Rewinder (9 page)

It’s a tense era. The Russian Empire is dealing with internal revolts that will last until the czar’s army is finally able to squash them in 1948. Closer to home is the growing tension between the British Kingdom and China. The war neither empire really wants is still another decade away, but the people of ’43 don’t know that. For them, the Chinese’s desire to reclaim the coast from north of Shanghai all the way to southeast Asia could turn hostile at any moment.

I roll my head from side to side, trying to work out the ache in my neck and shoulders, but I know the only thing that will make it go away is rest. I could read more but I’m more than prepared for the trip, so I shelve the book I’ve been reading and turn to leave.

The newspaper sits on one of the stuffed chairs along the wall. It catches my attention because it’s the first one I’ve seen since coming to the institute. The paper is folded so that an article on one of the inside pages is showing. The headline is why I pick it up.

PROMINENT BUSINESSMAN HARLAN WALKER DEAD

It’s a name I know very well. Less than two months ago, Johnston and I rewound the man’s history. Though we’ve traced two other families since then, Walker’s has stuck in my mind because of the irregularity we uncovered.

I read the article and learn that Walker—owner of the largest construction company on the East Coast of North America, and the fourth Harlan of his family—was found in his office, dead of natural causes. Unnamed medical sources report he had a hereditary heart condition that resulted in a massive coronary the previous afternoon.

I frown. Someone doesn’t know what he or she is talking about.

Here’s what
I
know.

Harlan Walker was thirty-seven years old. I’ve seen Walker’s medical records. I have seen his father’s and mother’s medical records. I have seen the medical records belonging to his grandfathers and grandmothers and great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Not a single one of them had a heart condition.

I flip the paper over so I can read the rest, and have to go over the second-to-last paragraph twice to make sure I didn’t read it wrong.

Again, what I know. Harlan Walker was unmarried but on the cusp of becoming engaged. This was the reason he hired the institute. He needed to verify his lineage before he could marry the daughter of a duke. What we found was that his grandmother on his father’s side had an affair. His father, Harlan III, was the result, making Harlan IV the son of an illegitimate heir.

We collected hair samples that the institute’s lab tested to confirm this discovery, and we included the evidence in our report. Though it was never said outright, Johnston all but told me this information would not be given to the client, meaning the official report Harlan IV received would be clean.

The next-to-last paragraph in the news article makes me wonder if what we learned was truly buried.

Walker Construction’s board of directors confirms that ownership of the company will pass to Walker’s cousin Teresa Evans and her husband, Mathew Evans. In addition, a family source reports the estate will be making sizeable donations to several organizations, including the Health Fund of the Atlantic, Catherine University, and the Upjohn Institute.

As a personal historian, albeit one who’s still very new to the job, I’ve been trained to look for connections that will help unearth real stories. So I can’t help but make the connection that’s staring me in the face. Walker hires the Upjohn Institute. The Upjohn Institute—via Johnston and me—uncover a shattering truth about Walker’s past. And now Walker is dead, and the institute has come into a “sizeable donation.”

This is one of those things I desperately want to talk to someone about, someone who can tell me I’m just overthinking. I decide I’ll risk bringing it up with Johnston—very cautiously. After I go back to my room, I lie awake until well after midnight before I come up with an approach I hope will work.

__________

I
ARRIVE IN
our prep room early the next morning and place the newspaper on the counter along the back wall.

Twice I go back and adjust its position. I’m not satisfied that it doesn’t look planted but I finally force myself to leave it alone.

At my closet, I begin changing into the era-appropriate clothing that’s been left for me. I’m buttoning up my shirt when Johnston enters.

“Morning,” I say.

When he glances over and grunts, I think he knows I’m up to something. I turn away so he can’t see my face and I take a deep, silent breath. I listen as my supervisor dons his wardrobe, and when I hear him start tying his shoes, I wander toward the back of the room.

“What’s this?” I say.
God, could that have sounded more fake?

I pick up the paper and pretend to read. I’m not so stupid as to have left the article about Walker front and center, so I scan the front page and then open it to take a look inside.

“Where did you get that?” Johnston asks, his tone accusatory.

I glance over and see him walking angrily toward me.

“It was, uh, sitting here.” I point at the counter.

The thumb of my other hand rests right below the headline proclaiming Harlan Walker’s death. As I start to look down so that I can “notice” the article, Johnston snatches the paper out of my hands.

“This shouldn’t be here,” he says and crumbles it up.

“It’s just a newspaper.”

Using the paper to emphasize his words, he says, “Our concern is the then, not the now. The only thing about 2015 that’s important is that it’s where you learn your next assignment. Got it?”

“Of course,” I say, trying hard not to glance at the paper.

I’m hoping he’ll toss it on the floor, and I can lag behind, hide it somewhere, and retrieve it later, but it’s still in his hand as we walk out. As we pass one of the institute’s security men, Johnston shoves the paper into the guy’s hand and says, “Dispose of this.”

The pit of my stomach plummets toward the center of the earth. That did not go anywhere near how I was hoping it would. Not only is the article gone, but I can’t bring up the subject of Walker now without risking Johnston finding out I brought the paper into the prep room in the first place.

I tell myself I need to forget the whole thing, but throughout our assignment I keep thinking about Walker and the money the institute is receiving.

When we return the next evening, it’s bothering me so much that I go in search of Marie. Though I haven’t seen her since graduation, I know she’ll at least listen to my questions. But she’s not around. Over the next several days I continue trying to see her, but either my timing’s bad or she’s avoiding me because I’m always told she’s busy elsewhere.

