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  Beverly runs his fingerprints quickly, and he jabs in his three-digit code. As soon as the door slams shut behind him, Lisa is at his side.

  “Sir,” Lisa says. “Welcome back. Are you traveling today?”

  David shakes his head. “No. I’ve come to ask you some questions about Rosie’s last trip.”

  “Of course,” Lisa says. “Come into the control room and I’ll pull the records. I can offer you any data you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  David and Lisa move to the control room behind the thick glass panel. The hairy-armed chemical man joins them. David nods at him. “Doug.”

  Doug nods back and taps his forehead in greeting.

  Lisa reaches into a file cabinet drawer and pulls out a manila folder thick with precious paper. The sheets are filled with cramped, handwritten notes. “Okay,” she says. “I’ve got the file.”

  David tilts his head, thinking back to the magazines pulled from Safeco’s office wall. “I need you to start by double checking my calculations on the chemicals. Is there any possibility that Rosie may have stopped a little short of her distance? Say, landing in September 2007 rather than June?”

  Lisa stares at the paperwork, her brow wrinkling as an odd expression crosses her face. “I’ll double check the math, sir, but I’m not sure I completely understand your question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lisa speaks slowly. “Well, sir, landing in September of 2007 would be more than a year short of her goal, not just ‘slightly.’”

  A strange feeling worms its way through David’s intestines, like he’s swallowed a live animal. “A landing in September 2007 would put her just three months off her destination.”

  “But, sir,” she pushes back, “her last trip was to April of 2006.” She flips her paperwork to the next-to-last page of the file, scans it, and looked earnestly into David’s eyes. “She traveled to the fifteenth and returned four days later, landing in Safeco Tower due to extenuating circumstances with law enforcement in ’06. If you’re concerned she fell short of her destination and arrived in September rather than April, you could simply ask her.”

  David’s blood turns to ice, and he forgets to breathe. When he finally speaks, the breath bursts out of him in a rush. “I’m not talking about that mission, Lisa. I’m referring to her next trip. She departed three weeks ago.”

  Lisa’s mouth drops open and she pushes her wheeled chair as far from the desk as it will go, until her back hits the wall. “But, sir,” she whispers. “That trip never happened.”

  “What?” David grunts through clenched teeth. His eyes fly back and forth between Lisa and Doug. Doug nods in support of Lisa.

  Lisa stands up, her spine stiff and straight. “That mission never happened, sir,” she repeats. “Because you aborted it.”

  David grits his teeth and glares at his sleeping wife on the bed, her wrists still zip-tied above her head. “Wake up,” he snaps.

  Sarah tries to roll onto her side, her face clouded with sleep and confusion. When she feels the pull of the zip tie on her wrists, her eyes fly all the way open and snap with fury. “David, release me this instant.”

  He ignores her demand and speaks in a cold, furious tone. “Three weeks ago, you came into my office and interrupted Rosie and I while we were in the middle of a planning session. I sent her on the mission we’d outlined anyway, but just before she was set to launch, her mission was aborted by a comm that came directly from the private line in these quarters. And the only person who could have originated a comm from our quarters was you, Sarah. Which is how you became involved enough to know Rosie was missing in the first place.”

  David leans over her so that they’re almost nose to nose. “Now, you’re going to tell me who instructed you to abort the mission, why you were given that directive, and where my daughter is now. Cooperate, and I’ll go easier on you.”

  Sarah narrows her eyes, draws in a breath, and spits in his face.

  David jerks back, murder in his eyes.

  Sarah laughs. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life on a barge, picking through flotsam, losing my hair in clumps. You’re not going to do anything to me because I’m the first fertile woman in fifty years. You need me much more than I need you.” She bats her eyelashes at him. “I’ll never forgive you for treating me like this, David. So now I’m going to make you suffer far more. I didn’t send a comm from our quarters. While you rushed off to answer your precious Achtung, I followed Rosie downstairs and I waited for her on twenty-five. I knew she had to come upstairs sometime, and it didn’t take long. She’s so gullible! She believed me when I told her you were waiting for her on the roof. I pushed your little bitch daughter down the straws, David. She’s not lost, darling. She’s dead.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  July 2, 2018

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Carlos yells when we’re blocks away and we finally stop running.

