desperate need to know whether the woman wore a wedding ring or not…
Or, hell , maybe a ring doesn’t matter. Maybe I gotta try anyway…
Cob let the razor clatter into the sink and took a step toward the bathroom door. He imagined the conversation if he caught up to her. “Miss, I know this is crazy, but if you’d like to join me on a little adventure…I’d be happy to pay your way, and then you could get two memory erasures at once. What do you say?”
No. Not a good idea. Not after Elizabeth.
Wait. Elizabeth? Who?
Everything slipped sideways and Rupert Cob crumpled to the floor.
Tuesday, January 14, 1947, Los Angeles, California, USA
A scream. Deafening claps of thunder. A flash of lightning—but no, not lightning, because it kept going, and it was too yellow and it was swinging. Swinging and spinning. It was a light bulb, and it wasn’t outside, it was here, in the bathroom, and the bulb was even yellower than a normal bulb because—
Thunk!
Metal into meat. A wet sound, of something being pulled from a sopping pile of rags. That was when the light bulb went yellow, that was when the blood splattered across the wall, the sink, the tiles, the light.
Swinging and spinning, swirling light all around the room…no, not just a room, an apartment. Dirty as hell. Crazy patterns on the walls from the swinging light, light arcing all over the walls making Cob feel like he was on a roller coaster. The screams weren’t from joy or thrilling at the lurch of popcorn-filled stomachs leaping over hills and rushing through tunnels. The screams had been from the thing that arced through the air, glinting and dripping. And it was the one person doing the screaming.
Elizabeth.
The man emerged from the bathroom, a smallish half-bath not unlike this one, and he wore a smile smeared with gore, a dazzled and keen glint in his eye. “I got another bag,” he grunted at Cob. “I got another bag, and I can put you in it, too.” A loud banging came from somewhere, maybe in the hall. Was it the police?
Monday, August 9, 2100, Avon, Vermont, NBE
Cob’s feet scrabbled at the floor, remembering the need to flee back then but feeling unable to, feeling glued to the dusty floor of the empty apartment, gazing into the eyes of Elizabeth’s killer. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he must push a button and get to the site where he could disappear back to safety, back to something…what? Where? He couldn’t remember. He only knew his palms sweated against the floor, the sawdust gritty and hard beneath his skin.
The hardness was what brought him to something like sanity again. The floor was something solid, something to hold onto, and it was real. The banging in the hall continued. Cob sat up, his breath rapid and catching in his throat, leaving him choking and sputtering. He blinked hard. Tears streamed down his face, and he felt a squeezing, gripping tightness in his chest. The banging still kept on; that was real, that was now, he understood through the terror of the memory.
“Mister Cob? Mister Cob, are you quite all right?”
No. No, I’m not quite all right, because I can remember parts of my last trip. I shouldn’t be able to remember. That wasn’t part of the contract.
BANG BANG BANG.
“Mister Cob! Kris, get the tool kit. Mister Cob, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the door off if you can’t reply. Sir, are you ill? Did you—oh, thank you. No, it looks like…oh, blast it, how do we get to the hinges with these covers on?”
A feminine voice, farther off, said something too muffled for Cob to understand.
“Okay, yes, sounds good. You know everything, Kris. Bring over that chair.”
Cob struggled to calm his breathing and heart. He swallowed and scrambled to his feet. A glance in the mirror revealed that his face was still only half-shaven.
“Whoa, hold it still, please. Hand me the screwdriver. No, the flat head.”
At the sound of metal against metal, Cob shook his head
Or, hell , maybe a ring doesn’t matter. Maybe I gotta try anyway…
Cob let the razor clatter into the sink and took a step toward the bathroom door. He imagined the conversation if he caught up to her. “Miss, I know this is crazy, but if you’d like to join me on a little adventure…I’d be happy to pay your way, and then you could get two memory erasures at once. What do you say?”
No. Not a good idea. Not after Elizabeth.
Wait. Elizabeth? Who?
Everything slipped sideways and Rupert Cob crumpled to the floor.
Tuesday, January 14, 1947, Los Angeles, California, USA
A scream. Deafening claps of thunder. A flash of lightning—but no, not lightning, because it kept going, and it was too yellow and it was swinging. Swinging and spinning. It was a light bulb, and it wasn’t outside, it was here, in the bathroom, and the bulb was even yellower than a normal bulb because—
Thunk!
Metal into meat. A wet sound, of something being pulled from a sopping pile of rags. That was when the light bulb went yellow, that was when the blood splattered across the wall, the sink, the tiles, the light.
Swinging and spinning, swirling light all around the room…no, not just a room, an apartment. Dirty as hell. Crazy patterns on the walls from the swinging light, light arcing all over the walls making Cob feel like he was on a roller coaster. The screams weren’t from joy or thrilling at the lurch of popcorn-filled stomachs leaping over hills and rushing through tunnels. The screams had been from the thing that arced through the air, glinting and dripping. And it was the one person doing the screaming.
Elizabeth.
The man emerged from the bathroom, a smallish half-bath not unlike this one, and he wore a smile smeared with gore, a dazzled and keen glint in his eye. “I got another bag,” he grunted at Cob. “I got another bag, and I can put you in it, too.” A loud banging came from somewhere, maybe in the hall. Was it the police?
Monday, August 9, 2100, Avon, Vermont, NBE
Cob’s feet scrabbled at the floor, remembering the need to flee back then but feeling unable to, feeling glued to the dusty floor of the empty apartment, gazing into the eyes of Elizabeth’s killer. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he must push a button and get to the site where he could disappear back to safety, back to something…what? Where? He couldn’t remember. He only knew his palms sweated against the floor, the sawdust gritty and hard beneath his skin.
The hardness was what brought him to something like sanity again. The floor was something solid, something to hold onto, and it was real. The banging in the hall continued. Cob sat up, his breath rapid and catching in his throat, leaving him choking and sputtering. He blinked hard. Tears streamed down his face, and he felt a squeezing, gripping tightness in his chest. The banging still kept on; that was real, that was now, he understood through the terror of the memory.
“Mister Cob? Mister Cob, are you quite all right?”
No. No, I’m not quite all right, because I can remember parts of my last trip. I shouldn’t be able to remember. That wasn’t part of the contract.
BANG BANG BANG.
“Mister Cob! Kris, get the tool kit. Mister Cob, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the door off if you can’t reply. Sir, are you ill? Did you—oh, thank you. No, it looks like…oh, blast it, how do we get to the hinges with these covers on?”
A feminine voice, farther off, said something too muffled for Cob to understand.
“Okay, yes, sounds good. You know everything, Kris. Bring over that chair.”
Cob struggled to calm his breathing and heart. He swallowed and scrambled to his feet. A glance in the mirror revealed that his face was still only half-shaven.
“Whoa, hold it still, please. Hand me the screwdriver. No, the flat head.”
At the sound of metal against metal, Cob shook his head
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