Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

  He once again paused, this time with his hand on the package of bacon.

  Wait. I’m invisible to everyone, but nothing else is. Fischer said that if I picked up a pencil, people would see the pencil floating up into the air. So, if I eat something, would everyone see the food as it sits in my stomach… and then intestines… just kind of floating there, moving around… and then…?

  He set the bacon down, his feelings of hunger replaced by mild nausea.

  Okay, maybe I’ll skip the breakfast after all.

  “Well, hell,” he said. “This whole thing sucks. No one can hear me or see me, I can’t put on clothes, and I can’t eat. Just peachy. Well, at least I can take a nap.”

  He went back into the bedroom. He never made the bed. The down comforter was still pulled back in a rumpled snarl, just as he’d left it that morning. If I’m asleep, I won’t know I’m hungry, he thought, as he finally, deliciously, slid between the sheets of his own bed. He pulled the comforter up, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  • • •

  When Darren woke up from this second, and much more satisfying, nap of the day, he could tell that a great deal more time had elapsed. The gray light slanting through the window was different. His stomach had reached new and alarming levels of hunger pangs. He rolled over. The clock read 4:37. He had slept for over six hours, and still felt as if he could easily have closed his eyes and slept for another six. But his alter ego would be home at a little after five, to take a quick shower and then head off to Lee’s, and his rendezvous with a pistol.

  He got up, straightened the blankets into as close to their original positions as he could recall, and padded barefoot out into the living room. He retrieved his clothes from the dryer—still slightly warm—and put them on. He tossed Fischer’s windbreaker over the back of a chair, and returned to the living room to wait.

  He sat on his sofa, watching the minutes tick away. He would have to move quickly once his chance came. The only opportunity would come when his alter ego was in the shower. A tremor passed through his body. If this didn’t work—well, there wouldn’t be a second shot at it. He would be propelled thereafter on an inexorable path that would lead to Lee’s apartment and the gunshot that would end everything.

  At 5:15, right on schedule, there was the sound of a key in a lock, and his past self walked into the apartment, humming tunelessly under his breath. He carried a folder stuffed with papers. Business tax forms, which were to be delivered the following day to his accountant, a day that he hadn’t known would never come. He tossed them on the kitchen counter, opened the fridge and got out a beer, then consulted his watch and gave a snort of annoyance.

  I remember this. I was going to have a beer, then I realized I needed to take a shower because I was all dusty from hauling boxes of books down from the bookstore attic, and I wouldn’t have time for both. I put the beer back and opted for the shower.

  His alter ego put the beer back in the fridge, and headed for the shower.

  Darren-the-Observer followed him into the bedroom, and watched—feeling weirdly uncomfortable—as his other self undressed and headed for the bathroom. There was the sound of the shower being turned on, and the squeak of the curtain being pulled back.

  Now. This is my chance.

  He went over to the bed, where his doppelganger had thrown his clothes, picked up the jeans, and rooted around in the pocket. He pulled out the car keys, wondering for a moment what his other self would have done if he’d walked out that moment, and seen the key ring hovering motionless in mid-air. Then he carried them out of the room, went into the kitchen, opened a cabinet door, and deposited them inside an open box of Froot Loops.

  Then he returned to the sofa to wait.

  Ten minutes later, a freshly-washed Darren came out, wearing a clean pair of boxers and pulling on a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt—the same set of clothes he had been wearing on his arrival at the Library, he noticed with a shudder. The ones he still wore. He picked up the jeans from the bed, gave them a superficial look and evidently decided they were clean enough, and donned them as well. He walked to the phone, selected a menu from a tattered stack between the phone and the wall, and after a moment’s perusal, dialed.

  “Hello?... yes, I’d like to place an order for pickup… Darren… 387-9806… Yes, I’d like the Golden Dragon Platter… let’s see… a side of yellowtail sashimi… and two cups of miso soup… Yes, that’s it… Well, as soon as you can… Okay, I’ll be there in a half-hour. Thanks.”

  He hung up and reached for his jacket. Then a frown crossed his face. He reached into his pants pocket, and the frown deepened. He checked his jacket pockets, then went into the bedroom and looked on, then under, the bed.

  Here’s where the two timelines diverged. He had no memory of this happening. And of course, he wouldn’t. He belonged to the other time line, the one where he went to Lee’s apartment and got shot in the head.

  There followed a rather random wandering around the apartment. He pulled back sofa cushions, the down comforter and pillows, looked under the recliner and kitchen table and end table. He gradually became more agitated, and began talking to himself.

  “I know I had them when I came in… otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to unlock the door… I don’t think I set them down anywhere, I just put them back in my pocket because I knew I’d be leaving…”

  He did not, fortunately, think to look in the box of Froot Loops.

  A half-hour later, frustrated and irritated, he called Sumo to tell them he wouldn’t be in to pick up the sushi. They were clearly annoyed.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. But I’ve lost my car keys and I don’t have any way to get there. You’ll have to sell it to someone else. Someone’s bound to order that tonight, right? I can’t do anything about this.”

