Infinite

by Brian Freeman

  He told me to meet him at six o’clock at a bar just off the Kennedy on Montrose. The location he picked felt like another test. This was the bar where I’d gotten drunk and wound up in a street fight with a man who was abusing his girlfriend. Roscoe had come to collect me from the police station, and he’d never made it home alive.

  The fact that Roscoe was alive meant that evening had gone differently in this world. And yet the fact that he chose the bar as our meeting place told me that the location still had some kind of special significance for Dylan Moran.

  When I got there, I didn’t recognize the bartender, which was probably a good thing. If anyone knew me here, I doubted they would serve me. I sat at the end of the bar and tried to hold back the flood of memories from that night. Me confronting the man four seats down, his girlfriend telling me to mind my own effing business, him throwing a drink in my face. It was a karaoke bar, and I could still hear someone doing a painful rendition of “Coma” by Guns N’ Roses as the soundtrack to the fight.

  “You want a drink?” the bartender asked me sullenly. She was an Asian girl with cherry-red hair.

  “Vodka rocks,” I said. Then, as she walked away, I stopped her. “Hang on. Forget that. Just club soda.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  When she brought me the drink, I sat and nursed it with a clear head, and then I ordered another. I tipped her like I’d ordered Grey Goose. The bar began to fill up as the after-work crowd arrived, and people came and went over the next couple of hours. By six fifteen, Roscoe hadn’t shown up, and I began to wonder if he was planning to pretend that I’d been a figment of his imagination.

  However, at six thirty, he slid onto the seat next to me. His eyes took note of the club soda, but he didn’t offer to join me in my sobriety. Roscoe had always been a Southern Comfort man, even as a priest, and he still was. He ordered it on the rocks and said nothing until he had it in his hand and had taken the first sip.

  “I drove by your office,” he said. “Although I guess it isn’t really your office, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Dylan was inside. I saw him. Then I drove straight over here, no stopping, and here you are. I needed to see it with my own eyes, know what I’m saying?”

  “I do.”

  He shook his head. “Many Worlds, Many Minds. I looked it up. The whole thing sounds pretty crazy to me.”

  “That’s how I felt about it, too. But that’s what’s happening to me.”

  “You’re a different Dylan. I mean, you’re the same, but you’re different.”

  “That’s right.”

  He eyed me as he sipped his drink. “It’s easier to believe when I really look at you. You’ve got a different edge, no doubt about it. It’s in your face, your eyes, how you hold yourself.”

  “I met another Roscoe who told me the same thing.”

  “You’re more like my Dylan was a few years ago. He’s changed since then. You? Not so much. You haven’t found yourself yet, not the way he did. Although I like the not drinking part. That’s a start.”

  “You’ve changed, too,” I told him.

  “Let me guess. In your world, I’m a priest.”

  “You were.”

  He laughed to himself. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I’d taken that path. Maybe we all do that.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been obsessed with that idea recently.”

  Roscoe nodded as he looked around at the bar. “I asked you here for a reason, you know. This place right here is where my Dylan’s life changed.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “So tell me what happened to you here,” he said.

  I picked up my club soda and swirled the ice, watching it clink around the glass. “Four years ago, on the anniversary of the night my parents died, I came here. I got drunk, and I got into it with a guy who was calling his girlfriend names. The cops came and arrested me. When they let me go, I called you, and you came to pick me up.”

  Roscoe knew there was more. “And? What happened next?”

  “There was a car accident. You died.”

  A blink was his only reaction. He took another sip of Southern Comfort. “Oh.”

  “I blamed myself.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “There’s more. I met a woman that night. It was a coincidence, a weird twist of fate—or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. Now I don’t know. She rescued me. She helped me recover. We got married. Then very recently, I lost her, too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Roscoe glanced at me from over the top of his drink. “What was her name?”

  “Karly. Her name was Karly.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Yes, I did. I can’t imagine my life without her. I finally had everything I ever wanted, and I let it all slip through my hands. I screwed up my whole damn life, and now I can never get it back.”

  I slammed my glass down on the bar. Ice and club soda sloshed over the side. I shook my head and dabbed at the spill with a napkin, and I waved away the bartender, who was looking at me with concern.

  “You still have that temper, I see,” Roscoe murmured.

  I drank what was left of the club soda. “So that’s my story. What happened here? In this world.”

  My friend sighed. “Four years ago, on the anniversary of the night your parents died, you came here. You got drunk, and you got into it with a guy who was calling his girlfriend names. You started beating the hell out of him on the street.”

  “And? What happened next?”

  “The guy hit his head on the pavement. He died.”

  “Shit.”

  “You pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter. Your lawyer argued for probation because of your family background. He said what happened to your mother triggered a kind of psychological fixation with defending a woman who was in danger, and that the man’s death was accidental. The judge wasn’t impressed. You’d been in fights before, so he said you were aware of the risks. He gave you a sentence of two to five years.”

