Dark Matter (28 page)

How would
I
dupe him?

If it were anyone other than me looking for me, the name I checked in under would probably keep me undetected. But all these other versions know my mother's father's name. I screwed that up. If using that name was my first impulse, it would have also been another Jason's first impulse. So assuming I knew the name I might have checked in under, what would I do next?

The front desk wouldn't just give out my room number.

I'd have to pretend to know that I was staying here.

I would call the hotel and ask to be connected to Jess McCrae's room.

When I heard my voice pick up on the other end of the line, I would know I was here and hang up right away.

Then I would call back thirty seconds later and say to the clerk, “Sorry to bother you again, but I just called a second ago and was accidentally disconnected. Could you please reconnect me to…Oh shit, what room number was that?”

And if I got lucky, and the front-desk clerk was an absentminded idiot, there'd be a decent chance he would just blurt out my room number before reconnecting me.

Thus the first call to confirm it was me who answered.

Thus the second, where the caller hung up right after learning which room I'm staying in.

I rise from the bed.

The thought is absurd, but I can't ignore it.

Am I coming up here right now to kill me?

I slide my arms into the sleeves of my wool coat and head for the door.

I feel dizzy with fear, even as I second-guess myself, thinking maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I'm rushing to some outlandish explanation of a mundane thing—the phone ringing twice in my room.

Perhaps.

But after that chat room, nothing would surprise me.

What if I'm right and don't listen to my gut?

Go.

Right now.

I slowly open the door.

Step out into the hall.

It's empty.

Silent save for the low-register hum of the fluorescent lights above me.

Stairs or elevator?

At the far end of the hallway, the elevator dings.

I hear the doors begin to part, and then a man in a wet jacket steps out of the elevator car.

For a moment, I can't move.

Can't tear my eyes away.

It's me walking toward me.

Our eyes meet.

He isn't smiling.

Wears no emotion on his face but a chilling intensity.

He raises a gun, and I'm suddenly running in the opposite direction, sprinting down the hallway toward the door at the far end that I'm praying isn't locked.

I crash through under the glowing Exit sign, glancing back as I enter the stairwell.

My doppelgänger runs toward me.

Down the steps, my hand sliding along the guardrail to steady my balance, thinking,
Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall.

As I reach the third-floor landing, I hear the door bang open above me, the echo of his footsteps filling the stairwell.

I keep descending.

Hit the second floor.

Then the first, where one door with a window in the center leads into the lobby and another without a window leads elsewhere.

I choose elsewhere, smashing through…

Into a wall of freezing, snow-filled air.

I stumble down some steps into several inches of fresh powder, my shoes slipping on the frosted pavement.

Just as I right myself, a figure emerges out of the shadows of the alley between two Dumpsters.

Wearing a coat like mine.

His hair dusted with snow.

It's me.

The blade in his hand throws a glint of light from the nearby streetlamp, and he advances on me, a knife spearing toward my abdomen—the knife that came standard-issue with the Velocity Laboratories backpack.

I sidestep at the last conceivable moment, grabbing his arm and slinging him with all my power into the steps that lead up to the hotel.

He crashes into the stairs as the door busts open above us, and two seconds before I run for my life, I commit the most impossible image to memory: one version of myself stepping out of the stairwell with a gun, the other version picking himself up off the stairs, his hands frantically searching for his knife, which has disappeared in the snow.

Are they a pair?

Working together to murder every Jason they can find?

I race between the buildings, snow plastering my face, my lungs burning.

Turning out onto the sidewalk of the next street, I look back down the alley, see two shadows moving toward me.

I head through the blowing snow.

No one out.

The streets empty.

Several doors down, I hear an explosion of noise—people cheering.

I rush toward it, pushing through a scuffed, wooden door into a dive bar with standing room only, everyone turned facing the row of flatscreens above the bar, where the Bulls are locked in a fourth-quarter death match with the visiting team.

I force my way into the crowd, letting it swallow me.

There's nowhere to sit, barely anyplace to stand, but I finally carve out a cramped square foot of legroom underneath a dartboard.

Everyone is glued to the game, but I'm watching the door.

The Bulls' point guard drains a three-point shot, and the room erupts in a roar of pure joy, strangers high-fiving and embracing.

The door to the bar swings open.

I see myself standing in the threshold, covered in snow.

He takes a step inside.

I lose him for a moment, then see him again as the crowd undulates.

What has this version of Jason Dessen experienced? What worlds did he see? What hell did he fight through to arrive back in this Chicago?

He scans the crowd.

Behind him, I can see the snow falling outside.

His eyes look hard and cold, but I wonder if he would say the same about me.

As his gaze tracks toward where I'm standing in the back of the room, I squat beneath the dartboard, hidden in a forest of legs.

I let a full minute pass.

When the crowd roars again, I slowly stand.

The door to the bar is closed now.

My doppelgänger gone.

The Bulls win.

People linger, happy and drunk.

It takes an hour for a spot to open up at the bar, and since I have no place to go, I climb onto a stool and order a light beer that brings my balance down to less than $10.

I'm starving, but this place doesn't serve food, so I devour several bowls of Chex mix as I nurse my beer.

An inebriated man attempts to engage me in a conversation about the Bulls' postseason chances, but I just stare down into my beer until he insults me and starts bothering two women standing behind us.

He's loud, belligerent.

A bouncer appears and hauls him outside.

The crowd thins.

