THE FIRST thing I saw was a big round clock with a black metal frame, hanging high on a wall of blond wood paneling that was streaked with sunlight. The hands on the clock were positioned at 2:46. It was a familiar sight, one that reminded me of Dad. I’d seen that clock every time I visited him at work.
“Oh!”
I turned sharply as a middle-aged woman in a pale green jacket jumped away, looking back at me as if I’d just pinched her butt. I must have popped out of nowhere right behind her. Her expression quickly went from surprise to alarm. She pointed at me, her whole arm trembling. Her yelp had caught the attention of the other people standing in line ahead of her. They were all middle-aged or older, and they all showed the same wide-eyed trepidation when they spotted me.
And it hit me. In the sprawling, sunlit, high-ceilinged lobby of the main branch of Detroit First National, I stood in the middle of the floor wearing an orange jumpsuit with “Escanaba House of Corrections” stenciled in black letters on the front and back.
Yeah, I hadn’t thought this whole space-time jump through.
“Call the police!” A skinny old man with his pants cinched up practically at his chest was giving me such a hard glare I could see his outrage even through the black shades he wore. “Somebody call the police!” he shouted again.
I’d barely been in the bank for ten seconds and things were already way out of hand. I couldn’t let myself get taken by the police, not before I finished what I’d come there to do. Anxious voices filled the air, rising and falling like a revving monster truck engine. People moved away from me, toward the rear of the lobby where the tellers sat secure behind a wall of bulletproof clear plastic. I stood between them and the main entrance, which obviously added to their unease. My first impulse was to walk out of the bank, but that would only make it more likely that the cops would come down on me. Maybe I could hide, get to a bathroom or something, try to find a change of clothes….
Ahead of me, someone was pushing quickly and authoritatively through the throng of patrons. Moments later, he came fully into view. Both of us froze.
Dad and I stared at each other.
This was the father I remembered. Healthy and whole, ready for anything. It was like a gift from the universe. God! I wanted to rush over and hug him. Dad looked completely stunned, however, and that kept me from moving. He was the one who closed the distance between us, surprising me as he suddenly bolted forward and grabbed me firmly by the arm.
He turned to the patrons behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, the situation’s under control here,” he said to them. “You can go on with your business.” Then he hustled me off to the side, close to a vacant row of chairs lined against the wall.
“Gavin?” he said, looking me up and down as if he still didn’t believe I was standing in front of him. “What are you… how did you get here? What are you doing? Did you break out?”
I grabbed him, hugged him, unable to help myself. “Dad, you have to get out of this bank,” I said, holding on to him, my voice shrill with anxiety. “Get out now, go home or something.” My eyes were squeezed shut, and waves of emotion shuddered through me. Tears streamed hot and slick down my face.
He took me by the shoulders and pushed me away from him. “Stop crying, son. Stop it.” I wiped at my face with the heel of my hand. Dad’s eyes, as he locked gazes with me, were set with a severity deeper than any I’d seen—and he’d given me plenty of severe looks over the years. “Gavin, this is crazy. You said you didn’t kill that boy and I believe you. But you were convicted and sentenced, and you can’t just run away from that. I’m getting money together to hire another lawyer, we’ll file an appeal, but you have to go back. You’re going to turn yourself in. I know a couple of detectives at the downtown precinct. I’ll call them. They’ll take you in and make sure you don’t get hurt.”
“Dad, you gotta listen to me. You gotta get out of the bank, or you’re the one who’s gonna get….” I stopped myself. He was so worried about me he wasn’t paying attention to anything I told him. Sobs built suddenly in my throat. I swallowed hard and said, “Okay, Dad, you’re right. I’ll turn myself in. But I’m not gonna wait here for the cops. I’ll do it only if you walk me to the police station yourself. Right now. Please, Dad.”
“Okay, son. Just calm down.” He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me forward until my forehead was resting on his shoulder. The scent of him, a rich citrusy combination of the Irish Spring soap and the Right Guard deodorant and the coconut hair oil he’d used for as long as I could remember, surrounded me like a warm blanket, making me feel safe, as if I’d finally come home again. I didn’t want him to ever let go.
Gently, he pushed me back. “Let me make a call and we’ll go.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered, he told the person on the other end—probably the guard who patrolled outside the bank—he was taking a break and would be back at his post in fifteen minutes. “Come on,” he said to me as he slid the phone back in his pocket, and then he quickly ushered me out of the bank.
I felt relieved as we started down the wide crowded sidewalk beneath the warm fall sun. But I was still worried. I’d have to keep Dad away from the bank for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. That gang member Morris DeWitt was sure to hang around, and he’d just shoot Dad when he returned. It would have been better to get myself into a set of street clothes before making the space-time jump, and to time my arrival so I could take down that Morris dude before he even made it into the bank. But hindsight did me no good, and I was too upset to program the watch for another jump. I had to deal with the situation as it was. At least Dad was away from the bank. We were walking fast. I heard Dad take a deep breath, and I figured he was about to say something to me.
