Dark Matter (27 page)

I need to figure out my money situation. I could probably walk into the bank and tap Charlie's savings account. It had a balance of around $4,000 the last time I looked. Charlie never accesses that account. No one does. If I withdrew a couple thousand dollars, I doubt it would be missed. At least, not right away. Of course, I'd need to somehow get my hands on a driver's license first.

“What do you think of it?” she asks.

“Yeah. I mean, it feels like a gun.”

“I could show you a few others. I have a really nice Smith and Wesson .357 if you were thinking more along the lines of a revolver.”

“No, this would do fine. I just need to scrape together some cash. What's the background-check process?”

“Do you have a FOID card?”

“What's that?”

“A firearm owners' identification card that's issued by the Illinois State Police. You have to apply for it.”

“How long does that take?”

She doesn't answer.

Just stares at me strangely, then reaches out and takes the Glock from my hand and returns it to its resting place under the glass.

I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

“You're Jason, right?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I've been standing here trying to put it all together, to make sure I wasn't crazy. You don't know
my
name?”

“No.”

“See, I think you're messing with me, and it's not a wise—”

“I've never spoken to you before. In fact, I haven't been in this store in probably four years.”

She locks the cabinet and returns the key ring to her pocket.

“I think you should leave now, Jason.”

“I don't understand—”

“If this isn't some game, then you have a head injury or Alzheimer's or you're just plain crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don't know?”

“No.”

She leans her elbows on the counter. “Two days ago, you walked in here, said you wanted to buy a handgun. I showed you the same Glock. You said it was for home defense.”

What does this mean? Is Jason2 generally preparing in case I possibly return, or is he actually expecting me?

“Did you sell me a gun?” I ask.

“No, you didn't have a FOID card. You said you needed to get cash. I don't think you even had a driver's license.”

Now a prickling sensation trails down my spine.

My knees go weak.

She says, “And it wasn't just two days ago. I got a weird vibe from you, so yesterday, I asked Gary, who also works the gun counter, if he'd ever seen you in here before. He had. Three other times in the last week. And now, here you are again.”

I brace myself against the counter.

“So, Jason, I don't ever want to see you in this store again. Not even to buy a jockstrap. If I do, I'll call the police. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

She looks scared and resolute, and I would not want to cross her in a dark alley where she took me for a threat.

I say, “I understand.”

“Get out of my store.”

I step out into the pouring snow, the flakes blasting my face, my head spinning.

I glance down the street, see a cab approaching. When I raise my arm, it veers toward me, easing to a stop alongside the curb. Pulling open the rear passenger door, I hop in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Where to.

Great question.

“A hotel, please.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know. Something within ten blocks. Something cheap. I want you to pick it.”

He looks back through the Plexiglas separating the front and backseats.

“You want
me
to pick it?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, I think he isn't going to do it. Maybe it's too weird a request. Maybe he's going to order me out. But instead, he starts the meter running and pulls back out into traffic.

I stare through the window at the snow falling through headlights, taillights, streetlights, flashing lights.

My heart stomping inside my chest, my thoughts racing.

I need to calm down.

Approach this logically, rationally.

The cab pulls over in front of a seedy-looking hotel called the End o' Days.

The cabbie glances back, asks, “This work for you?”

I pay the fare and head for the front office.

There's a Bulls game on the radio and a heavy hotel clerk behind the desk eating Chinese food from a fleet of white cartons.

Brushing the snow off my shoulders, I check in under the name of my mother's father—Jess McCrae.

I pay for a single night.

It leaves me with $14.76.

I head up to the fourth floor and lock myself inside the room behind the deadbolt and the chain.

It's utterly without life.

A bed with a depressing floral-print comforter.

Formica table.

Dressers built of particleboard.

At least it's warm.

I move to the curtains and peek outside.

It's snowing hard enough that the streets are beginning to empty and the pavement is frosting over, showing the tire tracks of passing cars.

I undress and stow my last ampoule in the Gideon Bible in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

Then I jump in the shower.

I need to think.

I ride the elevator down to the first floor and use my keycard to access the business center.

I have an idea.

Bringing up the free email service I use in this world, I type in the first idea for a username that comes to mind.

My name spelled out in Pig Latin:
asonjayessenday
.

Not surprisingly, it's already taken.

The password is obvious.

The one I've used for almost everything the last twenty years—the make, model, and year of my first car:
jeepwrangler89
.

I attempt to log in.

It works.

I find myself in a newly created email account whose inbox contains several introductory emails from the provider and one recent email from “Jason” that has already been opened.

The subject heading: Welcome Home The Real Jason Dessen

I open it.

There's no message in the email.

Just a hyperlink.

The new page loads and an alert pops up on the screen:

Welcome to UberChat!

There are currently three active participants.

Are you a new user?

I click Yes.

Your username is Jason9.

I have to create a password before logging in.

A large window displays the entire history of a conversation.

A selection of emoticons.

A small field in which to type and send public messages to the board and private messages to individual participants.

I scroll to the top of the conversation, which started approximately eighteen hours ago. The most recent message is forty minutes old.

JasonADMIN: I've seen some of you around the house. I know there's more of you out there.

Jason3: Is this seriously happening?

Jason4: Is this seriously happening?

Jason6: Unreal.

Jason3: So how many of you went to field & glove?

JasonADMIN: Three days ago.

