Rewind

by Carolyn O'Doherty

  “Come in.”

  The room is small, made even smaller by a large wooden desk, its surface crowded with stacks of paper and random trophies, most of them broken. Two men are crammed in with the furniture: one sitting behind the desk and the other in a chair directly to my left. The guy next to me is wearing a black tracksuit and has very short hair. I can’t see his face because he’s bent over an expensive looking cell phone, jabbing at the screen with a thick thumb. The man at the desk is balding, overweight, and wears a wrinkled button-down shirt. He looks as downtrodden as the woman in the front room, with unwashed hair and sagging jowls.

  “Mr. Sidell?” I ask the man at the desk.

  He nods. “You’re Alexandra.”

  My uneasiness grows from a trickle to a steady flow. What difference does it make what my name is? I’m just the gopher Dr. Barnard sent to pick up a plaque.

  I wipe my hand on my pant leg, a useless effort given they’re equally wet.

  “You have a plaque for me?” I say.

  Mr. Sidell’s eyes move from the wet strings of my hair to the small puddle I’m dripping onto his floor. His face wears a curious expression, a mix between eagerness and anxiety that seems wildly inappropriate for our transaction. My skin prickles.

  “I have a few questions for you.” Mr. Sidell points to a chair.

  I rub my arms. The office is unheated and manages to feel both stuffy and cold. My wet jacket does nothing to add any warmth.

  “I don’t really have time,” I say. “I have to get back.”

  Footsteps sound behind me. I spin around in time to see a big guy ducking his head as he enters the room. He’s young and clean-shaven, wearing a tight shirt that shows off the many hours he must spend working out. He reeks of cologne. Gym Guy gives me a quick appraisal, then shuts the door and leans against it. My heart flutters up to my throat and starts beating very fast. In the moment he raised his arm to close the door, I got a clear view of a gun holstered under one of Gym Guy’s well-muscled arms.

  I turn to Mr. Sidell.

  “If the plaque isn’t ready, I could come back later.”

  Even as I say the words, I realize how idiotic I sound. It’s pretty clear by now that whoever tricked Barnard into sending me here was motivated by something that had nothing to do with plaques.

  Gym Guy’s arrival seems to have bolstered Sidell’s confidence. He straightens in his chair. “You work with Carson Ross.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. My uneasiness is now completely drowned under a tidal wave of anxiety. My brain whips through a thousand scenarios where this question might make sense, none of them reassuring. Gym Guy’s presence looms behind me.

  Sidell links his fingers and places them on the desk. “I’d like you to tell me about a job you two did together.”

  “A mission I went on with Mr. Ross?” I cross my arms. I’m hoping this makes me look confident, though my real intention is to keep my body from shaking. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because the police arrested the wrong man.”

  My fingers clench. I run my mind back over the missions Ross and I have been on in the last few months. There must have been dozens, half of which ended in someone’s arrest. I lick my lips.

  “I don’t have anything to do with the arrest side of things. All I do is rewind the event. If you have a question about an arrest you need to talk to the cops.”

  Sidell leans his forearms on the desk. Drops of sweat are collecting in the creases of his skin above his collar. I try not to stare at them.

  “I have talked to the cops,” he says. “And Officer Cannon here agrees that what was written up in Carson Ross’s report has some errors.”

  Sidell gestures to the man sitting beside me. I’d almost forgotten there was a third person in the room. I turn my head with a sense of foreboding. The man has lifted his head and even then at first I don’t recognize him. Then the word “officer” clicks into place and I realize he’s the cop with the red hair and squashed nose I saw at the butcher shop. The breath catches in my throat. This means the arrest that Sidell is talking about is the arrest of Karl Wagner. The man who works with Sikes.

  Heat climbs up my cheeks. The stink of Gym Guy’s cologne seems to be getting stronger. I’m intensely aware of how crowded this room is, and how very much smaller I am than any of the men inside it. If I screamed would anyone hear me? I picture the sparsely filled parking lot and the loud yelps from the howling dogs, and hope gutters out. No one is coming to rescue me.

  Sidell is watching me intently.

