Paradox Bound

by Peter Clines

“So it’s one of those towns you talked about? One of the ones that got stuck in time?”

  “It was,” she agreed. “The perfect slick spot. Then the gold rush dries up, the Transcontinental Railroad is finished, and history gets its teeth into the town again. So it’s a slick spot, but only during that twenty-year period. We had to go back to a point where we could get to this point.”

  Eli nodded slowly. “I think I get it.”

  Harry mashed her tricorne down on her head and gave him a once-over. “Your clothes should pass,” she told him. “Put the wristwatch in your pocket. Try to keep the cuffs of your pants over your shoes. Not wearing boots out here will attract attention.”

  He shoved the watch into his coat. “Anything else?”

  She looked him up and down. “That’ll do for now.”

  They headed into town. Trails of dark, slushy mud in the snow—and a few small piles Eli felt sure weren’t mud—helped mark off the road. Countless hooves and wagon wheels had pounded it more or less flat, but the mud froze in uneven ridges and furrows that could wrench an ankle.

  “How do you know?” asked Eli.

  “Know what?”

  “That we’re in 1853?”

  She turned around to face him and took a few steps backward. “Are you suddenly doubting again, Mr. Teague?”

  He shook his head. “I mean, how do you get us here? Or now, I guess. How do you get us exactly now and not in 1852 or ’54 or the middle of summer or something?”

  Harry shrugged. “Practice.”

  “You said it’s not the car. Eleanor’s just a regular Model A.”

  “She is. It’s just about knowing how and where to drive. When to brake, how to steer the wheel.”

  “But how?”

  Harry turned back to the road. “Do you know how to ride a bicycle?”

  “What?”

  “How to ride a bicycle.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “How do you do it? How do you balance? How do you steer without tipping over?”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, then sighed. “Practice.”

  “Exactly.”

  They trudged toward the distant buildings. The air nipped at Eli’s face and seeped into his clothes. His coat kept out the worst of it, and a few drafts slinked down to pool in his shoes. He paused after ten minutes to stamp his feet again and felt vindicated when Harry stamped hers too.

  “Are you looking for another clue here?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Is it hidden in town?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “It, Mr. Teague?”

  “The clue.”

  “We’re looking for a man,” she said, “not a treasure map.”

  “Ahhh.” He rubbed his hands against his sides to warm them, then shoved them back into his coat pockets.

  Harry reached up and tugged the point of her tricorne to the left. The slanted shadow across her face shifted to keep the sun out of her eyes. Her hand slipped back inside her cloak.

  “That’s a neat trick,” said Eli.

  She glanced at him, then up at the folded brim. “Learned it from a sharpshooter in 1802,” she said. “You could use his hat for a sundial.”

  Eli chuckled. “So, this guy we’re looking for. Do you have a name or a description or something?”

  “His name is Gregson Edgar Russk,” she said. “He’s a somewhat successful prospector. He has black hair, a big bushy beard, and one of his front teeth is broken. He’s spending most of his time in two different saloons, drinking and…”

  She kicked at a rock jutting from the snow. It flipped over twice as it slid through the muck, then came to rest. They walked past it.

  Eli cleared his throat. “Drinking and…?”

  “Let’s just say he’s been alone for some time. And now he isn’t. On a regular basis.”

  “Ahhh,” said Eli. “Got it. That all sounds pretty specific. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him.”

  Harry snorted. “Here and now, not so much.” She waved her arm behind them, then forward at the town. “This is the California trail. It starts here in Independence and leads almost every settler and prospector out to gold territory or back here to proper civilization.”

  They walked on for another few minutes. He glanced back down the road, but couldn’t see the trees where they’d hidden the car. On a guess, they were more than halfway to town. He rubbed his knuckles against his chest before burying them in his pockets. “So what do we need to talk to, uh, Greg Edward—”

  “Gregson Edgar Russk.”

  “Right. What do we need to talk to him about?”

