Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (51 page)

Mom is right behind her and she’s moving toward me, but Katherine gets there first. She pulls me into a fierce hug, and I know immediately that Dad told them about Connor.

“I’m so sorry, Katherine. So sorry. He was still alive, but I couldn’t . . . I can’t . . .”

I break down into tears, and Katherine holds me. She doesn’t cry, just rocks me back and forth. “It’s okay, Kate. It’s okay. Listen to me. Every day, every single day, Connor thought about pulling that key. About testing whether he’d end up back in the other timeline. Back with his kids. And maybe he did end up there. We can’t know, but . . . maybe he did. He told me he wasn’t going to let you keep a key back for him. This is what he wanted, Kate.”

Maybe. But I can’t help picturing his hand, grabbing for the key as he blinked out. I’ll never tell Katherine that, never, never. But that image starts my tears again.

After a few moments, I pull myself together and see Mom standing back against the wall, near the kitchen table. Her eyes are sad. Maybe she’s a bit hurt that she’s not the one comforting me, maybe a little angry at Katherine for pushing her aside. Even though she didn’t know Connor, I can see that she’s hurting, too, probably because she can see how very much this hurts me. I mouth a silent
I love you
, and she gives me a tiny smile and the little I-love-you-too hand sign that we’ve shared since I was a toddler.

And then Katherine’s shoulders begin to shake, and it’s my turn to hold her.

B
ETHESDA
, M
ARYLAND

September 11, 11:43 p.m.

“It’s canned, but it’s the best we can do.” Dad ladles more tomato soup into my bowl and slides one of the grilled cheese sandwiches next to it.

Because this is what Dad does when anyone around him is hurt. Or sad. Or angry. He cooks. And you don’t want to disappoint him, so you eat.

Other-Kate sits across from me, next to Mom, in the breakfast nook at Katherine’s house. She’s wearing a pair of my yoga pants and one of my oversized sweatshirts. It’s still too tight around the middle, but she must have been happy to ditch the toga, which I found stuffed into the trash can in my bathroom.

The question of whether we’d have some sort of temporal disaster if Other-Kate’s key, which is also Katherine’s key, were in the same room together was answered back at the cottage when we realized they
were
in the same room and nothing happened. It may be the same key, but Katherine says it’s locked onto a different genetic signature. And it’s not the same key at the same time, at least not from the key’s perspective. Whatever the hell that means.

“Are you sure they took Prudence to Walter Reed?” Mom asks. “I thought that was a military hospital.”

“That’s what they told me, Mom. Maybe they’ve decided she’s a national security threat.” She looks at me like I’m joking, but I’m really not. Simon’s there, too. “I don’t know if they’ll let you in to see her.”

“Well, I have to try. I can just take a cab, though.”

“No need for that,” Dad says. “I’m happy to drop you.”

Charlayne and Ben drove Trey back to retrieve his car from the cottage and then to the hotel to take Tilson home. Katherine is in the shower. I think it’s partly an excuse for some time alone. Or
almost
alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Daphne climbed into the shower with her. She refuses to let Katherine out of her sight.

Dad slides into the breakfast nook with his own plate and tells me, “There are six more sandwiches in the oven on warm, and you can heat up more soup if I’m not back when the others get here.”

“I swear, Harry was a Jewish grandmother in a past life,” Mom says as she swallows a bite from her sandwich.

“Food heals, bubala,” Dad replies.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Is he like this in your timeline?”

My alter-self gives her an awkward smile. “More or less.” The smile becomes fixed and, after a moment, fades away completely. “You’re both pretty much the same as they are. Or should I say
were
?”

“Maybe they still exist,” Mom says softly. “Like Katherine was saying about Connor?”

“Maybe,” Other-Kate says, and goes back to eating her soup.

Dad catches Mom’s eye across the table and gives her a look that clearly means she shouldn’t go there. He’s obviously thinking the same thing I am, and I’m pretty sure the same thing my other-self was thinking. Now Mom realizes it as well. Two Kates here means that if their other-selves do exist, they’re missing a daughter.

Awkward silence follows, and there are equally awkward goodbyes when Mom and Dad head to the car. Kiernan should be here shortly, and Other-Kate is adamant that they’ll be leaving right away. Both Mom and Dad sneak looks at her belly as they leave, one last glance at the almost-grandchild they’ll never see grow up.

