Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (52 page)

“Mom doesn’t want Pru’s money. She only wanted her sister back.”

“I’m sure.”

“You should be. Feel free to have your lawyers draw up any papers they like. As long as they don’t interfere with her access to her sister, I’m quite certain Mom will sign them.”

“Oh, they aren’t
my
attorneys,” she says. “I have no official connection to Cyrist International. It’s simply my religion, and obviously I have an interest in the national security implications of recent . . . events. And your role in those events. Just to put your mind at ease, all of the items taken from your residence and your actions during this entire affair have been sealed and classified for reasons of national security. The same goes for your friends and family. But please understand that this could change in an instant. If you start making statements to the press, or if there’s any indication you’ve withheld information, or, most importantly, if there are any changes whatsoever to the timeline, I will have to reassess that decision. As would those who follow me in office.”

“I understand.” She’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if she’s waiting for me to thank her. Perhaps I should. She could have taken a very different track here, one that would ruin my life and the lives of everyone I care about. But I can’t quite muster up a thank-you when she’s also the person who could have sent backup to the temple instead of putting the people I love in danger. Connor might even . . .

“What are your plans for the future?” she asks.

That came out of left field. “Umm . . . school? I’ve got a bit of catching up to do. And then college.”

“Have you considered joining the Cyrists? You’d make a wonderful Sister Prudence.”

I laugh, but apparently it isn’t a joke.

“They could make it worth your while . . . and I do think there will be some major changes in Cyrist International in the coming years. You’d be in a position to do a great deal of good, even if you’re not a believer.”

“No thanks.” Although I’m ready to get out of here, there’s still one thing I need to know. “What about Simon?”

“Oh. I thought you knew. DOA at Walter Reed.” I try to read her face, but I’ve no clue if she’s lying. “I thought it strange that he didn’t have a key. Conwell, either.”

I nod toward the baggie of dead keys. “They’re in the bag. What about the one you’re wearing? Do you plan to have it deactivated, too?”

Her eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “No, Kate. I don’t. If reality changes around me, I want to know. I’m sure you’d feel the same . . . I mean, if you were in my position.”

In one sense, she’s wrong. I’ve wanted to take this key off since Katherine gave it to me. Yeah, life-threatening aspects aside, this has been an incredible adventure. I’ll probably look back years from now and wish I could relive the not-awful parts of the past few months. But I’ll take that bit of nostalgia in exchange for security—for knowing my family is safe and that the people around me might actually know who I am from day to day.

That the important things in my life happen in order.

But, on the other side of the scale, Pru’s key is still active. Patterson’s key is still active. One is unstable and the other . . . is a Cyrist in a position of power. Who might be lying when she says Simon is dead. Who has the resources to search for others out there who might have the gene or, for all I know, to create them.

So, yes, she’s right. I’m not sure what I could do about it, but if reality changes around me, I want to know.

B
ETHESDA
, M
ARYLAND

September 14, 6:57 p.m.

Katherine’s contribution is a picture of a hotel in Naples, where the two of them spent Connor’s fiftieth birthday. The edges curl and brown when it hits the flames.

Dad’s next. He adds a handful of coffee beans to the fire pit, along with a pretzel rod, which he says is from Daphne.

Now it’s my turn. I toss in a piece of cardboard torn from the top of a Valenzia’s Pizza box.

We watch as it burns away. A tiny white flake of charred paper catches the breeze and takes flight. I watch for a moment, but decide I don’t want to see when it catches on a leaf or drifts to the ground. I want to believe the wind will take our burnt offerings to Connor somewhere in an alter-reality, where he’s sitting on his back porch eating pizza with Andi and Christopher.

I want to believe. And stranger things have happened.

When our private memorial is over, the others arrive, the ones who knew Connor, but not as well. Trey. Charlayne and Bensen. Sara, who didn’t actually know Connor at all, but who stops by anyway, because she’s barely seen Dad in the past few weeks. Not Mom and not Prudence. There are tentative plans for a dinner—me, Katherine, Mom, and Pru—next week. Maybe. Depending on how Prudence and Katherine are both feeling. And while I can tell Katherine wishes for more, it would be a step forward. I just hope they all stop being stubborn and actually take at least that one tiny step while Katherine is still alive.

It’s annoying that everyone has to park one street over and squeeze through the hedge, but there are still two cars out front with reporters wanting an update on Sister Pru. We trade Connor stories around the fire pit, which fittingly smells a bit like burned coffee.

When the doorbell rings a little before eight, Dad and Daphne go inside to answer, hoping that it’s the pizza delivery and not the paparazzi. I peek through the kitchen a minute later and see him in the foyer paying the driver, so Trey and I head inside to help him with the boxes.

But someone else is walking into the kitchen. It’s a young woman, tall and pretty—and at first I think Dad let a reporter in. Then I notice that she has a toddler perched on her hip who seems determined to get down. His eyes are fixed on Daphne, who’s sniffing curiously at his wiggling feet.

The woman looks surprised when she sees my face.

I smile politely and sigh. Because this is getting old.

Trey catches my expression and laughs. “We need to get you a sign that says
Not Sister Prudence
.”

“Sister . . . ?” she begins. “Oh, that one with the Cyrists. Is that what’s going on with the news truck outside?”

“Yes. I’m her niece, but we’re not . . . close.”

She looks a bit confused. “Okay. But that’s not what . . . stop wiggling, sweetie, and let Mommy get something.”

The woman puts the little boy on the barstool so that she can take an envelope out of the oversized bag she’s carrying. The kid wastes no time—he’s down before she even gets her hand into her purse. I kneel and grab for Daphne’s collar, thinking she might jump on him, but she just sniffs the boy and gives his outstretched hand a gentle lick.

