Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (29 page)

“Pretty much. I’m guessing the stuff about the Objectivist Club is worth a look because of Saul’s bet with Campbell. If that’s really why he’s doing all of this, and Simon seemed certain it is, then Saul would make damned sure Campbell knows he won. But other than that . . .” He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Think about it this way, Kate. Each time there’s been a shift, you’ve noticed small changes, and you don’t even remember the timeline before the Cyrists. Those little changes spread out, and before long, you’ve got a very different history. Very different government. Different cities, different culture, different pretty much everything.”

“And the train track we’re riding on hits a cement wall in a few days,” I say. “Well, in a few days from my perspective. The Culling changes everything. That’s why these stable points are screwed up. The geographical and chronological coordinates are still the same, but everything else has changed. There may not even
be
a CHRONOS! Maybe it was never created, maybe there aren’t even any keys to—
ugh
!” I pound both fists into my thighs, hard, but it doesn’t even begin to vent the frustration.

Kiernan leans forward and grabs my wrists. “I don’t think so, Kate. Unless someone opened them up and gave them an acid bath like the ones Connor had, the keys wouldn’t be affected. They’re a constant. They’re inside a CHRONOS field. Even if everything changes around them, those keys existed in some timeline, so they exist in this one, too.”

He’s right. At least I
think
he is.

“Okay. But where? And how do we grab the keys before Prudence does, if she got them in some other timeline that doesn’t even exist anymore?”

B
OGART
, G
EORGIA

March 2, 1913, 6:47 a.m.

This is the first time I’ve been awakened by rooster.

I don’t like it.

He yanked me out of a deep, dreamless sleep, and I almost slip back into it, until he starts up again. The creature clearly takes his alarm clock duty far too seriously, and there’s no way to turn him off or press snooze. Even pulling a pillow over my head doesn’t block his racket. No wonder people went to bed early in these days. They knew they’d be jolted wide awake at the crack of dawn.

I vaguely remember moving to the guest room after the third time I drifted off on Kiernan’s sofa. Keeping your eyes open is kind of important when scanning stable points. I was starting to worry that the next time I opened my eyes I’d find I blinked myself into the future.

Everyone is still where they’re supposed to be when I check in via the medallion. I know my constant checking is bordering on obsession, but there’s something comforting about the routine. If I had a stable point for Mom and Katherine, it would be so easy to get stuck in this loop where I circle endlessly, making sure everyone I love is safe in this one block of time.

But that would be crazy.

And speaking of crazy, the glow stars, the ones Kiernan brought here from his room in Boston, are still on the ceiling. Those stars nagged at me when I saw them in his room in Boston. They still bother me, and I finally realize why. The stars shouldn’t exist. Kiernan said her other things vanished. I have to keep the 1905 dress—the one that belonged to her—under a CHRONOS field or it will vanish, too. If Other-Kate put those stars on his ceiling, they should’ve blinked out of existence when she did. Right?

I check the nightstand near the bed for a CHRONOS diary inside, but there isn’t one. While Kiernan does have a diary in the loft and the field
might
extend that far, I doubt it.

Did Kiernan jump to the closest time and place with a Spencer Gifts and buy more? It’s the only thing that makes sense. If so, it’s sad. In fact, it’s borderline creepy-obsessive, and I’m not comfortable putting Kiernan in that category.

I pull on the jeans, sweater, and socks I discarded before climbing under the quilt last night because the cabin is chilly this morning, and the 2308 costume Kiernan nabbed from Prudence’s closet doesn’t look very warm. It also smells funny . . . a musky, spicy scent he says Pru wore when she was younger.

I’ve mentally tagged the outfit “Seven of Nine.” It’s one of those catsuit things—stretchy, shiny, and grayish-purple. It reminds me of this cyborg character on one of the
Star Trek
shows Dad used to watch. I don’t think he really liked the show itself, but he definitely paid attention when the catsuit woman was on-screen. Even though I won’t fill it out as impressively as she did, it wins the best jump costume hands down.

I also put the contacts back in, reluctantly, scratching my eyelid in the process. Charlayne swears I’ll get used to the lenses after a while. I can’t understand why anyone would wear these for fun.

It’s much warmer in the main cabin, thanks to a roaring fire. Kiernan’s already up with a cup of coffee, reading something on my tablet.

“Is there more of that?” I ask.

“Of course. You’re here, so I knew to make a full pot.” He pushes his chair back and goes to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. I’m thinking Kentucky Fried Rooster.”

There’s another chorus of cock-a-doodle-doo just as I finish speaking, and he laughs. “Henry’s just doing his job, love.”

Kiernan seems almost cheerful, in stark contrast to last night. This may be the first time he’s called me
love
since we were with Abel and Delia in Martha’s cellar. I have mixed feelings about that part, but if it means he’s not snapping and muttering constantly, I’ll consider it a fair trade.

He comes back into the room with a full mug and a plate of what looks and smells like banana bread. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I’d have thought, but I’m still exhausted. In fact, if you want to track down Henry and pop a bag over his head, I’ll go back for five or six hours more.”

“I could do that, but you’d just lie there and worry about everything that needs doing, so you might as well get back to it.” Kiernan speaks as though this is a given fact, which it probably is. And that irks me, because it’s one of those things he shouldn’t know but still does.

And that’s probably why I decide to ask the question that’s been bugging me since I was in his apartment in Boston, even though I’m fairly certain it’s going to wreck his pleasant mood.

“So . . . the stars on the ceiling in the guest room. You said they belonged to your Kate. But they couldn’t, could they? The dress . . . you said it would’ve disappeared if you left it at Jess’s store without the CHRONOS field from your grandfather’s diary. Why would those stars be any different?”