“Hey, Donald….”
I thought the voice behind us belonged to the other security guard. Dad and I turned, and he said, “Yeah?” to the person facing us. Terror tore through my chest like a fierce, clawing demon. I mostly remembered Stone being behind the wheel of that red retro Grand Prix, driving Apache around, so it was strange to see him standing on the sidewalk in a black trench coat that was too thick for the unseasonably warm weather. I’d never known nor cared what his real name was, but I knew it now—Morris DeWitt. I knew it when I saw him peel back the flap of his trench coat and whip out a shotgun. He sneered nastily as he leveled the barrels at us.
I started to shove Dad aside, but he was already moving. He hit me in the back with his shoulder, throwing us both to the side. The gun spat twin bolts of fire with a thunderous boom. Someone screamed. Footsteps pounded this way and that as people scrambled in chaotic movement around us. Dad had me down, covering me with his body. I yelled for him to run.
I watched in panic as three men jumped Stone just as he pointed the gun at Dad. One of them tore the gun out of his hands. The second guy grabbed Stone by the collar, and in two moves like a wriggling fish, Stone slipped out of the trench coat and started to run. The second guy dropped the coat and, with the third guy, tackled Stone to the ground.
“Dad, are you okay?” I shouted as he rolled off me. He looked down at me, his face steady, emotionless, wondering. It was obvious he was unhurt, and the sense of relief was stark, like snow melting inside me. From the expression on Dad’s face, I knew what he wanted and said, “I’m all right.” Assured of that, Dad turned his attention to the situation around us. There was more shouting behind me. I looked back and saw an Asian man in a brown suit sprawled on the sidewalk a short distance away. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth hanging open. There was a big dark bloody pit where his midsection should have been.
Dad rushed to the man and knelt beside him. He took off his jacket and firmly put it to the man’s bleeding abdomen. “Here, put pressure on this,” he called to a hovering frightened bystander. The woman got to her knees and pressed both hands against Dad’s jacket. A man got down and lifted the Asian guy’s head into his lap. Dad pulled out his cell phone to call for help.
With Dad and many of the bystanders focused either on the injured man or on the subdued but struggling Stone, I saw my chance. I got to my feet, snagged the trench coat, and ran. Once I was around the corner, I stopped long enough to pull on the coat. The right pocket was heavy. I stuck in my hand and felt the handle of a gun. You had to give it to that bastard Stone; he came prepared. There were sirens now, the wailings steadily growing louder as they closed in. I hurried along the street, trying to blend in with the other pedestrians.
My dad would always be in danger as long as Apache was alive. After getting arrested and charged, I told the police everything—that it was Apache who killed Crazy E, who led the Cold Bloods and conducted a major drug operation through the gang. That cost Apache absolutely nothing. The police never even brought him in for questioning because they couldn’t find any evidence against him that would stick. But I was a snitch, and snitches always paid.
I was going to make sure my dad was safe.
I was going to take out Apache.
APACHE LIVED on the east side of Detroit, where plenty of empty overgrown lots and abandoned houses dotted the neighborhoods like the huge decaying hulks in an elephant graveyard. His house was one in a row of seven carefully tended structures on his street, sporting a fairly fresh coat of white paint. The lawn was beautifully landscaped (something his parents had done before they died, and which Apache had professionally maintained now that he’d inherited the place), with still-green shrubs cut artfully into spirals and balls. Crazy E had brought me by the place once when he was summoned for a face-to-face consultation with his dangerous cousin.
Apache was home. The red Grand Prix was parked in the driveway. There was one abandoned house on the street, two lots down. I sat down in the yard there with my back to the trunk of a tree. The tree trunk would block any view of me from the direction of Apache’s house, and I could watch over my shoulder for him to come out. Even through the ball of hatred in my heart, I was still afraid of the man, so I wanted to avoid a direct confrontation if possible. But I figured I couldn’t sit around in that yard too long without some neighbor getting suspicious and calling the police. If Apache didn’t come out of his home soon, I was going to knock on the door, duck around the corner of the house, and blow him away when he answered.
My heart was beating so hard it made my chest hurt. Sweat streaked down my face and neck. I was overheating in the trench coat, but I didn’t dare take it off. I kept my hand in the right pocket, wrapped around the handle of the gun. I was about to kill a man, and the reality of that weighed heavily on me. Last year, I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of taking another person’s life under any circumstances. I didn’t want to be a murderer, but I had to protect my dad.
Another thought struck me, and I laughed uneasily, though there was no humor in it. I’d have a built-in alibi for killing Apache. Even if someone were to see me do it—hell, even if they filmed it—no jury would ever convict me for it. At this very moment, I was in a cell in Escanaba, and the dayshift CO in solitary would attest to seeing me there. The prosecutor would have to prove that I managed to be in two places at once, or at the very least, he or she would have to come up with a plausible explanation as to how I managed to travel over 400 miles round trip, from Escanaba to Detroit and back again, in a matter of minutes. I’d get a free pass on killing Apache just as he did on killing Crazy E, a guy I liked and missed very much. Sometimes life is fair.
