Time of Departure (35 page)

*   *   *

That night, as I stood at the dresser brushing my hair, Marc appeared behind me. He kissed my neck. “I want you to have something.” He slipped a chain around my neck. “It was my mother's, and her mother's before that. I want you to have it, no matter what happens.”

My heart sank.

The final piece had found me, as I knew it would.

Marc fumbled with the clasp. “If it disappears with you next year, at least I will know you had it. I will know you carried something of me with you at the end, when you went on to make a new beginning.”

My fingers felt the locket. I held it up to my eyes. It had a cobalt blue enameled cover, embossed with a white Tudor rose.

Marc felt my shudder. “What's wrong?”

“It's just that, for us, nothing can be ordinary. Nothing can be what I deserve or you deserve, and it's killing me.” I turned into his arms and buried my face in his chest. “Thank you for the locket, my love. Now, take me to bed.”

*   *   *

At five o'clock in the morning on April 26, 1978, I decided to change the past.

 

MARCUS

 

50

There was no mistaking the distinctive sound.

The cranking Mopar starter jerked him from a deep sleep. He heard the engine catch and tires rolling on gravel. He leapt from the bed and stumbled to the window … in time to see his pickup's taillights disappear into the trees.

He wheeled around.

The bed was empty.

“Claire!” he yelled, hoping against fading hope that his truck had been stolen.

No reply.

He ran naked from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen.

He found the note.

My dear love,

Your future self once told me the past is always changing. I have come to believe you were giving me a message. You were telling me I would change the past.

If I succeed, you will forget me. Every trace of me—even this note I'm writing now—will cease to exist. I can only hope that one day, against all odds, you will find me again, and we will have a different future together … a better future, without the endless tyranny of pain we are facing today.

Just know that I love you more than life, and I am doing this for us.

Claire

Thirty seconds later, he discovered that his service revolver was missing.

*   *   *

It took him until noon to find Nonie Friedrichsen.

It was a six-mile walk from his camp to the rented house Nonie shared with her on-again, off-again truck driver boyfriend. He stopped at The Yearling on the way, but it was locked up tight and the parking lot was empty. When he reached Nonie's house, her car was gone and no one answered his knock. He waited on the porch for two hours, and then hiked back to The Yearling. Teddy was behind the bar. He said Nonie was due on at twelve.

Marc was standing in the parking lot when she drove up.

She got out of her car and walked quickly toward him, alarm on her face. “It's Claire, isn't it?”

“I went to your house.”

“I was at the dentist. What's happened?”

“She's gone. She took my truck.”

Claire's note stayed in his pocket. It would be impossible to explain its contents.

“Archer,” Nonie stated flatly.

“How do you know?”

“I don't. But that's where she went last time, when she borrowed my car.”

“Did she tell you why?”

Nonie answered warily. “No, and I didn't ask.”

“Will you lend me your car?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Claire might need a witness.”

He looked at her appraisingly. “You think she's seeing someone else. You're afraid I'll hurt her.”

“Something like that.”

“I wouldn't hurt her, Nonie. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Would you drive me?”

She didn't hesitate. “I'll tell Teddy.” Nonie hurried into the bar and reappeared in less than a minute. She handed her car keys to Marc. “In case we break a few speed limits. You're the one with the badge.”

They got in the car, wheeled out of the lot, and headed north.

“Route 346 is shorter. Not by much, but maybe less traffic.”

“I know.” He made the turn.

Nonie looked over at him. He was staring intently ahead, his eyes damp with suppressed emotion, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“Is there?” she asked quietly.

“Is there what?”

“Is there someone else?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes. But not like that. In fact, not in any way you could possibly imagine.”

He drove on while Nonie pondered his cryptic answer.

And while Marc Hastings wondered if he and Nonie would find Claire Talbot before both of them forgot she existed.

Ninety minutes later, when they found his truck, he still remembered Claire.

He just wasn't sure how long the memory would last.

 

CLAIRE

 

51

It was still dark outside. Sunrise was an hour away and Marc was asleep. I got dressed in the kitchen—jeans, T-shirt, runners, and one of Marc's zip-up windbreakers. I slid his gun into my pocket, left a note on the counter, grabbed his truck keys, and slipped silently out of the cabin.

Above, wisps of cloud moved like wraiths across a crystalline sky, and the air smelled of jasmine. But I barely noticed. I was an automaton. I got in the truck, snicked the door shut as quietly as I could, and turned the key. When the engine caught, I backed away fast, spun a 180, and made for the highway. I bounced and banged at breakneck speed along the bush road, hit the asphalt with a squeal of rubber, and headed north.

I was driving like a woman possessed, but I didn't care.

This time, I didn't take the long way through Gainesville. I had mapped out a shorter route, using County Road 346. It saved only six or seven miles, but I figured there'd be fewer traffic cops—especially at five thirty in the morning—and I was right. I made it to Archer in thirty-five minutes.

I drove past our house. The windows were dark, and as I expected, my father's car wasn't there. I circled to the far side of the playing field that adjoined the playground. I parked near the base of the water tower, where Marc's truck would be screened behind a row of gum trees.

I took the locket off my neck and opened it. I cracked the seedpod I'd taken from Tribe's cottage. Crab's eye peas spilled out. I put one in the locket, snapped it shut, and then slid the locket and chain into my pocket.

The clock on the dash said 6:10
A.M
.

I checked Marc's gun. It was fully loaded, as I'd known it would be. I left the truck keys in the ashtray, got out, and walked across the field to the grove of trees near the playground. During my visit the day before, I had noticed a well-concealed observation point just inside the fence.

I sat down and waited.

By ten o'clock, the only sign of life I'd seen was my mother. She was working her way around the inside of the house, washing windows.