  “Same thing as always,” she said. “About a dream.” She reached up and tugged her scarf higher, covering her nose and mouth.

  “What makes you think the dream would be here?”

  “Oh, I don’t think it is,” said Harry. “I think he was influenced by the dream before he struck out on his journey. It’s what put him on the right path.”

  “Okay. Kind of makes sense.”

  “So we need to find out when he got on that path. Theo told me he struck it rich out in California and I backtracked him to here.”

  “And then from here to…the dream?”

  “Perhaps. That’s the hope.”

  “Is this what all the searchers do? Hunt for clues?”

  “More or less. We each have our own methods and strategies.”

  Eli stopped to stamp his feet two more times, and also held his hands over his mouth to blow warm air on the palms and back onto his nose. A breeze slid through his jeans and set off a shiver that worked its way into his thighs. “So how’d Theo know about him? Russk?”

  “His specialty is—was—information and rumors about the dream. That’s why I met him in Boston.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  He shrugged. “I thought he sent you to Pasadena.”

  She shook her head. “That was a personal matter. Just a message he passed on. I’d backtracked my leads to Mr. Russk, and Theo found some useful background material for me.”

  “How?”

  “Keeping his ears open. Asking questions. Calling in the odd favor when and where. Theo had friends and informants all over.”

  As they reached the first buildings of town, a man appeared on a horse. A thick overcoat draped over his shoulders, and a hat of gray fur matched the shaggy hair poking out beneath it. He approached, passed with a nod to each of them, and headed back along the road.

  Eli glanced over his shoulder at the man as they headed into town. “You worried about him?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “He’s heading for the car.”

  “He’s heading for Kansas City,” Harry said. “In this weather, he won’t waste time wandering off the road. If he happens to catch a glimpse of Eleanor in the bushes, he’ll just think she’s an odd-looking carriage.”

  They entered the town. Small and simple buildings lined the outskirts, some of them a step or two above being shacks. They reached a cross-street, and a board by the door of a larger, barnlike building had two horseshoes nailed to it. A few people walked around and alongside and past them. They wore long coats and shawls and one man had what looked like a deerskin wrapped around himself. A few of the women stared at Harry, but only for a moment or two. Eli drew more eyes.

  Harry turned, smiled widely at him, and grabbed his arm. She pointed at another store window, this one marked ZION MERCANTILE. “Calm down,” she murmured to him.

  He looked at the window, then back at her close face. A few inches separated their noses. “What?”

  She kept the smile wide and squeezed his arm. “You’re staring at everyone and everything like it’s all new. Just act naturally.”

  His eyes flitted around at the buildings and the people and then came back to her face. He took in a breath, held it, and let it back out. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Harry, just loud enough to be heard. The smile f
aded as the grip on his arm eased.

  She led him to the next cross-street. At the corner, a wooden pole stood on the railing of a porch. Faded and chipped stripes of red, white, and blue paint twisted around the pole. A team of horses trotted by pulling a weather-beaten coach. Eli stepped back and the equally weather-beaten man at the reins gave him a slight glance. The coach made it to the next block, weaving on the snowy road, before a whip snapped and the horses picked up the pace.

  “If Theo’s got all these contacts and information,” Eli asked, “why doesn’t he just use them himself?”

  She gestured at a shop window. “Why don’t the people selling shovels just go mine gold themselves? It’s not where his skills are. Were. He helped to find the dream in his own way.”

  “But he still charges for it.”

  “Not as much as some. Theo just tried to keep his business running. He wasn’t one of those greedy, money-grubbing weasels like Tiko or—”

  “Tiko?”

  “Chinese black-marketeer. Started in San Francisco, got on the road. Parts, tools, fuel, whatever you need, as long as you can meet his terms.”

  Harry looked to her left, then her right. She pulled an envelope from her pocket and unfolded it into a sheet of coarse paper. A few dozen short, handwritten lines marked it. More of a list than a letter, Eli decided.

