Rewinder (13 page)

“So,” the large man whispers, “did you find out?”

Cahill nods. “There’s a meeting tonight at eleven.”

“Where?”

“At the Hensons’ farm. In the barn.”

“Will you be there?” the smaller man asks.

Another nod. “I’m to be on standby in case a message needs to go out.”

“You need to get in close enough to hear what they say.”

“I’ll try.”

“No. You’ll do it,” the large man says. “We need to know their plans.”

“I…I—”

“Is there a problem?”

Though I’m not looking at him, I imagine Cahill’s lip trembling as he says, “No, sir.”

I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Not only does this confirm that Richard Cahill was indeed a British agent working undercover as a messenger for the rebels during the American incident, but this meeting at eleven has to be the same one where he learns of the traitor George Washington’s whereabouts. This he will pass on to his contacts before the sun rises, and by twenty-four hours real time from now, Washington will be dead and the ill-fated rebellion squashed. As I said, it’s but a minor point in the history of the kingdom, but it’s fascinating to witness.

The woman enters the room again, this time with Cahill’s meal. The young spy and his companions exchange few words as they eat. My work here is basically done. The only task I have left is to witness Cahill’s predawn arrival at British headquarters with news of what he’s learned. But I know from my previous observations that I don’t depart until after Cahill leaves the tavern, so I busy myself pushing my stew around and pretending to eat more.

The two men finish off their bowls first. The larger man pulls a small cloth pouch from his pocket. As he sets it in front of Cahill, I hear the distinct jangle of coins.

“As promised,” the man says.

Cahill peeks inside the bag and then looks at the men, confused. Forgetting to whisper, he says, “This isn’t all.”

“Hush,” the short one says.

I turn my head away just as he looks over his shoulder.

“You’ll get the rest
after
you report on the meeting,” the large man says.

“That wasn’t our agreement,” Cahill counters, anger seeping into his voice.

“I caution you, sir, to remember whom you are speaking with,” the short one tells him. “Would you rather we take you in and lock you up as a traitor?”

The tension is as thick as fog. Casually, I sweep my gaze across the room, like anyone sitting alone might do. I expect to see Cahill’s cheeks red with anger, but instead the fear is back in his eyes, and I start to think he’s not quite the willing spy my pre-mission research has led me to believe.

Do these men have something on him and he’s being coerced? If so, that would be the opposite of what the client expects to hear.

When Cahill gets up to leave, I put a coin on the table and pick up my wooden box. At the same moment, the serving woman reaches around me for the money, bumping my elbow and causing me to loose my grip on the box. It falls to the table with a loud clack.

Cahill, nearing the door, stops and looks back. When he sees what’s caused the noise, he turns to continue on his way, but the strap of his bag catches the corner of the nearby table, stopping him again. After he frees the strap, he exits the tavern. As is my habit, I reach into my pocket and push the button that will mark the time of his departure on my clock.

The woman doesn’t even give me so much as a grunt as she heads to another table. I put the box away and open the satchel just wide enough for me to see the Chaser’s screen and double-check my exit time. My attention, however, is drawn to the time marked as Cahill’s departure.

Certain I’m remembering incorrectly, I check my notebook. The time I’ve written down is 8:47:21. The problem is that the time marker on my Chaser indicates the door was opened at 8:47:33. I know I may not have hit the button at the exact moment he left, but there is no way I was twelve seconds off.

I find it suddenly hard to swallow.

I’ve caused a change.

It’s okay
.
It’s only twelve seconds. It won’t affect anything.

This is what I tell myself over and over as I head for the exit. I don’t even think to check my own time until I’ve already pushed the door open. I’m early. A full two
minutes
early.

Again, I tell myself that’s okay. I matter even less than Cahill’s discrepancy.

As I step across the threshold, I trip. Not enough to fall to the ground, but more than enough to prove that the timeline I witnessed earlier from the trees is no longer valid.

I rush around the building and into the dark, deserted meadow where the wagons are. I set my device to take me to three a.m. near the British military headquarters where Cahill will report his findings.

The trip is so short I never even see the gray mist. I do experience a short headache, though, which has never happened for a trip of this distance. Once my Chaser is stowed, I head toward the fort.

All is quiet when the British garrison comes into view. The only bit of light is the dull flicker of a lantern leaking over the top of the wall.

It’s possible Cahill has already arrived. The records I found on the matter indicated only that he comes before sunrise. But the distance between the fort and the farm where the rebels meet means it’s highly unlikely he’d get here before four a.m. The other factor supporting this argument is that if he’s made his report already, I’d see activity at the fort. There is none.

I settle in to wait.

Four a.m. passes without even the sound of a footstep. It’s still quiet at four thirty. At five, I begin to hear soldiers starting their day inside the fort. This is followed soon by the smell of cooking meat wafting into the woods where I’m hiding. And yet the gate remains closed.

At twenty to six, I hear the pounding of a horse’s hooves on the road leading up to the fort.

Thank God
, I think. He’s finally here.

But my sense of relief vanishes when the horse that appears is carrying not Cahill but a British soldier. He hails one of the sentries at the fence, and the gate parts for him to enter.