  “According to Officer Cannon, you said some interesting things when you came out of the freeze. Something about not being able to hold time, about being sorry.” He leaned closer. “In fact, you told Agent Ross you messed up.”

  A bead of sweat slides along my rib cage. The only windows in the room are set high up above Sidell’s desk. Both are small, like those in a basement. They’re also barred and opaque with grime. I lick my lips again. My tongue feels dry.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Look.” Sidell sounds strained. “I’m just trying to find out the truth here.”

  “Why?” The cold from the unheated room seeps into my bones. I wrap my arms more tightly across my chest. “What does Jason Torino’s murder have to do with you?”

  Sidell’s shoulders droop. The eyes that meet mine turn pleading.

  “Karl Wagner is my son.”

  I open my mouth and find no words. I’ve never met a relative of someone we’ve arrested. I only see the crimes, grisly acts committed by isolated humans. They are criminals, not someone’s family, not someone who might be loved.

  “He’s my son,” Sidell repeats. “And you and Ross framed him.”

  “We didn’t,” I croak. “Mr. Ross saw him enter the room.”

  “He can’t have.” Sidell leans forward. “Karl was home with me all that night. Carson Ross lied. You have to help me. You’re the only one who can.”

  Memory floods my brain: Jason’s body flickering on the ground, blood seeping back into the wound, the jolt as the unraveling slipped. What if Sidell is telling the truth? I never saw anyone and Ross could have caught only the briefest glimpse of the killer. What if he ID’d the wrong guy? I shake my head, denying Sidell’s words as much as my ability to help.

  “I can’t.” I make an effort to keep my voice steady. “I don’t remember. I got sick that night. You have to ask Mr. Ross.”

  “Agent Ross is not the type to say he made a mistake on a high-profile case.”

  Sidell’s hands are lying on the table. They are old-man hands, the skin mottled, the knuckles thick. I wonder how many times those fingers touched his son’s hair. How many tears they wiped away. How many skinned knees they bandaged. Then I remember Jason and the gaping wound flapping in his neck.

  “It has to be you,” Sidell is saying. “You have to tell the police that you never saw Karl in the rewind. Please, I’m begging you. Tell them Ross isn’t credible. Tell them he lied.”

  I tear my gaze away from the pleading fingers. This man is a father. These could all be lies to protect his son. I don’t know him. I do know Ross. Ross would never frame an innocent man.

  “I can’t,” I say again. “I’m sorry.”

  Sidell lowers his head. To my horror, I see tears leaking into the lines around his eyes.

  “Jim,” says Officer Cannon, getting up from his chair and putting an arm around Sidell. “It’s OK, buddy. Calm down. We got a backup plan, remember?” He cocks his head toward the door. “We tried your way. Now we’ve got Buck here for Plan B.”

  14

  GYM GUY SHIFTS AGAINST THE DOOR. EVEN THE WAY he moves sounds muscle-bound. Another bead of sweat slides along my ribs, its path as cold as the rain matting my hair.

  Officer Cannon comes around to perch on the edge of the desk.

  “I think you can tell that my friend here is pretty upset. Your type doesn’t have families. I warned him you might not under
stand how a father would feel in this situation.”

  He smiles at me, a thin-lipped grimace offering no more warmth than the unheated room.

  “We’ll try this the nice way one more time. Tell us everything you remember about that night.”

  I can no longer stop my body from shaking. Sidell may be doing this because he’s Karl’s father, but I’m convinced these other men were hired by Sikes, a man who has his own reasons for keeping Karl off the witness stand. The fact that one of them is a cop doesn’t surprise me. Ross has always speculated that Sikes has inside help.

  “I already told you,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice level. “I don’t remember much. I got sick.”

  “But you saw the murderer?”

  I swallow. “I passed out.”

  “So how could Ross have seen him?”

  A flare of anger overshadows the fear rattling my body. These men are nothing but thugs—the kind of people it is my job to put in jail. I won’t let them use me to discredit the only man who has ever stood up for me. I square my shoulders.

  “I said I passed out, not Mr. Ross.”

  Cannon’s eyes narrow and I grab on to the tiny hesitation. Surely these men are bluffing. No one here is actually going to hurt me.