  “Mr. Russk frequents two saloons on this side of town,” she said. “We need to figure out where they are.” She glanced back over her shoulder, then squinted at the handwritten notes again. “I think that’s…Union Street? So this would be Ruffner.”

  Eli stomped his feet again. Icy needles pricked at his toes and calves and thighs. “Is one of those saloons nearby?”

  Harry looked up from the paper and glanced down each street again. “I believe so,” she said. “Cold?”

  “Yeah. Not freezing, but definitely cold.”

  “Don’t mess this up for me, and I’ll get you a hat.” She studied his face. “You’d look good in a derby.”

  “Sorry?”

  She moved her hands back and forth around an imaginary dome and nodded. “A derby. A bowler hat.”

  He smiled. “And blend in as well as you?”

  “Don’t believe all your western films, Mr. Teague. The derby was the most popular hat in America for over a century. Even in the Wild West, it was worn far more than the cowboy hat.”

  “Or the tricorne?”

  “Don’t be rude. That won’t get you a hat either.” She pointed down the street. “This way.”

  They walked past another dozen buildings. The homes and businesses crept closer together, although they were still farther apart than any “neighbors” Eli could think of back in Sanders. A few had an old New England feel, but he still couldn’t name any of the architectural styles. Several of them looked brand-new, as if they’d barely stood up to a year of sun and snow. One had a high, peaked roof, while the two on either side of it looked more like the near shacks on the outskirts of town. A long, mournful hoot echoed twice above the buildings, and it took him a few seconds to recognize the distant sound of a train whistle.

  “There.” Harry pointed down the street at a large barn. “That’s one.”

  “You sure?”

  She folded the corners of the paper in to form the envelope again. It vanished back into her coat. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “It looks like a barn,” Eli said as they marched across the muddy path.

  She nodded. “On the outside.”

  The left-hand barn door had a regular-sized door set into it. Harry lifted the latch and a wave of warm air washed out and over them. They stepped through and pulled the door shut behind them.

  Harry tugged off her hat, beat it twice against her thigh to knock some snow free, and tucked it under her arm. Eli took the moment to wipe the snow from his head. Then he looked around, trying to seem as casual and uninterested as possible.

  The white planks of the barn floor looked newer than the houses outside, a stark contrast to the shriveled boards of the walls. The fireplace on the back wall also looked like a recent addition. The potbelly stove close to the bar could’ve been twenty years old, but it stood on a small platform of fresh bricks and mortar. Eli’s eyes picked out more bright wood scattered throughout the barn, reinforcing steps and beams.

  An American flag had been draped across the far wall. Eli counted up the perfect columns of stars in the blue corner. Four rows of six. A smaller flag hung over the bar, this one with a dense circle of clustered stars in the corner. Colorful blankets and animal skins hung in several places. He guessed their purpose was half for atmosphere, half to cut drafts.

  A dozen tables and thrice as many chairs stood scattered around the big room. The chairs had clustered at a few tables, as was their nature. A handful of padded, blanket-wrapped ones had gathered near the fire and the stove, although one sat empty and alone in a corner across from the bar.

  Also across from the bar stood an upright piano. With a set of antlers mounted on the wall above it. Eli felt a grin forming at the sight of the old movie standard, but fought it back down.

  “So this is, what?” he asked, looking around the barn. “A speakeasy?”

  “Speakeasies are during Prohibition,” said Harry. “This is just a saloon.”

  “Doesn’t look like one.”

  “Have you been in a lot of saloons?”

  He shrugged. “I just didn’t think they’d be so…basic.”

  Eli counted up eight people scattered around the saloon, plus the bald bartender, who locked eyes with Eli in the mirrors behind the bar. A woman in a green dress. An older man with thick silver muttonchops that stood out against the black lapels of his coat. A skinny man in layers of threadbare clothes, younger than Eli, with a bush of red hair and no whiskers.

