Rewinder (14 page)

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

A
T 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.

__________

F
OUR 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?

It’s the only explanation I can think of, but the idea falls apart when the nurse returns and I ask the date.

“March 28
^th
,” she tells me.

“What year?”

“Still a little groggy, are we? It’s 2015.” I must look surprised, because she asks, “What year did you think it was?”

“I…forgot for a moment, that’s all. It’s what I thought.”

She smiles. “Maybe you can answer something for me.”

“Um, sure.”

“You want to tell me your name?”

I hesitate. Once my name is entered into the data system, the institute will be notified and someone would come for me. So far, I seem to have extended my freedom by at least four days, but I’d like to experience a few more while conscious.

“Do you remember it?” she asks, her smile slipping.

“Denny,” I say. It’s a common enough name so it shouldn’t ring any bells. For my surname, though, I choose one from a book my mother used to read me. “Denny Wicks.”

“Denny? Like the restaurant?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod.

“Is that a nickname for Dennis?”

It’s not a nickname for anything, but erring on the side of caution, I nod again.

She writes my name down on the large pad she’s carrying. “Nice to meet you, Denny Wicks. I’m Clara. I’m your nightshift nurse today.” She adjusts the sheet covering my chest. “Someone will bring you some food in a bit. For now, try to rest. I have a feeling the police will be back to talk to you soon.”

“Police?”

As if she’s telling me a secret, she whispers, “They want to know why you were in that house.”

I stare at her. “What house?”

“The one you were found in front of,” she says.

It takes me a moment, but then I remember. The one with wooden floors and no furniture. The one where I threw up.

The police officers come as I’m finishing a meal of bland meat and a fluffy white dollop of potato. The men’s uniforms are unfamiliar to me, the material so dark blue it’s almost black. Strapped around each man’s waist is a belt lined with compartments and holders, one of which carries a pistol. Pinned to the shirt on each man’s chest is a miniature silver shield that reads
NEW YORK CITY POLICE
and has its own unique number.

The badge confuses me.

New York City?

It can’t be.

Upjohn Hall is in the city called New York. Though I’ve seen very little of the metropolis, it
is
where I live.

When I realize both men are looking at me expectantly, I clear my throat and whisper, “I’m sorry?”

The man closest to me looks a bit put out. “You told the nurse your name is Dennis Wicks. Is that correct or not?”

“Yes,” I say.

“All right, Mr. Wicks. Can you tell us where you live?”

“Live?”

Again, he’s not pleased. “Your address.”

“I’m…not…sure.”

“You remember your name but not where you live?”

From a book I read, I know that head trauma sometimes causes memory problems, so I say as sincerely as possible, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Do you at least remember if you’re from the city? Or just visiting?”

“Which city?”

He grimaces. “New York.”

I pretend to think for a moment before shrugging. “I wish I knew.”

The other man asks, “How about the house? Why were you there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You
do
remember the house, right? Two Forty-Four Rosemary Avenue?”

“Not really.”

“Did you break in so you could sleep there?”

“I’m not a squatter,” I say.

“So you don’t remember the house, but you do remember you weren’t crashing there for the night?”

The phrase is strange, but I get the gist and realize my words are getting me into trouble. I sink into my pillow and close my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe, I guess. It just doesn’t feel like something I would do.”

Clara, who’s been standing across the room, approaches the bed and says, “I think maybe he’s had enough for now.”

The police don’t look happy but the main one says, “Sure. Mr. Wicks, we’ll come back when you’ve had a little rest.”

I keep my eyes closed until everyone’s gone.

I stare at the ceiling, my heart racing in my chest. I’m not concerned about the policemen specifically, but rather what they represent, what this hospital represents, and the new potential explanation for what’s happened.

It isn’t long before Clara returns and checks some of the wires that run from me to nearby instruments. “Are you okay?” she asks as she grabs my wrist and glances at her watch.

“I’m fine.”

She lets go of my hand and I see she doesn’t believe me. “Your heart rate’s a little elevated. I’m going to go grab something to help you relax. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, to no avail. She’s already out the door.

I don’t want to take something that will put me back to sleep. I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell is going on.

More than anything, I really need to get out of here.

I reach up to scratch the side of my neck and feel a tug on my arm. I glance down and see the wires and tubes attached to me. They must’ve alerted Clara to come check on me. If I’m going to leave, I’ll need to yank everything off and get out in a hurry. This thought leads me to another problem. Clothes. No way can I go anywhere in the thin covering I’m wearing.

I look around. There’s only one cabinet so if my clothes are here, that’s where they’d be. Is my leather satchel in there, too?

My breath catches in my throat.

Oh, God. My Chaser
.

I would’ve been holding it when I arrived at the house. Is it stored with my other things? Or do the police have it?

My escape from this place is now even more pressing.

I look at the machines around my bed again, and notice that most of them are on wheels. If I’m careful, I might be able to roll them far enough for me to reach the cabinet without setting off an alarm.

Before I can test the theory, the door opens and Clara returns. In her hands is a tray holding two cups. One contains water and the other contains two pills.

“Pop them in your mouth,” she says as she dumps the pills in my hand. “They’ll help you sleep.”

I try to fake taking them, but one falls out of my hand as my fingers hit my lips.

“Let me,” she says. She takes the pills and pushes them into my mouth.

As she raises the water to my lips, the only thing I can do is shove the pills between my cheek and teeth with my tongue and hope they don’t slip free as I drink. One of the pills cooperates but the other doesn’t.

“There,” she says, lowering my head back to the pillow. “The best thing you can do right now is rest. I’ll check on you later.”

The moment her back is to me, I pull the remaining pill out of my mouth and slip it under the covers. I hope to God the one that went down isn’t enough to knock me out, but in my condition, who knows?

Clara dims the lights and leaves.

As soon as the door is completely closed, I set about trying to lower the railing on the side of my bed. I spend more time than I should on it, but finally get it to swing downward. I scoot toward the side of the bed so I can move my legs over the edge, but I feel a tug below my waist. I stop and look under the sheet.

What I see is disturbing, to say the least. There’s a tube running between my legs that appears to be carrying away my urine and is connected to me in a way I’m not at all excited about. If I’m going to leave, though, it can’t stay there. I grab the tube with one hand and where it’s attached to me with the other.

Silently, I count down from five and then pull. I’m prepared for searing agony, but what I feel is more pressure than pain.

Freed, I swing my legs off the bed. Most of the machines I’m plugged into are on one side but one apparatus is not, and its cords aren’t long enough to swing around the end of the bed. I have no choice but to unhook myself from it.

I hurry over to the cabinet, the other machines rolling along most of the way there. I find my clothes in the large upper section. They’re designed to be worn in 1775 colonial North America, but they’re better than the open-back hospital smock. I pull on my pants and shoes. My shirt and jacket can’t go on until I’m unplugged. Before that, though, I look for my bag.