Once they’re gone and it’s just the two of us, she says, “Kiernan said they’re divorced. How long?”

“Since I was nine. Why? Are they together in your . . . reality?”

“Yeah. It was touch-and-go for a few years, but they came to some sort of mutual agreement to stay together because it was better for me.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Not better, I take it?”

“Definitely not. I lied earlier. They’re different. Even with all of this insanity, your parents look happier than mine did last time I saw them. I love them both, but they’re really good at making each other miserable. And if that timeline does still exist, they wasted a decade on a daughter who’s not even around anymore. When they could have been finding other things to live for.”

“They probably don’t think of it that way. As wasted, I mean. But some things apparently don’t change. Mom and Dad get along much better when they’re not in the same house.”

Kiernan blinks in halfway through that sentence. Other-Kate breathes a visible sigh of relief. She pushes herself up from the table—not exactly a graceful exit, since these benches aren’t really designed for pregnant women. Kiernan pulls her close to him, and she grips the front of his shirt so hard that the raw patches on her knuckles look like they’re going to split open. It’s only then that I realize how difficult this evening must have been on her. I’m sure she’s unbelievably happy to be back with Kiernan and glad the past few months of hell are over, but seeing this version of Mom, Dad, and Katherine when she’s about to give them up forever can’t be easy. And there was a Connor in her timeline, too. Were they close?

“Have you said your goodbyes, love?”

She nods, and he pulls the chain holding her medallion out of the sweatshirt, pressing it against his key to share a stable point.

“You haven’t said goodbye to me.” Katherine stands in the doorway, her hair still damp from the shower. Her eyes are puffy, and she’s in her red robe, the one that she wore that first day I met Kiernan on the Metro, the day that everything began. It looks different, but I can’t place why.

“And I haven’t had a chance to say thank you,” she adds. “To both of you.”

“Kiernan, maybe,” Other-Kate says. “I failed.
She’s
the one who fixed it.” There’s a note of resentment in her voice as she nods her head in my direction. While I don’t think I really deserve it, I guess I understand. How would I feel if the situation were reversed?

Kiernan is about to object, but Katherine beats him to it. “I’m sorry. That’s a total crock. Kate had your videos and your research to work from. You also spent the last six months keeping yourself and my great-grandchild alive under rather perilous circumstances, so have the good grace to accept my thanks before you blink out of here.”

Other-Kate’s mouth twitches. I almost think she’s going to cry, but then she bursts out laughing. “Okay,” she says to me, “what I told you about Mom and Dad? It doesn’t apply to Katherine. This one . . . she’s the exact same.”

I look over at Kiernan. “While we’re confessing failures, Simon was still alive when they took him away. Trey’s gun must be what finished him off, and when I got Trey out of there early . . . that changed. He’s at Walter Reed with Prudence.”

“Damn it, Kate! I should have come in with you.”

“If you had, they’d probably have you in custody right now, because they found the knife. You might have been able to escape using the key, but . . . is it worth it? Simon’s in bad shape, so he may not make it anyway. And I did get his keys, both of them. The president knows he’s a threat, so maybe . . .”

“She’ll see to it he doesn’t make it.” Other-Kate finishes the sentence, sounding much more certain than I am.

Because they’ll take samples of his DNA. And run other tests. CHRONOS still exists in the future. We know time travel didn’t start until around 2150, but when did the research start? What if Simon’s DNA is what starts the CHRONOS ball rolling?

The worried look Kiernan gives me suggests that at least some of this is running through his mind, too.

“They have Prudence, too,” Katherine says. “Along with her key. And from what you told me, Kate, they carted enough evidence away from this house to indict you on at least one murder. But they still let you go. So even though it’s contrary to my nature, we may have to simply trust that Patterson will do the right thing.” She gives Other-Kate a smile and walks over to where she’s standing. “Do you mind?” she asks, holding her hand a few inches from Other-Kate’s stomach.

“No. But I don’t think he’s awake.”

“It’s a boy, then?” I ask.

Kiernan shakes his head. “We don’t know. June does, and I think she’s itching to tell us, but Kate said no.”

