Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

“What if I said no?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “In the last place I visited, in Norway, I met a man who felt that everything in his life was wrong. That nothing was working out the way it should have. He seemed to me to be the most desperately sad person I’d ever met. And I’d like to think…” He paused. “I hope that you will be able to be happier than he was. Because all of his craving for a different life brought him only to a horrid end.”

  “And you would not want the same for me.”

  “No.” He looked at her, and smiled, a little shyly. “Because I like you, Jane. You’re a fine person. In my time, you’d be… oh, I don’t know, you’d be a leader. Someone with your brains, and your courage and independence? You could do anything, be anything you wanted. You would be someone who could change things, who could take charge.”

  For the first time since they’d met, her face broke into a grin. “Such sugared words, they go right to a woman’s heart. How can I not answer, after such flattery?” She stared off into the distance, where the river glittered under a fitful November sun. “So, then, yes. Yes, I am content. I have my child, however its father is a terrible man. I have my freedom. I have a place to live and employment to keep myself and my child fed. I am content.”

  By this time, they had reached the outskirts of the town, and Tom Thurston’s barber shop was in the nearest row of buildings.

  “And here we must go our separate ways,” she said. “I to my fate, with which I am well content. And you?”

  That was a good question. What would he do now? He hadn’t seen anything much yet that qualified as a divergence, at least so far as he could tell. But how would he know? It could be anything. It could be causing Jane to walk on the opposite side of the road than she would have. It could be delaying her arrival at Mister Thurston’s by ten seconds, or speeding it up by ten seconds.

  It could be anything.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I have to stay here until I’ve figured out what changed here, what piece of the past was altered by the man who caused all of this.”

  “I wish you luck,” she said. “I have only to work as a maid, and give birth to and raise my child. And I think that even so, you have the more difficult task.”

  • • •

  Darren returned to Gillette’s Inn, where he was welcomed back with shouts of acclamation. Evidently the innkeeper had spent the morning being thronged by customers eager to hear the story of how Darren and Jane had escaped from Murrell’s men, and it had lost nothing in the telling.

  “You’re the one who fought off a dozen of Murrell’s ruffians?” one of the pub’s patrons said, a little incredulously, looking him up and down.

  “Well, actually,” he began, but Gillette cut him off.

  “Yes, Smyser, he’s the fellow,” Gillette said. “He’s skinny but fights like a wildcat. I heard it from the girl, who said he laid ‘em out flat when they tried to stop him.”

  It was probably better not to argue. He said, “I’m hoping it’ll be all right if I stay here another day or two.”

  Gillette made a pfft noise, making his copious mustache flutter. “You’re more than welcome. Wish all of my guests were fine upstanding young men like yourself.”

  He thanked him warmly, accepted an offer of stew and a pint of ale for lunch, and sat at the bar to eat.

  At first, the inn’s customers clustered around him, watching, as if they expected him to Do Something Valiant right before their eyes. He finally looked at them, shrugged, and returned to eating his lunch, and a little disappointed, they finally dispersed. Gillette refilled his mug with ale.

  “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” the innkeeper said, and thwacked him on the arm. “But business has been fine from them as wasn’t here last night and wanted to hear the story, and no story’s so good that a bit of embellishment can’t make it better. So I figure, long as I can sell some pints to folks as wants to listen, I don’t mind giving you free room and board. Bit of a trade, is how I see it.”

  “I’m really grateful.”

  “So, how long do you think you’ll be in town? I’ll warrant you’ll be anxious to get back to—where was it you said you was from, North Carolina?—sooner or later.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be leaving soon.”

  How he’d get out of there, though, remained to be seen. In Scotland and Norway, he’d had to wait until someone tried to kill him to get back to the Library. What would he do if no one offered to chop his head off? Jump off the top of a building, or something? Or would Fischer bring him back if he was gone too long?

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay here until your business is concluded,” Gillette said.

