The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (32 page)

“I didn't know the boy you met was him.”

“But you saw him. You were inside my head. You saw what he looked like.”

“Alex, you have to understand. When I knew him at AIDA, he looked very different. As far as I was concerned, the boy you met in 1927 could have been any boy. I sent you back to erase your impact on that random boy's life. Had I known that boy was your partner, a Transcender from Base Life, I wouldn't have bothered. Your impact on him wouldn't have mattered. Had I known it was him, I wouldn't have made you redo it. I wouldn't have put you through all that pain.”

“But you knew it was him when I came back from 1961,” I say. “You knew then. You told me it was just my imagination. That I was grieving. You made me feel like I was going crazy.”

“I didn't want you to get too attached. Don't you see? By that time it was too late. You'd already formed an attachment to him. I had to make you believe ‘Nick' from 1927 was just a regular boy from the past. That he was gone. That way you wouldn't be obsessed with finding him each time you descended. You would focus on your missions. You wouldn't be distracted.”

“But I was distracted.” This time I scream the words. Full volume. There isn't an echo. “By not telling me, it made me even more distracted.”

“You wouldn't have been if things had gone my way. You weren't supposed to break down on that road in 1961. He wasn't supposed to be with the Carters during that robbery. I picked those missions specifically. I didn't want you running into him again.”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “Well, you didn't do a very good job, did you?”

He wipes the corners of his mouth with shaking fingers. “No, I didn't. I underestimated Gesh.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What do you mean?”

He sighs. He looks haggard. “Your partner has defects, just like you. When you descend into a host body, you can only remember your Base Life and your mission, right? You retain some residuals and muscle memory, but you can't remember the particulars of that past life. You can't remember your parents, your friends, your likes, dislikes. Your partner is the exact opposite. When he descends, he can't remember his Base Life. He can't remember his mission. He can only remember his past life. Which made him even less valuable to Gesh than you were. What good is a Descender who can't remember his mission?”

“But he remembered me,” I say. “He said my name. He remembered I had brown eyes in 1927.”

“Exactly. Which is why I underestimated Gesh.” Porter pauses. He looks like all the hope in the world is lost. “Nick's name was Tre back then, when we all worked together at AIDA. It means three in Danish. Gesh is number one, Flemming is two, Tre is three, and you are four. We called you Ivy, which was literally your name in Roman numerals. I-V. Number Four.”

“That's why IV is carved on my Polygon stone?”

Porter nods. “I worked in the division dedicated to repairing your defects. We tried everything. Operations, hypnosis, mind control, subliminal messages. Nothing worked. But Gesh must have figured out how to restore Tre's memories – the new Tre, the one born in your current Base Life. If Tre is remembering while he's in a host body, then he no longer suffers from his defect. And that means all of this is over. We can't win. If Tre is working for Gesh now, then you can't descend anymore. It's too dangerous. If you descend, you'll bring Tre's soul with you. He'll always be there, somewhere. No matter how far his host body is from yours, he'll find you. Because now he remembers his mission. And his mission is you.”

A cold chill slides over my skin. It grips my wrists like dead fingers.

All this time.

All this freaking time?

Pretending like he didn't remember me on the side of the road. Slow dancing with me at Peg Leg. Kissing me beside the fountain. Following me out into the dark when I was tracking Cask. Sneaking up on me and grabbing me from behind. Scaring the crap out of me. I was so relieved when he said my name. Remembered me. I felt warm and safe in his arms. I thought he cared about me.

Did he tell the other Descender where to find me? Had he known the asshole would torture me? Rip a bullet through me twice? Try to kill me? Had he been OK with that? Had they sent the other Descender to do the dirty work so Blue wouldn't be the bad guy? So he could continue to distract me and deceive me on my next mission?

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. Blue is Cary Grant in Charade, and I'm Audrey Hepburn, the doe-eyed fool who fell for all his lies.

The traitor.

The poison-lipped traitor.

The tendons stretch over my knuckles, turning them white. I swipe at tears with fists. He won't get away with it. I won't let him play me like that. I'm not that girl.

My blood pumps hot through my veins. I want revenge. I crave it. Shooter Delaney style.

“What do we do now?” I ask. “How do we stop him?”

“Didn't you hear what I said? It's over. We don't do anything now.”

“But–”

“No, Alex, listen to me.” Porter steps up and squares my shoulders to his. “You can't descend anymore. I only let you before because I didn't think Tre was a threat. Now that I know he is…” Porter makes me look him in the eyes. “It's over.”

“But I have to go back. I have to redo my time in 1876. I can't let it play out the way it did, with Shooter waking up and finding herself lying there, bleeding to death.”

Porter swallows. His Adam's apple rises and falls. He presses his lips together. “You're right. You can go back, but only for a touchdown. That means you land on the train, then you come right back. That will erase the timeline you created.”

I nod, but he makes me look him in the eyes again. “You land and you come straight back. Do you understand me? Don't make me rip you out of the past. It hurts like hell and you'll come back with some nasty, half-baked residuals.” I give him a questioning look, but he just says, “Trust me.”

I don't take a deep breath this time. I don't hesitate. I reach for my 1876 soulmark and dive in.

 

 

When I landed, the perfume hit me like a brick wall. I sputtered and coughed. I swatted Perfume Lady's hat feather out of my face.

“Don't you think so, dear?” The hairs in her chin mole stood at attention again.

“Yes,” I said. “It would be so very excitin' if we got robbed. Did you wear those pearls for just that occasion?”

She bounced. “I did! How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” I said, turning to the window. The gray November forest swept past. Dark, sodden tree trunks blended into one continuous black brush stroke. My pistol weighed heavy on my lap.

OK. That's enough. Come back now.