  “Sounds like I deserved it.”

  “Yes, that’s what you said. You didn’t even appeal the sentence. You went to prison and did eighteen months before you got paroled. It was rough for you. I know it was. But honestly, you became a new man. When you got out, you turned your life around. You went to AA and haven’t had a drink since. You go to counseling every month. You found a job at a nonprofit focused on affordable housing, and within a year, you were running the place. You even managed to come to terms with Edgar. You apologized for all the crap you’d dealt him over the years. You thanked him for taking you in as a kid. The two of you had breakfast every morning during his last three months.”

  “Edgar died?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Heart attack in his sleep.”

  I felt an unexpected wave of grief. Edgar. My grandfather. My last family member. Dead.

  In my own world, Edgar was still alive, but I didn’t know whether I’d ever see that world again. For the first time, I confronted the idea of him not being there. I had a vision of myself standing in front of Nighthawks, wishing Edgar was there to tell me the story of Daniel Catton Rich. Roscoe was right. There were things I should have said to him when I had the chance.

  Even without knowing the Dylan Moran in this world, I realized he was living his life better than me.

  I had to know more about him.

  “Am I married?” I asked quietly.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “I mean, in this world, there was no accident. You didn’t die. Karly didn’t find me in the car.”

  Roscoe stared into his drink and wrestled with what to tell me. “After Edgar died, you brought in a contractor to work on the upstairs apartment so you could rent it out. The two of you became friends.”

  “Scotty,” I guessed. “Scotty Ryan.”

  “That’s right. He did a lot of work for a realtor he thought would be perfect for you, so he set the two o
f you up on a blind date. You hated the idea, but I pushed you to go. You went dancing at the Spybar, and it was love at first sight. Six months later, you were married.”

  I closed my eyes and found it hard to breathe. Under my fingers, the bar was still wet where I’d spilled my drink, and the barest sensation of water made me feel as if I were drowning. “Her name, Roscoe. What’s her name?”

  “Karly.”

  I still couldn’t open my eyes. I was too angry with myself, too frustrated with my mistakes. The Dylan in this world had learned his lesson before it was too late. He’d changed. Not me.

  “Am I happy?” I asked.

  “Yes, you are. For the first time I can remember, you’re at peace. Plus, you’ve got—”

  He stopped.

  “What?”

  “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

  “There’s something else. What is it?”

  Roscoe shook his head. “I’m sorry. There are things that belong only to Dylan, not you.”

  “I’m Dylan.”

  “No, you’re not. Not here.”

  I dug in my wallet and put money on the bar. “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Home,” I said.

  I began to get off the barstool, but Roscoe grabbed my wrist. For a small man, his grip was like steel. “Do not interfere in his world. He’s come too far to have it ruined for him. You had the same chances he did to turn your life around, and if you regret the choices you made, that’s on you.”

  I looked into Roscoe’s eyes, which was a gift I never thought I’d have after I lost him. We’d known each other since we were kids. We’d grown up together, gone through all my struggles together. He was the most decent man I knew in any world, whether as a doctor or a priest.

  Somehow I knew this was the last moment between us. I’d had one final little bonus, and now it was over. One way or another, alive or dead, I’d be gone from this world before the night was done. I would never see him again.

  At least I had the chance to hug him and kiss him on both cheeks and say a proper goodbye this time.

  “I’m not going to interfere in Dylan’s life,” I promised my best friend before I left. “I’m here to save him.”

  CHAPTER 30

  I stood among the trees of River Park in the twilight. It would be dark soon. The Dylan I needed to kill was here, not far away from me. I could feel him on the other side of a milky cloud. In the same way that he could read my thoughts, I was beginning to read his, too. The last time, he’d been waiting for me inside the apartment, but I saw nothing to suggest that he was there now. Neither was the Dylan who really lived here, and neither was Karly. That worried me.

  Whenever they came back, they’d both be targets.

  From my vantage in the grass, I could see the whole street. As I stood there, I noticed a gray sedan easing down the block, its lights on. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. The car reached the corner and turned, but I had the feeling it would be back. I was right. Less than ten minutes later, I saw it again, retracing its route down the street. This time, it pulled onto the park sidewalk near me and stopped.

  A tall man with a skeletal appearance got out. He wore a wrinkled tan trench coat over a white shirt and baggy black pants. He had a casual, stooped walk, but he wasn’t out for a stroll. He headed straight for me.

  It was Detective Harvey Bushing.

  “Excuse me,” he called, pulling out his badge and introducing himself. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “If you like.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  I nodded at the building across the street. “Yes, that’s my apartment right over there.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Dylan Moran.”

  “Got any ID, Mr. Moran?”

  I thought about arguing with him, but I pulled out a driver’s license and gave it to him, and he studied it with careful eyes. When he handed it back to me, he said in his monotone voice, “I’m just curious, Mr. Moran. If you live right over there, what are you doing in the park?”

  “Enjoying the evening air,” I replied.

