Paradox Bound

by Peter Clines

  “Where?” snapped the man.

  “Bosst,” said Eli. Fear pushed the sounds out of his mouth.

  The man relaxed his grip. “Boston?”

  Eli took a deep breath. Almost a third of it squeezed through his windpipe. He gave a weak nod.

  “Where in Boston?”

  “She didn’t say,” Eli lied. “She just said Boston.”

  The faceless man leaned in even closer. Eli could see pores across the space where there should’ve been eyes. “When?” whispered the man.

  Eli tried to look away and his gaze fell on the calendar pinned to the wall of his cubicle. It was a charity thing he’d bought to support a school’s drama club or something. Kids a few years younger than him dressed in period New England clothes. He focused on Friday, then looked back at the man.

  The man’s lack of face turned to the calendar. “Friday,” he said.

  The faceless man released Eli’s throat and straightened up. He brushed a few wrinkles out of his vintage suit. One hand went up and adjusted his tie, then his mask.

  Eli filled his lungs. He could still hear voices up front. His coworkers grumbling about the computers. Bill answering questions and calming customers like a good assistant manager should.

  The man pulled a small phone from his pocket. It was black and glossy with chrome trim. He pressed a button and held it up to his head. “Hello,” he told the phone. “This is Fifteen. Yes, my target has been located. Yes. Thank you.” The phone went back into his pocket.

  “What are you going to—”

  “Do not leave town,” said the faceless man. “Do not attempt to contact the fugitive. If she attempts to contact you, report it immediately to your local law enforcement—it’ll be transferred to us.” The mask stared at him. “There will be severe consequences if you violate any of these instructions. Thank you for your cooperation.” The man reached up, adjusted his tie again, and took two steps backward out of the cubicle. He turned his blank eye sockets to the group at the front of the bank, then swiveled around and took four long strides toward the emergency exit.

  Eli heard the clunk of the door’s release bar. No alarm went off.

  He stood up and saw the faceless man lower himself into a large black car. A show-car-condition 1952 Hudson Hornet. It looked powerful and fast standing still. Like it was waiting to pounce.

  The Hornet started up with a growl that shook the bank’s windows. It kicked into gear, swung around, and roared out of the parking lot. Brakes squealed as it cut off half a dozen cars. One man with a little girl bellowed after the car, but it was already on the road and gone.

  Eli needed to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if it was to piss or throw up, but either way he figured it was better to be somewhere without carpet when it happened. He marched to the tellers’ gate, slid his key card, and then ran.

  As it turned out, he just needed to piss, but he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the cold tile anyway. He washed up and looked at himself in the mirror. Sweat soaked his shirt. His eyes were wide. A faint bruise wrapped around his throat, just above his collar.

  He looked weak.

  Eli pulled his tie loose and headed back to his cubicle. He grabbed his coat and his all-but-empty briefcase and walked over to Bill. The assistant manager was readjusting the blinds. “I need the next two days off,” said Eli.

  “Why.”

  “Something’s come up. It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need to meet someone in Boston.”

  5

  Eli woke up in a cheap hotel bed twice the size of his at home. The sheets were stiff, and the pillow was overstuffed, but it felt luxurious. He felt pretty sure the trip to Boston was one of the dumbest things he’d ever done, so it was good to start the day on a positive.

  He checked out of the hotel by eight and the woman at the desk suggested a parking garage on State Street. He moved his car, tried not to panic too much at the garage’s day rates, and walked to Faneuil Hall.

  Eli’s last time at Quincy Market had been almost ten years ago, just before graduating high school. The all-pedestrian area—two broad walkways north and south of the main market building—had felt very exotic and European up against his small-town experiences. It still did. He stood and stared at the brick walkways and the colored awnings and the bubble-like streetlamps as dozens of people moved around him. Most of the restaurants and shops wouldn’t open for another hour, when the crowds would only get bigger.

  He walked down South Market, looped around the big plaza at the end with the Gap and American Eagle stores, then headed back along North Market. He looked up at Faneuil Hall as he walked past it and started down the south side again. A few people walked out with stacks of chairs and sandwich signs.

  More people drifted into the marketplace. Men, women, teenagers. A few men and women spread out blankets on the walkway that led to Commercial Street and displayed just enough wares to not be hassled for it.

  Eli watched every face he passed and studied every distant coat.

  A bright yellow-and-green booth, not much more than a pushcart, sat halfway down North Market. Its sign said TROLLEY TOURS. The woman inside was a few years younger than Eli, with short, colorful hair and horn-rimmed glasses. White earphones hung on each side of her head as she stared at something below the counter.

  “Hi,” said Eli. “This is probably a long shot, but…could you help me out?”

  “I can try,” she replied without looking up. Barely into her day and bored.

  “I’m looking for someone selling…information.”

  She glanced up at him. Her mouth wrinkled. “You mean like a bookstore or something?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe someone in another booth or a pushcart?”

  She shook her head, shrugged, and her gaze settled back to whatever was below the counter. “There’s Newbury Comics and Teeny Billboards. I think the Best of Boston store has a couple of books too.”

  “I don’t think it’s books,” he said.