  But that business showed no sign of appearing that day. He loitered around the inn, took an extended nap, and showed up back in the pub in time for dinner. Evening was coming on, and he decided that whatever was supposed to happen, it wouldn’t be today.

  Just as well. Even if it happened, he wasn’t sure how to recognize it, or what to do about it even if he did. He had settled into a comfortable complacency, and was finishing a second bowl of stew—it seemed like the main dish served in the pub—when a young boy, perhaps only twelve or thirteen, burst in through the front door, a terrified expression on his face.

  Gillette, who was in jovial mid-conversation with a customer, turned toward him, and one by one, the other people fell silent and looked at the boy, who came up to Gillette, a smudged and dirty piece of paper in his hand. The boy was panting, and visibly trembling.

  “Mister Gillette,” the boy said. “I got a message, and he told me to deliver it to the stranger, he did. He said if’n I didn’t get it right to the stranger, he’d come back and cut my throat right across. So you got to help me.”

  The boy pushed the paper into Gillette’s hand.

  “Now, Rich McCord, what are you talking about?” Gillette said. “Who told you that?”

  “The man. He caught me, as I was comin’ back from the forest. My dog had run off, and I chased him along, down by the creek a ways, and suddenly the man grabbed me by the shirt collar. He put his face right close to mine, and says, in this dark, terrible voice, he says, ‘Boy, you from down in Concord town?’ And I says, ‘Yes, sir, I am.’ And he says, ‘You heared tell of a stranger down thereabouts, a strange man come down out of the forest with a woman?’ And I said, ‘Reckon I did hear tell of such a ones, mister, but I never laid eyes on ‘em and I don’t know nothin’ about ‘em.’ And he says, ‘That’s all right, boy, I ain’t expectin’ you to do nothin’ too serious about it. All I want you to do is find that stranger, and see as you give him this note. And make sure he reads it.’” Rich swallowed. “And then I remembered my daddy sayin’ he’d heared from Mister Thurston that the stranger was up here at the inn, so I thought I’d bring the note here on account of because I thought you’d know what to do with it. And the man, he says, ‘You think you can do that for me, boy? Or will I have to track you down like a chicken-killing dog and cut your throat right across?’ And I said that yeah, I’d do it, and told him not to cut my throat on account of because my mama would take on so if I was killed. And he laughed, and let me go, and I runned all the way back here.”

  Gillette unfolded the note, and read it, his face paling a little as he did so.

  “What’s it say, Mister Gillette?” one of his customers said.

  Gillette looked around, and his eyes found Darren’s. “I… I’d best let the man it’s intended for read it, before I say anything more.”

  He got up from his seat, and went and took the note from Gillette’s hand. He looked down. In a precise, neat cursive script, he read,

  My dear friend,

  I was most indisposed to find out that you chose to leave our encampment, forsaking our hospitality without so much as a word of thanks. But standards of politeness are not, perhaps, so valued where you come from as they are here, so I am willing to put that much aside.


  I cannot, however, abide by the fact that in leaving as you did, you took along with you my cherished companion, and injured one of my men. The first I take much amiss, and the second is, I am afraid, an unforgivable transgression in the mind of my compatriot Mister Crenshaw, whose head and (I am sorry to say) privates are still much aching from the encounter. So it is my unfortunate duty to require you and Miss Bell to return to my encampment immediately to face justice for what you have done.

  I realize your incentive for doing so is minimal, so I have taken the expedient of giving you some encouragement toward meeting my request. This afternoon, several of my faithful helpers secured the person of Reverend Zebulon Bell, my erstwhile companion’s father, and have returned with him to my encampment. If by tomorrow evening at nightfall, you have not returned with Miss Bell, it will be my sad duty to find a nice sturdy tree from which to hang Brother Zebulon by the neck until he is quite dead.

  I feel certain that you will see that there is really only one reasonable recourse that you have. My men will be waiting for you, with Brother Zebulon, at the creek crossing east of Josiah McCaskill’s mill. I believe you know the spot. If you and Miss Bell arrive prior to sundown, you have my word that I will set Brother Zebulon free.