“Your father said she’s friendly?”

“Oh, yes. Just a little too enthusiastic sometimes. But she seems to be reining it in around this little guy.”

Dad and Trey come through with the pizza boxes, casting a curious glance at us on the way to the patio.

“I was actually thinking you look more like
her
.” The woman hands me a small photograph album. A sealed envelope sticks up out of the pages, and there’s a family photo on the cover—a tall, dark-haired man with a very familiar grin holding a little boy. He’s standing behind a young woman who does indeed look quite a bit like me. She holds a baby in her lap, and an older girl of maybe seven or eight stands next to her.

“The woman who’s seated is my great-great-grandmother. She’s a little older here, but there’s a photo inside taken a few years after they were married, and . . . you could be her double.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Jennifer Meeks. And this little guy is Connor Dunne Meeks.”

Oh, wow.

I look away from the album. The boy’s coloring is dark like his mother’s. He looks nothing like Connor. But his inquisitive brown eyes do remind me a bit of a somewhat older boy I met at the 1893 World’s Fair.

“Hi, Connor.”

He grins when I say his name, but then Daphne licks his cheek, and he’s too busy giggling to pay attention to anything other than her.

“This is technically Connor’s job,” Jennifer says, “since the will decreed that the youngest Connor Dunne in the family deliver
this
envelope to Katherine Shaw at
this
address. We were supposed to be here two days ago, but Connor had this tummy thing, and we had to cancel the flight.”

Katherine closes the patio door behind her. “Hello? I’m Katherine Shaw. Harry said you’re looking for me.”

“Yes. I’m Jennifer Meeks. As I was telling this young lady, you’re the reason we flew in from Ohio this afternoon. I believe you knew my ancestors back in the 1950s, when you were a little girl. Kiernan and Kate Dunne?”

Katherine smiles. “Why, yes. I do remember them.”

“Well, apparently you made a very strong impression, because you’re part of a rather strange provision in their will. They named their oldest son Connor. That’s the one Kiernan is holding in the picture. And they asked that the tradition be passed down in each generation. But . . . no boys in my family. My dad—Connor Dunne the Third—passed away unexpectedly six years ago, and we thought my older sister would be the one to deliver this to you, but then this little guy was born two years ago, and . . . well . . . here we are.”

She hands Katherine the manila envelope. “There’s an odd diary of some sort in there, written in Gaelic, as best we can tell. I’m supposed to leave you that and a copy of the photograph album they handed down to my grandfather, which I gave to . . .”

“Kate,” I say, glancing down at the envelope sticking out of the photo album. It has my initials, PKP-K, written on the front.

Jennifer laughs, shaking her head. “I swear, you must have been reincarnated. That was her name, too. Oh, and the other . . . I don’t know if you’ll even remember these things, Katherine, but you must have liked them as a kid.” She looks over to see if Connor is occupied. He is, with his tiny palms pressed against the glass patio door, looking out at the others sitting at the picnic table. She lifts a chain that holds three CHRONOS keys. Then she quickly drops them back inside. “
Don’t
let Connor see what’s in this envelope because he’ll pitch a fit about me giving them away. I don’t know why, but he’s fascinated by those pendants. I’ll be honest—I think they’re ugly. But Connor would rather play with them than with my phone.”

She closes the envelope and hands it to Katherine, then scoops Connor up into her arms.

“Have you had dinner?” Katherine asks. “We’d love to have you join us. There’s plenty of pizza.”

“Pee-dah.” Connor looks out at the patio, then back up at his mother.

“Oh, dear.” Jennifer laughs. “I’m afraid you’ve said the magic word. You’ll never get rid of him now.”

Katherine opens the door, but I hold back. “I’ll be out in a moment, Katherine.”

I duck into the living room and open the envelope. The letter inside is just a single page in my own handwriting, although it lacks some of the little flourishes I like to use.

March 2, 1969

If you’re holding this, it worked. We’ve revised our plan every few years
 . . . 
first leaving the keys with our attorney, and then later, after the children and grandchildren came along, we decided to keep this in the family. We’ve also rewritten this letter every few years, adding bits and pieces and dropping others. It seems to get a little shorter each time, because in the end, the photographs in the album tell our story.

This is the first time I’ve written this note without Kiernan. He’s still alive, but his memory goes a bit more each day. He knows me, knows the children, but he gets confused, especially when he first wakes up. He touched my face today, smiled, and said, “The scar is finally gone,” so I know he was thinking of you.

Kiernan thought about you a lot for the first few years. I’ll admit I was a bit jealous at first, until he told me that I’m a better kisser.

She adds a winky face at the end—I’ll bet she was a pioneer with emoticons.

I know that no time has passed for you. You’re still young, with your life ahead of you. I only hope it’s as happy as mine has been, and that one day, you’ll hold a book of memories like this one in your hands—although I guess you may click through the pictures. That’s one of the things I still miss. We’ve made it to the radio and finally to TV, but we’ll never make it to the iPad.

Kiernan sends his love—and I guess I’m okay with that. Give mine to Mom, Dad, and Katherine.

Kate

My fingers flip through the small photo album that chronicles over fifty years of the family Dunne. Birthdays, weddings, graduations. A picture of Other-Kate in a cap and gown outside of a university. But the one that I look at longest is near the end. The date stamp on the margin reads 1962, and someone has scrawled “World Series Champs” beneath it. He would have been nearly eighty. He’s at a stadium, wearing a Yankees cap, with a bunch of kids around him.

Kiernan’s grin is as wide and happy as the one on the face of the little girl he holds in his lap. Does she know that Grandpa (Great-Grandpa?) has already seen that game? Probably more than once, in fact.