Jason4: Two.

Jason6: I bought one in South Chicago.

Jason5: You have a gun?

Jason6: Yes.

JasonADMIN: Who all thought about Kankakee?

Jason3: Guilty.

Jason4: Guilty.

Jason6: I actually drove out there and dug a hole last night. Was all ready to go. Had a car lined up. Shovel. Rope. Everything planned out perfectly. This evening, I went to the house to wait for the Jason who did this to all of us to leave. But then I saw myself behind the Suburban.

Jason8: Why'd you call it off, jason6?

Jason6: What's the point of going forward with it? If I got rid of him, one of you would just show up and do the same thing to me.

Jason3: Did everyone run through the game-theory scenarios?

Jason4: Yes.

Jason6: Yes.

Jason8: Yes.

JasonADMIN: Yes.

Jason3: So we all know there's no way this ends well.

Jason4: You could all just kill yourselves and let me have her.

JasonADMIN: I opened this chat room and have administrator controls. Five more Jasons are lurking right now, just FYI.

Jason3: Why don't we all join forces and conquer the world? Can you imagine what would happen with this many versions of us actually working together? (Only half-kidding)

Jason6: Can I imagine what would happen? Totally. They'd put us in a government lab and test us until the end of time.

Jason4: Can I just say what we're all thinking? This is fucking weird.

Jason5: I have a gun too. None of you fought as hard as I did to get home. None of you saw what I saw.

Jason7: You have no idea what the rest of us went through.

Jason5: I saw hell. Literally. Hell. Where are you right now, Jason7? I've already killed two of us.

Another alert flashes across the screen:

You have a private message from Jason7.

I open the message, my head pounding, exploding.

I know this situation is totally insane, but do you want to partner with me? Two minds are stronger than one. We could work together to get rid of the others, and when all the smoke has cleared, I'm sure we can figure something out. Time is critical. What do you say?

What do I say?

I can hardly breathe.

I leave the business center.

Sweat runs down my sides, but I feel so cold.

The first-floor hallway is empty, quiet.

I hurry to the elevator and ride up to the fourth floor.

Stepping off onto the beige carpeting, I move quickly down the hall and lock myself back in my room.

Spiraling.

How did I not anticipate this happening?

In hindsight, it was inevitable.

Though I wasn't branching into alternate realities in the corridor, I certainly was in every world I stepped into. Which means other versions of me were split off in those worlds of ash and ice and plague.

The infinite nature of the corridor precluded me from running into more versions of myself, but I did see one—the Jason with his back flayed open.

Undoubtedly most of those Jasons were killed or lost forever in other worlds, but some, like me, made the right choices. Or got lucky. Their paths might have altered from mine, through different doors, different worlds, but they eventually found their respective ways back to this Chicago.

We all want the same thing—to get our life back.

Jesus.

Our
life.

Our
family.

What if most of these other Jasons are exactly like me? Decent men who want back what was taken from them. And if that's the case, what right do I have to Daniela and Charlie over the rest of them?

This isn't just a game of chess. It's a game of chess against myself.

I don't want to see it this way, but I can't help it. The other Jasons want the thing in the world that is most precious to me—my family. That makes them my enemy. I ask myself what I would be willing to do to regain my life. Would I kill another version of me if it meant I could spend the rest of my days with Daniela? Would they?

I picture these other versions of me sitting in their lonely hotel rooms, or walking the snowy streets, or watching my brownstone, wrestling with this exact line of thinking.

Asking themselves these same questions.

Attempting to forecast their doppelgängers' next moves.

There can be no sharing. It's strictly competitive, a zero-sum game, where only one of us can win.

If anyone is reckless, if things get out of hand and Daniela or Charlie is injured or killed, then no one wins. That must be why things seemed normal when I looked inside the front window of my house several hours ago.

No one knows which move to make, so no one has made a play against Jason2.

It's a classic setup, pure game theory.

A terrifying spin on the Prisoner's Dilemma that asks, Is it possible to outthink yourself?

I'm not safe.

My family isn't safe.

But what can I do?

If every possible move I think of is doomed to be anticipated or made before I even get a chance, where does that leave me?

I feel like crawling out of my skin.

The worst days in the box—volcanic ash raining down on my face, almost freezing to death, seeing Daniela in a world where she had never said my name—none of it compares to the storm that's roiling inside of me in this moment.

I've never felt farther from home.

The phone rings, snapping me back into the present.

I walk over to the table, lift the receiver on the third ring.

“Hello?”

No response, only soft breathing.

I hang up the phone.

Move to the window.

Part the curtains.

Four floors below, the street is empty, the snow still pouring down.

The phone rings again, but only once this time.

Weird.

As I ease back down onto the bed, the phone call keeps needling me.

What if another version of me is trying to confirm that I'm in my room?

First, how the hell would he find me at this hotel?

The answer comes fast, and it's terrifying.

At this very moment, there must be numerous versions of me in Logan Square doing exactly what he's doing—calling every motel and hotel in my neighborhood to find other Jasons. It isn't luck that he found me. It's a statistical probability. Even a handful of Jasons, making a dozen phone calls each, could cover all the hotels within a few miles of my house.

But would the clerk give out my room number?

Maybe not intentionally, but it's possible the man downstairs listening to the Bulls game and stuffing his face with Chinese food could be duped.