from "Freeze Time"

Chapter 2

 

Ross asked me not to tell anyone.  

“I have to,” I said.  “If I don’t they won’t increase my aclisote.”

We were driving back through the city.  Flashy buildings gave way to aging apartments and funky cafés as we neared the Center.  The smell of exhaust from neighboring cars leaked through the vents.  Potholes bounced Ross’s sedan.  I clutched the door handle, the other hand resting on my churning stomach.  

Ross drove slowly, taking a roundabout route that allowed me time to calm down.  Usually, after a mission, Ross takes me out for a meal.  He entertains me with the latest gossip about other officers – the infighting and alliances, who’s on probation and why – or asks questions about my life at the Center and pays attention when I answer.  The best times are when we talk about time work and how vital rewinds are to successful police investigations.  He says no-one else acknowledges it because most people are uncomfortable having their public safety rely on a bunch of institutionalized orphans.  Guilt, he says, is a great silencer. 

The looming press conference crushed any chance for a private talk today.  Instead, Ross stopped at a mini-mart and bought me a soda.  He said the caffeine would help my headache.  

“If you tell the staff you’re sick they might take you off time work,” Ross said, easing back into traffic.  “You know how they always overreact.”

“You can take KJ,” I said through a wad of tissues. “Or Aiden, he’s good.”

“I want you, Alex.”

“It won’t last,” I sniffed, only slightly mollified by his preference.  “They’ll figure it out at my next blood test.  My chronotin levels are probably sky high.”

“Maybe.”  Ross tapped the steering wheel.  “This was such a slight attack, though, they’re probably still fine.” He glanced over at me.  “When is your next test scheduled for, anyway?” 

“Two weeks.  Dr. Barnard just raised my dosage, too.”  My voice cracked a little. If I had gotten sick so close to an increase, my chronotin must be totally out of control.

Ross didn’t say anything for a while.  I stared out at the cars around us and drank my soda.  Ross was right about the caffeine.  It didn’t hurt to look at something bright anymore. 

“Listen, Alex,” Ross said, “it would make a big difference to me if you’d keep this quiet for a while.”  We stopped at a light.  In the car next to us, a little boy sat in a car seat, sucking his thumb with so much enthusiasm it might have been a lollipop.  The boy stared at me.  He was a normal boy, with a mom in the front seat, and a sister beside him.  A normal boy with a normal life.  I wondered if he appreciated it.

Ross was still talking.  “Time sickness builds slowly, and with this first attack so mild you’re really unlikely to have another for months. There’s absolutely no risk to waiting two weeks.”  

“It’s not your risk, though, is it?”  I knew I sounded sullen.  

“It’s absolutely my risk,” Ross said. “I don’t want you to die.” The light changed.  Ross pulled away from the little family.  “Dr. Barnard is a national expert on chronotin work.  He knows exactly how much aclisote to give you.  If he just raised your dosage, this might be a reaction, your body adjusting to the new aclisote levels.”  He glanced at me again.  “I need you to work with me, Alex, I can’t afford to have you take a couple weeks off.  There’s a really big case coming our way.  I was going to tell you about it after today’s mission, but now…” he waved a hand to encompass Chief, the press conference. 

I knew he was just being nice.  I didn’t have the kind of future anymore that involved plans.  Death hung over me now, a haunting specter counting my remaining days with greedy fingers.  Still, I couldn’t deny I wasn’t flattered by Ross’s effort.  I blew my nose.  

“Working with me really matters to you?”  

“We’re a team.”  Ross pulled up into one of the reserved parking spots in front of the Center.  He killed the engine and turned to look straight at me.  “You trust me, don’t you, Alex?”

 

***

 

I went on my first mission with Carson Ross on my thirteenth birthday.  I’d been a fully qualified Worker for two years and been through three agents already, enough to learn that since rewinds make most people uncomfortable, the cops assigned as agents aren’t always the city’s finest.  My first agent, Amanda Spruce, worked vice, so we unwound a lot of prostitution cases.  In between she’d tell me stories about her teenage daughters – their clothes, soccer clubs, boyfriends, and parties.  She’d laugh about the time her eldest got caught skinny dipping in the city reservoir or when the youngest was found with a joint.  Later, we’d round up another drug addicted hooker and rewind her day before arresting her along with her pimp and any of the johns we managed to ID.  Ms. Spruce called them whores and shoved them so hard against the side of the police car she once broke a girl’s tooth. 