  I hope to have the honor of your presence within the next day. In that hope I remain

  Yours faithfully,

  Reverend John Andrews Murrell

  “What’s it all about, mister?” one of the customers said.

  “Well,” he replied, and was amazed at how steady his voice was, “it’s a note from Murrell. His men have kidnapped Brother Zebulon, and if Jane and I don’t return to Murrell’s encampment to ‘face justice’ for punching out some of Murrell’s goons and escaping, they’re going to hang him from a tree.”

  Someone gave a low whistle.

  He turned to the boy, who was watching him, wide-eyed. “This man who gave you the note,” he said, “did he have black hair? And a nasty expression? And a big scar up the side of his face?”

  The boy nodded, his mouth hanging open a little.

  “Crenshaw,” he said, looking around him. “Murrell’s right-hand man.”

  One of the customers gasped. “I heared tell of Crenshaw before Murrell and his rabble even got here. Murrell may be crazy, but Crenshaw is downright evil. He hurts people for the fun of it. You’re lucky he wanted you to do something for him, Rich McCord, or like as not no one would ever find your body. Or maybe… just find pieces of it.”

  Rich gave a little whimper.

  “You hush on up with that kinda talk, Perkins,” Gillette said. “No need to be goin’ on like that and scarin’ folks half to death.” He put a meaty hand on the boy’s head, and ruffled his hair. “Don’t you pay no attention to him, now, Rich. Just get on home. You did what you was supposed to do, and you stay out of the forest for the next few days until all of this has settled down. Like as not Crenshaw has forgot all about you by now. Just run along home, and if your mama gives you a hard time about being late for dinner, as seems pretty likely, you tell her to come talk to me and I’ll vouch for you.”

  “Thanks, Mister Gillette.” Rich hurried out of the inn door and disappeared into the early evening gloom.

  Darren looked around at all the frightened faces.

  “What’re you gonna do, mister?” one of them asked.

  And much to his own surprise, he heard himself say, “Well, I guess I have to go back.”

  The room erupted in shouts of dismay.

  Gillette said, “Now, son, you can’t do that. It’d be suicide. And they probably wouldn’t kill you quick, neither. I’ve heard stories, I have. Them fellows is worse’n savages.”

  And to think he’d been worried about getting slapped in the face by the Whackers. That seemed like a hug between friends as compared to having his body parts removed one at a time by Crenshaw.

  “I don’t see that I have much choice,” he said. “I can’t let them hang Brother Zebulon.”

  “Why the hell not?” someone said. “He ain’t much loss to the world, far as I can see.”

  “Came here to stir things up,” another man said. “Preachin’ his foolishness about seeking out pain. Well, I guess he found it, didn’t he? He should be glad.”

  There were several murmurs of assent.

  “Look,” he said, “I see what you’re saying. But listen, this is Jane’s father we’re talking about here. You think she’d be content to stand by and let this happen?”

  Gillette frowned, and his forehead wrinkled up. With that expression, he looked uncommonly like a puzzled walrus. “Now, you can’t mean to say you’re gonna tell Miss Bell about this, and take her back with you to them ruffians?”

  “No. I don’t mean that at all. In fact, I want all of you to promise not to mention anything to Jane. The less she knows about this, the better. But if I don’t do something, she’ll find out sooner or later, because her father will be dead. I’m going to go up there and see if I can free Brother Zebulon. I’m the only one who can do it.”

  “You ain’t immortal, boy,” said the man who had suggested that Brother Zebulon would be no great loss. “And you seem worth a good deal more than that fat, hollerin’, white-suited jackass. Tradin’ your life for his ain’t a fair trade, is all I’m sayin’.”

  “Don’t assume I’ll die,” he said.

  Gillette grasped him by the shoulder, and said, in a low voice, “Look, son, just ‘cause I may have exaggerated a little about how y’all escaped from Murrell’s men, don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I’m not. I just don’t think they can kill me.”

  This comment elicited nothing but a lot of silent stares.