  I take a step back. Gym Guy—Buck’s—hand lands on my shoulder like a sack of lead. The weight bows my knees.

  “This will all go much easier for you,” Cannon says, “if you tell us the truth.”

  Buck’s hand tightens hard enough to make me aware of how little padding protects my clavicle. I twist out from under his meaty paw.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I say. “Even if I contradicted Mr. Ross no one would believe me. If you haven’t noticed, spinners aren’t very popular with most people.”

  Cannon’s cold smile widens. “Some people are not as fond of Mr. Ross as you seem to be. They would be happy to champion anyone who discredited him. You have nothing to be afraid of. Mr. Ross can’t hurt you if you’re under our protection.”

  “Mr. Ross would never hurt me,” I say. “It’s your boss who’s the killer.”

  A bubble of silence expands into the room. Sidell shoots a nervous look at Cannon, who has lost his false cheer. I push my advantage, giddy in the knowledge that my guess was right.

  “He thinks he’s safe, doesn’t he?” I taunt. “Why don’t you tell him that Ross and I are on to him. I expect it will only be a matter of days before Sikes gets arrested. Maybe if you turn on him before then, you can get a plea deal.”

  Sidell’s eyes go wide.

  Buck’s hand crashes back onto my shoulder. For the first time, he speaks, his voice low and gravelly:

  “I told you questioning her was a stupid idea. All she’s good for is as a warning to tell Ross to back off.”

  The flicker of bravado that has carried me through the last few minutes snuffs out. I claw at Buck’s fingers, trying to pry them off of me. He shifts his grip almost casually, wrapping his free arm across my chest to pin me against him. The gun bites into my shoulder blade. I kick at his shins. He’s holding me so close the blow lacks force.

  Officer Cannon lifts his palms in a well-I-tried gesture.

  “I guess she’s all yours, then,” he says to Buck. “Make sure you leave her body somewhere Ross will find it. Eventually.”

  The room spins. Dimly, I hear Sidell protesting, something about someone knowing I’m at his shop.

  “Well, he’s hardly likely to tell anyone that, is he?” Cannon snaps.

  I hear the door swing open and Buck starts pulling me away.

  “No!” I scream. “Let me go. Help!”

  The shock of Cannon’s hand across my cheek stops my words. I close my mouth and taste blood. Sidell drops his face into his hands.

  “Please,” I beg him. “Don’t let them do this. I told you what I know. How can hurting me help your son?”

  Sidell’s shoulders start shaking, but any sympathy I had for him is gone. Buck drags me from the room. My wet shoes scrabble uselessly against the concrete floor. I reach out for time, and the leash yanks the power away from me with a jolt that hurts almost as much as Cannon’s slap. I scream again. Buck shakes me so hard my ear slams against my own shoulder.

  “Shut up,” he growls.

  He hauls me out into the workroom. I’m breathing in jagged gasps, unable to fill my lungs. Cannon and Sidell edge past us, heading toward an exit in the back of the room. The woman who let me in is nowhere in sight.

  Buck pulls a tarp from a shelf with one hand and drops it on the ground. I thrash, kicking at every piece of him I can reach. My legs feel weak, their thrusts without impact. The air shimmers with the electric sparks of my terror. I find skin and sink my nails into it. Buck swears and adjusts his grip. His fingers grab the leash, smashing the hard edges against my bone. I moan. Buck rips my sleeve back, exposing the band. The metal gleams in the overhead light, its CIC logo a dark etching in its center.

  “What’s this?” he demands.

  Tears clog my throat. Buck is going to kill me. He’s going to wrap me up in this tarp and dump me somewhere so far away no one will find me until it is way too late.

  “I said, what’s that?” Buck repeats, shaking me to make his point.

  “A leash,” I sob.

  My vision blurs, blending the blue plastic into the dusty floor. Is this the last thing I’ll ever see? I try to call up images of the people I care about: KJ, Ross, even Yolly, but all I can picture is Buck’s gun.

  Buck slaps me. “What’s it do?”

  I blink. The world snaps back into focus: Buck doesn’t know what a leash is.

  “It’s how they track us,” I say.

  Buck’s eyes narrow. “I thought you had implants?”

