Timebound (25 page)

At the last minute, I turned back. I’d gotten used to seeing the blue glimmer of the CHRONOS medallion through the fabric of my clothes on the rare occasions I ventured beyond the protective zone, but it occurred to me that I might actually encounter others who could see the light from the key once we were at the temple. I slipped off the tunic and began layering camisoles over the top. The first two were thin and I could still see the glow pretty clearly. I pulled a third from the dirty clothes hamper and added it, and then finally a black tank top—pretty much every item in my limited wardrobe. When I was finished, I could still detect a very
faint blue, but it was masked by the floral pattern of the tunic and I decided it would have to do.

Sneaking out felt wrong. I’d never so much as broken curfew, although there had been a close call after a party at the house of one of Charlayne’s cousins. If Katherine or Connor saw me headed downstairs, it wouldn’t usually be a big deal—I often got the urge for a midnight snack, but never fully dressed and in makeup. I kept all of the lights off and was still nervous when I reached the kitchen. My hands shook slightly as I pulled up the Lincoln Memorial, locking in the location and setting the time for just over seven hours later.

Trey was waiting in the same spot as last time. He looked very handsome in a dark blue shirt and gray dress pants.

“What, no onion rings?”

“I have something even better planned,” he said with a smile. “Services don’t start until eleven, and I know that Katherine and Connor’s culinary skills are… well, limited.” That was putting a polite face on things—on the few occasions that he’d eaten a full meal at Katherine’s, I’d been the one doing the cooking. “So what would the birthday girl say to a real home-cooked breakfast that she doesn’t have to cook?”

My face fell. “Oh, Trey—I don’t think we should. What if…” I didn’t think breakfast at his house increased the chances of me getting caught—but I was terrified at the thought of meeting his family, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Dad is going to love you. Don’t look so scared. It’s too late to call and cancel, because Estella is already cooking. And you really don’t want to cancel anyway—her
huevos divorciados
are
muy delicioso
.”

“Divorced eggs?” My Spanish wasn’t nearly as proficient as Trey’s, but I was pretty sure that’s what he’d said.

“You’ll see,” he said, laughing.

Estella was well under five feet tall and very round, with vivid red curls that were clearly not part of the natural color palette of her native Guatemala. She gave me a quick up-and-down appraisal when she opened the door and, her judgment apparently complete, broke into a huge smile and pulled me down for a hug.

“Lars is in the shower—Sunday is his only day to sleep in—but he’ll be down soon. I am sorry that Trey’s mama is not here to greet you, but I welcome you for her. When she is back from Peru, she will be so happy to meet the young lady who has made her baby smile.”

Trey’s blush at that statement matched my own, and Estella laughed, leading us both into the big yellow kitchen. I was relieved that breakfast would be an informal occasion in the kitchen rather than at the long, formal dining table I had glimpsed from the foyer. Estella put us to work setting the table and slicing fruit as she scurried between fridge and stove, shooing Dmitri (who was clearly in search of his breakfast) out of her way and asking me a steady stream of questions as she worked. I answered as best I could, piecing together bits of my old life (Mom, Dad, and Briar Hill) and my new one with Katherine and Connor.

By the time breakfast was ready, Estella had managed to make Trey blush three more times. I learned about his first steps and an unusual encounter with the tooth fairy when he was six, and she had just finished telling me about Marisol, the first girl he’d had a crush on—“not nearly as pretty as you,
querida
”—when she broke off to greet Trey’s dad. “Sit,
mijo.
I will bring you coffee.”

Mr. Coleman was nearly as tall as his son. He had darker hair, but it was instantly clear where Trey had gotten his smile. The gray eyes were also the same, if slightly distorted by the horn-rimmed glasses that made him look a little bit like an older version of the lead singer from Weezer. “Kate!” he said, the smile growing a bit wider. “I’m glad to see that you’re real. I was beginning to think
Trey had invented a girlfriend to keep Estella from trying to fix him up with girls from her church.”

“Ha. Very funny,
mijo.
” Estella slid a plate of
huevos divorciados
—two eggs, one covered with green sauce and the other with red—in front of him. Trey was right; they were delicious. In fact, the entire breakfast was so good and Estella so insistent we eat more, more, that I was amazed Trey could actually live there and still manage to stay thin.

The four of us engaged in breakfast chitchat for a few minutes while we focused on our food, and then Mr. Coleman surprised me with a more pointed question. “So I understand you’re off to do some detective work this morning?”

I gave Trey a startled glance and he jumped in to explain. “I told Dad that you’re worried about Charlayne’s sudden interest in the Cyrists.”

Estella’s expression gave little doubt about her opinion on the matter. “You are a good friend to be worried,
querida.
Those Cyrists are no good. Always going on about the riches God will give you here on earth if you are strong—never anything about how you should treat others. I watch that preacher on TV one morning—Patrick Conwell—all the time he asks for my money and says I will get it back ten times over. Same thing they say in Atlantic City. I don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them.”

“Charlayne has a good heart,” I said, “but she can be a bit… easily influenced, I guess? That’s why I’m concerned.” I hadn’t caught the televised worship services, due to the lack of TV at Katherine’s, but I’d seen several segments from Cyrist ministers, including Conwell, the current Templar for the Sixteenth Street congregation, that were posted online. His smile was too polished and everything about him screamed fraud to me. When I’d attended the services earlier in the year with Charlayne, an older man had given the sermon, so I assumed that Conwell was his replacement in this timeline. The older guy hadn’t been particularly memorable
as a speaker, but he didn’t give off the used-car-salesman vibe that I picked up from Conwell.