As I sit at the bar, trying to tune out the noise, I keep landing on a single concept: I need to get Daniela and Charlie away from our brownstone on 44 Eleanor Street. As long as they're home, the threat of these Jasons doing something crazy persists.

But how?

Jason2 is presumably with them right now.

It's the middle of the night.

Going anywhere near our house entails way too much risk.

I need Daniela to leave, to come to me.

But for every idea I have, another Jason is having the same, or already has, or soon will.

There's no way for me to win.

As the door to the bar swings open, I look over.

A version of me—backpack, peacoat, boots—steps through the doorway, and when our eyes meet, he betrays surprise and raises both arms in a show of deference.

Good. Maybe he's not here for me.

If there are as many Jasons running around Logan Square as I suspect, chances are he just stumbled in out of the cold, seeking shelter and safety. Like I did.

He crosses to the bar and climbs onto the empty stool beside mine, his bare hands trembling with cold.

Or fear.

The bartender drifts over and looks at both of us with curiosity—as if she
wants
to ask—but all she says to the new arrival is, “What can I get you?”

“Whatever he's drinking.”

We watch her pull a pint from the tap and bring over the glass, foam spilling down the sides.

Jason lifts his beer.

I lift mine.

We stare at each other.

He has a fading wound across the right side of his face, like someone slashed him with a knife.

The thread tied around his ring finger is identical to mine.

We drink.

“When did you get—?”

“When did you get—?”

We can't help but smile.

I say, “This afternoon. You?”

“Yesterday.”

“I have a feeling it's going to be kind of hard—”

“—not finishing each other's sentences?”

“You know what I'm thinking right now?”

“I can't read your mind.”

It's strange—I'm talking to myself, but his voice doesn't sound like what I think I sound like.

I say, “I'm wondering how far back you and I branched. Did you see the world of falling ash?”

“Yes. And then the ice. I barely escaped that one.”

“What about Amanda?” I ask.

“We were separated in the storm.”

I feel a pang of loss like a small detonation in my gut.

I say, “We stayed together in mine. Took shelter in a house.”

“The one that was buried to the dormer windows?”

“Exactly.”

“I found that house too. With the dead family inside.”

“So then where—?”

“So then where—?”

“You go,” he says.

As he sips his beer, I ask, “Where did you go after the ice world?”

“I walked out of the box into this guy's basement. He freaked out. He had a gun, tied me up. Probably would have killed me except he took one of the ampoules and decided to have a look at the corridor for himself.”

“So he went in and never came out.”

“Exactly.”

“And then?”

His eyes go distant for a moment.

He takes another long pull from his beer.

“Then I saw some bad ones. Really bad. Dark worlds. Evil places. What about you?”

I share my story, and though it feels good to unload, it's undeniably strange to unload on him.

This man and I were the same person up until a month ago. Which means ninety-nine-point-nine percent of our history is shared.

We've said the same things. Made identical choices. Experienced the same fears.

The same love.

As he buys our second round of beers, I can't take my eyes off him.

I'm sitting next to me.

There's something about him that doesn't seem quite real.

Perhaps because I'm watching from an impossible vantage point—looking at myself from outside of myself.

He looks strong, but also tired, damaged, and afraid.

It's like talking to a friend who knows everything about you, but there's an added layer of excruciating familiarity. Aside from the last month, there are no secrets between us. He knows every bad thing I've done. Every thought I've entertained. My weaknesses. My secret fears.

“We call him Jason2,” I say, “which implies that we think of ourselves as Jason1. As the original. But we can't both be Jason1. And there are others out there who think
they're
the original.”

“None of us are.”

“No. We're pieces of a composite.”

“Facets,” he says. “Some very close to being the same man, like I assume you and I are. Some worlds apart.”

I say, “It makes you think about yourself in a different light, doesn't it?”

“Makes me wonder, who is the ideal Jason? Does he even exist?”

“All you can do is live the best version of yourself, right?”

“Took the words.”

The bartender announces last call.

I say, “Not many people can say they've done this.”

“What? Share a beer with themselves?”

“Yeah.”

He finishes his beer.

I finish mine.

Sliding off his stool, he says, “I'll leave first.”

“Which way are you heading?”

He hesitates. “North.”

“I'm not going to follow you. Can I expect the same?”

“Yes.”

“We can't both have them.”

He says, “Who deserves them is the question, and there may be no answer. But if it comes down to you and me, I won't let you stop me from being with Daniela and Charlie. I won't like it, but I'll kill you if it comes to that.”

“Thanks for the beer, Jason.”

I watch him go.

Wait five minutes.

I'm the last one to leave.

It's still snowing.

There's a half foot of fresh powder on the streets, and the snowplows are out.

Stepping down onto the sidewalk, I take a moment to absorb my surroundings.

Several customers from the bar are staggering away, but I see no one else out on the streets.

I don't know where to go.

I
have
nowhere to go.

Two valid hotel keycards in my pocket, but it wouldn't be safe to use either of them. Other Jasons could have easily obtained copies. They could be inside my room at this moment, waiting for me to return.

It dawns on me—my last ampoule is back at that second hotel.

Gone now.

I start walking down the sidewalk.

It's two in the morning, and I'm running on fumes.

How many other Jasons are wandering these streets at this very moment, facing the same fears, the same questions?

How many have been killed?

How many are out hunting?

I can't escape the feeling that I'm not safe in Logan Square, even in the middle of the night. Every alley I pass, every shadowy doorway, I'm looking for movement, for someone coming after me.

A half mile brings me to Humboldt Park.

I track through the snow.

Out into a silent field.