  “Those only monitor our freezes.” I sniffle. “That’s why we wear these when we leave the Center.”

  Buck’s gaze moves from my arm to my face, searching for truth. Tears wet my cheeks. Snot leaks from my nose.

  “They won’t find you this time.” Buck’s grip tightens again around my arm. He yanks me toward the workbench, searching one-handed through drawers of tools until his fingers close on a pair of metal cutters. The unsparing light gleams against the sharp blade.

  New fears pile on top of the mountain already threatening to overwhelm me. I don’t have to pretend that I think this is a really bad idea. Buck slams my arm on the workbench, holding it steady while he forces the metal cutter under the leash. I scream. The jaws of the cutter close around the band. It doesn’t break. Buck swears again. He twists the blade to try another angle, and when he does, the sharp tip gouges my wrist. Pain sears my skin like a brand. My screams dissolve into sobs. Crimson wells up from the gash, splattering onto the bench and floor. Buck works the cutter, each press of his hand making the slice in my arm vomit up another gush of blood. It feels like he’s stabbing me over and over and over. Dots careen across my vision. I clutch at the workbench with my free hand. The leash’s band bends upwards.

  Release comes suddenly. Buck’s arm flies up from the abrupt lack of resistance, nearly stabbing himself in the mouth. He snatches up the battered leash and tosses it onto the workbench.

  “It’s into the river with you,” he mutters to the twisted remains.

  Clarity slices through the fog in my head as the leash’s buzz recedes. For a moment we both stand there, panting.

  “Come on.” Buck, still holding my arm, drags me toward the tarp. I force myself to ignore the ache in my wrist and just breathe. Once. Twice. Buck shoves me to the ground and reaches for his gun. I wait only until I am absolutely sure Buck isn’t touching me before reaching out and freezing time.

  Silence—perfect, absolute silence—descends. I’m shaking so violently I can’t stand up so I scoot myself away. Buck remains bent over the tarp, one hand frozen over the clasp that will release the gun. Even from here I can smell the mix of mold and paint thinner emanating from the tarp.

  I use the wall to pull myself onto to my feet. When
I melt time it will seem to Buck as if I’ve vanished into thin air. I picture his shout of surprise, the others coming back, their confusion and anger. Their first call will be to Sikes, which means that within minutes of real time Sikes will know what I’ve done, and know the kind of power I control. What will someone like Sikes do next? Will he tell someone? Or will he try even harder to get rid of me?

  Fear gives me the strength to keep moving. I have to get back to the Center. The Center, with its locked doors and twenty-four-hour security is the one place that can keep out Sikes. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. My whole body feels tender: my jaw aching from Cannon’s slap, my muscles strained from the struggle to free myself, and my arm … I look down. The gash across my wrist is about an inch long and deep enough that it probably needs stitches. Fresh blood trickles steadily along my arm, leaving red drops on the concrete floor.

  I strip off my jacket and rip off the torn arm to make an improvised bandage before staggering for the exit. Rain hangs in the air outside. I dash through it, dodging the scattering of frozen people. I’m holding on to time so tightly it feels like I’m gripping strands of steel. The image of Buck and his gun keeps popping into my head, and every time it does, I wobble and nearly crash into unmoving pedestrians. The third time this happens I move onto the street. Stalled cars are less likely to be affected by a bump than stationary people.

  The stone walls of the Center rise into view a block before I reach them. I run faster. My foot is on the first step before I realize I can’t just melt time and appear at the Sick’s front door. Too many potential witnesses crowd the streets, not to mention the Center’s video surveillance. I scan my surroundings, settling on a dumpster-filled alley a half block away. I search the narrow space to make sure it isn’t already occupied, then crouch down, out of sight, and let time go.

  Returning sound blasts my ears: squealing brakes, a rattling bicycle, chattering voices. After gripping the time strands so tightly for so long, the release makes me woozy and I have to grab the dumpster to keep from falling over.

  A woman gasps when I step out onto the sidewalk. The window behind her reflects something out of a zombie movie. Strips of mangled windbreaker hang from my arm. My hair sticks to my face and neck in sopping strands. Blood stripes my left hand and leaves splatters on my shirt.