Mr. Coleman spooned some of the fruit salad onto his plate and smiled at Estella. “You know that I agree with you on philosophical grounds, Estella, but as your financial advisor, I have to tell you that your odds would be much better with the Cyrists than with any of the dealers in Atlantic City. I have several colleagues who are devout Cyrists and let’s just say that their stock portfolios are very healthy—one might even say
suspiciously
healthy. I’ve never been one to buy into conspiracy theories, but…” He shook his head. “Not something I’d discuss too much in public—Cyrists have some pretty major political connections—but I ran a statistical analysis of their primary stock holdings last year. Just out of curiosity. If you’re interested, Kate, I can show you next time you’re here.”

“I’d be very interested, Mr. Coleman.” I was sure that Katherine and Connor would find that information useful, too, although I wasn’t sure how I would manage to visit again before I left for Chicago.

Trey apparently had the same thought. “I’d actually be interested in seeing that research myself, Dad.”

“Sure. I’ll email you what I have after breakfast. But don’t share it with anyone other than Kate, okay? I wasn’t kidding about Cyrists having friends in high places.”

Much to my embarrassment, Trey had leaked the news about my birthday, and breakfast concluded with
buñuelos—
wonderful little doughnuts covered in honey. Mine had a single candle in the middle. When we finished, I stood to help Estella clear the table, but she shooed me away with the same wave of her hand she’d used on Dmitri. “Go, go. You have places to be. I already went to early mass this morning and I have nothing else to do all day.”

I glanced at the kitchen clock. “We probably do need to get moving, Trey, if we’re going to find a parking space. Charlayne’s dad had to park six blocks away last time.”

Trey looked a bit surprised, but we said our good-byes and headed toward his car.

The temple was only a few miles away, and as we approached I understood why Trey hadn’t been worried about parking. A three-level garage and several smaller Cyrist annex buildings now occupied two blocks to the north that had previously held an apartment complex, a few small shops, and several dozen townhomes. The temple itself, which had taken up a city block when I visited in early spring, now covered at least twice that. The surrounding area, which had been a bit run-down the last time I saw it, was dotted with upscale bistros, a Starbucks, and several other cafés.

“None of this is new, is it?” I gestured toward the garage and other buildings.

Trey shook his head. “The restaurants down the hill come and go every few years, but the rest of the area looks pretty much as it has for as long as I can remember. I thought you just wanted to get here early for some reason.”

He pulled into the garage, which was still more than half empty, and we headed toward the temple. It was a beautiful morning, but there was a heavy quality to the air that suggested it would be hot and humid by midafternoon. Several families and couples were walking ahead of us in the direction of the temple. Most were in their Sunday best and I glanced down apprehensively at my jeans.

The temple itself gleamed in the bright sunlight, a behemoth of white stone and glass. The main building was much larger than I remembered, and gave the impression of being larger still due to its soaring steeple and its position at the crest of a hill. Perched atop the steeple was a huge Cyrist symbol—similar to a Christian cross, but with a rounded loop at the top and flared at the bottom, like an Egyptian ankh. It was also rounded on both sides so that—if viewed from the back—the horizontal bar looked a bit like an infinity symbol. In front of this, at the very center, was an ornate lotus flower.

We climbed the steps to the main entrance and followed several others into a spacious foyer that bore little resemblance to the building I’d entered with Charlayne a few months back. Just inside the door, we were welcomed by a security guard who asked us to remove our shoes and step through a metal detector. I was halfway through when it occurred to me that the machine might pick up the medallion, but the guard handed Trey back his wallet and keys and nodded us toward the main foyer.

The carpeted hall that I remembered from my previous visit had been replaced by a large vaulted atrium with polished stone floors and an arched entranceway leading to the main chapel. The morning sun beamed down on an immense white marble fountain in the center. On the left side of the atrium was a café, where several dozen people were chatting over coffee and muffins, and to the right, a Cyrist bookstore.

Trey and I wandered toward the bookstore entrance, where inspirational paperbacks by prominent Cyrist authors lined the shelves, along with a variety of Cyrist CDs and DVDs, T-shirts, and assorted souvenirs. Conwell’s latest book,
Faith and The Way: Five Steps to Financial Freedom,
was featured in the main display. His bronzed face, with its long, aquiline nose, was a rather stark contrast to the carefully manicured silver hair and prominent white teeth. The combination had the odd effect of making him look both older and younger than the age of forty-seven that I remembered from his online biography.

A CD cover near the book display caught my eye and I tugged on Trey’s sleeve. “That’s it—that’s what was on his T-shirt!” I whispered.

“Whose T-shirt?” he asked.

“On the Metro. Simon—the guy who took my backpack. It was really faded, but I’m sure that was the band logo.” I picked up the CD and examined the cover more closely. In the center was an image of an eye, with the lotus from the Cyrist symbol
superimposed over the pupil. “I don’t know the band, though—Aspire? Have you heard of them?”

Trey raised his eyebrows. “Uh,
yeah.
You mean you haven’t? They’re not really my kind of music, but you couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of their songs last year.”

I gave him a weak grin. “Not in
my
last year. So another one for our list, I guess.” We kept a running tally of the differences in the pop culture of the new timeline. Connor’s computer program had tracked down the new political leaders that emerged after the shift (about a dozen) and had noted the general shifts in economic power and other things that could be viewed in terms of the numbers, but he and Katherine weren’t really the type to keep up with the latest trends in music and entertainment. There were at least a dozen blockbuster movies from the past decade or so that I should have remembered but had never heard of, and several new-to-me celebrities and authors who all happened to be Cyrists. Going farther back, Trey had introduced me to a handful of “classics” that I was pretty sure you wouldn’t have found on the reading list for any Western civ course before the last time shift.