March 2
“Figured,” he says. “All right, how much do you know already?”
“Nothing,” I say, sipping the drink. It’s good, but most importantly it isn’t laced with anything. Not even sugar. “Start from the beginning. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Katie’s grandson,” he says. “I know you’ll probably find this hard to believe, but I’m from the future.”
Son of a… “I had a feeling,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “How far?”
“Far enough that you don’t ever have to worry about meeting me,” he says. “I’m not even going to be born for a couple of decades. But,” he adds, “I know you.”
“I figured that much, too,” I say. “How?”
“How can I not know you?” he asks. “This is your jurisdiction. I was told that if anything went wrong, I needed to find you and get you to help me.”
Jurisdiction? Help you? I don’t even like you! “I don’t get it,” I say.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to reveal too much about you unless you say the safe word,” he says. “Just in case I’m on a fragline. Sorry. Anyway, what I can say is that I know you reacted to seeing the anomaly on my chest. I just saw it for the first time this morning, and it explains a lot of what’s been going on to me in the past couple of days, too.”
March 1
“I’ve got this,” he says, handing the clerk a gift card. “Same for me, please. Why don’t you go find that table,” he says to me. “I’ll be right over.” Dumbly, I shift out of line and sit at a table, near the door, facing away from the exit.
I suppose that if I had seen the Godfather recently, I would have picked the side facing the door. The problem with that is a little obvious, once you think about it. See, facing the exit means you put the table between you and the door. Great for spotting people coming in, possibly to give you twice your daily recommended allowance of vitamin lead. But if you want to make a quick exit? Not so much. You have to go past too much, most notably the person you’re talking to. Here, with my back to the door, I can slip out of my chair and be gone if Reynolds decides to put the moves on me.
He comes by a minute or so later, and slides a cup towards me. “Straight from the barista,” he says. “I know you’re notoriously paranoid. I didn’t put anything in it, I swear.”
“All the same, I’ll take yours,” I say, reaching across the short table and taking his cup. I sniff it just in case; it smells normal.
February 28
“Fair enough,” he says. “You’re not the first person to say I have a face only a mother could love.”
“You didn’t answer–”
“All things in time,” he says. “Funny phrase, that. Of course, I bet you know all about that.”
“Not particularly,” I say. “Look, do you have a point being here or are you just stalking me for the hell of it?”
“Little from column A, little from column B,” he says. “I did want to ask you a question, though.”
“Make it fast,” I reply. I’m next in line, and this lady in front of me sounds like she knows what she wants.
“You saw something on me yesterday at your place,” he says. “I didn’t pick up on that until late at night, and I didn’t want to disturb your rest.”
“Point, please?”
“How much time do you think I have?” he asks. I turn to face him, and the blood runs cold in my veins. He’s not being a smartass. The tone of his voice, coupled with the look of sheer terror on his face, leads me to believe that he’s as scared of the Steamer as I am. I glance at his coat, but it’s closed.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say. “But hold that thought. Go… go find a table or something.” I turn to order my drink.
February 27
Third, Lucas Reynolds, who may or may not exist, is mixed up in this somehow.
That’s an interesting thought. He gave me a bogus number on his card. How do I go from that to “he doesn’t exist”? It’s hard to make that kind of a logical leap, except that to get a business card printed up with a number that isn’t yours is a bit far to go for a hoax.
“Penny for your thoughts,” a voice says behind me. I turn, and am greeted by Reynolds, wearing the same dumpy brown trenchcoat and a huge grin.
“You gave me eight thousand of them already,” I growl, turning my attention back to the menu.
“I think that means I’m entitled to your thoughts, then,” he says, his voice still smooth. “You’re a bit later than I expected. Didn’t go back on our deal, did you?”
“Of course not,” I scoff. “And even if I did, what are you doing here checking up on me?”
“Making sure I made a wise investment,” he says. “Listen, if this goes well, I may have another favor to ask of you in the future. It would pay much more handsomely than this one.”
