Time's Edge

Co

There are two people in the car, but they’re so entwined that I can hardly tell where one begins and the other ends, let alone be sure if they resemble the picture my dad gave me. If it is them, I know that this steamy embrace is mostly a cover. They’re hoping the guy at the fence, or any other potential “second shooter,” will ignore a young couple making out in the parking lot and they’ll have front-row seats for history as it happens. They probably aren’t even breathing heavy. But there’s still something distasteful about sneaking up to introduce yourself to someone who may be your twenty-five-year-old grandmother when her shirt is half undone and your grandfather has just made it to second base.

I pull out my CHRONOS medallion. The picture and my phone are in my other hand. While I’d never be able to pick up a signal in 1963, the phone will still play the videos that Katherine and Dad recorded to support my story.

I debate for a moment whether to tap politely on the window. Her hair is the same dark copper as the woman in the Polaroid, however, so I decide to just go for it. With a quick tug on the chrome handle, the door of the Fairlane swings open. I’m in the backseat, holding up my CHRONOS key like a police badge before they realize what’s happening.

Evelyn casts a furious glare at me in the rearview mirror and immediately starts buttoning up her sweater. Timothy looks back, and I have the odd sensation of seeing my father’s “angry” face, fifteen years younger and maybe ten pounds heavier. Dad’s really mellow, so I’ve only seen that face a few times—the occasion I remember most clearly was when I was maybe five years old and tried to see if the laser in a DVD player will heat up a Pop-Tart. (It won’t.)

“We. Are. In the middle. Of research.” He jerks his head angrily toward the guy at the fence. “That man might be James Files and—”

“And maybe he’s the second shooter. Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry. One of you can keep watching if you want.”

Evelyn slinks down in the seat so that she can keep her eyes pointed at the guy without being too obvious. “I’ve never seen you at CHRONOS,” she says, “so I’m guessing you’re from one of the earlier cohorts? Or later maybe?”

I hand the photograph to Timothy. It shows the two of them a few years older, laughing. He’s holding a dark-haired little boy high over his head. A partial view of the passenger side of this powder-blue Ford is in the background.

“It depends on your perspective, I guess. I’m Kate. I’m your granddaughter. The little guy you’re holding in that picture is my dad.”

Most people never have to introduce themselves to their own parents or grandparents, but I seem to be making a career out of it. Three months ago, I sat across from my dad at a picnic table and tried to convince him that I was his daughter from another timeline. Then I chased two different versions of Katherine, my maternal grandmother, around the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. I gave the same introduction to her on both occasions in order to prevent her murder and my subsequent total lack of existence. If I ever meet my other grandfather, Saul Rand, I’ll have a full set—but I really hope I never encounter him face-to-face. He’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. And if his people find out I’m interfering, all hell is going to break loose.

Timothy glances from the picture to me, then back to the picture, before passing it over to his wife. She looks at me in the rearview mirror for a moment, then turns her gaze back to the guy at the fence. “She has got your eyes, Timo.”

I can tell he’s still a

Evelyn sighs. “Let’s just go back to the stable point. We can check out this guy on the next jump. We should get back to CHRONOS, and so should she.”

I’d like nothing more than to get out of this parking lot, since we’ve got only a few minutes before someone here, at the School Book Depository, or both will fire at the black Lincoln Continental convertible carrying JFK and Jackie. But I feel a bit guilty. They’ve been working on this puzzle for months.

“If you really want to know whether that’s James Files, you need to keep watching. You won’t be able to make another jump. CHRONOS is gone.”

They both turn and stare at me for a moment, then Timothy cranks the ignition and shoves the gearshift into reverse. “If that’s true, we need to get out of here while we still can. We’ve got bigger problems than figuring out which thug killed Ke

The first route he tries is cordoned off for the parade, but two blocks over, the congestion clears up pretty fast. None of us talk until the car crosses a bridge a few blocks away. Evelyn keeps glancing across the backseat at me, her face conflicted. The light sprinkling of freckles across her nose looks a bit like my own, but otherwise, I look much more like my mom’s side of the family. Aside from the green eyes, which were clearly passed down to Dad from the man in the driver’s seat, and a fading scar on my neck just below the right jawline, which is a recent acquisition, I’m pretty much a dead ringer for my aunt Prudence. That complicates my life considerably, given that she’s playing for the other team.

“What happened?” Evelyn asks. “We knew there was something going on when that guy dragged Shaila into the jump room. I told Timo the jump felt wrong. I twisted my ankle when we landed at the stable point on Wednesday and that just never happens.”

The car turns off the road into a small parking lot. A dark orange rectangular sign—A&W Ice Cold Root Beer—juts out from the top of a low building.

Evelyn’s eyes narrow. “And why are we stopping here?”

Timothy pulls the car up beneath the orange-and-white-striped awning, near a cluster of picnic tables arranged in the center. “I’m hungry and thirsty, and I suspect this is going to be a long talk. From what Kate’s saying, we can’t wait and eat when we get home, can we? What do you ladies want?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not hungry, Timothy.”

I just shake my head. Timothy shrugs, then gets out of the car and walks over to the building, where a middle-aged man in a white paper hat slides open the window to take his order.

“If we’re stuck here long, he’s going to gain forty pounds,” Evelyn says. “He’s gone up two belt notches since we started researching Ke

I give her a weak smile but say nothing. It won’t matter how many chili dogs he eats. Keeping his cholesterol low won’t stop the log truck from hitting their station wagon in 1974. Neither of them will survive, and Dad will wake up in the hospital two days later, a five-year-old without a family. And I can’t say anything that might change that path, since it’s the one that produces me, and, as Katherine is fond of saying, I’m the new last best hope for Earth. Or at least for the majority of its population.

“So, how long are we—” she begins, and then holds up her hands. “Never mind. Wait until he’s back, or you’ll just have to say everything twice.”

We sit there for a few moments, and while we wait I hit the “Video” button on my phone and start to record. I get a few seconds of Evelyn watching Timothy with an affectionate but still totally exasperated look on her face. Then he walks back to the car, holding a metal tray with three tall frosted mugs and a couple of chili dogs piled high with cheese and onions. He taps on Evelyn’s window with his knuckle. She turns the window crank. “You’re the one eating these things, so why don’t you put them on your side? They stink.”