“Awfully late to be in such a hurry,” the soldier says.
Cahill’s eyes dart back and forth from the soldier to the muzzle of the other man’s rifle. “I…I’m, um, trying to get home.”
“Home? And where would that be?”
Cahill takes a moment before saying, “My family’s farm. North of town.”
Even if I didn’t already know it, I can see Cahill is lying.
The soldier can see it, too. “And which family would that be?”
Again, Cahill doesn’t answer right away. He probably wants to tell them he’s on important business for the British, but he’s smart enough to know they won’t likely believe him and will bring him to their commanders, causing him to miss the meeting, to the displeasure of his contacts. “Please, I only want to get home.”
The soldier’s face tenses. “Which family?”
I watch what happens next from so many different vantage points that there must be nearly a dozen of me in the brushes surrounding the road by the end. If all the versions of me were to step out in unison, we would be more than enough to overpower the soldiers. But that would be far too much involvement.
Cahill’s mouth opens, but instead of answering, he yells his horse’s name and kicks its hindquarters, spurring it into motion.
The boom of the musket is accompanied by a cloud of smoke, but the shot comes too late and flies through the empty air where Cahill was a second ago.
The first time I witness this, I’m sure he’s going to get away, but the thought barely passes through my mind before the sound of a second musket rips through the air, and I see that the first soldier is now also shouldering a rifle.
I pop backward twenty seconds, and this time watch from as close as I can as the soldier raises his Brown Bess and fires at the departing Cahill. The musket ball slams into Cahill’s back, a direct hit to the spine.
There will be no attending the eleven o’clock meeting, no delivery of the information to the British on the rebel Washington’s whereabouts.
I stay there in my final hiding place long after the soldiers have hauled Richard Cahill’s body away.
He was only a minor spy for hire, I tell myself. Even with him gone, not much will have changed. The insurgency might have continued for a bit longer, but the red coats would still have snuffed it out.
Sure, House Cahill will likely be affected in some way, but otherwise everything should be much the same.
Right?
I have two options.
The obvious is to fix things now before returning home. No one would be the wiser and I could go on breathing. What stops me is the fear of making another mistake that would compound the problem.
The other choice is to return to 2015, kneeling with my head bowed in repentance. This should at least allow me to explain what has occurred, and then a more experienced Rewinder could fix things properly. Perhaps it won’t prevent me from being punished, but it may result in a bit of leniency.
I know the second option is what I must choose, and I decide to take the trip in a single leap, the pain I’ll experience being the symbolic start of my punishment.
I take one last look around at the deserted road, thinking in all probability this has been my last trip to the past, and then I tap the home button.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At first all I know is the pain.
It’s the worse I have ever felt, and feels as if a red-hot spike is being hammered through the center of my brain. Pulsating waves of torture surge through every nerve in my body as I stagger forward.
In a half-second pause between onslaughts, I realize something’s wrong. If not for the wall I just ran into, I would be on the ground. But the arrival hall at the institute is a large space, fifty feet across in either direction. There should be no wall for me to run into. Besides, the institute’s walls are cool marble, while the one my shoulder leans against feels as if it might break if I hit it too hard.
I force my eyelids apart enough so I can take a look around. I am definitely not in the arrival hall. This space can’t be more than fifteen feet across at its widest, and windows are on three sides. There are no windows in the arrival area at the institute.
Through the windows I can see bushes and grass and — through the window to the left — a road with several odd-looking carriages parked along it. The wall without windows contains an arched entry into another room and a brick fireplace.
A home, I think.
I cringe and fall to my knees in another fit of agony, and all thoughts of where I am momentarily disappear. When I open my eyes again, I see my Chaser lying several feet away on the wood-slat floor.
Through the fire in my head, my training struggles to be heard. Protect your device.
I turn, intending to crawl over to it, but as I set my hand down my stomach retches, and the protein bars I ate before entering the tavern spills onto the floor.
Out of habit, I murmur, “I’m sorry,” as I crawl around it.
When I reach my Chaser, I try to put it in my bag but the satchel isn’t at my side. I can feel the strap across my chest, but in my haze and confusion I can’t seem to move the bag from where it lies against my back.
Protect your device.
Yes, yes, I know!
A wave of nausea passes through me as I scan the room, but thankfully I’m able to keep down whatever’s left in my stomach.
There, I think. I can hide it there.
I crawl across the floor to the hearth and shove my device up the chimney. I half expect it to fall when I pull my hand back out but it doesn’t.
My head begins to swim so I close my eyes. When I open them, I realize I must’ve blacked out, because I’m sitting with my back to the fireplace and have no idea why I’m here.
When the smell of vomit hits me, I push to my feet and inch forward, using the wall as a crutch. Gray begins to appear around the edges of my vision as the rod of pain in my head refuses to ease.
Feeling like I’m about to pass out again, I will myself to stay alert. I need to know where I am. I need to assess my situation.
I don’t notice the door until it’s only a few feet in front of me. I struggle with the knob and when it opens, I feel the touch of a breeze.
Unsure where the exit leads but wanting desperately to be outside, I stagger over the threshold and don’t see the two steps leading down. With a groan of surprise, I tumble face-first, landing half on grass, half on concrete walkway.
I feel blood running out of my nose, but whatever agony the fall might have caused is masked by the excruciating pain of my time trip.
I hear what I think is a voice, but it seems so far away. And then running steps.
And then…
…nothing.
Four days. That’s what the nurse tells me.
Four days since I arrived at the hospital. The missing time is unnerving, but it’s the hospital itself that really scares me.
Brooklyn Hospital Center, the nurse called it.
I’ve heard the name Brooklyn before. It’s the city next to New York. But it’s not the name that’s a problem. The facility’s too modern both in equipment and approach to fit any era but my home time. Granted, the facilities for those in the upper castes are off limits to Eights like me, a point I know well from the lack of treatment my sister received. But I’ve seen pictures of those medical centers. They were impressive, to say the least, but none was comparable to where I am now.
One of the things Marie taught me was that traveling past my home time and into the future is impossible. According to her, the future is an impenetrable barrier. The institute has conducted exhaustive tests, but no one has ever traveled beyond his or her home time. Have I somehow done that?