Infinite

by Brian Freeman

  Then I heard a laugh.

  My eyes shifted. To my right, I saw the other man in the painting, the one whose back is always to the watcher. The mystery man. It was another Dylan. It was him. Instead of a suit and fedora as he should have been wearing, he was dressed in my father’s leather jacket, stained with blood. His blue eyes, appropriately enough, were the eyes of a night hawk, out for prey. He sipped his coffee and chuckled.

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  I heard myself saying, “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.”

  He finished his mug of coffee. Unlike me, he had no trouble moving. He had a lot of experience at the crossroads of the Many Worlds, and I was still a novice. He got up from the stool, threw down a dollar bill on the counter, and headed for the door of the diner. In the painting, there was no door, just a long glass window and the city street, so when he got to the end of the painting, he melted away like fog. A moment later, I could see him inside the museum.

  I had to go after him, but I was trapped here. I stared at my painted hands and arms, which were no more than color on canvas. Instead of two dimensions, I needed to become three again, but how could I move? How could I change what I was? Then I realized that the change was all in my head. If I could see and think and talk, I could do everything else, but I had to believe it.

  I had to accept that this was real. If it was real, then I could control it. The only prison we can never escape is our brain, and yet our brain is what sets us free.

  It happened slowly. A moment at a time. I willed myself to move and felt my mind bend to my commands. One of my fingers bent. Then another. My shoe tapped on the rail of the counter. My head swiveled. I was nearly there. I tensed my muscles and pushed, and like glass shattering, I felt my entire body break out of its bonds.

  I was back in the gallery, surrounded by hundreds of other Dylan Morans. The painting hung on the wall again where it was supposed to be. The characters were strangers, not reflections of me.

  I felt a surge of confidence. In this next world, everything would be different. I didn’t run. I marched calmly, sure of where I needed to go and what I needed to do. This time, the other Dylans parted for me as I took off after my doppelgänger.

  I was finally ready.

  It was time for my second chance.

  CHAPTER 28

  The wail of a horn blared in my ears. Air brakes screeched. I looked up to see a semitruck shuddering to a stop inches from my face. The truck was so close that I could see dead bugs squashed on its grille, and I’d very nearly become one of them. Around me, Chicago traffic roared through the intersection in both directions. I was in the middle of Michigan Avenue, crossing against the light.

  The truck driver barked at me through his open window. “Shit, man, where did you come from? Are you blind? Get out of the street!”

  He added several more obscenities to make sure I got the message.

  I raised my hands in apology, then waited for a gap in the cars and hurried to the opposite side. I steadied myself against a light post and took a few deep breaths. I couldn’t help but think about the irony of almost dying as a truck ran me over. In my head, I could hear Edgar’s raspy voice telling me the story of Daniel Catton Rich, director of the Art Institute, who would have died the same way in 1941 if my grandfather hadn’t accidentally tackled him.

  It made me think again that Roscoe was right. Fate had a way of making the elements of our worlds converge. What I called fate, he called God.

  Standing at the corner, I got my bearings. I was on the park side of the street, across from the Hilton, a few blocks south of the LaSalle Plaza. I had no idea why my exit from the Art Institute had taken me here, but a moment later, I heard someone calling my name.

  “Dylan?”

  Looking toward the lake, I saw Tai heading my way from Grant Park.

  Seeing her gave me a shiver of disorientation. My last nightmarish memory of Tai was of seeing her face under the water in our apartment. Now she was back, alive and unharmed.

  She walked up and gave me an awkward kiss on the cheek. “Dylan, it is you. What a nice surprise.”

  She said it in a way that told me it really wasn’t such a nice surprise. We were definitely not married in this world.

  “Hello, Tai.”

  “How long has it been? I mean, it must be four years.”

  I tried not to blurt out my surprise: Four years? How could I not have seen Tai in four years?

  “It’s been a while,” I said, stumbling over my reply. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Really good. Things at the hotel are fine. I mean, not the same without you, of course.”

  “Sure.” I had no idea what she meant. Then I added, “You look good.”

  “Thanks.”

  She really did look good. She’d chopped off her long hair, now sporting a modern androgynous cut. She wore a tailored burgundy suit, with a skirt that didn’t quite reach to her knees, which showed off her legs. Her stilettos matched the suit. She’d always been pretty, but now she radiated confidence to go with it. She didn’t look young anymore.

  “You look good, too,” she added, mostly as an afterthought.

  “Still the same.”

  “No. No. Definitely different. But I like it.”

  “So the job’s okay?” I asked, trying to understand why I’d left the hotel years earlier.

  “It is. I mean, believe me, I did not want to take over the way I did. And without you, I felt like I was jumping into the pool to learn how to swim. For months, I didn’t know which end was up.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, no, it’s true. It really is. But enough about me. What about you? How are you? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously? You’re doing all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I told her.

  “Well, good. That’s good to hear. Look, I really need to apologize. I should have done a better job of keeping in touch. I felt like a shit that I sort of cut you off. It wasn’t because I didn’t care. I mean, yeah, I felt a little weird about things, but it’s just that I was so busy. We were shorthanded, and I was trying to learn the ropes. And after that, I don’t know. I wasn’t even sure you’d want to hear from me.”