Porter's voice dipped inside my head gently this time. Timid. Like a tiptoe. But I didn't listen. I wasn't ready to go back. Not yet. I needed a few more minutes.

The rumble of the train and Blue's treachery numbed me from within. An angry tear slipped down my cheek. I pressed my forehead to the ice-cold glass. I pressed my eyelids shut.

I could feel him. His hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. His hands on my back, fisting my shirt. His lips on mine. The look in his eyes.

God. I thought I was falling for him.

Alex. Don't do this.

I wanted to see him. I wanted to look him in the eye one last time. His soul was here in 1876 now. If Porter was right, then I brought him along with me when I descended. I tore him from his Base Life, wherever that was, and brought him back to the past. All I needed was one good look in his eyes to let him know that I knew. To see his reaction. To ask him why.

Don't you dare.

I wouldn't stay long. I wouldn't even throw my bowl of soup in his face. Just one look. That's all I needed.

What if they soul block you again? Then what?

My eyelids peeled open. They were sore and puffy. I hadn't thought of the soul blocking. Of course they'd block me again. God, what if they already had?

They have to be near you to block you. Come back now. While it's still safe.

More tears slipped down my cheeks. I sat up and looked around the train car, taking in all the hats and bonnets and dresses and crazy mustaches, trying to commit it all to memory. The coil of smoke lifting from pipes. The murmur of conversation. The sound of the steam. The smell of the coal.

I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my gloved hand. If it was all over like Porter said, then I would never get to experience anything like this ever again. I would never see Martin Luther King's speech or walk the Underground Railroad. I'd never find out what my life was like in the Roanoke Colony. Or in 1927.

This was my last descent.

“Are you all right, dear?” Perfume Lady asked, waking me from my thoughts. She smiled at me with kind concern.

She was sweet. Daft, but sweet. I hoped Shooter wore her pearls at least once after the robbery. It would've given Perfume Lady one heck of a story to tell.

I returned her smile, sad and true, then ascended back to Limbo. Still numb. Still cold. Still clutching my shock and fury and disbelief in my fists.

 

 

Porter tells me it's not my fault. That I couldn't have known. He tells me he's sorry over and over. But I can't deal with him right now. I can't deal with more explanations, more talk. So he lets me go home to rest. He says to call him whenever I'm ready to talk again.

Right now, that seems like the very distant future.

When I land back in my room, I don't even open my eyes. I can still hear Gran whisking eggs in the kitchen below. I hear Audrey call out for Afton, then the tinkle of the tiny bell on his new collar. Pops sneezes.

I can't deal with any of that either. Not yet.

I fumble for my glasses on the floor next to me, then toss them on the nightstand as I crawl into bed, so very exhausted. I pull my quilt over my head, trying to shut everything out. I rub my thumb over my right palm and my left knee, making sure they're intact. No blood. I can still remember the pain, but it feels far away. Like a dream of a dream.

Why didn't I bring those wounds back with me? Maybe because of the touchdown. I'd erased the gunfight. It never happened.

I nestle into my pillow and feel its cool softness against my cheek. It smells like my apricot shampoo. Like comfort and home. So far removed from my other life. My secret life, tainted with bullets and blood, lies and more lies, and wayfaring souls. I squeeze my eyes tighter and see flashes of the timeline I erased – the timeline that exists only in my memory. Perfume Lady's excitement when she finds out she's sitting next to Shooter Delaney. Cask's shadowed eyes and barking laugh. Judd's sweet smile when he talks about the house on the hill. He didn't deserve to die like he did – cold and alone in prison. It isn't fair.

None of it is.

My thoughts eventually drift to Blue, as they always do. If Porter's right, his soul is back in Base Life now, somewhere. My Base Life. It should make me happy to know he's alive. Tangible. Real. That he didn't really die in 1927. But it doesn't. I'd feel better if he didn't exist. If I'd never met him. I guess Porter knew that all along. I guess Porter was trying to protect me. But protecting me by omitting the truth only made me weak. I wasn't prepared to defend myself against Blue, and that's Porter's fault, through and through.

One question keeps plaguing me. I keep going over it again and again, like a sore in my mouth. How can someone as good as Blue work for someone as evil as Gesh? How can he be OK with leading Gesh straight to me? Has he even considered that I might have a family I need to protect? Like he protected Frank and Helena?

The only thing I can think of is that he must believe he's doing the right thing. That he's on the right side.

He must believe I'm the enemy.

Does he know I figured it out? That I know the truth about him now? Does he even care that he took everything from me? That it's all over? If I can't descend anymore, how am I supposed to stop Gesh from hunting me down? Finding me and hurting my family? How am I supposed to go on living, acting like I don't know one man possesses all the wealth and power in the entire world and has the government folded neatly in his breast pocket? How am I supposed to trust anything, anyone, ever again?

Somewhere between cursing Blue and praying for God to erase the past month from my memory, I fall asleep. If Mom calls me down for dinner, I don't notice. I sleep straight through until morning, dreaming of a poisoned kiss, moonlit breath, dark muddy eyes, and a bloodstained bluff.

CHAPTER 26

 

 

The next morning, Mom wakes me with a gentle nudge. She's sitting on my bed, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her satin chestnut hair is down, every strand straight and perfect, blanketing her shoulders.

“Still not feeling well?” she asks.

I rub my eyes. They're raw and swollen. My body feels broken, crushed from the inside out. Pain radiates from the center of my chest – from my heart. I know if I tell Mom I'm sick, she'll let me stay home from school again, but staying home with nothing to do but think about Blue won't solve anything. What I need is a distraction, and the endless drama at school is a major one.

“I'm fine. Just tired.” I manage a weak smile. She kisses me on the forehead, tells me breakfast is almost ready, and heads back downstairs. It isn't until I reach for my glasses that I realize something's very wrong.