Lester thought for a moment. “Well, there’s The Lion Inn, and a few bed and breakfasts here and there, but that’s about all I know of. We live close enough to town that we don’t need to rent a room when we make the trip in.”
Blake mulled over this information. He would have to make something work, even if it meant sleeping on the street for a night.
Lester’s voice broke in through his musings. “You could stay at our house if you need. Do you have family in Adelaide?” Grace didn’t say a word, but Blake could hear her staring at her husband.
There was no need to create a rift between the generous couple. “Something like that; I’ve got an uncle there.”
It was surreal to think that Uncle Tobias was here — alive — and weirder still that he would be in his prime years. The temptation to seek him out was strong, but Blake knew he shouldn’t risk coming into contact with his uncle. Doing so might somehow change the course of history, upsetting the balance. If that happened, Tobias might never befriend his parents to become Uncle Tobias, which in turn would alter his own life and ruin the continuity Wallace held such regard for.
The memory of his parents hit him with a rush of adrenaline, and Blake’s heart thumped with fury in his chest at the sudden realization that he stood at the edge of an unknown precipice. When he was finished here — so long as he didn’t die in the process — he would find a way to stop them from getting killed in that car crash. Changing that was the one knot in the chain that he could tamper with. The life of his future self would change and he may never even become a detective. His thoughts drifted to Art then, and a pang of regret hit him. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye …
“There are some good restaurants in town,” Lester was saying. “During your visit you’ll have to eat at —”
“Les! Keep your eyes on the road!” Grace shouted.
The car swerved to miss an oncoming set of headlights before steadying itself back smoothly on course. Blake’s heart gave another jolt, his stomach lurching in sudden fear.
Wallace’s warning about not interacting too much with people along the way came to his mind with sobering clarity. He had placed this couple’s life in mortal danger just from conversing with them. What if they had all died just then? With him dead, the mission would be a failure before it even got started, and he’d never stop his parents from meeting the same demise he nearly had seconds ago.
If that happened, everything would remain the same. He’d eventually be born, his parents would die, Tobias would kill himself, Fredericks would die, Wallace’s men would capture him and convince him to go through with this crazy mission, and he’d be sent back to 1948. Then he’d head to the road and meet this exceptionally nice couple, and they’d all be dead again. Those events would be in motion to rinse and repeat for an eternity.
The lights of Adelaide twinkled up ahead, but the only thing on Blake’s mind was the thought of his life being caught in an infinite loop, ending the same way every time.
Dead. In 1948.
38
Whoa Brother, Where Art Thou?
It was strange to realize that he was in an era from before his own birth. The world around him carried with it a slow hum, a stark contrast to the blaring frenzy of 1980’s New York City.
Blake sat in one of the diner’s window booths, studying the passersby outside. Men opened up doors for women who were dressed in the most unusual garb by his own standards. Clothing seemed to be a dim gray, faded black or dull brown — much different than the loud colors of his time. The clothes he wore helped him fit right in — on the outside, anyway. On the inside it was a different story. He had a superior edge to the populace of Adelaide; the future to these people was a mystery, but he knew of things to come. To Blake it felt like reading a book for the second time, the ending already known.
He thought of how the people here would feel as they heard the news that Neil Armstrong took his first steps upon the moon’s surface. Hell, he was just a boy when that happened and he’d been filled with the type of amazement only a child can know. When the momentous event transpired again, it would not carry the same emotional pull as it had when he first witnessed the footage from Apollo 11, anxiously wondering how — or if — they would ever make it back. Blake already knew the crew would return to Earth, safe and sound.
Then it hit him: Unless I change history. Ben Wallace’s words floated through his mind: “Stay as low profile as possible.”
On cue, Blake felt a stinging itch in his forearm where the tracking device had been injected. He pulled back his sleeve and saw that a red and purpling bruise had formed. High in the sky an unknown satellite was monitoring his movements, but Blake couldn’t help but feel that he had been cast into solitary. He gave his arm a quick scratch and then yanked his sleeve back down to cover his watch. Out of his entire outfit, it was the one thing that did not fit in here.
He stared through the window again and lost himself in the world outside.
“Need a refill on that coffee, mister?”
Blake snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a voice. He looked up and saw the proprietor standing at his table with a carafe in hand. “Oh, yes, please.” Blake pushed his cup to the edge of the table.
“What was your name again?” the man asked.
“Blake. Blake Tannor.” It still felt weird to use the name, but at least he didn’t stutter and stumble over the answer this time.
The man halted in mid pour, his eyes squinting in a way that made him seem to be peering at the top of his own skull, like he was locking Blake’s name and face away for future reference. “Well, Mr. Tannor, you let me know if you’ll be needing anything else.”
Blake picked up his fresh cup of coffee and held it aloft as if saying “Will do.” The server nodded and moved on to the other patrons. Blake gave a soft blow over the lip of the cup to cool its contents, but it was still much too hot to drink. He sat the blazing hot goodness down and began on his meal.
It wasn’t until he’d cut into his biscuit and forked a bite in his mouth that he remembered the pills. He reached into his coat pocket and took out one of the ‘I’-stamped tablets Wallace had given him, washing it down with the smoky tasting java. The fresh heat of the fluid burned the soreness in his throat, and he grimaced. As much as Blake hated it, he would have to make the personal sacrifice and only drink water for the next few days. He just couldn’t enjoy his coffee with every sip feeling like liquid fire.
As soon as he was done with his breakfast, he needed to get back to The Lion Inn and go through Ben Wallace’s care package; inside it would be his weapon and every scrap of information that had been compiled on Doctor William Amhurst and the other men.
Blake put the cup down and pushed it far away. In the corner of his eye he spotted a man in a nearby booth peering at him. Something felt off about the man’s scrutiny — he was much too curious — and Blake turned his head to get a better look at who was watching him. A flash of ginger hair came into view before the man brought a newspaper up to shield his face. When Blake looked back down at his plate, he saw from the periphery of his vision that the man stood, put on his bowler hat, and left the café.
Blake rose, following suit. As he passed by the front counter, the proprietor called out, “‘Scuse me, sir — you didn’t pay for your meal.”