  They apparently accepted this with some reluctance, and he hung up with a loud snort.

  Afterwards, he called Lee.

  “Hey, dude,” he said, “I’m gonna have to take a rain check on our dinner tonight. I’ve lost my car keys… yeah, seriously. I had them when I came home, and now they’ve evaporated… No, look, I’ve already cancelled the sushi and they were pissed off about it. I should have thought to tell them that, but I didn’t, and honestly, I’m feeling irritated and not much like visiting. I hate losing things, and I have to find them, or I’ll have to take the bus to work tomorrow, and I’d really rather not do that. So can we do it another night…? Okay, thanks… Sorry.”

  He hung up, frowning a little.

  He gave a perfunctory effort to further searching—which, of course, turned up nothing—and finally gave up and plunked down onto the sofa.

  And the minutes ticked toward 7:30.

  Darren-the-Observer went over and stood in the middle of the living room in front of his other self, who had picked up a Time magazine and was idly leafing through it. And at 7:34 and 5 seconds, Saturday, March 12, 2016, for one fleeting moment the two Darrens saw each other, and two pairs of identical eyes flew open wide in astonishment.

  Then there was a snapping noise, like an overstretched rubber band breaking, and the two of them were thrown toward each other. There was a confused, jumbled second during which two brains with different experiences intersected, fused, questioned, and finally integrated.

  Then he opened his eyes. He was sitting on the couch. The magazine was face down on the floor. The seconds ticked past and then away from 7:34 and 5 seconds Pacific Standard Time, and nothing happened.

  And he stood, went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet, and from a half-empty box of Froot Loops retrieved his missing keys.

  Part 5: Accidents and Corrections

  Darren stood in the kitchen for a moment, feeling like a deer facing a hunter. It couldn’t be over. Just like that? He stood, completely still, for about five minutes, waiting for something to happen, but around him his apartment was as calm and quiet and ordinary as ever. He had a peculiar sensation of remembering two separate versions of
the previous five minutes—he could distinctly recall looking for his keys, but he could equally distinctly recall watching himself look for his keys. He gave a little shake of his head, as if to clear the fog, and then willed himself to think about something else, and the sensation faded. He was back to being himself, one person, plain Darren Ault the bookstore owner.

  But before he could think of what he should do next, there were two things he had to check. Neither of them were really that critical, given that he had bigger things to think about, such as how to keep Lee from killing him the next time they met, and wiping out the human race again. But still, curiosity makes powerful demands, and before he could settle his mind into how to prevent another catastrophe, he had to have the answers to two questions.

  He went over to the dinner table, and looked at the chair where he’d thrown Fischer’s windbreaker.

  It was gone.

  He smiled. Things were being righted. The windbreaker certainly didn’t belong here. Perhaps it had gone back to the Library, or maybe it had just vanished. Whatever obscure Law of Conservation of Stuff governed objects from the Library had probably pulled the jacket out of this time line and sent it back where it belonged.

  He returned to the living room, and walked up to the bookshelf. His grandmother’s wooden box was still in its accustomed place on the shelf. He reached inside his t-shirt, and there, hanging from a slender chain, was the key Per Olafsson had made 650 years ago. He pulled the chain over his head, and with a strange feeling of trepidation fitted the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, the bolt shooting back with a soft snick.

  He lifted the lid, and removed the knick-knacks, smiling as he recalled Per’s amusement at the term, setting them on the shelf next to the box. Then he reached in, and pushed on the bottom of the box to slide it over and open the secret compartment he had never dreamed existed.

  The mechanism was stuck. Who knew how long it had been since it had been opened? Had anyone since Per Olafsson’s time known that there was a way to open the bottom of the box? It was impossible to tell.

  Finally, with a little crunching noise, the false bottom came free, and the base plate slid to the side. He tipped the box over. The thin wooden sheet swung on its hinges, creaking slightly, and two slips of paper fluttered out and landed on the floor. Both were yellowed with age, and looked fragile, as if rough handling might crumble them to dust.

  He picked them up, and opened the first. It had a brief message, in dark, blocky letters, written with a rough charcoal pencil:

  DAREN KARLSSON Takk Per O.

  Darren smiled. His maternal grandfather was from Denmark. He knew enough of Scandinavian languages to understand. Per Olafsson, using his peculiar second sight, had sent him a message down through the centuries—even though in this timeline he and Per had never met.

  The silversmith was an odd, odd man. He gently set the first piece of paper down on the bookshelf. But he hoped that whatever happened to Per in the end, it wasn’t burning to death in his own workshop. He hoped Per found his lover, and they had their children, and all was as it should have been. Since Per had thanked him, it must be something like that, but he probably would never know for sure.

  He opened the second piece of paper. This one was in a modern, rather scrawly handwriting. It read,

  Yo, Ault! Awesome job. I never doubted you for a moment. But I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that what you did fixed the divergence, the human race is back safe and sound, and Maggie and I aren’t going to be fired. The bad news is we’re going to need you back in the Library in about an hour or so, which will give you just enough time to… well, to finish up. You’ll see. And we’ve got a surprise for you here, once you’re done, which (if you don’t fuck things up tonight) will make the bad news into good news.