  “I got scared,” I gasp.

  “So you scribbled all over a mural?”

  “I didn’t scribble all over it.”

  “Semantics.” Carlos throws his hands up. “There are, like, three bathrooms downtown that we can use without getting hassled. Now we’re down to two. I can’t believe you did that, Lita.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “I thought you said that wasn’t my name.”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore!” Carlos hollers. “What were you thinking? God!”

  My face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

  Carlos breathes rapidly in and out of his nose, his hands on his hips, then balls his fists at his sides. Hearing him call me “Lita” scares me almost as much as…I remember the scene in the coffee shop up on the fortieth floor and I shudder and wrap my arms around my upper body protectively. Why did I ask what year it was? Now I know that it’s 2018. And I’m not sure why, but I know that’s really, really bad. But that wasn’t what kickstarted my fear in the first place. The guy in the green apron. What had he said? I shake my head. I can’t remember. I must have blocked it out.

  I unwrap my hands from my body and hold them out in supplication. “I don’t remember what got me so scared, but the coffee guy said something, and then I asked him what year it was, and he said it’s 2018 and that’s terrifying and I don’t know why. So I grabbed his black marking pen and I ran over to the mural, and I wrote…I wrote…” My voice chokes up and I can’t go on.

  Carlos crosses the short distance between us and takes my hands, all signs of irritation gone. “Wrote what, Boo?”

  I heave a huge, internal sigh of relief that Carlos has switched back to ‘Boo,’ but I still can’t meet his eyes. I stare at the ground and mumble. “Help me Daddy.”

  Carlos sniffs then, an unexpected sound, and I dare to look up at him. “I…I miss my dad too,” he says. “More than I like to think about.”

  He laces his fingers in mine and he leads me slowly uphill. After a couple of blocks, I risk an apology. “I’m really, really sorry that I ruined your no-hassle bathroom.”

  “Well,” Carlos says, letting our arms swing slowly, “there are still two more. Don’t screw those up, please.”

  “I swear. I won’t mess up again.”

  Carlos squeezes my hand. “Sometimes it just can’t be helped. But thanks. I appreciate the effort.”

  “Hey, you there!”

  Carlos and I both snap our heads in the direction of the harsh voice, but it’s not about us this time. A man is standing under a fire escape, banging a broom handle against the bottom rung of the access ladder.

  “Ah jeez, Ol’ Dirty P.” Carlos sighs. “He loves those fire escapes.”

  “Get down from there,” the man with the broom yells. “Before I make you come down.”

  “Do you need to help your friend?” I ask.

  “Nah, ODP’s got this,” Carlos replies.

  Up on the fire escape, the tattered man snatches his arm out and grasps the broom handle. He yanks on it and
it flies up. Plucking it out of the air, he spins it around in his hand like a fighting stick, aims it, and sends it torpedoing back at the man on the ground, striking him in the center of his chest.

  The man staggers backward.

  ODP looks right at us, and I wave. “See ya later!” I call out. ODP scrambles higher. In seconds, he’s on the third floor, where he throws his leg over the sill of an open window and disappears inside the building.

  “See? He’s fine,” Carlos says drily. “But we still need to get you out of that red dress. Everyone in Seattle must be looking for you in that getup. You’re way too easy to spot right now.”

  “I get to keep the dress, though, right?” I ask anxiously.

  “Yeah, of course. But it needs to stay put away for the foreseeable future. Let’s go to Goodwill.”

  Carlos’s friend Kevin is at work, and he’s fine with letting us pick through the new arrivals again. I find a pair of well-fitting but non-descript black jeans and a gray T-shirt with a large darker gray semi-colon printed on the front. By the time we leave Goodwill, it’s early afternoon.

  “Let’s go to the Rainier Valley,” Carlos says. “I think it might be best to avoid downtown for the time being.”