Tito Marquez was a beat cop in a neighborhood known for gang violence.  This meant we spent a lot of hours driving around in the dark busting people for being out-of-doors or sitting in the parking lot at an all-night diner waiting for a call.  Agent Marquez drank gallons of coffee and played solitaire on his phone.  I stared out the window wishing I could speed time up instead of slow it down. The last guy was the worst. Jonas Saul was about fifty, with graying hair and a gut he had to wedge under the steering wheel in order to drive. He called me honey and tried to put his arm around me during rewinds.  Frozen time doesn’t count, he’d tell me, then laugh his disgusting smoker’s hack as if this phrase might be considered original. Or funny.

That first mission with Ross involved a dead baby.  The probable verdict was that the death was natural, SIDS, they called it, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, but the cops thought something was off so they brought in Ross to check it out.  I was not happy to be there.  My best friend KJ and I had gotten an  afternoon pass as a treat for my birthday.  He and I had planned the day for a month. We were going to walk down by the river, then KJ wanted to look at gardening books, and I intended to spend all the money I had on a real latte, something I’d only seen people drink on TV.  Instead, Jack got caught making out with another Worker in the second floor bathroom.  They were both tossed in solitary and I got pulled for Jack’s mission.

Ross and I drove out through a blazing summer’s day that even the air conditioning in his car couldn’t tame.  I answered his pleasantries with monosyllables.  The city’s hustle shrunk down to streets of tired houses while I mourned my lost afternoon.  Our goal, when we reached it, only added to my depression.  A rusted chain link fence enclosed a lawn whose only green spots were dandelions.  Bushes clawed the front of the house like unfriendly beasts demanding entrance.  The heat, when we stepped out of the car, felt like a flaming hand pressing down on the back of my neck.  Ross rapped on the door.  Long minutes passed.  He had just raised his hand to knock a third time, when the door cracked open to the width allowed by a chain lock.

In the shaft of darkness, the woman looked insubstantial, as if she’d already been rewound.  Strands of hair hung around her face like a wrung out mop, lank and greasy.  She wore a thin bathrobe without a tie and her feet were bare. Misery wafted from her, mingling with the scents of spoiled milk and unwashed skin.

 “Mrs. Montgomery?”  Ross asked.

The woman’s face remained so blank she might have been the one who died.

“I’m Agent Carson Ross.” He showed her his badge.  “And this is Time Worker Alexandra Manning. We’re here to look into the death of Rosalind Montgomery.  We have a time search warrant.”  

The woman stared vaguely at the paper in Ross’s hand.  No spark showed even the faintest hint of comprehension.  Ross stuffed the papers back in his pocket. When he spoke again his voice was gentle.

“May we come in?” 

The door closed.  I thought  Mrs. Montgomery had dismissed us, but a moment later I heard the slide of the lock and the door swung open. I had to force myself to follow Ross inside.  Mrs. Montgomery shuffled over to a forlorn sofa.  It looked like she’d been there a while.  An open pizza box displayed congealed pieces of barely eaten pie while a television flashed images through a muted screen.  Somewhere nearby a diaper pail needed emptying.  Stultifying heat cried out for a breath of air.

Ross cleared his throat.  “Can you show me where Rosalind died?”

Mrs. Montgomery waved vaguely towards a closed door.  Ross thanked her.  I half-tripped over a stroller in my eagerness to get away from the unresponsive woman.

The bedroom was worse.  For one thing, it turned out to be the home of the overflowing diaper pail.  The cloud of ammonia scented air that hit us when we entered the room made me gag. Ross put a hand up to his nose.

“Give me your arm,” he said.

“What?”

“Freeze time, quick, so we can lessen the smell.” 

I held out my arm and he unlocked my leash.  As soon as the metal left my skin I touched two fingers to Ross’s bare wrist and stopped time. Ross grabbed the door, waving the wood back and forth to make enough breeze to disperse the stench laden molecules.  It didn’t erase the smell, but at least my eyes quit watering.  I blinked, taking in the blanket strewn mattress on the floor, the sagging dresser, the blind that didn’t close all the way.  Only the far corner showed signs of care.  Here, the wall was painted a soft yellow.  On the floor, a makeshift changing station made of a stack of towels rested next to a pile of carefully folded baby clothes.  The mirror over the dresser held three photographs tucked inside the frame.  The first showed an infant, eyes shut under a stretchy pink and blue hat.  The second was a studio portrait of a startled looking child with a flowered band around its bald head. The last was a snapshot of a laughing woman holding her baby tight against her chest.  The girl’s fat cheeks were split by a gummy smile, one little hand wrapped around a strand of her mother’s hair.  The mother was a barely recognizable version of Mrs. Montgomery.