I was right. Kiernan’s eyes take on the guarded look that’s pretty much the norm these days and he looks away. I instantly regret pushing the point, but he’s hiding something, and I can’t help thinking those silly stars are part of it.

He goes to the fireplace and pokes it vigorously a few times, even though it’s blazing quite nicely and doesn’t need the attention. Then he walks over to the couch, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.

I think he’s ignoring me, but just as I’m opening my mouth to repeat the question, he sighs and starts talking.

“When my Kate disappeared, the stars went with her.” The lilt in his voice is gone, and he sounds tired. “Some time later, I came back to the apartment, and the stars were back. They weren’t stuck on in quite the same spots, and I think this batch may be from another company because the color seems more yellow this time. At first I thought it was one of Pru’s jokes. Then I thought it was you . . .
this
you. That you made a jump back and put those stars in our sky as a sign. To tell me I shouldn’t give up. So I brought them along when I moved. Now . . .” He shrugs, still avoiding my gaze. “I don’t have an answer to give you, Kate. If they bother you, take ’em down.”

I don’t have an answer to give you, Kate.

I think his wording is intentional. Not
I don’t have an answer
, because I’m pretty sure that would be an outright lie. And whatever else is going on with him, Kiernan still doesn’t like lying to me.

“No,” I say. “I just wondered. Seemed odd.”

And it does seem odd, but Kiernan’s closed expression makes it crystal clear I won’t get anything else out of him. So I pick up the key and start scanning stable points again.

Like the old folks’ apartment yesterday, the first few visual thumbnails seem similar enough in color and lighting that I believe they’re set in a single room, even though the angle varies a bit. I select one that appears to be looking down on a party from a balcony. The room looks like it could be part of a museum. It’s very posh, with dark paneling and upholstered chairs that would probably seem antique even to Kiernan. An immense fireplace takes up much of one wall, but people stand too close to it for me to believe it’s an actual fire. More likely a video screen. Framed portraits hang above the mantel. The one closest to me is a woman with short gray hair. There’s an inscription above the pictures, but the room isn’t well lit enough for me to make it out.

The crowd is maybe three-quarters male. Some wear suits a bit like tuxedos—they appear to be servers. Two men are in attire that looks Elizabethan, and several other historical eras are represented. This is either CHRONOS or a costume party.

I’m leaning toward the latter. Directly in front of the stable point is a woman whose dress scoops low in the back to highlight her assets, by which I mean not only her shapely behind, but also her
wings
.

They don’t look large enough to be functional—maybe two feet long—so I’m thinking costume. But they seem to rise straight out from the skin of her shoulder blades, and she uses them as she talks to emphasize her points, much the way I use my hands. The wings are delicate, gossamer-looking confections of white and seafoam green, with feathers tipped in a gold a few shades lighter than her dress.

The winged woman is by far the most stunning creature in the room, but the man at the far end of the table also draws my eye. While he isn’t obese, he’s definitely well cushioned, in stark contrast with every other person in the room. They all seem extraordinarily fit . . . almost too fit. The large guy appears isolated from the others. They’re clustered around him, but talking to each other. It’s almost like he’s on display.

The man’s eyes dart around nervously. A dog, also well cushioned and clearly past its prime, sleeps near his feet. The man keeps one hand on the animal, like he needs constant reassurance that his pet—a sad-looking parody of the lean, mean Dobies at the Sixteenth Street Temple—hasn’t wandered away.

Campbell’s dog
 . . .
that gassy old Doberman named Cyrus.

If that’s Campbell, and I’m pretty sure it is, this must be the Objectivist Club. I don’t believe it’s inside CHRONOS headquarters, from what Katherine and Grant said. But who knows if there even is a CHRONOS anymore? It’s a reasonably safe location where I could jump in. Better than arriving by rocket belt.

I grab Kiernan’s notepad and jot that location down as one to transfer to his key, then move to the next stable point. The geographic coordinates are so close to the last one that it might be the same building. But it’s the date stamp that catches my eye after I click it: 10022308_2200. That’s near enough to the estimated date for Pru’s jump to CHRONOS HQ that I decide to study this one closely.

A gargantuan pool takes up the center of the room, with several smaller pools scattered about at one end. People wander in and out of the area during the day, swimming and soaking up the sun. At some point, most of them enter one of the small white doors lined in a row along the far wall.

Clothing appears optional, more for decoration than decorum. And the groupings are . . . odd. I’ve yet to see a woman stroll in without a man, although several groups of men have wandered in without women.

At first I think the place is outside, because it’s sunlit part of the day and there’s a sky when I pivot upward. But as I skim through several days, the patterns seem too regular to be natural. Each day is aggressively bright and sunny, with just a few wispy clouds. The sky fades gradually beginning at 5 p.m. with a uniformly spectacular sunset promptly at 5:45. There’s a full moon every night, and regardless of the time of day, the wall of doors at the back remains fully lit until midnight. Then everything shuts down until six the next morning. The moon, the stars, and even the little reflecting lights along the edge of the pool go out.

When I hit the midnight blackout period after three iterations of this loop, I decide to zip through more quickly, thinking it may be time to move on to something new. But then I notice an odd flicker of white in the darkness.

It looks like a flashlight. Whoever’s holding it turns left, walking around the pool toward the stable point I’m viewing. As the person gets closer, I pick up a second source of light, fainter, but very clearly the vivid blue of a CHRONOS key.

After a moment, the man—he’s definitely a man, and a rather large one, too—comes closer to the stable point. He tosses a small bag onto the ground and puts the flashlight down beside it with the beam pointing upward. He’s tall and very muscular, in his early to midtwenties, with long hair that’s either blond or light brown, and a slightly darker beard.