“No other woman in 1912 will know the sex of her child ahead of time. Neither will I. It will be a surprise. But . . . yes. I kind of think it’s a boy.”

“And I kind of think it’s a girl,” he says.

Katherine steps away and looks up at Kiernan. “You’ll be able to find her a decent doctor in 1912?”

“We’re bringing one with us. June still has her key, and she’ll stay until the baby is born.”

When he says
key
, I realize what’s different about Katherine’s robe. Before, the blue glow of the CHRONOS medallion made the top half look sort of purple. But now it’s a solid red.

“Your key, Katherine. Where is it?”

“In the safe along with Daphne’s and the ones you gave Deborah and Harry, waiting for Harry to go out to Connor’s workshop and deactivate them.”

I narrow my eyes. “But you knew the house wasn’t protected anymore. Dad told me Connor was following your orders when he removed them. How could you risk taking the key off? You could have disappeared.”

“My passport was still in my desk, even now that this house is unprotected. Still stamped. I have an active checking account and a doctor’s appointment next week. Pretty strong evidence that I still exist. And we all know the keys have to be destroyed.” She gives Kiernan a meaningful look at the end.

He nods. “Agreed. We’ll get the keys back to you when we’re done with them, so . . . pretty much instantly from your perspective. And Kate, your Kate, will know where to find us if something goes wrong.”

Kiernan’s eyes meet mine when he says
your Kate
. He gives me one last long look, and then they’re gone.

∞26∞

S
IXTEENTH
S
TREET
T
EMPLE

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

September 14, 2:55 p.m.

It feels wrong, so very wrong, for Julia’s memorial to be held in this temple. She spent her entire life working to protect people from the atrocities planned by the man they still view as their prophet. And even though we prevented the larger Culling, almost every branch of her family tree was culled in the process.

But Julia was officially a member of this temple, and she was adamant that there was good in this religion, too. That we shouldn’t, as she put it, throw out the baby with the bathwater.

The media rolled into full national emergency mode, with 24/7 coverage of a preempted bioterrorist attack that government officials claim would have wiped out thousands, possibly tens of thousands, around the world.

If they only knew . . .

The basic story is that a small group of Cyrist extremists executed moderate church leaders here and abroad, along with three Cyrists within the US government. The leaders of the ring were killed in a raid on the Sixteenth Street Temple, where they had been holding hostages, including Sister Prudence and her niece. Some pictures leaked showing a much older Sister Prudence, leading to speculations about the exact nature of her role in Cyrist International, and even questions about my role, since I look a lot closer to the young woman recently seen speaking as Sister Prudence in Rio. That, in turn, led to news vans outside the house for the past two days. So, yes, it’s over . . . but not over.

The coffin at the front is closed, which doesn’t surprise me. I suspect it’s empty, unless they removed Julia’s key after our time train landed back on the track where CHRONOS exists and the Culling never happens. According to the
Post
, separate services are scheduled for Patrick Conwell, Senator Ellicott, Pearson, and West.

No memorial for Eve, who doesn’t exist in this timeline. Since Patrick didn’t vanish, I guess the fragile link in Eve’s chain of existence was her mother.

No memorial for Simon. No mention of Simon, for that matter.

No memorial for Saul, either, but then his likeness is in every Cyrist temple in the world. Last time, my eyes were drawn to the panels representing Prudence, but today I can’t tear my eyes away from the ones showing Saul as he heals the sick and feeds the hungry. I want to yell out to everyone in these pews that their Brother Cyrus is a fake. That he didn’t bless children, he killed them.

There’s movement in the pew behind us, and someone taps my shoulder. “Glad to see two more heathens here,” Tilson whispers. “I was worried I would be the only one attending. Do you know if Max has arrived?”

“We haven’t seen him,” Trey says.

Truthfully, I’m not looking forward to talking to Max. On the one hand, I owe him a debt of gratitude for getting me out of 2308. On the other hand, he’s a sneaky, lying arsonist.

If your faith is so shaky that it can be undermined by books that challenge it, then something is rotten at the core.

And it hurts to know that Max got a pass and Connor didn’t. I know it’s because Max exists in this timeline and we’re still two or three tracks removed from a timeline where there’s a Connor. I get that. But it still seems unfair.