“Let’s get this over with,” Ross said.

I nodded, grabbing time so hard the rewind leapt backwards with a lurch that made me sway.  “How far back do I need to go?”

“A neighbor called it in this morning. I gather the child died sometime the day before. We’ll have to go back at least 24 hours – will that be a problem for you?”

“No, sir,” I said.  

The phantom police backed in first, quickly followed by a guy from the morgue, who replaced a tiny body into a coil of blankets in the center of the bed.  Rosalind’s rosebud mouth hung open, relaxed far beyond the temporary release of sleep.  I kept the rewind moving at a fast clip.  Police wandered in and out, poking in drawers and un-taking pictures.  Their rewound voices kept up an incomprehensible hum, punctuated by ugly squawks from their radios.  Mrs. Montgomery never appeared. Presumably she’d already taken up residence on her sofa.  Light leached away from the afternoon until rewound darkness settled an overlay of gloom. The fetid air around us retained its real-time heat.  Sweat tickled the edges of my hairline.  Rosalind lay alone in her blankets, unmoving and definitely dead.  I spun the rewind harder.  Light returned. I pulled faster still, racing a growing tiredness as we moved farther back.  The sun brightened, receded.  

In the rosy light of dawn, Mrs. Montgomery staggered backwards into the room.  She moved like a barely animate china doll, as if any fast movement might shatter her.   My grip on time slipped. The image stuttered to a halt.  

 “Is this as far as you can rewind?” Ross said, “I understand. This is much farther than I expected.”

“No.” I pressed my lips together, barely giving my words enough room to slip out.  “I can rewind. It’s just...”  

Mrs. Montgomery’s body strained with a barely suppressed scream. Her skin looked taut with it, her eyes wide from the pressure.  The idea of seeing her turn around and face the dead baby terrified me.  

Ross put an arm around my shoulder.  “Hey, it’s OK.” I stiffened beneath his touch.  He let me go.  “You don’t have to watch,” Ross said. “Close your eyes.  I’ll tell you what to do.”

I escaped to the darkness of my closed lids and concentrated on the strands flowing through me. I eased them out, fast or slow, depending on what Ross asked. Only when I heard his soft oh of comprehension did I peek.  The shadowy form of Mrs. Montgomery slept, her breath rising and falling in rhythmic exhaustion.  A thin bedspread covered most of her body. It must have been a cool night.  Her exposed arm was dotted with goose bumps.  Next to her, baby Rosalind lay packed into a carefully constructed nest of pillows and blankets.  Mrs. Montgomery’s outstretched arm curved around the soft pile, the unconscious gesture of a mother protecting her young.  Except the arm was not protecting.  Its weight pushed the heap of blankets forward, so that the edges of the nest caved over, pressing down onto the form beneath, covering Rosalind’s head with smothering comfort.  As I watched, one chubby hand waved, the tiny fingers unable to coordinate an assault on the warm excess.

I slammed my eyes shut again.  I wished I hadn’t strayed from Ross’s directions.  Time scraped through my mind like fingernails.

Ross let out a long sigh.  “You can let it go now.” 

I released my hold, suffering the swirling dizziness before opening my eyes.  The pungent urine smell blossomed in my nostrils. A time headache pounded inside my skull.

“Come on,” Ross said.

Mrs. Montgomery still perched on her sofa, staring at the silent TV.  The flashing images cast strange lights on her skin, now red, now green. In my head, I heard Ross telling her the baby’s death was her fault, saw the words falling on her like hammers.  I wondered if it were possible for someone to dissolve.  Mrs. Montgomery already seemed so frail, the weight of this news would surely crush her into multi-colored dust.

“We’re done, ma’am,” Ross said. I held my breath. Despite the heat, my feet felt cold, as if I stood in a bucket of ice water.  “The initial assessment was right. Your baby died of SIDS.  It was nobody’s fault.  I’m so sorry.”

An earthquake could have rocked the building and not stunned me as much as Ross’s words. Not because I’d never heard a cop shade the truth before, but because I’d never seen one do it to protect someone like this: a poor, pale, worthless woman with nothing to offer in return.  Warmth surged through my chilled feet, making them tingle.

Mrs. Montgomery raised her head and looked at us. Her mouth worked, as if she no longer remembered how to speak.  “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.” Ross gestured toward me.  “We both saw the rewind.”

Her eyes went wide. Whole worlds could be lost in the blackness of those pupils. I wondered what she knew. Or suspected.  What she was willing to forget.

