“I caught it. I’ve checked this before. Koresh is not Saul.” She opens a browser window and pulls up a picture of Cyrus Reed Teed, a.k.a. Koresh. He’s a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and a square face, and he doesn’t look anything like Saul.
“I’m not saying there’s no connection or that Saul didn’t know about him,” Katherine continues. “He was a religious historian, and he studied a lot of these fringe groups. But they were definitely around before he started tweaking the timeline. They’re an obscure group, but you’ll find several mentions of them in the library.” She inclines her head toward the shelves behind her, where hundreds or, more likely, thousands of books fill the walls from top to bottom on three sides of the room.
The books in this library were all written before Saul made the changes that created Cyrist International. They’ve been under the constant protection of a CHRONOS field, thanks to the gizmo Connor rigged up that makes this house a safe zone. It also makes the library look bizarre, at least to anyone with the CHRONOS gene who can detect the brightly colored tubes that stretch from floor to ceiling and meet in the center of the room in a large X.
“The Koreshans are, as you put it before, ‘real history,’ not something Saul manufactured, and Cyrus Teed is certainly not Saul.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll get back to it, then.”
“Wait. Could we talk for a minute?”
I nod, even though I can tell from her expression and clipped tone of voice that this is likely to be an uncomfortable conversation.
“First, your mother called while you were out. She said she’s already discussed this Italian trip with you and you’re fine with it, but she wanted to be sure that it was okay for you to be here full-time while she’s away. And I told her of course it’s okay.”
I hesitate for a moment and then decide to ask straight out. “So you didn’t know about the trip until she called?”
Katherine looks confused. “No. Why would I?”
“Well, you worked at a university in Italy, and . . .”
She laughs. “There’s more than one university in Italy, Kate. You make it sound like Italy is a tiny village. I can assure you Deborah didn’t get this opportunity because I pulled strings.”
Katherine seems sincere, but I don’t entirely believe her. She’s a skilled actress, and it’s less the location that makes me suspicious than the timing. This opportunity landed in Mom’s lap just when it became convenient for Katherine to have her out of the way for a while. But I’m not sure it really matters either way, since I wouldn’t tell Mom even if Katherine confessed she instigated the whole thing.
“Second, I had a long talk with your father this morning. I’m . . .” She stops and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you too hard. That’s the last thing I want to do, Kate.”
I shrug. “It’s okay—”
“No,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “It’s not okay. It may be somewhat unavoidable, but that still doesn’t make it okay. I love you, and I would give anything for you to be able to return to your regularly scheduled life. If I’m pushing too hard, it’s because I’m frustrated I can’t do this for you.”
I give her credit for not stating the most obvious source of her frustration—the tumor that is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room, even though it probably only weighs an ounce or so. Absent that, Katherine wouldn’t feel like her clock was running out, like she might never know if we stop Saul. And even though she doesn’t say it, the fact that she’s dying, that she may only have a few months left, hangs in the air like something tangible.
I give her a sad smile and reach over to take the diary from the desk. “Well, if it’s not Saul, I should get back to it. You said you had a Russian language program of some sort?”
“On the shared drive. You’ll also find a file labeled Agenda, although it’s really more my detailed recollections of who was going where the day of that final CHRONOS jump. Take a look at it, and then let us know what you’re willing to do and when you’re willing to do it.”
Her apology a moment ago sounded sincere, but I can’t help feeling that this last statement is a bit of a dig at me, as though I’m acting like a prima donna or something. “Katherine, I’m not trying to call all of the shots here. I just . . .”
She presses her lips into a thin line and holds my gaze for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is strained. “You’re the one making the jumps, so you’ll be the one setting the pace and deciding what happens when. Harry made that quite clear this afternoon. I’m working now on getting together the costumes, but otherwise, the only thing Connor and I are good for is background research. So, like I said, just let us know.”
With that, Katherine turns back to the computer screen, a clear signal that I’m dismissed. I return to my room, feeling that I’m being childish and unreasonable but also resenting the fact that she’s made me feel that way. She has an uncanny ability to make an apology feel like a scolding.
I open the diary again and click on the next entry. This is one of the rare clips that’s actually named instead of just numbered: Fort Myers 040302. When Other-Kate pops up on the screen, I see that she’s on location in this video. Maybe that’s why it gets a name?
Her hair is pulled back in a bun, with a few wilted strands sticking to her neck and forehead. The bed behind her is wrapped in some sort of thin cloth, and she’s seated in a high-backed wooden chair, wearing a white camisole that’s plastered to her body, the glow of the CHRONOS key showing through the fabric. A long-sleeved, white blouse-and-skirt combo hangs from one of the bedposts. It’s similar to the one that I wore in Boston, except the blouse buttons up the front.
She doesn’t look happy and speaks in a low whisper:
Remember when I said that going to Florida sounded good? Well, it’s not. This is a godforsaken jungle with mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds. I found a fat green lizard sitting smack-dab in the middle of that bed, like he owned the place. I couldn’t catch him, so he’s still around here somewhere. Very glad I’m not actually sleeping in this room. I’ve set it as a stable point, however, so I can come and go from here, and I’m waiting now for my luggage to be delivered from the boat—the story is that I’m a reporter doing a feature on Koreshan Unity for a newspaper up north. And the room will give me some place that I can retreat to so that I don’t pass out from wearing multiple layers of clothes in this insane heat. This is April, but it feels more like August.
Anyway, tomorrow is Sunday—
Her body tenses for a second, and then she raises her right hand and slaps her left shoulder. She wrinkles her nose in distaste as she stares down at her palm and then holds it up to the camera. A large black-and-red smear decorates the inside of her hand.
See? They are huge, bloodthirsty monsters, but at least I got one of them.
Part of the mosquito still clings to her skin. I reflexively wipe at my own shoulder, which is, of course, free of mosquito splatter. It’s hard to concentrate on what she’s saying with that reddish-black streak staring at me, and I wish I could reach into the holographic display and wipe it off my—her—shoulder.
Okay . . . what was I—oh, yeah, Sunday is when the Koreshans have musical concerts. There’s an open invitation to people in the surrounding area—they have several flyers up here in Fort Myers, and a boat will be at the docks to take people to the settlement at 1 p.m. I know Katherine is right, and this place was around before the Cyrists were formed, but several things bother me. The fact that Koresh means Cyrus. The fact that they were in Chicago for several years around the time of the World’s Fair, when Katherine and Saul made dozens of jumps to that city. Finally, a few of the dates don’t match up. According to what Katherine has in the CHRONOS-protected files, Estero was founded in 1904, but when Connor started digging around, he discovered the group incorporated three years earlier in this timeline and seems to have a larger following. The date could be a typo, but we agreed it was worth checking out—