  Her focus didn’t shift back to him. “Sorry. That’s all I’ve got.”

  Eli walked around the area again, then cut through the market itself. Another trolley stand sat between the Gap, some pushcarts, and three of the blanket vendors. The crowds thickened, making it harder for him to see anyone more than twenty or thirty feet away. The forest blocking his view of the trees.

  It also didn’t help that there were a dozen or so people in period dress wandering around Faneuil Hall by eleven o’clock. Various performers and reenactors who’d all come to the market for lunch. At least four of them wore blue frock coats. Eli leaped toward the first two, but managed to stop himself before he did anything that earned him far too much attention.

  There were also a fair number of people in dark suits. Many with hats. Hats seemed to be making a comeback. His pulse surged twice as he tried to remember if the faceless man had hair or not. Both times a slight turn or shift of the head would reveal lips that moved or eyes that blinked. Eli kept watch, but felt pretty sure the faceless man would attract a lot of attention and wouldn’t be able to sneak up on anyone.

  By eleven thirty worry gnawed at him. It crossed his mind Harry might not even be wearing her colonial clothes. Sure, she’d worn them the times he’d met her before, but it hardly meant she wore them all the time. Would he recognize her in a leather jacket and skirt, or a UMass sweatshirt and jeans? What if her hair was down and loose? Or piled up under a floppy hat?

  He brushed the thoughts aside. He’d know her. And she’d know him.

  The man at Teeny Billboards had nothing for him. The woman at Newbury Comics told him about the cool new Machine Man graphic novel, also available in digital for the tablet Eli didn’t own. The Best of Boston store, it turned out, only had books during the holiday season, but the salesman seemed pretty sure he could order one for Eli and have it within two weeks.

  Eleven forty became eleven forty-five. Eli paced back and fo
rth through the marketplace, past various shops selling coffee and Thai food and pastries and gourmet hot dogs. Another one of the reenactors passed him, a heavy man talking on a cell phone while he chewed through a bagel sandwich. His frock coat was the color of old leaves and rust.

  At eleven fifty-five Eli stood at the far end of the marketplace, a hallway intersection between a Japanese restaurant and a pretzel shop. The crowd surged around him, all desperate to squeeze in as much lunchtime as possible. A shoulder bumped his. A handbag hit his hip. He stretched up on his toes and tried to see to the far end of the hall. A dozen shades of blue stood out, but none of them the one he was looking for.

  He needed to look outside. North or south. He only had time for one before noon.

  He picked south.

  Eli marched past Victoria’s Secret and Urban Outfitters and a Samsonite store. His eyes flitted from person to person. Some met his gaze. Some glared. None of them were Harry.

  The old Faneuil Hall building loomed ahead. Crowds gathered to watch two different street performers. A man played pop music on an electric-blue violin. A woman passed five bowling-pin clubs back and forth through the air in a whirl of color.

  Noon approached, slid past him, and vanished into the crowd.

  Eli ran across to the north side of the market and speed-walked through the crowd. He passed more shops and a Tex-Mex restaurant and the trolley tours booth and countless people in a variety of outfits. He ended at the plaza. His eyes flitted down to his watch—12:07 p.m.

  His feet slogged across the red bricks, and the crowd swirled around him. Tourists. College students. Lawyers and bankers on lunch break.

  Eli looked at his watch again. Eleven past, now. He debated walking down South Market again. Maybe whatever transaction Harry had come for was still in progress. Maybe he just hadn’t seen her on his last pass.

  Maybe she’d already finished her business and was on her way.

  “Hey,” he said to one of the blanket salesmen. The man had half a dozen paintings spread out on the grass, the kind of generic things that graced the Stahlbank lobby and the hotel room Eli’d woken up in. “Have you been watching the crowd? I’ve been trying to find someone.”

  The man glared up from his current masterpiece. Paint covered his fingertips, and Eli realized the man wasn’t using a brush. “Does it look like I’ve been watching the crowd?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  The man snorted and lowered his eyes back to his painting.

  “Who you looking for?” called out a seasoned voice. “Man or woman?”

  A few yards away, between two benches, another salesman sat beneath a tree. A blue-and-gray baseball cap with a spider logo, smudged with years of use, shaded his eyes. A battered knapsack stretched behind him, and a small panel of slatted wood, maybe twice the size of a Help Wanted sign, balanced beneath his hand. It reminded Eli of an old window shutter, and he wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t one. A dozen necklaces and bracelets hung on the shutter, each one tagged with a little slip of white card on a string. The blanket under the man had been folded into more of a thick pad. Probably easier to scoop up too, if one of the wandering policemen approached to give him a hard time.

  “Woman,” said Eli. “About my age. Thin. Blond.”

  The salesman smiled. “Not much to go on.” He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a silver beard that was long but well managed. His limbs were thin without looking unhealthy. He wore five or six layers, starting with a Celtics T-shirt and building out to a black-and-white scarf that looked Middle Eastern to Eli’s inexperienced eyes. The man could’ve been a veteran of the first Gulf War. Maybe even the recent one. He looked like he’d been sitting there between the benches for a while.

  “Last time I saw her,” Eli said, to the air as much as to the man, “she was wearing colonial clothes.”