  I nod. I like the sound of ‘Rainier’ though I don’t know why. Truthfully, as long as I’m with Carlos, I don’t really care where we go or what the place is named. I was so scared he was going to leave me when he called me ‘Lita’ after the incident downtown, but he’s been holding my hand everywhere we walk all afternoon and the warm pressure of his fingers in mine has rebuilt my sense of security block by block.

  This part of the city is flat, and I quickly become used to it. I like not feeling that fleeting sensation of fear that I always have whenever we head downhill or get close to the water. Things feel like they could maybe even be normal here. We pass by an Oh Boy Oberto outlet store that smells like heaven.

  I ask Carlos what they sell.

  “Meat,” he replies.

  We pass about fifteen stores that smell like chemicals and seem to offer the same thing. “What’s a nail salon?”

  Carlos rubs my fingertips with his thumb. “They take care of your fingernails.”

  I pull my hand out of his and stare at my short, broken nails. “That’s it? That’s all they do?”

  “Well, toenails too, if you want them to.”

  I shake my head. “Just when I think I’m starting to figure things out, you throw me a curveball.”

  Carlos smiles. “Hey, you know what a curveball is.”

  “Yeah, I like baseball.” My eyes widen. “Hey! I like baseball! And football too. I listen to it all the time.”

  “Like, on the radio?”

  I shake my head slowly, uncertain. “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s baseball season right now. The Ms are on the road, but as soon as they’re back in town, I’ll take you to Sodo, where the stadiums are. Lots of tourists and out-of-towners on game days, makes for great panhandling. You can listen to the game on loudspeakers and hear the roar of the crowd from right outside.”

  I grin. “That sounds really fun.”

  Carlos’s stomach rumbles so loud that he jumps and I laugh at him. He grins sheepishly. “Ready for lunch?”

  “You definitely are,” I reply with a smile.

  “Dumpsters in this part of town probably aren’t even locked,” he says. “How about Mexican?”

  I nod. I know that word, so I bet that means I like it. We walk a couple more blocks until we come to a storefront with a yellow and red sign reading, “Casa Cosita Authentic Mexican Food.”

  “Hmm,” Carlos muses. “It might not bode well that they feel the need to defend the authenticity of their food in their sign. Want to keep looking?”

  “No,” I say. “You’re hungry. Let’s see what they’ve left for us in the trashcan.”

  It’s located in what Carlos calls a “strip mall,” where five or six businesses are all connected together, so we have to walk all the way down to the end of the block before we can double back to find the trashcans at the rear of the store. Carlos is right, they’re not locked, and we pull out bags filled with a mushy amalgamation of foods that all have a similar spicy scent. I don’t see any plastic spoons or forks, so I scoop up a handful of cheesy rice and I’m just about to put it into my mouth when Carlos lifts a tin can from the trash and holds it up triumphantly.

  “Aha! Authentic Mexican food, my ass,” he crows. “Rosarita refried beans.”

  My right hand opens and the rice spills to the ground. I clutch my left temple with my other hand as I’m hit with a staggering headache. I lurch to the side, bounce off the brick outer wall of the restaurant, and crumple to a seated position. I grab my head with both hands now and try to keep my skull from exploding into a million shards of bone.

  Rosarita, Rosarita, my little refried bean. I hear Daddy’s voice in my head, and I see him in my mind’s eye. David Columbia, my father. He’s holding his arms out to me and I’m rushing into a hug. Behind him, beyond his office window, the sky is yellow-gray-green and I remember everything.

  “Boo! Boo!” Carlos is crouched in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

  “Carlos,” I rasp. “Oh my god, Carlos. I remember. I remember it all. I know why I’m here. I’m not supposed to be here. Oh my god.”

  I pull myself to my feet as rapidly as I can on my unsteady legs. The excruciating hammering in my head from wave after wave of unlocked memories seems endless, and now it’s joined by nausea and dread. I know why I’m scared. It’s 2018, and with one little empty can of refried beans, I remember all of the things that haven’t happened yet.