I decide that if I can’t find her, maybe I can at least find another newspaper. Everywhere I go in the institute, I keep my eye out, but I never see one. This is when it dawns on me that, with the exception of the paper I found in the library, the last one I saw was back in New Cardiff.

Several weeks after my failed attempt to talk to Johnston, we return early from an assignment and I find myself with my first open afternoon. I decide to take advantage of the opportunity and head for the gate leading into the city, where I can find a newspaper. But as I approach the main gate—a thick wooden door in the stone wall surrounding the institute—a security man steps from a nearby hut and says, “May I help you?”

“I can get the gate myself, thanks.”

When I step toward the gate, he moves in front of me. “Do you have authorization?”

“I’m only going to be gone a half hour at most,” I tell him. “Just taking a walk.”

“May I have your name?”

“Why do you need my name?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I can easily look you up.”

He’s right about that. There’s a directory with everyone’s name and picture in it. “Denny Younger,” I say.

“And your position?”

This makes me feel even more uncomfortable. “Junior personal historian.”

He pulls a notebook from his back pocket and writes down the information. When he finishes, he says, “Mr. Younger, I’m sorry. Without authorization from your supervisor, I can’t let you leave. If it’s walking you’re interested in, the institute grounds provide plenty of options.”

His smile tells me our conversation is over and that he doubts I’ll be back. He’s right. Johnston would never give me authorization without asking questions I don’t want to answer.

When I arrive at my room, I find another security man waiting by my door.

“Mr. Younger?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Please come with me.”

CHAPTER
TEN

A
CHILL PASSES
through me. “What’s this about?”

The guard turns and walks down the hallway without answering. Seeing no other choice, I follow. He leads me into the administration section, and then to a room about three times the size of mine. Behind a desk sits a woman with graying brown hair.

“Mr. Younger,” the security man announces.

After a nod of acknowledgment, the woman points to a chair along the wall and says to me, “Wait there.”

When I sit, she picks up her com-phone, says, “He’s here,” then listens for a moment before cradling it again.

I glance nervously at her while she busies herself with some papers as if I’m not even here. After a few minutes, a door behind her swings open a few inches. “You can go in now,” she tells me.

The new room is twice as large as the woman’s, with walls covered in dark wood paneling and bookcases stuffed end to end with leather-bound volumes. A beautiful carpet covers the floor, but the desk is the focal point of the room. Massive and old, it looks as if it was carved from a single piece of wood. What’s missing is the room’s occupant.

Hesitantly, I walk over to the guest chair in front of the desk, but I know sitting first would be disrespectful so I remain on my feet. About thirty seconds later, I hear the faint squeak of a hinge. I look over just in time to see a small section of a bookcase open outward, revealing Sir Gregory.

“Mr. Younger.” With a smile, he walks over and shakes my hand, then gestures to the chair. “Please. Sit down, sit down.”

I wait until he’s lowered himself into his before I do as he asked.

“Something to drink?” he offers. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, though I’m far from it.

“Very well, then.” He picks up several sheets of paper off his desk and looks them over. “Let’s see…ah, yes.” He glances up and smiles again. “We first met in New Cardiff last spring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now you’re a full-fledged personal historian.”

“Junior, sir. But yes, since September.”

“I never doubted you’d pass the program.” He gestures to the file. “When I first learned of your Occupational Placement Exam scores, I knew you would be perfect for the program.”

“Um, thank you,” I say, not knowing how else to respond.

“And how do you like it?”

“Sir?”

“Being a Rewinder.”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s more than I could’ve ever imagined. I still have a hard time believing it.”

“Of course you do. That sense of wonder will likely stay with you throughout your career. It does with most Rewinders. God knows, I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he reads through another one of the sheets. When he looks back at me, he says, “I see here that you wanted to go for a walk today.”

“I’m sorry, Sir Gregory. I forgot I needed authorization. I haven’t been out since I arrived here and I ended up with some extra time this afternoon so I thought…”

“But you get out all the time on your assignments.”

“You’re right, sir. I do. It’s just…” I pause, thinking quickly. “I’m always working then.”

“Of course. I understand. Truth is, there are times when I wish I could take a walk outside.”

“You don’t go out, either?” I ask.

He studies me for several seconds and then sets the papers down. “This was going to happen eventually. It always does. You should feel honored. You’re the first from your class I’ve had to talk to about it.”

“About what exactly, sir?”

He leans back in his chair. “There was a time when members of the institute freely moved in and out of our gates. In fact, when I started as a personal historian, it was a necessity. Our work at the time meant tedious hours spent combing historical archives and records that were often not accessible via data monitors, so we traveled throughout the empire to consult and decipher the original texts. For over a hundred and sixty years, this is how the institute did its work. But then everything changed.” He pauses as if he’s given me the answer I’m looking for but he hasn’t, and my expression tells him as much. “Mr. Younger, what is the most powerful thing on Earth?”

I say without hesitation, “The king.”

“Yes, yes, naturally,” he says. “But I’m not talking about a person. I’m talking about a
thing
.”

I shrug and say the next thing that comes to mind. “The nuclear bomb.” I’m not sure how it works—something about atoms smashing together—but everyone’s seen the destructive results in photos of the cities in China and Africa where the bombs have been dropped. One bomb can destroy miles of land, its radiation continuing to kill weeks and months and often years later.

“An understandable choice,” he says. “But not even close.”

I consider the question again. “Volcanoes?”

 “That’s a much better guess, but still not correct.” He opens one of the desk’s drawers and pulls out a Chaser device.

It’s different from the one I’ve been using. It’s dinged and scuffed and has several more buttons and switches than mine.

He admires it for a moment before setting it on the desk between us. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

That’s not exactly the word I’d use but I nod.

“This is one of the early devices. Second generation. Mine, actually.”