He pulls to the curb in front of the motel and looks back at me. “How much cash do you have, son?”
He must want some money for gas, I realize. “I–I—I’m sorry. I don’t have anything I can give you. We really appreciate the ride, though.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He fumbles with something out of sight and then hands me two one-dollar bills. “Won’t get you a room, but should get both of you fed.”
The look on his face tells me he was acting before and hasn’t believed a word of our story. How he thinks we ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere without the proper clothing, I don’t know. “Thank you,” I say.
“You need to get yourself some warm clothes, too. I’d give you some more, but I didn’t bring much money with me on this trip.”
“No, that’s fine. This is more than generous.”
“If you give us your address,” Iffy says, “we’ll pay you back.”
He studies us for a moment and then smiles. “I believe you just might. Now go on. I’ve gotta get back on the road.”
As much as I hate stealing, my ripped and bloodstained pants will draw far too much attention once the sun comes up. I need to find another pair. A jacket for Iffy would be nice, too.
Lone Pine’s residents seem to live on the few blocks that spread out to either side of the highway, behind the businesses. Fences encircle a few of the homes, but most just have open yards. We walk quietly through the dark streets, scanning each property.
“Laundry machine,” I whisper, pointing at a round tub sitting on four legs outside the back door of a house. The machine bears a striking resemblance to those the people in my caste still used in modern times.
I sneak over and carefully open the lid covering the tub, but it’s empty.
Several more houses have machines, while others simply have big metal buckets and washboards. Nearly all, though, have lines strung out to hang wet clothes on.
I check every machine, approaching each house as quietly as my limp allows. Finally, I come up lucky, and discover a pile of clothes lying on a wood palette next to a tub. The pants I find are denim like mine and just about the right size, too, though a little short. Dried mud cakes each cuff, but I don’t care about the dirt. It’s certainly a lot better than the blood on mine.
I change as fast as I can so I won’t freeze to death, and dump my pants in a barrel that looks like it’s used to burn trash, three houses away. We then continue the search, hoping to find a jacket, but soon realize that’s just wishful thinking.
Back on the highway, we find a diner that will open at 6:30 a.m., and huddle in the doorway as we try to keep warm until then. Fifteen minutes before the place is scheduled to open, a waitress inside spots us and unlocks the door.
“Dear Lord, where are your coats?” she asks. Her name tag identifies her as Winnie.
“Long story,” I tell her.
She opens the door wider. “Well, come on inside. I can’t have you dying out here. That’s not the way I’d like to start my day.”
Once we step inside, she hands us a couple of menus. “Take a seat. Any table’s fine. I’ll come take your order as soon as we’re ready.”
We choose the booth farthest from the door, next to the window, and sit pressed against each other. Even then it takes a few minutes before we thaw out enough to do more than just sit there and shiver.
“Are you okay?” I ask Iffy.
“I’ll be fine. How are you?” She touches my leg.
“Sore. But I’ll be fine, too.” Because of the cold or the presence of Mr. Graves, there has been no opportunity for us to talk about more than what was absolutely necessary. “How did Kane grab you?”
She shrugs. “He was waiting outside the bathroom at the café after I finished. He flashed me the gun and said that if I didn’t go with him, he’d kill all of us. I wanted to run, but… he seems a little, I don’t know, off. I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You did the right thing.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“We’re going to find him and get my chaser back.”
“How? We don’t even know when we are.”
Something ticks at the back of my mind, but before I can examine the thought, our waitress approaches.
“Warmed up?” she asks.
“Getting there,” Iffy said.
“Thanks again for letting us in,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Now, how about some breakfast?”
I grab a menu and quickly scan it. Turns out Mr. Graves was being generous.
“The country farm special sounds good.” Fried egg, hash browns, two strips of bacon, toast, and coffee, all for forty-five cents.
“All right, and you, young lady?”
“That sounds fine for me, too,” Iffy said.
“I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have today’s paper, would you?” I ask.
“The Inyo Register only comes out once a week. There might be a copy of last week’s lying around. Would that do you?”
“Sure.”
“Be right back.”
As Winnie walks away, I look out the window. Beyond the businesses on the other side of the road is a line of majestic, snow-covered peaks. Though I know it’s a beautiful sight, I can’t really appreciate it. All I can think is, how are we going to find Kane?
Iffy, clearly having the same concern, says, “I don’t know how big LA is at this point in time, but it’s going to be a lot larger than this town. We could search for a year and never find him.”
If he wants to be lost, we could actually search a lifetime, I think but don’t say. “He can’t go anywhere without us,” I tell her, hoping to ease her mind a little. “If we don’t find him, he’ll find—”
I stop. The thought I had earlier pokes at me again. It’s sitting there just an atom’s width out of reach. I close my eyes and concentrate.
“Denny?” Iffy asks.
I hold up my hand, letting her know I need a moment as I continue to try to bring the thought forward. It’s elusive, though, and as close as I am to it, I can’t seem to grab on.
“Here you go.”
Winnie’s voice breaks my concentration, and I open my eyes as she’s setting down two cups of coffee.
She then pulls out some folded newspapers from under her arm and says, “You’re in luck. Not only do I have last week’s Register, but a customer left a copy of the Los Angeles Examiner from two days ago. You want that, too?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
She sets the papers on the table.
“Your food’ll be ready in just a bit.”
The moment she leaves again, I snatch up the top paper, the Examiner.
“October 7, 1952,” Iffy says, finding the date first. “Two days ago makes today the ninth.”
I glance around. “Does it look like 1952 to you?”
“I guess. I only know the fifties from TV and movies. This is even before my mom was born. Feels about right, though.”
I look back at the paper, and note stories about a forgery case moving through the courts, that day’s still-to-be-played World Series game 7 between the New York Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers, and a missing boy in San Gabriel. But it’s as I’m setting it back down that my eyes drift once more to the year.
1952.
I had seen a two in the date field of the chaser before we’d left 2015. There was something else I had seen, too — the last four digits of the location number. They had seemed familiar, but since I was trying to not get us killed and had no idea where in the world we might be headed, it hadn’t connected with me.