An hour past sunrise, there’s still no Cahill.

Perhaps the historical records have it wrong. Perhaps Cahill came later. Even as I cling to this thought, I fear the truth is something far different.

There’s no dispute about when and how George Washington is ambushed. The event is well documented as taking place just after three p.m. on this very day, by soldiers from the garrison I’m spying on. But to be in position to take advantage of that situation, the British troops would need to begin organizing almost immediately.

I wait, my panic growing with each passing minute.

It was only
twelve seconds
, I tell myself.
How could that have changed anything?

During one of the training lectures, we were taught that even a change of only a fraction of a second could ripple out to cause a much larger change. This is why it was stressed over and over again that we are observers, not participants. Yes, we would, on occasion, interfere in some lives, but those instances are to be kept short and as noninvasive as possible. Those who belong to the lineages of princes and dukes and lords are to remain untouched at all costs. Violating this rule would bring the severest of punishments.

A voice in my head says, “Go back to last evening and stop yourself from going inside.” This is the fix that should put everything back as it should be. At least, I think it is. Then again, what if my not being there causes Cahill to leave sooner? Maybe the woman serves him faster, or…or…

God, nothing messes with your head more than messing with time.

“If you get hung up on paradoxes, you’ll end up huddled in a corner as your sanity sprays out of your ears,” Marie told me during training. “The truth is, they exist. You can be in two places at once, or even three—or a dozen. You can interact with yourself, like I did on the roof in Chicago. Hell, you can even shake hands with yourself and you won’t implode. It’s your particular moment in time that’s important. If something changes, it’s what comes after that’s affected. You are the constant.”

So I can change things back
.

Probably.

Before I go meddling again, though, I should gather more information, starting with finding out what happened to Cahill. I can go back and stop myself for entering the tavern later. That point will always be there for me to fix.

Calmer now, I pop back to the tavern on the evening before, but remain in the shadows so my other selves don’t see me. There’s no sense creating more confusion at this point.

When Cahill comes out, I glance at my Chaser—8:47:33. The same twelve-second variation from the natural timeline.

Once I see which way he’s going, I take a tiny hop in both time and distance along the road, arriving several seconds before he does. After he goes by, I hop forward again. I do this until he doesn’t appear where I expect him to. Backtracking both physically and in time, I find him turning down a road that leads west.

I’ve memorized a partial map of the area in anticipation of this trip, but his destination falls outside this region. My guess is this is the way to the Hensons’ farm. Keeping my trips even shorter in distance so I don’t lose him again, I track him through the countryside.

After we’ve been traveling for a good thirty minutes in real time, he turns down a rutted path that leads to a dark farmhouse. If this is the Henson farm, he’s over an hour early.

I watch from the cover of an outbuilding as he gets off his horse and approaches one of the windows of the main house. Quietly, he taps on the pane.

The window opens but it’s too dark inside for me to see anything. I can hear whispered words but am too far away to make them out. After several moments, a hand juts out the window and Cahill puts something in it.

Frustrated, I study the house and see some shrubs not far from where Cahill is standing. I pop behind the brush and back in time thirty seconds before Cahill first arrives at the house.

Again, Cahill gets off his horse and taps on the windowpane. When it opens this time, I can see a shadowy figure inside but it’s still too dark to make out the face.

“Richard?” The voice sounds surprised, and though it’s high enough in pitch to be a woman’s, I get the distinct impression it belongs to a boy.

“I need you to do something,” Cahill whispers.

“What?”

“Take this.”

The boy reaches out, and Cahill puts what I can now see is the pouch of coins from the tavern in the kid’s hand.

“Is this—” the boy starts to say.

“Give it to Father. Tell him I’ll bring more later, but that should help.”

“He’ll want to know where you got it.”

“Tell him it doesn’t matter. It’s money.” Cahill pauses. “You can tell him I didn’t steal it.” He backs away.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to do something.”

“What?”

“I’ll see you later.”

Cahill sprints back onto his horse and rides away.

This can’t be where the change has occurred. With or without the twelve-second delay, he must have always planned on stopping here.

Confused, I take up pursuit again and trace him as he stays to the roads outside of town, passing nothing along the way but the sleeping silhouettes of other farmhouses.

Given that it’s less than fifteen minutes before the meeting is supposed to start, he can’t be more than a mile from the farm when I see two British soldiers riding toward town on a road from the east. They reach the junction with the road Cahill is on a mere five and a half seconds after the reluctant spy passes by.

“Stop!” one of the men calls out.

Cahill rides on, apparently not hearing the command over the thuds of his horse’s hooves.

The soldier who spoke motions at his companion and they take off in pursuit.

As they close in, the first soldier shouts again. This time Cahill looks over his shoulder, startled. I see hesitation on his face as he races past another of my positions, and I know he’s contemplating whether or not he should try to outrun them.

“In the name of the king, you are ordered to halt,” the first soldier shouts.

The mention of the king finally causes Cahill to stop his horse. As the two soldiers approach, the one who’s been silent raises a Brown Bess rifle to his shoulder and stops a dozen feet away while his partner rides in closer.

“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.