“Thank you,” she said.  

 Ross ushered me out to the car and drove us to a fast food restaurant.  He ordered three hamburgers, fries, and two chocolate milkshakes.  I hoped he’d eat quickly.  I wanted to get back.  We parked in the shade under a tree.  Ross adjusted a vent on the dash so cold air blasted toward me.

“I’m always famished after a rewind,” he said, handing me a burger. “Aren’t you?”

The warmth of this unexpected gift filled my hand.  I breathed in the salty grease smell of the burger.  I’d never heard of an agent buying a Worker lunch before.  

“Won’t the Center wonder where we are?” I asked.  I worried Ross’s generosity would get him in trouble.

Ross shrugged. “They don’t know how long the mission lasted.”  He noticed my untasted food.  “Unless you want to go back?”

“No, sir.” I unwrapped the burger and took a bite. Ketchup squirted onto my tongue, the tangy flavor a perfect counterpoint to the chewy meat. I realized I was starving.

“You were good back there,” Ross said.  “Your rewind was really clear, even after almost 36 hours.  How long can you go?”

“I rewound 2 ½ days once,” I said, my words muffled by the food stuffed in my cheek.  Ross whistled appreciatively.  Spurred by the praise I added: “And I can hold time for at least two hours.”

“Impressive,” Ross said. “I might have to keep you around.  Think you can handle homicide?”

“I’ve seen worse, sir,” I said, though I wasn’t sure it was true.  

“Don’t call me sir,” Ross said. “If we’re going to be partners there’s no need to be so formal.”

Partners.  The word sounded like a promise.  The possibility that this generous, kind man might want to work with me felt like an unexpected birthday gift.  Suddenly, I didn’t care about my missed outing.  Hope made me brave.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.  “Why did you lie to Mrs. Montgomery?”

Ross gave me one of the milkshakes and unwrapped his second burger.  “Let me ask you a question.  Why do you do rewinds?”

“Because I have to.”

“Fair enough.  Does the job ever make you feel good?”

“Sometimes.” I considered the question.  “I rewound a case for Agent Marquez once that proved the guy the police had arrested was innocent.  The real culprit had framed him.  That felt pretty good.”

“It felt good because you proved the truth and that lead to justice.  Truth isn’t always that straightforward, though.  In Mrs. Montgomery’s case, the truth would have destroyed an already devastated woman, and for what?  The truth wouldn’t bring back baby Rosalind.  The truth would only have made things worse.”

“So no one will ever know?”

“What happened in that rewind will be our secret, known to nobody in the world but us two.”

Outside my window, a group of teenaged girls slumped their way across the pavement, their limbs limp as overcooked spaghetti.  Heat waves blurred their ankles.  I savored my burger, safe in the shelter of shade and air conditioning.  I’d never thought about things like justice or truth.  Rewinds were just what Workers did. At best, they were a break from the tedium of Center life. At worst… well, from the stories I’d heard, even Jonas Saul wasn’t the worst that could happen to someone.

“Powers like yours shouldn’t be wasted,” Ross said. “Your ability to freeze time can make a huge difference in people’s lives.  I know Workers don’t have it easy, but  using your powers for good can make it all worthwhile.”

Thoughts sprouted in my brain like shoots after a spring shower, fragile and teeming with possibility.  As long as I could remember, people had told me that my powers made me different, Ross was the first person to say they made me special.  

 

***

 

Charlie, one the Center’s front desk guards, knocked on the window of Ross’s car, interrupting our conversation.

“Locked out?” Charlie asked.  “Sorry. Ms. Eckbridge said I could run out for some coffee. Slow day.”

Ross and I climbed from the car.  I hadn’t answered his question about not reporting my illness and I still wasn’t sure what to say.  Loyalty to Ross battled my fear of mortality, the two sides heaving through my unsettled insides like a rocking boat. 

We climbed the steps and Charlie let us in to the cramped Center lobby.  There’s an old black-and-white photograph near the entrance that shows what the Center looked like a hundred years ago when it was a newly built hotel.  Back then, the lobby was an elegant space, open and airy, with sofas scattered among potted palms, and gilt-framed paintings depicting scenes of pastoral life.  These days the lobby has been chopped up into offices.  Brick walls replaced glass windows and choke out any source of natural light.  The front door bristles with electronic locks and security cameras.  Only a pair of curving stairs leading to the second floor hints at the space’s former glory, and even these potentially graceful lines are ruined by the guard station plunked down at their base.

