In Times Like These (18 page)

The bathroom is quiet for a moment,
then I hear the proprietor come to the door and turn the lock. I step back from the door as he cracks it open. His black hair is a sweaty mess on his forehead and his dark eyes are wide in the dim light.

“You sure he’s gone?”

“Not absolutely sure. Where are the circuit breakers?”

“Behind you.”

I turn around and feel for the breaker panel on the wall behind me. I flip open the door and strain my eyes to try to see what has been tripped. I locate the main breaker with my fingers and press it back into position. As I shut the panel door and turn around, the fluorescent lights flicker on at the front of the store. My heart jolts in my chest as I see the figure of Stenger leering in at the glass doors. He stares at me and scowls. He lifts his gas can and dumps the remaining contents all over the front door.

Through the haze of liquid I see him grab an auto sales magazine from a rack outside and pull a lighter from his pocket. He casually lights the magazine and then watches the flame slowly grow, while with his other hand he pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. He draws off of the flame and then looks back to me, smoke streaming from his nostrils like a dragon.

Stenger disappears behind a wall of flame as he lights the door. The fire spreads to the ground immediately. Through the flames and smoke I watch Stenger walk to his truck. Most of the gasoline spilled on the ground outside earlier has evaporated, and the flames don’t follow him. The proprietor runs past me to the wall behind the counter and grabs a fire extinguisher. He moves to the door.

“Keep that door shut,” I advise.

The flames on the other side die down. The auto sales magazine is still curling itself into oblivion in the flames on the doormat but the fire has not spread inside the door. Sirens sound in the distance. I look back to the parking lot with a glimmer of hope, but Stenger’s truck is gone. They won’t catch him now.

The proprietor is aiming the extinguisher at the crack in the door to avert disaster at the first sign of flames leaking through. I can’t remember ever being in a more vulnerable position than trapped in a conveni
ence store full of fumes with my legs and feet wet with gasoline, but watching the auto magazine flames turn into smoldering ash on the step, my fear dissipates with it. It’s not going to get inside.

My anxiety starts to return when I see the first patrol car pull into the parking lot.
I don’t want to be questioned. How long will it be till they start asking what I was doing barefoot in the parking lot with no ID or money, in the middle of the night? What is my explanation going to be
?

“Hey I’m going to go wash this gas off my feet,” I declare to my companion as I slowly back away from the door. He’s not paying attention to me. He looks like he’s in shock from the attack and is still staring transfixed at the door.
He might be high from all the fumes.
More squad cars and a fire engine have pulled into the lot. I turn and head for the bathroom. Before entering, I give the back door at the end of the hallway another quick shove. Nothing. Stenger must have jammed something against it when he went out. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
How do I get out of this?

I turn
on the faucet, stick my right foot into the sink, and begin scrubbing frantically. I pump some soap onto it, rinse it off and repeat with the left, careful to try to keep my balance on the slick floor. Dirt from my walk here swirls down the drain in a dingy whirl. I don’t know why the state of my feet matters to me when I’m going to get them dirty again walking around anyway, but once they’re free of gasoline, I do feel a little better about my situation. I throw a handful of paper towels on the floor and step on them to dry my feet. I can hear the sound of voices out front.
Now what do I do?

The bathroom is small
, with a single toilet and sink and a fake palm tree in the corner. I look at the ceiling, hoping there might be some sort of way out, but there’s nothing. I’m trapped. My eyes fall onto the shiny stainless steel rail that’s been mounted along the wall next to the toilet as an aid for the handicapped.
Stationary metal object. Good conductor.

I look at my chronometer.
I can get out of here. I need a time to arrive. The future is no good. Who knows what’s going to happen in this bathroom once the cops start searching this place. Might be closed for a while. Plus I locked the door from the inside. They’ll have to find a way in, maybe break the door down. So when do I go? Quickly said arriving at night is frequently safer since there are less people around, but does that apply to gas stations? What’s the proprietor going to do if I just show up in the middle of the night and startle him? I feel bad for the guy. He’s already had one bad scare.

I decide on arriving in the daytime. I’ll just need to find a way to do it where I won’t end up colliding with someone using the bathroom if someone happens to be in here when I show up. I look at the toilet and try to visualize the least occupied space around the rail. I grab more paper towels and wipe the seat of the toilet. I toss the towels toward the bin but only a few make it. I don’t have time to care.

I set one foot on the toilet seat and grab the rail with my left hand and then step up onto the back of the toilet. Using the corner of the walls, I turn myself around till I’m squatting above the toilet with one foot on the tank and one on the rail. I try to reach down with my left hand to grab the rail but it’s too awkward of a position to maintain my balance. I need my chronometer to be closer to my grounding point. I unfasten it and transfer it to my right wrist.

I check my settings.
Six hours ought to do it.
I’m guessing at the time, but I figure six hours ought to put me somewhere around 7 pm, a fairly normal hour of day to escape a gas station
. Directional slider to Back. Got that right this time.
I reposition with both feet on the tank and just my right hand grabbing the rail. I reach over with my left hand for the chronometer.

Someone knocks on the door and tries the door handle.

“Hey, are you in there?”

Nope. Not anymore
.

I push the pin.

Chapter 11

“If you find a timestream you can live with, don’t be afraid to stay a while. The grass isn’t always greener. Sometimes they don’t even have grass.”

-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly
, 2208

There is a little girl sitting on the toilet, humming to herself. Her feet don’t touch the floor. The light swinging of her feet as she hums is making the fake flower on her headband bop around. I get the impression that she’s in no particular hurry.

That is not working very well for me, awkwardly perched above her on the toilet tank. My right hand on the railing is barely outside of her peripheral vision. Any moment now she’s going to hear my breath
ing or I’m going to slip off the top of the toilet and scare her to death.

