, but the crisscross shadows cast through the net lent the space a surreal air, making Tippicks feel as if he were in a giant bird cage.

  Seeing Tippicks stare up, Shinn explained, “It’s to prevent suicides.”

  “It’s twenty feet up. Could someone really climb that high?”

  “You’d be surprised what people are capable of,” Shinn answered. He turned his head back toward the door. Harry was being led inside, flanked by interns. “Even with a ton of meds in them. I often am.”

  The interns walked Harry to a wooden bench, sat him down, then stood on either side of the only exit. Harry remained motionless, except for the slight rising and falling of his shoulders that indicated he was breathing.

  Tippicks and Shinn walked over, Tippicks nearly tripping on his shoes as he went.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m having a bad day.”

  “Not as bad as our friend here, I hope.” Shinn knelt gently by Harry’s side. “Do you mind if I stay and listen, Mr. Keller?”

  Harry nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Okay. That’s fine,” Shinn said with a smile. “I have to call an auto body service anyway and send your teacher here the bill.”

  On his way out, Shinn squeezed Tippicks’s arm and gave him a look, as if to say, You must tell me everything.

  After that, except for the two interns who stood mutely at their posts, they were alone.

  Tippicks sat on the far end of the bench, feeling how tired he was. The pain in his head had gathered toward the back of his skull, and though it wasn’t quiet as bad as it had been, it still pounded steadily. He saw the grease still on his hand, looked at the tear in his tweed jacket, and wondered how much of the world was made up of accidents.

  Steadying himself, he eyed the captive teen. “Harry, if you behave, they’ll take the jacket off.”

  “Working on it,” Harry said. He smiled at Tippicks. “Thanks for coming. Why, uh, did you come, by the way?”

  Tippicks answere
d in a quiet voice, “Siara Warner came to see me yesterday.”

  Harry’s eyes widened. Tippicks thought he saw a bit of that old spark flare in the dark of his pupils.

  “She’s all right? Was she with Jeremy Gronson?”

  “Gronson? The football captain? No, she was alone,” Tippicks said. He eyed the interns before continuing. They seemed more interested in whatever their iPods were playing. “But she did have a lot to say about you. And about time.”

  Harry’s brow creased. “Siara…told you?”

  Tippicks exhaled. “My father stayed here a few years. They didn’t have this little courtyard back then.”

  He was surprised to see Harry nod. “Yeah, I know. He died here.”

  Tippicks eyed him. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw it once, while I was looking at you. I can see people’s…paths.”

  So the girl had been telling the truth, at least he couldn’t what she’d heard. But could it really be…? No, he couldn’t go there yet. There was no proof of it.

  “Harry, I was just a kid when my dad was here, but they let me visit him once or twice. Whenever I came, he told me the most amazing things, about all the places he’d gone, the times he’d seen, all over the world, all throughout history, without ever leaving his room.”

  Harry’s brow knitted.

  “But my mother and the doctors told me he was sick, crazy. So as much as I loved him, I never believed a word of what he said.”

  The lines in Harry’s forehead went deeper. “Why?”

  Tippicks smiled sadly. “Because I thought he was crazy, too, I guess. He went on about it, so much so they decided a lobotomy might help, but he died during the procedure. They poked a blood vessel in his brain by accident and couldn’t stop the bleeding in time. As for me, well, as I grew older, I tried all the drugs I could, trying to see what he’d seen. And even though I never did, when Siara came to me, well…in a way, it seemed like another chance.”