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense to you,” he said, “but I’ve already survived more murder attempts than a Mafia informant.”

  More stares.

  “Dammit. I forgot, the Mafia doesn’t even exist yet,” He looked back up at them, and took a deep breath. His pulse accelerated, and a heady, heroic energy flowed through him. “Never mind.” His voice rose, and he spoke commandingly to the assembled crowd. “In the last few days, I’ve had people try to skewer me with spears and behead me with swords, and I have come through it all without so much as a scratch. So I know I can save Brother Zebulon’s life. I don’t want anyone else to be in danger here. Heaven knows, I’ve probably done enough damage by telling you about all of this. But what I’m trying to say is, saving a human life is worth the risk. Which of you cannot empathize with Brother Zebulon’s plight? Imagine yourself in that place—captive, afraid, alone, facing certain death if no one risks everything to save you. Think if you knew that someone said your life wasn’t worth saving, left you to be hanged from a tree, having committed no crime. And the one thing I know is that I have to go alone. I know it may seem like suicide, but I’ve got to risk it. It’ll be dangerous, but I know I can do it. If anyone rescues Brother Zebulon, it’s got to be me!”

  He stopped, breathing hard, and cast a flashing eye on the crowd. He expected his speech to elicit shouts of acclamation, rather in the fashion of the “They will never take our freedom!” speech from Braveheart. None came. The room was silent, except for the odd nervous cough and throat-clearing. Then one by one the crowd of onlookers melted away into the far recesses of the pub, and he heard, amongst the muttering, the words “damn ijit,” “martyr,” “well, we tried to talk him out of it,” and “touched in the head, poor thing.”

  Guess I’m not cut out to be William Wallace.

  Gillette clapped a hand to his shoulder, gave him a smile.

  He looked at the innkeeper’s kindly face, and relaxed a little.

  “So,” Gillette said, “you got any next of kin you’d like me to notify?”

  Darren scowled at him, and said, “No. Nobody you could get a hold of, anyway,” and retreated up the stairs to his room.

  • • •

  Later that evening, Darren lay on his back in bed, hands cupped behind his head, and stare
d at the ceiling.

  Was this the divergence? Was this what he’d been sent here to change? To somehow save Brother Zebulon’s life? If that was it, then why did the computer identify Jane as the focal point? It was back to the same old thing—not enough information. They knew the Reverend and his daughter were involved, but not how. Darren knew he was supposed to change something, but not what.

  This was hopeless.

  But still, even if his speech in the bar didn’t quite have the results he wanted, hadn’t it been the truth? He couldn’t sit back and let Brother Zebulon be hanged by Murrell and Crenshaw and company. It wasn’t right. And he was sure he’d been correct about one thing—he really did have the best shot at coming out of this unscathed, if anyone did. So far, the computer had done a pretty damn good job of saving his life.

  Even if it hadn’t quite worked out for Janowsky.

  Still, there was no guarantee he’d succeed, nor that he’d come away without injury. Even Fischer had said the computer wouldn’t retrieve him just because he was in pain.

  “Shit,” he said aloud. “This whole thing sucks. Oh, well, at least this is the last divergence. There’s nowhere else for Fischer to send me after this.”

  And with that not very reassuring thought, he fell asleep.

  • • •

  Darren woke the next morning to the steady hiss of drizzle striking the window. Even under the goose down quilt, he shivered a little. The room had grown damp and cold, and between the time he dragged his chilled, naked self out from under the covers, and pulled on his chilled, smelly clothes, he felt like every trace of heat had been robbed from his body.

  He stumped down the stairs—even with the big fireplace in the tavern, it was still uncomfortably cold—and sat down to his breakfast with considerably less cheer than he had the previous morning.

  Gillette, however, greeted him with undiminished good nature.

  “There’s the brave soldier, ready to go into battle,” he said, plopping down a mug of ale in front of him. “I’d offer you something better, seeing as how it’s your last meal and all, but I’m afraid it’s eggs and bacon again.”