The girl starts to sing softly to herself. I can only make out occasional words, something about a pony.
Did “My Little Pony” have a theme song?
This girl’s mom or dad is going to wonder how she’s doing in here soon. Then this is really going to look bad.

I decide I’m just going to have to make something happen now. I have so much height wor
king for me that the shortest way off of the tank is actually going to be over top of her, provided I don’t crash into the ceiling. I reposition one of my feet quickly and then leap. I clear her easily and land on my feet and one hand in the center of the bathroom floor. I know I should probably just bolt for the door, but I can’t resist turning around to see the girl’s reaction. Her wide eyes and open-mouthed expression are pretty funny. I smile at her and she doesn’t look scared, only incredulous. That doesn’t seem to stop her from doing the one thing I was hoping to avoid. She screams. It’s one of the ultra high-pitched ear-pain inducing screams that little girls seem uniquely capable of.

That’s my exit cue.

I throw open the door, praying that I won’t immediately run into a parent. The hallway is clear. I catch a glimpse of the proprietor behind a rack of roadmaps. I duck instinctively. I have no idea what happens if he ends up recognizing me later on tonight. I don’t want to find out. I turn and kick the back door open with my foot. This time it opens easily to a back parking lot and a dark blue sky still catching the last rays of twilight.

I’m out
the door in a matter of moments and sprinting for a low chain fence that borders an adjoining residential yard. I’m over the fence and into the backyard as fast as my legs can take me. The fence at the side yard turns from chain link to wood as it wraps around the back of the house. I stop once I’m behind the wooden fence and deposit myself between two leafy ferns at a crack between the boards. I watch the back of the station and see the proprietor poke his head out and scan the parking lot. There are voices behind him but no one else emerges. He strides into the lot and looks around the corner to the pumps, then looks the other direction toward the dumpster before heading back in and shutting the door.

Close call that time.

The backyard has a gate to the alley. I slip out without a second look at the house. I know there could be some little old lady leering out her blinds as I cut through her yard but I’m not worried about it. I don’t plan on sticking around. I stop and gingerly pull a pair of sand spurs out of the arch of my foot and then head away from the station. The gravel and dirt alley makes for slow going with my bare feet and the dim light.
I never did get my phone call. I’m not going back to that payphone again.

I figure I now have about sixteen hours till I disappear off of that roof.
You’re going the wrong direction, Ben.
Blake will be waiting for me to reappear next to him.
Maybe I can still get there.

Successfully escaping the bathroom has given me more confidence in my abilities. Perhaps I could find a way to make it back without having to call Quickly or have any more run-ins with serial arsonists. I reorient myself to where I am and begin walking back into Quickly’s neighborhood. I need another safe anchor. The roof had been good when I had shoes on, but barefoot I’m less confident of jumping from shingles. The smooth porcelain of the toilet top hadn’t been a concern but outdoors I’m going to need to be more selective. I scan people’s yards as I pass them, looking at their yard ornaments and fixtures. One porch has a wooden cuckoo clock hanging over their Adirondack chairs that catches my eye.

Shit. I forgot to log my jump again.

I pull the logbook from my pocket and flip to the page for the newest entry.
Time of departure.
Not really sure
.
After midnight. 12:30?
I scribble it in. Location of departure:
Gas station on Sixteenth Street. What was the cross street
? Location of arrival:
Same
. Time of arrival:
That I don’t know.

I walk up to the porch and try to get a good look at the cuckoo clock. I think I arrived sometime around 6:30
pm. Should be close to seven by now. The clock reads three o’clock. I don’t hear any ticking.
Well you’re no help.
Time zone:
Eastern Standard Time.
At least I know that one
. I look over the empty columns of information I don’t know.

I’m a terrible time traveler.

I stuff the logbook and my pen back in my pocket and continue down the sidewalk. The old pavers are uneven and the littering of acorns makes me move slowly. I keep my eye out for possible safe anchors. The neighborhood is quiet overall, with only occasional cars passing. Some of the streets are brick and the houses are from a variety of eras, mashed together in time. I reach a small lake tucked away in a park in the heart of the neighborhood. A lone streetlight is shining on a playground in the adjacent park.

Jungle gym. That’s not a bad anchor.

I walk to the play area and am happy to find no sign of kids. Ending up in a locked bathroom with a little girl was awkward enough. I don’t really need to add lurking around children in parks to my image. The redwood bark mulch around the playground equipment is uncomfortable to walk on, but I work my way over to a set of monkey bars. There’s also a swing set, a long metal slide and the type of merry-go-round that you race around and jump on to get dizzy.
I loved those as a kid. Wish they hadn’t gotten rid of them. Safety really took the fun out of playgrounds.

I climb up the two side steps of the
monkey bars and then clamber to the top where I can dangle my feet over the edge. I’m happy to be off the bark. A large Banyan tree obscures the streetlight, so I doubt that I’m very visible from the street. I hear the flapping of some kind of waterfowl next to the lake, but otherwise the area is quiet.

Positioning myself as comfortably as I can with my legs hanging over the edge of the front rail and my lower back resting against the back rail, I set to work arranging my chronometer settings, tilting it to catch some light as best I can.
Next time I really need to bring a flashlight.
I decide to try to jump forward to the wee morning hours first.
Shouldn’t be anyone using monkey bars at three in the morning.
I realize I’m still guessing at what time I’m leaving from again. Jumping in the lab with a clock on the wall was a lot easier to manage. I set the chronometer for a seven-hour jump. It should put me somewhere around 3 am.
Do I have it set to FWD this time? Yes. Learned from that mistake.