  I grip Carlos’s hands urgently and search his face. It’s full of nothing but concern for me, his friend…his Boo. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know he’s already dead. A flame of fierce protectiveness flares in the center of my chest, so hot it startles me. I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him. I squeeze his hands even harder. “Carlos. I got my memory back, and it’s not good, but I promise I’ll help you.”

  Carlos knits his eyebrows together. “Help me? What are you talking about, Boo?”

  I’m not going to let fear and despair overwhelm me. I can handle this. I’ll go back, I’ll get more chemicals and bring them with me, right back to this exact moment. I’ll find him and bring him home with me. I slap at my vest pocket. I close my eyes and breathe hard through my nose. My vest is gone. My port was removed. My return chemicals. I gasp. It was my return chemicals that brought me here in the first place.

  I’m stranded. I can’t help Carlos. But David Columbia can. My father will help me. And when I tell him about Carlos, he’ll understand, and he’ll let me help him too – I know he will.

  “Carlos. Where’s Smith Tower?”

  Carlos cocks his head and points behind me. “It’s that way, back downtown. But why? What has that got to do with anything?”

  There’s no time to waste. I grab his hand and tug him in the direction of the city’s skyscrapers. “We need to go there right now. I have to get a message to my dad.”

  Chapter Twenty

  July 2, 2018

  Carlos asks questions all the way to Smith Tower. I can tell he’s getting more and more frustrated by my refusal to answer, but how can I explain anything to him? He’d never believe me.

  Carlos is a zed. But he’s so much more than that. Before, when I’d traveled, I viewed the world in gray-scale. The only splash of color in my mind’s eye had been big red Xs over the people. Deleted. Deleted. Dead, dead, dead.

  But not Carlos. I’ve held his hand. He’s snuggled me to sleep. He’s protected me, again and again, when I couldn’t protect myself. My breath catches in my throat. How many times has he saved me from the police when I didn’t remember anything about the world I was in? At least three, probably more. If I’d been put in juvie in 2018 with no return chemicals and no way to contact my father…. I shudder at the thought. What if
I’d still been in custody during The Collapse? What then?

  2018 is cutting it close, but I’ve calmed down a little bit now. I know I’m going to be okay. And Carlos will be too. Saving Carlos won’t cause a conundrum because he’s already saved me. That’s logical, right?

  “Boo?” Carlos’s voice has an edge to it. I’m so lost in thought, I have no idea how many times he’s tried to get my attention, but I’m certain it’s more than once.

  “Carlos, I’m sorry. We have to hurry. There is literally no time to waste, we’re getting closer to disaster with every minute that passes. I’ll try to explain it to you later, but it’s going to be hard. I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

  Carlos halts. “You’re talking crazy. How can you not trust me? After everything we’ve been through?”

  I grind my teeth in irritation at the delay. “It’s not that, Carlos,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to relax my jaw. “I do trust you. It’s just…” I sigh, exasperated. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Carlos’s mouth settles into a firm, thin line. “Smith Tower. Two blocks north, straight ahead.” He gestures to a white building with a pointy roof. It’s tall enough for a bit of it to survive to my present day, but it’s dwarfed by the bigger buildings around it. It must be so hard for Dad to get in and out of it. But that’s why he chose the location. For its difficulty. That’s where I’ll send him the Achtung.

  “I need to get to the top floor, north wall.”

  The lockbox I’ll put the note to Dad in is concealed in a false panel at the base of the north wall on the uppermost floor. Dad had me memorize the procedure before I began traveling. Remove the panel, check the weight on the scale. Remove the lockbox, leave my communication and replace the box on the scale. If the weight doesn’t change measurably, throw something heavy inside. It doesn’t need to be much. Fifty-six years from now, Dad will get an Achtung the moment the weight on the scale changes in our time. I don’t know how it works, because it doesn’t really make sense to me, but I can remember at least four different Achtungs my dad has had to chase down. It should have occurred to me that there were other time travelers sending messages, since I never had myself.