  “Well, I’ve been down this street three times, and you haven’t moved. You just keep watching the building. Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s just that most people go for a walk, or sit on the bench, or light up a smoke, or something like that. Not too many people stand there and stare at their own house.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “Not at all.” But he was clearly waiting for an explanation, and the longer I made him wait, the more questions he’d ask.

  “Look, Detective, I’ve lived in this area for most of my life. My grandfather owned the building, and he used to live in the upstairs apartment. He died a couple of years ago. We didn’t exactly have the best relationship, and sometimes I like to come out here and think about him. Is that okay with you?”

  “Absolutely. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bushing reached into his trench coat and pulled out a photograph. “Since you know the area, maybe you can help me out here, Mr. Moran. Do you remember seeing this woman around the neighborhood?”

  I didn’t need to squint in the diminishing light to see who it was. I recognized the picture from the headline in the Tribune, but that was in another world. It was Betsy Kern.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You sure? She only lives a couple of blocks away.”

  “Sorry. I’m sure.”

  “Well, she’s missing. She went out for a run in the park last night and never came back home. Her family’s pretty worried about her.”

  “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “What about people hanging around in the park? Have you seen anyone who looked suspicious?”

  “We get strange characters around here all the time, Detective. But lately? No one comes to mind.”

  “Okay. Well, if you see anyone, please give us a call, Mr. Moran.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Detective Bushing retraced his steps to his car. He got back inside but didn’t drive away, and I knew he was waiting to see what I would do. I couldn’t really wait outside any longer. I headed across the street toward my apartment building. When I got to the door, I was relieved that my key worked, and I went inside and closed the door behind me. On the street, Bushing’s gray sedan cruised past the building and disappeared.

  I didn’t turn on any lights. I stayed in the shadowy hallway, looking across at the park, which was now sinking into the grip of night. Finally, I let myself into the downstairs apartment. It had a different smell, not like my place and not like the apartment where a different Dylan had lived with Tai. I couldn’t place what the aroma was. The only word that popped into my head to describe it was creamy, which wasn’t a smell at all. It reminded me of how our home used to smell when I was growing up with my parents.

  The building itself was dead quiet. I didn’t feel the presence of my doppelgänger or the aura of menace that followed him. The only sensation here was that strange creaminess, which I didn’t understand. Even so, I couldn’t afford to linger. I needed to make sure the apartment was empty, and then I needed to leave before the other Dylan and Karly came home. I didn’t want to risk leaving any footprints in their lives. I’d promised Roscoe I wouldn’t do that.

  But I was too late.

  I had just started down the hallway when the front door rattled behind me. I froze where I was, and there was no time to hide. The living room lights went on, blinding me.

  When I could see again, there she was. Karly.

  I captured that moment in my head like a photograph, because I knew it wouldn’t last. She wore a striped T-shirt and blue capris that hugged her willowy body. Heeled leather boots made her taller than me. Her hair was blonder and longer than my own Karly had kept it, and even her breasts seemed to swell larger fro
m her torso than the woman I remembered. But her face was the same. Her blue eyes gravitated to mine like a magnet. Her mouth broke into a wide smile, and in that heartbreaking smile was everything I’d lost.

  She was my wife. She loved me.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” she said, with happy surprise in her voice. “I thought tonight was your night to work late.”

  I tried to say something, but I couldn’t. I simply stared at her, enraptured. I wanted to run to her and sweep her into my arms. We stared at each other for no more than a beat or two, and then instead of closing the front door, she kept it open with her foot and pulled something inside the apartment behind her.

  A stroller.

  Karly closed the door, then bent down and carefully lifted a baby into her arms, holding it like the treasure at the end of a rainbow. “Look, Ellie,” she cooed to her child. “Daddy’s home early. Don’t we love that?”

  Ellie. Eleanor. My mother’s name.

  My child. My daughter. Our daughter. That was the creaminess of this place. It was the smell of a baby, of life, of innocence, of freshness and beginnings. Staring at the two of them, I felt something tightening in my chest, as if there weren’t enough oxygen in the world to let me breathe. I could not love this woman more, and yet suddenly, I did. I had never dreamed of what it would be like to have a child with her, but in that moment, I knew my life was empty without one.

  “Are you okay?” Karly asked, studying me with a crinkle in her forehead.

  I struggled to speak. “Fine. You look beautiful. Both of you.”

  “Well, you don’t look so bad yourself.” She crossed the space between us and casually deposited our little girl in my arms. “Here, can you take her? I need to feed her, but I want to change first.”

  She kissed my cheek and headed for our bedroom. I had held few babies in my life, but holding Ellie felt utterly natural. I wondered how old she was, but she looked new to this world. Her face, her hair, her eyes, they were me. And Karly. And Edgar. And my mother, even my father, too. My entire family lived in that child, free of anything bad, of anything that wasn’t good and perfect. I wanted everything in my life to stop where it was right then and there. I wanted that moment to last forever.