Time's Edge

There are two downsides to rolling the time back. The first is that Delia and Abel will have a few dueling memories. One set of memories is going to recall Abel stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling for the next half hour, and another is—hopefully—going to remember him leaving with me at 9:24.

The bigger issue is that we’re going to have to find someplace to hide for half an hour until our ride gets here. Spencer can see the stairs from his desk, and this is the only time that he’s away from the desk long enough for us to possibly get down the stairs and into the bathroom at the back of the main floor.

I don’t know if Abel is asleep when I pop into the corridor, but his eyes are closed. I tap the key ring gently against the door as I unlock it. When he finally glances over, I press my finger to my lips.

“I take it you’re Kate,” he whispers as he steps out of the cell. “I was kind of hoping for a CHRONOS extraction team.”

“Well, that’s not an option anymore.” He’s in better shape than I thought he’d be, considering the beating he took, but I can tell from the way he moves that his body is feeling every step.

“Is Delia okay?”

Her nose will need to be reset, she has two massive shiners, she’s stoned on laudanum and terrified out of her mind about Abel, but I give him the short version.

“She’s fine. Follow me.”

I unlock the cell-block door, and we move into the stairwell.

After I relock the door, I say, “Wait here. If I put these keys back, it may buy us a few extra minutes.”

I pull up the stable point at Beebe’s desk and blink back in. He’s still slumped forward, head on the desk. Attaching the key ring to his belt takes less than a second, but before I can get to my feet, I feel the chair move backward, and he starts to lift his head.

Is it harmful to put someone in a second hadaka-jime when they’re still coming out of the first? I don’t know, but I can’t see any alternative.

I yank his neck into the hold again and wait, counting off the seconds. Spencer is back in the front office, making his phone call, which means he’ll come through the door in less than a minute. Beebe finally goes limp—only a matter of seconds, but it felt like forever. I hastily arrange his arms and head back on the desk and blink out with a few seconds to spare.

Back to the stairwell at 9:25.

Abel whispers, “What’s the plan?”

“You and I get out of the building through the bathroom and find a spot to hide for the next twenty-five minutes. Grant will pick us up.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Where’s that guy from the truck? Kiernan?”

“No clue. The two officers outside will both be in the front office at 9:34, bringing in three guys they’ve arrested. Maybe two minutes after that, two trucks roll in with guys in masks. I think every eye is likely to be on those trucks and the front door of the jail, and that’s our best time to make a run for it. The bathroom window is on the back side of the building, between here and the courthouse. We go out the window and—”

“This is the best plan Delia could come up with? I think I’d have a better chance waiting to see what the judge says in the morning.”

“No, Abel. You wouldn’t. You haven’t seen the crowd out there, but I’m pretty sure you can hear them, right? About a dozen of them are going to storm the jail with guns a few minutes before ten. Still want to take your chances?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m just . . . it’s been a rough day.”

“I know I’m not the rescue team you’d like between you and a lynch mob. But right now, I’m all you’ve got, so we need to go.”

We have about three minutes before Spencer makes his phone call and then wakes Beebe. The front desk is still empty when we reach the bottom of the stairs. We move quickly into the tiny bathroom, which reeks of pee and bleach, and Abel locks the door behind us. Glancing out the window, I see, straight in front of us, a wide-open space with absolutely no cover. The earth is turned up, like it’s a construction site, and I’m guessing it’s for the new courthouse Kiernan mentioned.

Looking to the right, across Water Street, there are three empty cars, and two boys in their early teens are leaning against the hood of the car closest to the corner. The boys move toward the front as soon as they hear someone’s being arrested—or at least one of them does, because I saw his face when previewing the scene earlier.

Behind the cars are woods—a nice, thick tree cover ru

“Take off your shirt,” I tell Abel.

He looks surprised, but then glances down and nods. His white shirt is torn and covered with blood, and it would both stand out in the dark and scream Escaped Convict. We look for a place to stash the shirt and my white hat, finally just shoving them behind the toilet.

Abel moves over to look out the window, and the frame suddenly seems tiny next to his broad shoulders.

“Do you think you’ll fit?” I whisper.

Abel looks at it for a minute. “Probably . . .”

I tug on the bottom, hoping to inch it up gradually so that the kids outside don’t notice. It doesn’t move. I yank a little harder, but the window doesn’t budge. “I think it’s painted shut.”

Abel tries, too, and I wince when the wood creaks.

I glance around the bathroom for a tool of some sort, but the only options are a plunger and a bar of soap. I finally pull out my CHRONOS medallion and dig the thin edge into the line of paint attaching the window to the windowsill, crossing my fingers that it’s not painted shut on the other side as well, because I think someone’s going to notice if we end up having to smash the damn thing.

Or maybe not. The noise from outside is steadily rising. Several men are yelling, and I hear a gunshot in the distance.

Spencer’s at the front desk now, talking on the phone, no more than twenty feet away. Abel starts to lift the window again, but I put a hand on his arm. “Wait until you hear him yell ‘Beebe’—maybe thirty seconds.”

We wait.

I never liked this part of hide-and-seek as a kid. My pulse pounds in my ears, and every sound seems ten times as loud.

I keep my eyes on the window, watching for movement. The two kids finally take off around the side of the building just before I hear Spencer.

“Hey, Beebe!” A distant knock. “Beebe? You awake?”

Abel gives the window a yank. Nothing happens on the first try, but on the second there’s a loud creak and it slides to the top.

I step on the edge of the toilet and hoist myself up and out. Dropping about four feet to the ground, I take the gun from my pocket. Abel squeezes through the window, working his feet through first and then one shoulder at a time. I crouch down to peek around the corner. The small stretch of lawn behind the jail is now empty, and there’s nothing but the cars between us and the trees across the street.

I’m just about to signal that we should run for it when headlights turn onto Water Street from my left. I motion for Abel to hit the ground and drop to the grass, tucking my bare arms under my body and squeezing my eyes to tiny slits, praying that the driver looks straight ahead at the road. If not, I’m going to have to jump back, tell myself this won’t work, and try something else—and I really don’t want to do that.

The vehicle slows as it reaches the corner, moving past us, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Then it reverses, the wheels rolling back into my field of vision as it parks on the side of the road. I tug out my medallion, getting ready to jump back, but I risk one glance upward at the car.

Georgia State Patrol.

Mitchell looks straight at me, shaking his head the way he did earlier when he said, “Lord, what a mess.” Then he gets out and slams the door. The two teenagers who were hanging out near the cars dart back around the corner and across the street, followed by two others who look about the same age, and they all take cover behind one of the cars.