  “It’s okay, Tai. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What are you doing downtown?” she asked me. “Are you trying to find a job? I mean, I’d help if I could. Truly. I’d hire you myself, but the hotel wouldn’t go for it. I could put in a few calls if you’d like, but I think most of the hotel managers in the city know what happened.”

  “I’m not looking for a job.”

  “All right. Well, it really is such a nice surprise to see you again. You probably don’t want to talk about it, but was it rough for you? Hell, what am I saying? Of course it was. But maybe it was for the best, you know?”

  “Maybe so,” I replied vaguely.

  “I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say.” Her golden skin actually blushed. “Nobody thinks prison is for the best.”

  “Prison,” I exclaimed, not able to stop myself.

  “But you made it through okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said again.

  “Good.” Tai checked her watch to give herself an excuse. She looked uncomfortable, as if she wanted to get away from me as quickly as she could. “Anyway, I need to go. Big event tonight, eighteen million details. You know how it is.”

  “I do.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Tai went to cross the street, but then she took a breath and turned back to me. She grabbed my hand. “I really am sorry, Dylan.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but I always felt like I should have been able to reach you back then. Like I could have changed how you were. Made the anger go away. I mean, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I always had kind of a thing for you. I never said anything about it. Maybe I should have. I always had this
idea in the back of my head that if we’d gotten together, it would have helped you become a better person. That sounds arrogant. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t work that way, Tai. You wouldn’t have been able to change me.”

  “I guess. Are you doing better? You were always so hard on the whole world, especially yourself. I hoped you’d find some softness, you know? I wanted you to have peace.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “I’m glad.” She put her arms around me in a quick, awkward embrace, and then she bowed her head in embarrassment. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too.”

  The light changed. She started across Michigan Avenue toward the Hilton. My eyes followed her, but then I looked beyond her to the crowded sidewalk on the opposite side of the street.

  He was standing right there.

  My Dylan. The Dylan in the leather jacket. The Dylan I was here to kill.

  He stood on the corner and eyed me with his own steely resolve. Tai must have seen him, too, because she stopped in the middle of the street. Her shoulders spun around so she could look behind her. Finding me where I was supposed to be, she began to look back to confirm the impossibility of what her eyes were seeing.

  As she did, a Chicago tour bus blocked our view of the Hilton. When it passed, the other Dylan had already vanished. I was sure he was in the crowd of pedestrians now, but as far as Tai was concerned, he was just a momentary trick of her imagination. She continued to the opposite corner and gave a little wave as she headed south for the LaSalle Plaza.

  I didn’t bother chasing after my doppelgänger. Not yet.

  I knew that when the time came, he’d find me.

  Obviously, the Dylan Moran who lived in this world had made mistakes even worse than mine.

  I wanted to know who he was, what had happened that sent him to prison, and whether Karly was a part of his life. There was one person who could always give me answers. Roscoe. That was assuming there had been no car accident in this world that had taken him away from me.

  I headed for Roscoe’s South Side church, but when I went inside, I noticed a poster on the bulletin board with photographs of the church staff. My heart fell when I saw that Roscoe wasn’t listed among them. I wondered if he was gone, as he was in my own world, but when I asked one of the priests about him, I was relieved to learn that no one named Roscoe Tate had ever been associated with the church.

  So where was he?

  I retraced my steps to the medical clinic on Irving Park where Roscoe’s mother practiced. Fortunately, this part of the world hadn’t changed. As I approached the building, I saw Alicia Tate coming out the front door, and her face broke into a broad smile as she spotted me on the sidewalk.

  “Dylan, what a nice surprise.”

  Unlike Tai, Alicia sounded genuinely happy to see me.

  “Do you need to talk to me?” she went on. “I was just on my way to the hospital to make rounds, but if something’s wrong, I can fit you in.”

  “No, actually, I was trying to find—”

  I stopped without saying his name. If Roscoe was dead, I didn’t want to sound like a fool. However, Alicia leaped to the correct assumption.

  “Oh, you’re looking for Roscoe. Of course. Well, he’s inside. You know him, that boy works too hard.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I said.

  Alicia squeezed my shoulder affectionately. “You’re sweet. Go on in, he’ll be happy to see you.”

  I continued into the clinic, where several patients were waiting in the lobby. I didn’t have time to ask the receptionist about Roscoe before the inner door opened, and my friend emerged, stooping slightly to help an elderly black woman who was using a walker. He wore more stylish, expensive glasses than he’d worn as a priest, and his face was smoothly shaven, but otherwise, he hadn’t changed. Like his mother, Roscoe wore a white doctor’s coat, which made me smile. Apparently, in this world, Alicia Tate had gotten her wish by having her son follow in her footsteps.

  As Roscoe straightened up, he saw me. He wore the same sober expression I’d known since we were boys. “Dylan, hey, what are you doing here? Everything okay?”

  “Fine, but I need a minute if you can spare it.”