I had already decided that if Tribe didn't appear by noon, I'd hunt him down.

But then he showed up.

I almost missed him because this time he was parked facing the wrong way on the left shoulder of 173rd. Thick brush had screened his arrival. I have no idea how long he had been there before the sound of the Plymouth's idling engine penetrated my consciousness. I crept slowly toward the car until I found cover about twenty feet away.

Tribe had a newspaper propped on his steering wheel, but he wasn't reading it. His eyes were locked in feral intensity on my mother's house.

Seconds later, my mother appeared in the front yard, tugging a garden hose.

In horrifying slow motion, I watched Tribe lay aside his newspaper.

He's going for her!

By the time his right hand reached the gearshift, I had already covered most of the distance that separated us. I vaulted the fence on pure adrenaline and reached the driver's-side rear door just as the Plymouth thumped into gear. I wrenched the door open and dived into the rear compartment.

The car stopped rolling. Tribe craned behind him. I drove my fist into his face. He cried out and scratched at me like a cat, clawing air.

I jammed Marc's .38 into his cheek. He froze and went pale.

“Drive!” I barked.

“What is this?” he whined.

I pressed the muzzle hard against his cheekbone. “Drive, you bastard, or die right here!”

He corkscrewed away, pawing for the door latch. I clocked him on the side of the head with the gun. He bleated.

“You don't get it, do you? I said drive!”

He probed at his scalp with his fingertips. They came away covered in blood. His whimper gave me a sudden rush of pleasure. “Now, Tribe!” He hunched in defeat and put his hands on the wheel. The car pulled onto the pavement. I knelt behind him, with the revolver pressed against his neck.

“Route 24!”

As we rolled past our house, I saw my mother standing in her yard. She was staring at the Plymouth. Then she spotted me. I saw her take an uncertain step forward. Then she was swept from my view.

“Left here,” I ordered when we reached the highway.

Tribe tried to turn his head. I prodded him with the gun. “Eyes on the road, Tribe!”

“What the fuck is this?”

“A kidnapping! You're familiar with the concept, I believe.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Where I come from, you're notorious.” There was no traffic visible in either direction. “Go!”

“You won't get away with this!”

“I already have! Just shut up and drive!”

“Where?”

“To your pretty little cottage on the river … where else?”

“How do you—?”

“I know everything, Tribe! From here on, you and I are just playing roles.”

“Woman, you're crazy!”

I jabbed him with the gun. “And that means I'm dangerous! Not another word! Get moving!” The car picked up speed.

With a killer at the wheel, we rolled down the highway toward Cedar Key.

*   *   *

The Plymouth coasted to a stop in front of the cottage.

“Stay where you are!” I ordered. I got out of the car and positioned myself. I trained the gun on Tribe. “Now, get out!”

He opened the door slowly and stepped out.

“Back door!”

He started walking. I followed, staying five feet behind him. We passed the front corner of the veranda and started down the side of the building. Tribe walked slowly, hugging the wall. I kept my eyes locked on him. As we approached the rear corner of the building, I saw his shoulders tense. I knew instantly what he would do. I looped wide, keeping my steps silent on the lawn.

At the corner, Tribe ducked left and bolted.

In one step, I was clear of the corner. I took careful aim and shot him in the right leg. Tribe pitched sideways, straight into a crab's eye bush, and lay there, tangled in vines, yipping like a kicked puppy. I strode over.

“You shot me!” he bawled.

“Yes, I did. Get up!”

“I can't! You shot me!”

“You already said that. I put the slug in your thigh. The bone's not broken.” I pointed the gun at his head. “Get up, or die right here!”

Whining and grimacing, he struggled out of the bush, got to his knees, and finally to his feet. He stood there, swaying and whimpering.

“Move!”

Groaning, he limped and hopped to the back door. He stood there, looking stupid.

“Open it!”

He made a show of patting at his pockets and then looked at me. “Keys are in the car.”

I swung the gun up. Tribe scrambled backwards, tripped, and fell on his ass.

I fired. The lock disintegrated.

“Jesus!” Tribe yelled.

I pointed the gun at him. “He's no friend of yours!
Up!
”

He rolled on his side, pushed himself to his knees, and crawled to the door. He used the handle to pull himself to his feet. He nudged the door open.

We entered.

The cottage was as tidy and pristine inside as it was outside. It was nothing like the decaying shell Marc and I had entered on our ill-starred warrantless search. The dogtrot hallway was laid in glazed tile. One wall was papered with a damask design; the ceiling and opposite wall were painted white. The kitchen, immediately to the left, was clean and fully equipped.

“I gotta stop this bleeding!”

I nodded. Tribe hopped into the kitchen. As if to dramatize the gravity of his wound, he came down hard on each hop, making the floor shake. The effect seemed deliberate.

He pulled a tea towel out of a drawer and bound his leg. He glared me. “So, what're we doin' here?”

I jerked my thumb, pointing behind me. “In there!” I stepped back.

He limped past me, into the living room. I followed.

The wagon-wheel furniture I'd seen on my last visit now looked like it had just been delivered from the factory. I pointed at the rug in the small dining area.

“Pull it back!”

“What?”

“You heard me!”

He stared at me.

“Now, Tribe!”

“The table…”

“Move it!”

Slowly, moving from side to side, he shifted the table into a corner so its legs were clear of the edge of the rug. He stooped and pulled the rug away.

The trapdoor was there, with an inset ring to lift it.

I gestured with the gun. Tribe grabbed the ring and swung the door up. Instead of lowering it to the floor, he let it go. It dropped with a loud bang.

“You first,” I said.

He scowled. “You won't get away with this!”

I fired a slug into the floor between his feet. He yelped and staggered back.

“I will, Tribe!” I yelled. “I definitely will!”