Trey’s parents move into the pew next to Tilson. While Trey was trying to convince his dad to take Estella and get out of DC, his mother was worried enough to request personal leave to fly back home. I’ve seen Trey maybe an hour over the past three days. Mr. Coleman’s eyes drop down to his son’s arm around my shoulders, and then he looks back up and gives me a smile. It’s not quite the warm and friendly version that I received the first time I met him, but it’s a start. And it’s a lot warmer than the look Trey’s mom gives me. I have a long way to go to get into her good graces.

Charlayne and Ben are seated a few rows over near their families. I was introduced to all of them when we arrived. Mrs. Singleton pulled me into a warm hug that kind of surprised me, and said thank you. So did Ben’s mother, gushing about how many lives I’d helped to save. It was a little unexpected, and a little undeserved. If not for me, neither of their kids would have been in harm’s way. But I guess being on the inside gave them some time to adjust to this strangeness, unlike Trey’s parents, who had it dropped on their heads all at once.

Prudence sits in the front row, next to Mom. A man wearing the clerical scarf of a Templar is on Pru’s right, whispering something in her ear. She nods occasionally, looking a little bored. Her dark glasses clash with the white dress—basically a toga with long sleeves to cover the key in her arm. But I can still see it glowing through the thin white fabric.

I shiver, and Trey slips his arm around me. “You okay?”

“Not really. I kind of wish we’d stayed home with Katherine and Dad. But . . . I guess I owe Julia this much. And I’m curious to see how Pru’s announcement plays out.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He’s in the dark blue shirt I like, and every time I look at him I think how very, very lucky I am. I have my family back. I have Trey, and he loves me. It’s everything I wanted, everything I hoped for.

Except for Connor. He should be here, too. At the very least, there should be a memorial for him, because we could never have stopped the Culling without everything he did behind the scenes. There should be something. Some way of showing he was here. That he mattered.

The lights dim slightly as the Templar steps onto the stage. I don’t think he’s one of Pru’s offspring. Just an average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill Cyrist, I guess.

The plasma screen behind him lights up as he talks about Julia, her years of public service, her dedication to Cyrist International. How she would want to be remembered for the way she lived, not the tragic way she died.

On that point, we agree. Julia annoyed the hell out of me pretty much from the moment we met, but she deserved better.

Max plays a very pretty violin solo. I wouldn’t have pegged him as a violinist. Of course, I didn’t peg him as an arsonist, either. The Templar then launches into a sermon about how extremism can mar the soul of any religion and how sad it is when anyone dies, especially at the hands of those who claim to be fellow believers. There’s actually a lot of truth in his words, and he picks a few of the least offensive passages of the
Book of Cyrus
to support them.

When the Templar finishes speaking, Mom leads Prudence to the stage and then returns to her seat. This speech, part of which was leaked to the press last night, is the reason the news cameras are here and, most likely, why most of the pews are full. Prudence grips the podium with one hand and reaches out with the other, groping around until her fingers find the microphone.

I’m all but certain that Prudence could see when she left the temple the other night. But Mom swears she’s blind now, completely. According to the doctors, the weapon damaged Prudence’s visual cortex, which Dad says is toward the back of the head.

That doesn’t make sense to me. I saw where she was hit, and it was in the front. Still, I don’t think Pru has the mental capacity to fake anything this thoroughly. The past few days have been hell on Mom, because each time Pru wakes up, she realizes all over again that she can’t see and freaks out.

I think this speech is a bad idea. So does Mom. But no one asked us.

“Children of Cyrus,” Pru begins. “We are here today to mourn a great loss to our faith, to our nation, and to the world. But our losses could have been far greater. As President Patterson has noted in recent press conferences, the terror cell was deep within our organization. If they had not been stopped, global fatalities would have been . . . immense.”

Pru’s voice is almost monotone. The speech was sent to her rehab center via messenger. Mom spent hours helping her to memorize it.

“So as we mourn this loss, we must also ask what seed within our faith allowed this viper to grow in our midst. In the coming months, Cyrist International will hold a global synod to examine our tenets of faith, our Creed, and our governing policies.

“At the conclusion of that synod, I will step down as head of Cyrist International and a successor will be chos . . . en . . .”

Pru’s jaw takes on a determined set, and she clutches the edges of the podium. When she speaks again, the monotone is gone and she speaks quickly.