Ross walked me over to the glassed-in station.  Charlie went inside and slid open the window partition, releasing a waft of stale air tinged with the scent of unwashed socks.  Charlie passed me the log book. Ross signed me in, then I held out my arm for him to unlock the leash.  Its release lightened my lingering headache.  

“I’ll see you soon?” Ross asked, unable to say anything more explicit in front of Charlie.

“Mr. Ross, I…”  My stomach rose on a swell then crashed back to the other side.  Six months ago, when Adelaide got sick for the third time, I visited her in the Clinic.  I knew at once her time was over.  Sweat drenched her once bright hair, her face so pale the pillows seemed colorful by comparison, except around her eyes where the skin looked bruised.  She didn’t respond when I called her name.  I held her hand for a while and listened to the uneven rasp of her breath.  When I went back to the Common Room, no one asked me about her.  None of us mention her now.

If I denied my illness how many of my remaining days would slip through my fingers?  If I told the truth would I lose Ross?

CIC Deputy Director Janet Eckbridge swung open her office door.  A petite woman in her late fifties, Eckbridge wore one of her usual mono-colored suits and professional height heels. Beside her walked Dr. Barnard.  He was probably about the same age as Eckbridge, but he looked way older.  Everything about him sagged, from his bulging stomach, to the skin drooping under his chin.  Even his hair seemed to be sliding away from him, leaving a few gray strands in the back and bare forehead up front.    

I tilted my head down, aware of my red rimmed eyes and puffy nose.  

“Agent Ross, Alexandra.” Eckbridge nodded her smoothly bobbed head in our direction. “How did your mission go?”

“Very successfully,” Ross said.  “We found the bomb and the team was able to deactivate it before it could go off.  We got a pretty good look at the perp, too. Shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.”

I massaged the spot where the leash had chafed my wrist.  Rotating pictures from the security feeds arrayed inside Charlie’s station flashed up against the glass: a grainy image of the Center’s front steps, a group of Youngers reciting lessons in a classroom, an older Worker mopping an empty hallway. 

“Good.”  Eckbridge always spoke in the clipped tones of a highly efficient automaton.  She sounded no more impressed by Ross’s answer than if he’d said we’d prevented a fender bender.  She asked Ross when she would be receiving a copy of his last report.  Ross isn’t known for stellar paperwork.  Figuring they no longer needed me, I tried to slink my way out of the lobby. Dr. Barnard stopped me. 

 “How are you feeling these days, Alex?” He peered at me over his wire rimmed glasses, like I was a lab rat failing to perform as expected

Ross stopped talking and he and Eckbridge both turned at the question. The lobby suddenly seemed very crowded.  I felt their eyes on me like they were three pairs of lasers: Eckbridge’s gaze impatient, Barnard’s clinical, Ross’s anxious with hope.  A warm flush crept along the side of my neck.  Emma told me once that she’d give up a year’s allowance to work with Ross.  Her agent, she said, reminded her of a squashed toad – warty with sticky hands.  She said he never spoke a word to her on the drive to or from a case.  KJ said his agent made him sit in the back seat.  

I placed my hand against the skin of my neck, feeling the rapid beat of my heart pounding my tainted blood through my veins.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Dr. Barnard frowned.  “No worse headaches than usual?” he asked.  “Any nausea?”

I studied the worn tiles under my feet.  

“No,” I lied.

“It was a rough day,” Ross put in.  “We ended up cutting it a little close.  Things were pretty tense in there for a while.”

“I see.” Barnard sounded thoughtful, perhaps wondering why the gruesome murder I’d rewound a few months ago hadn’t fazed me when a plastic box had.  I kept my eyes glued to the floor.  One of Barnard’s shoelaces had come untied.  Eckbridge’s low heeled pumps glowed with polish. Navy, to match her suit.

“If you need to rest,” Eckbridge said, “you can spend the afternoon in your room.”

“That’s OK,” I mumbled.  The idea of spending the next few hours shut up alone contemplating my fate sounded like a punishment.  “I told KJ I’d help him in the garden.”

“Whatever you prefer.”  She turned to Ross.  “We have a room free, if you’d like to write up your report here.”

“I won’t be able to do that.” Ross backed away.  “I’m supposed to meet the police chief and the mayor for a press conference at 3:00.”

“Make sure you get us a copy of both reports when they’re complete,” Eckbridge called.  

Ross said something vague. Behind Eckbridge’s back, he winked at me.  Doubt surged through me as I watched him walk away.  I felt like we’d just made some kind of pact, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it was.