“Define handsomely,” I say, “and don’t use you as a reference, ’cause you ain’t.” It’s a lie, of course, but I’m not going to butter up a stalker. What do you take me for?
February 26
I’m through my internal vitriolic litany in a minute or so; lacking any further source of release, I do it again, in German and Icelandic for good measure. Mom would probably have dragged me out into the street if she was able to hear just how filthy I got in our native tongue, which makes me doubly glad she didn’t and she isn’t telepathic.
God, now I’m thinking in geek, like Kyle. That girl is getting under my skin.
Still, I think the whole thing with Ray and Reynolds has me more spooked than Kyle’s infiltration. The longer I wait in line, the stronger the feeling of wrongness becomes, almost as if it’s like the feeling the bimbo gets in the horror movies when the killer’s sneaking up behind her. I need to calm down and think over this rationally. I check over the list of facts as the line shuffles slowly forward.
First, time is messed up. Two timelines are converging, I think, and there’s something that will decide which one goes forward.
Secondly, I know that the right timeline is one where, in the past, Katie’s husband Ray died after he couldn’t get a blood transfusion after a car accident. This breaks my heart, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Katie so happy… even if Ray gives me the absolute generics.
February 25
Discretion is often called the better part of valor. But the fact of the matter is, I don’t think I have enough to go on right now to make a solid connection between Reynolds and the solution to this time business. This isn’t discretion, it’s base cowardice. I could be causing a lot more trouble for myself if I go running off half-cocked. For all I know, Reynolds could be trying to fix this whole mess.
I slow down a little bit. “Katie,” I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how much is on this card, you see, and I don’t know when it’ll expire…”
“Oh, don’t sweat it,” Katie says, smiling. “It’s not like you’re cheating on me or anything. I’ll tell Lou you had an early class, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Say hi to Ray for me.”
“I will,” she says, kissing me on the cheek quickly. “You take care of yourself, Fran honey, and the Good Lord’ll take care of you too.”
I pause. “Thanks, but I kinda think you need it more right now,” I say, before stepping out into the dawn-lit street.
There’s another reason I don’t get Starbucks often, besides the money, which admittedly is a big part of it. For some reason, every urban professional in Pittsburgh has decided to stop there. So, naturally, by the time I take the detour to it, the sun already up and reflecting off the buildings, there’s already a ridiculously long line. It gives me time to think. After sublimating my seething rage against the trendy fashion-seekers who wouldn’t know a good cup of coffee if it bit them in the ass, of course. I have to retain a certain level of angst, after all. It’s expected of me as a college student.
February 24
“I didn’t know,” I say honestly.
“And then there was the accident,” Katie says, smiling, next to me. “The doctors were very scared, but then there was that nice man who donated enough blood… Ray’s a very rare type, you know.”
I blink. Did it really happen again? “Katie,” I say, hesitating. “Ray is… okay, right?”
“Of course,” she says. “That man saved Ray.”
The feeling of intense wrongness washes over me, almost like the flu, but somehow worse. Ray didn’t make it. I know this, and Katie’s outburst that apparently never happened confirms this. That’s the core of the problem. Someone saved Ray– someone who, as much as I hate to admit it, shouldn’t have.
“You know, it’s sad,” Katie says. “Ray and I… we’re almost the same blood type. Just very, very close, but different enough that we’re incompatible,” she sobs. “I couldn’t… nobody could…”
“It’s… it’s in the past now, Katie,” I say. “It’s all in the past.”
“You’re right,” she says, grinning. “Ray just got back from a deployment over in Okinawa. You’re studying Japanese, aren’t you? I bet he’d love to help you practice.”
I pause. The wrongness is back. Ray is supposed to be dead. This is the timeline that’s wrong. So what am I supposed to do about it? And what does Reynolds have to do with this? Damn! I forgot about him!