“Brother Cyrus was a foul toad of a man named Saul. He loved no one but himself. He never blessed a single child, but he killed plenty of them. And he killed—”

She’s rushed from the stage and out of the chapel. Mom throws a glance at me over her shoulder and follows.

I can’t tell for certain, since her microphone was cut, but it looked to me like the last word Prudence said was
puppies
.

Trey and I are almost through the door when the Secret Service—the same woman who took me home the other night—pulls me aside.

“The president would like to have a word with you in the executive conference room. If you could follow me? I’m sorry, sir, you’ll need to wait here.”

Trey isn’t happy about that. He pulls his phone out, probably planning to call Dad. Or a lawyer, though I doubt it would do me much good.

I’m not happy, either, but I clearly don’t have a choice. I put my hand on his arm. “Wait on the call, okay? Grab something to drink. If I’m not back in twenty minutes or so, then call the cavalry.”

I leave him in the Cyrist Café and follow the guard down a long hallway.

Paula Patterson is alone when I enter. That kind of surprises me, but one wall is mirrored, so I’m guessing there’s at least one guard watching our every move. Probably recording us, too.

Patterson always looks perfect on television. Today, there are dark circles under her blue eyes, and her auburn hair, which is usually impeccably styled, looks like it could use a touch-up. I suspect the past few days have taken a toll on her, too, because her voice is tired when she greets me.

“Hello, Kate—and thank you for meeting me here. Please, have a seat.” I do, and she continues, “I believe you have something for me?”

I open my purse and pull out seven deactivated CHRONOS keys in a plastic baggie.

“And this is all of them?”

“No,” I say. “We’re waiting on three more.”

“Waiting? On whom?”

“You’ll get them.” Honestly, I’m starting to worry a bit. It’s been two days, and if the keys that Kiernan, Kate, and June took with them aren’t back soon, I’ll have to go looking.

“And once I have those three, that’s the last of them?”

“It’s possible that there’s one in Addis Ababa that might not have been destroyed,” I admit. “And there could be others. We never got a precise number. Then, of course, there’s Prudence’s key, and Julia’s, which must be the one you’re wearing.” I nod toward the left side of her blazer.

Patterson glances down at her chest, surprised. “Is the glow really bright enough for you that you see it through my jacket? I can barely even see it outside the fabric.”

There’s also the key I’m wearing. I don’t mention it, but she probably knows anyway. What she might not know is that it has company inside the little leather pouch—the flash drive that was taped to Connor’s key, filled with the works that she very likely ordered Max to destroy. Katherine says about 70 percent of the library had been digitized. I’ve only skimmed the first few pages of the table of contents, but there’s a story called “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson, that for whatever reason never saw the light of day in this timeline. Two Shakespearean plays in their original form, before Cyrist censors changed them. Sonnets and sonatas, paintings, and history. The records of lives that never happened.

Mom says I should erase it. That this present is our reality and everything on this little drive is fiction.

She may be right. But there’s plenty of truth in fiction.

“I was probably the only person in the auditorium who could see your key,” I tell her. “Assuming Prudence—”

“No. She can’t see anything. The doctors assured me of that.”

The words are innocent enough, and there’s even a note of regret, but something in her tone is chilling. Or maybe it’s just because I’m all but certain Prudence
could
see when she tossed Simon’s spare key into my lap.

I don’t like thinking that the woman across from me would have authorized doctors to take her sight. Still . . . how else would you control Prudence? Remove the key from her arm and she’d no longer exist. Give her a chance to use it, and who knows what she’d do.

“You shouldn’t worry,” Patterson says. “Sister Prudence will be given excellent care. And I think she’ll be . . . happy. Your mother seems determined to take personal responsibility for her, and that’s admirable, but the attorneys will be talking to her over the next week or so to be sure she realizes all of Prudence’s wealth will revert to Cyrist International after her death.”

I’m trying really hard to be respectful. This is the president of the United States, duly elected, and I am well aware of the power differential here. Even though I know she could squash me and everyone I love with one official flick of her finger, her implication makes me angry. I’m already worried that Mom got more than she bargained for, that caring for Prudence will become a huge burden, and here she is implying that Mom is in it for the cash.