  The salesman grinned. “Reenactor? Woman after my own heart.” His fingers slipped between the necklaces and plucked at a few silver strands hanging on his board. His free hand gestured at the crowd. “Is she just wearing a cloak or a full dress and petticoat?”

  Eli pinballed between a desire not to be rude to the salesman, a mad urge to keep looking for Harry, and a swelling worry that he might be an idiot.

  He took one last look out at the crowd. Older women. Younger women. Indian, black, Asian, white. Tall and short. Thin and heavy. Blond, brunette, auburn, black, one bright green, and another with nothing but dark stubble across her scalp.

  None of them were Harry.

  “Actually,” said Eli, turning back to the salesman, “she wears a frock coat and a tricorn.”

  The salesman blinked. The edges of his expression shifted just enough for Eli to register it. “What color?”

  “Blue,” said Eli. “Classic colonial blue.” He shook his head and gave the panel of jewelry a final, polite gaze. “It all looks nice. Sorry to waste your time like this.”

  The salesman’s smile shifted a little more. The practiced, polite expression slipped away. The real one left in its place twisted closer to a smirk. “You talking about Harry?”

  Air rushed through Eli’s nose and into his chest. “What?”

  The old man’s smirk spread.

  “You know her? Harry Pritchard? Is she here?”

  “You just missed her. She blew through pretty quick.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. She was looking for me.” He held out a hand. “Theodoric Knickerbocker.”

  Eli took the hand automatically and shook it. “Sorry?”

  “My name,” the salesman said with a tug at the brim of his cap. “For friends and the better class of acquaintances, it’s just Theo. Knowing Harry bumps you right up.”

  “Thanks.” He shifted on his feet. “So you know where she’s going?”

  Theo pursed his lips and leaned toward Eli. “Maybe.”

  Eli waited. “Well?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m a businessman, kid. I don’t give anything away.”

  “She’s in danger.”

  “So you say. Harry can take care of herself.”

  They stared at each other.

  Eli broke first. “How much are we talking about?”

  “We all have our plans and secrets to keep,” said the salesman, “and Harry won’t like it if I’m giving out clues to where she’s going. Trust is worth something.”

  “How much?”

  “Let’s say…a hundred bucks.”

  “That’s not much to give up someone’s secrets and trust.”

  “If it’s not much, you shouldn’t have any trouble paying it.”

  Eli thought of the parking-lot fees again and sucked in his cheeks.

  “Fine.” Theo sighed. “How much cash d’you have on you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Cash. In your wallet and pockets. How much?”

  Eli did some quick math. “About thirty dollars, I think. I could get some more if there’s an ATM around here somewhere.”

  Theo shook his head. “Look at the jewelry, count to five, and then give me twenty-five.”

  “You’re selling her out for twenty-five dollars?”

  “I’m not selling her out, I’m just selling relevant information to a potential rival.”

  “I’m not her rival. I’m trying to help her.”

  “Well, in that case,” Theo said, “I don’t feel bad about selling you the information.”

  Eli sighed, looked at the board, and pulled out his wallet. He only had twenty-eight, it turned out. He’d need to hit the cash machine no matter what. He thought of Harry’s shrinking wad of Confederate currency. “Is this how much she paid?”

  “Harry’s a longtime customer and a friend. She gets special rates.”

  Eli plucked a handful of bills from his wallet and held them out. Theo extended two long fingers, clamped them across the bills, and folded the cash back into his palm. The h
and vanished into his pocket, then reappeared with the fingers spread wide. He reached across to the board and his fingers danced through the array of necklaces and bracelets. He selected a bracelet, glanced up at Eli, then moved on to the next one. A quick twist of his wrist freed it and he held it up.

  “Is this some sort of clue?” asked Eli, taking the bracelet. Small gears of brass and steel dangled from it like charms. “Is it a signal for someone?”

  “No, it’s a cheap bracelet,” said the salesman. “If I don’t give you something off the board, the cop over there is going to think I slipped you a dime bag or something. They’ll leave street vendors alone if we don’t give them a reason to bother us.”

  “Oh.”

  “You got a car?”

  Eli gestured toward the distant parking garage. “A couple blocks away, yeah.”

  “You should be able to catch her, then. She’s headed out to the left coast. Pasadena.”

  Eli sifted through the hundreds of city names in his head. “Pasadena…California? Where they do the Rose Bowl?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “On the other side of the country?”

  “That’s what all the maps say, yeah. She’s going to be there on Wednesday next week, four thirty-two in the afternoon.” Theo looked at his watch. “That’s almost exactly five days from now, with the time change. After that, though…” He shrugged. “Who knows where she’s headed from there.”

  “So, where in Pasadena is she going?”

  “She’ll be at the fork in the road.”

  Eli waited for more information. “Could you…maybe be a bit more specific?”

  “What, like an address or something?”

  “Yeah, or at least a cross-street or something.”

  “I don’t know. Go to Pasadena and ask somebody.”

  “Ask them…where the fork in the road is?”

  “Yeah. What am I, a tour guide?”

  Eli switched tactics. “What’s she looking for?”