From behind me came the sound of a door opening and shutting, footsteps scuffing over concrete, a voice speaking quietly. I looked over my shoulder and saw Apache standing on his front porch in a black and white tracksuit, his cell phone to his ear. My heart started pounding even harder. Go! Go! Do it! I shook my head at myself. Not yet.
He kept his voice low. I could hear the anger in it. He was chewing somebody out, another gang member who’d probably get his ass kicked for making Apache mad. Well, not today and not ever again. Apache barked out a final word and shoved the phone in his pocket. He tugged the brim of the baseball cap he wore low over the mirror lenses of his shades, and then he stepped lightly off the porch, heading for the Grand Prix.
Now.
In the moments I’d hesitated, I became so detached it was as if someone else pulled the gun from the pocket of the trench coat, stood, and ran across the neighboring yard. Apache looked up, startled, as I leaped over a row of hedges. He fell back a step, reaching for his waist. This was it. If I didn’t shoot now, he’d draw his own gun and blast me to hell.
I fired, pulling the trigger again and again in rapid succession. The Bang! Bang! Bang! seemed distant, echoing from somewhere on the other side of the world. I have no idea how many shots I actually fired. The first two missed completely, because Apache was able to bring his gun out, a huge silver thing that glittered in the sunlight. The sight would have terrified me if my mind had been more present. Then, before he could take aim, he jerked backward as if he’d been punched violently in the left shoulder. He stumbled, losing his balance just as he took another hit right in his chest, and seconds later he was sprawled on the ground.
Swiftly I closed in until I was standing over him. Apache was still alive, his right hand groping uselessly for the gun that had dropped from his grip and lay at some distance beyond his reach. Great patches of red were spreading across his shoulder and chest. His shades and baseball cap had come off his head during his fall. He looked up at me with narrow brown eyes full of contempt and pain. He tried to speak, to spit some curse at me, and coughed up a gush of dark bubbly blood instead.
Jesus. God. Fuck.
I pointed the gun at his chest and fired until the clip was empty. When I looked in Apache’s eyes again, they were fixed and vacant, staring at eternity.
Only vaguely did I register that someone had been standing behind Apache, someone who was now screaming shrilly, a song of horror cutting across the neighborhood. I looked directly at the screamer, small, vulnerable, completely traumatized. Gripping the gun tightly, I turned and ran.
I ran aimlessly, unfocused, chased by the evil I’d done. Where should I go? What should I do? I had to get back to my present in Escanaba. The gun had my prints on it. I couldn’t just drop it, and I couldn’t keep it with me. I kept running, thankful that I’d put a few meals under my belt to build up my stamina. After what seemed like hours, I found myself on a crumbling pier that jutted into the Detroit River, its wood planks gray and weathered. Bent over, hands on knees, I looked around as I struggled to catch my breath. There were boats out on the river, cars crossing the bridge in the distance from one side to the other, but there was no one near me.
I climbed down from the pier to the muddy bank below, giving myself some concealment. Next I took the gun by the barrel and threw it as far out into the river as I could, watching as it broke the surface with a tiny, nearly silent splash. Then I took off the trench coat and stuffed it between two rotting planks on the underside of the pier. It seemed the strength was draining rapidly from my muscles, leaving me weak and light-headed. That was the adrenaline flushing out of my system.
Time to go. I raised the watch, programmed it to take me back to my present. Everything inside me seemed to go cold as I pressed the icon and space-time ripped open around me.
I POPPED back into my cell on September 27, 2017 just a few seconds after I’d left. The watch was going crazy.
It emitted a piercing buzz, the dial flashed red and yellow, and it vibrated against my skin so ferociously it felt as if I had a bag of pissed-off wasps strapped around my wrist. The sound woke Cato right away; he jerked as if he’d been slapped across the ears.
I quickly got the watch off and threw it to the floor. “Shit!”
Cato bolted up from the cot. He was terrified, his face going pale, his eyes wild, and his mouth hanging open. He looked from the buzzing, flashing watch to me and back again.
“Gavin… no,” he said in a voice as hushed as death. His hand shook as he reached down and retrieved his watch. The buzz shot up the scale into a full-fledged wail like a siren. “Gavin, what did you do? What did you do?”
In an instant he seemed to go from terror to pure panic. He clasped a hand to his head as he looked at the dial on his watch, which I now saw was displaying a series of symbols on its screen like some kind of code. Groaning, he paced quickly across the cell before getting back in my face.
He groaned again, and tears spilled down his face. “Oh God, Gavin—”
He never finished what he started to say. Red light flared from the watch, and Cato was gone.