  Sorry for being ambiguous, but Maggie tells me I can’t give you any hints, because that would influence what you do, and you know that’s against the rules.

  Anyhow. Good luck with stuff.

  See you soon.

  Fischer

  He was rereading the note for the third time when the telephone rang.

  He set the note down on his bookshelf, next to the box, and went to pick up the telephone.

  “Hello?”

  “Darren?” came Lee’s voice.

  His heart gave an unsteady little jump. “Yes?”

  “I… I need to talk to you. I was hoping that we would talk at dinner, but I can’t…” He stumbled, stopped. His voice was ragged.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. It’s important that I see you in person.”

  How will I deal with this? Should I tell him that I know what he’s seen, and then tell him that I’m not planning on killing Sherry? Or would that freak him out worse?

  Stall for time. Think, think…

  “I don’t know, Lee. I lost my car keys.”

  “I know. You told me. But I could pick you up.”

  “And go where?”

  A pause. “To my lab. I need to show you something.”

  Of course. Something he’d already seen.

  “How does your lab have anything to do with me?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

  “You have to see for yourself.”

  Okay. Fischer said I had to finish things up tonight. I guess this is it. I have to trust him that I can make things turn out all right.

  He took a deep breath. “Okay. Come pick me up, then.”

  There was a brief pause, as if Lee was trying to decide if there was more to what Darren had said than what appeared on the surface. Then he said, “Good. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  • • •

  Darren spent the next twenty minutes trying to keep from panicking. What would happen if Lee shot him again? Would he be thrown back to the Library? Or this time, would he simply die? How could he convince Lee he wasn’t a threat to anyone, least of all Sherry Christensen?

  He went down to the foyer, and watched for Lee’s little silver Audi to pull up. Which it did, right on schedule. He went outside, and heard the door click shut and lock behind him with a stark finality. Would this be the last time he’d ever see his apartment? No one ever thinks of that. Any time someone sets foot away from home could be the last time, and no one even considers it.

  Lee watched him walk up, his face inscrutable.

  Darren let himself into the passenger side. “How’s it going, Lee?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You seem like you’re on edge. You need a vacation, dude. I’m worried about you.”

  Lee laughed mirthlessly. “Sherry said the same thing about me on the phone, not ten minutes ago.”

  He looked at Lee sidelong. “What did you tell her?”

  “That I’m at a point right now that I can’t simply let it drop.”

  The rest of the ride proceeded without either man speaking. The only noises were the swish of the windshield wipers, the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement, the sound of cars passing.

  Lee pulled into the empty parking lot of the Physics/Astronomy Building, and then turned, frowning, as a second car followed. It was a trim little red Mazda. Lee stared, gave a strangled cry of anguish, and his grip tightened until his knuckles were white.

  The Mazda pulled up next to Lee’s car. The door opened, and Sherry Christensen stepped out.

  Lee’s head drooped until his forehead almost touched the steering wheel. Then he looked back up, glancing momentarily toward Darren—who had never seen anyone look so completely despairing—and then let go of the steering wheel, opened the door, and climbed out to meet Sherry.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said with a smile.

  Lee looked up at her, and said, in a weary voice, “Sherry… what are you doing here?”

  “When I talked to you, you sounded so exhausted… I was worried about you. So I thought I would meet you here, and maybe I could keep you company while you worked, and then… afterwards, w
e could go out for drinks or something.”

  Darren stepped out of the car. They were on a collision course. His heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribcage. It was fated to happen. How could he prevent what was inevitable?

  “Hi, Sherry,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Oh, hi, Darren!” she said, her voice light and friendly. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I guess it’s a party?”

  Lee looked from one of them to the other, and seemed to come to a conclusion that made his broad shoulders sag, but a grim set came into his jaw. “I guess… I guess you both need to see this.”

  He turned and walked off toward the building, not bothering to lock his car.

  Darren glanced at Sherry to find her looking back, her eyes questioning. Do you know what this is about? she seemed to be asking, and he gave a helpless little shrug.

  Lee unlocked the door with his card key, held it for Sherry and Darren, and then led them up the stairs to his lab. An eerie sense of déjà vu came over Darren. He’d done this, not twenty-four hours earlier, but at that time unseen and unheard.

  Into the spotless lab, past tables with towers of equipment, toward one specific device near the back of the room. Lee sat down at the controls. The machine was activated, the dials turned, and with a static crackle the screen came to life. And again, just as the previous night, the figures moved together, swirling and merging, vague at first and then clarifying, becoming recognizable.

  A gasp sounded behind him, as Sherry recognized the three faces.

  “What…” she said. “What are they doing? What is this showing?”

  “Just watch.” Lee’s voice was tight.

  And as before, the figures on the screen wrestled, Sherry’s image backing away until she recoiled and collapsed, a darkening stain on her shirt, and Darren turned toward her, still holding the gun.