  He glanced around the crowded waiting room and at the watch on his wrist. “I’m a little slammed, but sure, come on back.”

  I followed him down the inner hallway. We turned into a small office, where he sat behind a beat-up desk, under a wall that included a framed copy of his medical degree from the Pritzker School at the University of Chicago. Alicia had gone there, too. On his desk, I saw pictures of him with his parents, along with a small photo of the two of us, back when we were kids playing football in Horner Park.

  He followed my stare. “Long time ago, huh?”

  “Very. And now look at you. That little kid’s a doctor.”

  “I know. It’s still hard for me to believe.”

  “I always thought that you would become a priest.”

  Roscoe chuckled. “Yeah. That was a tough call, but I’ve never looked back. Plus, I get to work with my mom. Most days, that’s a blessing. Other days . . . well, you know how she is.”

  I smiled.

  Back in high school, Roscoe had gone in the opposite direction. He’d decided that going into the ministry would allow him to do more good for people than medicine, by helping them find meaning in the losses and setbacks of their lives. He’d also rolled his eyes in exasperation at the idea of ever being able to work in a clinic with his mother.

  “So what’s up?” Roscoe asked.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s hard to explain and even harder to believe.”

  “Try me.”

  I took a breath and considered what I would say. I’d thought about trying to pry my life’s history out of him without telling him what was really going on, but Roscoe was my best friend, and we still had a pledge of never lying to each other. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if a doctor would take a leap of faith about unseen worlds as readily as a priest. Somehow, I had to prove that what was happening to me was real.

  “Where should I be right now?” I asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I wasn’t here in the clinic with you, where would you expect to find me?”

  “I don’t know. At your office, I guess.”

  I leaned across his desk, picked up the phone, and handed it to him. “Call me.”

  “What?”

  “Call my office. Ask to talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Please, Roscoe. Just do it.”

  With a look of confusion, he punched a button for the speakerphone and then pressed a speed dial number. The phone buzzed on the other end, and after several rings, a young woman answered.

  “Chicago Housing Solutions.”

  “Dana, it’s Roscoe Tate,” he said, his foghorn voice as deep as ever.

  “Oh, hey, Dr. Tate. Are you looking for Dylan?”

  “I am. Do you know where he is?”

  “Sure, he’s on the other line. Do you want me to tell him you’re holding?”

  Roscoe didn’t say anything for a long time. He stared across the desk at me, and his brow furrowed, like a mathematician confronting an insoluble problem. He stayed silent for so long that the woman on the phone finally broke in again.

  “Dr. Tate? Are you still there? Do you want me to get Dylan for you?”

  His eyes never left me. “Dana, are you saying that Dylan’s in the office with you? Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m looking right at him,” she replied. “Actually, he just finished up his call. You want me to put him on?”

  “Yes, please.”

  A few seconds passed. Then we both heard my own voice on the other end of the phone. There was no mistaking it.

  “Roscoe. Hey, buddy.”

  “Dylan,” Roscoe murmured.
He opened his mouth to talk, but seemed unable to decide what to say next.

  “What’s up, Doc? You need something?”

  Roscoe propped his arms on the desk and then balanced his chin on his hands. Our faces were barely a foot apart. He didn’t have the look of a man who thought he was in the midst of a prank or an April Fool’s joke. His eyes were serious, the same as mine. He spoke into the speakerphone, but he stared at me as he did.

  I knew he was talking to both of us.

  “Listen, I have a strange question for you,” Roscoe said. “It came up with a patient today, and I thought you might remember. There was an old woman who used to work behind the counter at Lutz’s bakery for a while. I think they found out her husband was some kind of Nazi. We used to make fun of her name while we were eating our pastries. Do you remember what it was?”

  On the phone, Dylan answered immediately in a singsong chant.

  So did I, mouthing the same words silently to Roscoe from the other side of the desk.

  “Friedegunde, Friedegunde, face like die Hunde.”

  Roscoe closed his eyes in disbelief. We’d both passed the test, and neither one of us could have faked it. A long time passed before he said softly, “Yes, that was it. Now I remember.”

  “We weren’t very nice back then, were we?” Dylan said with a laugh.

  “Well, we were nine,” Roscoe replied, opening his eyes and considering me like an alien come to earth. Which, in some ways, I was.

  “So why did you want to know about old Friedegunde?” the other Dylan asked.

  I put my finger over my lips and shook my head.

  “I’ll tell you later, buddy,” Roscoe said into the speakerphone. “Gotta go for now.”

  “Okay, catch ya later,” Dylan replied.

  Roscoe stabbed the button on his phone to end the call.

  “All right,” he said to me, his voice a block of ice. “Who the hell are you?”

  CHAPTER 29

  I’d barely begun telling Roscoe the story when he shut me down. At the first mention of the Many Worlds, he put up his hands, unwilling to hear more. He had patients to see, and they came first. What it really meant was that he needed time to process the idea in his head. Roscoe never leaped to judgment about anything. He thought about things. He evaluated all the factors and made plans. He was cautious. In other words, he was everything I wasn’t.