  “I see four possibles,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s wander and look a little closer, shall we?”

  “Couldn’t we just ask?” He cleared his throat.

  She shook her head. “Word could get around.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a man who found a rich claim out in California. If he hears two strangers are looking for him, he’s just as likely to vanish as to announce himself.” She gazed up at Eli. “We can’t have him go into hiding.”

  “Warmer by the fire,” the bartender called out.

  Eli nodded to the man. Harry flashed him a smile. The bartender went back to dusting bottles with his rag.

  Harry led them to a table in the back, just outside a half-circle of chairs before the fireplace. Eli looked back as they passed each of the four dark-haired men.

  A pair of cards landed on the table in front of a man with a dark beard that stretched down his shirt. A few strands of brown and gray threaded through the cascade of facial hair. He picked up a card and gave his opponent an evil grin that displayed a full set of teeth. Eli put the man’s age at fifty, or maybe a hard-lived forty.

  The man who sat alone at a table with his plate of food had a square-cut beard and no mustache. Eli wondered if the man was a Lincoln fan, then tried to remember if Lincoln would even be known at this point in time. He glared when Eli’s gaze lingered too long.

  The third man, by the fireplace, had a sharp tuft of a beard, a Vandyke. His nose and forehead looked like bronze. A book sat open in his lap, and Eli had the distinct sense the pages hadn’t turned for quite a while. The man tapped the left-hand page with two fingers while he stared at a stone in the side of the fireplace.

  The last man leaned against the staircase and talked with the woman in the green dress. He had a thick, lush beard and mustache of black hair, but was as bald as the bartender. He kept talking to the woman even as his eyes drifted to Harry and followed her to the table where she sat down. His gaze settled on Eli for a moment before darting back to the woman in front of him.

  The bartender leaned over the wooden counter and called out to them as Eli and Harry settled in at the table. “What’l
l it be?”

  Eli glanced at Harry. She gave an ever-so-slight dip of her eyes and he turned to the bald man. “What’s on tap?”

  The bartender’s brow furrowed.

  Harry’s boot jabbed at his ankle under the table.

  Eli coughed. “Sorry,” he said. “Thinking of something else. I’ll have a…a whiskey.”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The man nodded and glanced at Harry. “Just a coffee for me, sir,” she said.

  He looked over at the iron stove and frowned. “I’ll have to put a pot on.”

  “Ahhh,” she said. “If it’s too much trouble then, never mind.”

  He drummed his fingers against the bar for a few moments, then tossed his rag down and pulled a kettle from a hidden shelf.

  Harry beamed at him.

  “How are we paying for this?” whispered Eli.

  “It will only be twenty cents or so. I have some money.”

  “I thought you’d spent it all.”

  “I said I’d spent the Confederate bills. I didn’t say I hadn’t picked up anything else since then.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now,” she said, “we’ll warm our feet, each have a drink so as not to arouse suspicion, and then go to find the other saloon. Hopefully before nightfall.”

  “Why?”

  Her mouth pulled into a tight smile that was only slightly condescending. “Our situation may appear relaxed, Mr. Teague, but please don’t forget we’re just one of many teams searching for the dream. They may not be following the same path as us, but that doesn’t mean their own investigations won’t eventually lead to the same place and time.”

  “No, I mean, why are we going to the other saloon?”

  She sighed. “Because,” she said, “Mr. Russk isn’t here.”

  “Yeah he is.” Eli tipped his head back and to the left, toward the fireplace and the man with the book. “I’m pretty sure that’s him.”

  “No, it isn’t. He doesn’t match the description I was given.”

  Eli nodded. “You said he’s been back in town for a few days, right?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “From what you’re telling me, the man comes into town for the first time after, what, a month on the trail? A couple years of mining for gold? He’s tired, dirty, a little ragged. But he’s got a lot of money now, he feels like splurging. That’s what you were saying earlier, right?”