Because of the late hour, the only shop I see open is a fueling station down the road. Unlike the one where Iffy and I filled up on our trip to San Diego, the stations in the empire sell few things that aren’t vehicle related.
I head toward it anyway, hopeful I’ll find what I need. On the way, I pass a carriage parked under one of the streetlamps and am able to read the tax sticker in the window. Printed at the bottom is LOUISIANA, which means I’m somewhere in the gulf region.
Through a break in the traffic, I run across the road. When I reach the far curb, I hear voices behind me and turn to look. Three men are standing in the halo of one of the lights a little more than a block away. I start to swing back around but then freeze.
Where three men were standing a second before, there are now four.
No, five.
Time travelers. But not Rewinders.
They’re too far away for me to be sure, but they look like they’re wearing the institute’s security uniforms.
I crouch behind a parked carriage and move around the front end so I can peek at the men.
They must have figured out via Palmer where I diverted to and have come for me. But instead of looking around, they’re just standing there in a loose group. The reason soon becomes clear when a sixth man arrives.
Sir Wilfred. Head of security.
He gathers the men around him and begins pointing in several directions, his voice loud enough for me to hear his anger but not his words.
My hand slips inside my satchel and onto my Chaser before I realize what I’m doing. When I do, I jerk my hand back out, empty. I can’t risk making a jump yet. My device is dangerously low on power and I still have much to do.
I glance toward the fuel station. It won’t be easy, but I think I can get in and out and jump before Sir Wilfred and his men ever catch sight of me.
Staying low, I move back to the walkway and hurry to the station. The business is surrounded by a wide, well-lit paved area. When I reach the edge, I pause to check on the security team.
At first I don’t see any of them, but then I hear the sound of steps and am able to pick out two shadows down the street on the other side, heading slowly in my direction. I scan for the others but don’t spot them.
I move around the corner and hasten down the edge of the lot, away from the street. When I’m directly opposite the fuel station’s main building, I take a breath and head across. My instinct is to run, but I know doing so will draw attention so I keep my pace slow and steady.
As I open the door, a bell dings twice. To me it sounds like a giant church bell yanked hard by a dozen men and I can’t help but cringe as I hurry inside.
There’s just enough room in the customer area for a few shelves of fluids and replacement parts, and a counter behind which sits an old, bored-looking man.
He eyes me for a second, taking special interest in my centuries-out-of-date clothing. “May I help you?”
“Newspapers?”
He nods across the store. There I find bins for three papers — the Louisiana Chronicle, the St. Louis Sentinel, and the American Times. The two regional papers will provoke unnecessary questions, but the American Times is a territory-wide paper and exactly what I need. The problem — its bin is empty.
“Are there more?” I ask, pointing at the bin.
The clerk takes his time looking over. “Any more what?”
“American Times. Do you have any more?”
“Not if it’s empty.”
I walk over. “You’re sure? You don’t have anything in the back?”
He stares at me, annoyed. “I’m sure.”
I look out the front window and see two security men turn onto the fuel-station property and head for this building. Their pace is deliberate as they scan side to side.
I look back at the clerk and notice the door along the back wall on his side of the counter. “Where does that go?”
“What?”
“The door, where—”
I stop myself as I catch sight of the corner of a newspaper sticking out of a rubbish bin against the wall. On the visible part, I see the beginning of a familiar masthead: Amer…
I point at the bin. “Can I have that paper?”
As he looks to see what I mean, I take a quick glance out the window. The men are halfway across the lot now. I have maybe twenty seconds at most.
“What? That?”
“Yes! Please, can I have it?”
“Hey, settle down.”
I feel the seconds ticking off in my head and know I have no time to argue with this idiot. So I hop over the counter, but as I step toward the bin, the clerk blocks my way.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He pushes me back, reaches under the counter, and pulls out a three-foot-long club. Raising it, he says, “Get out of here!”
With the institute’s security men only seconds away, I whirl and open the door behind the counter.
“Hey, you can’t go back there! That’s not a public area!”
Before he finishes speaking, I’m through the door and into a back room that’s twice the size of the one out front. There are shelves full of stock but more importantly, another door.
As I reach the exit, I hear the clerk coming into the room behind me. I undo the lock, turn the knob, and rush outside. I know I’m not free yet, but I also know Sir Wilfred and his men will never know I was in the fueling station. If they ever learned that, at least one of them would have made a time jump and been waiting for me as I opened the outside door.
It’s a weird cat-and-mouse game that can bend your mind in ways it was never meant to go. A snake eating its tail. But if I don’t stay vigilant, they will find me.
In the alley off to the left, I see several shadows of varying shapes protruding from the back of the buildings. Hoping one might provide a place to hide, I head in that direction. As I near, I realize the shapes aren’t part of the buildings themselves, but the tents and huts of a small vagabond camp. Most of the occupants seem to be asleep, but two men sit by a fire burning in a can off to the side.
I get an idea and work my jacket off.
“Stay warm,” I whisper as I walk by, tossing the jacket to the oldest guy. If this delays my pursuers even a few seconds, it’s worth it.
I peek over my shoulder and am relieved to see no one has followed me into the alley yet. So far so good, but I don’t allow myself to slow down. Not far past the camp, I come to a group of large rubbish bins and decide they’ll do the trick. I tuck in behind one of them and wait.
Two minutes pass. Three. Four.
No one comes.
I’m about to continue down the alley when it occurs to me that if there was a copy of the American Times in the small bin at the fuel station, there’s a very good chance I’ll find another copy in one of the much larger bins around me.
The dim light of the alley hinders my search but doesn’t prevent me from finally unearthing a copy. It’s from two days earlier and there’s a stain on the front corner, but it’ll do.
I climb out of the bin and brush myself off. But as I start to lift the flap of my satchel so I can grab my Chaser, I hear Sir Wilfred’s voice.
“Mr. Younger, you’re a long way from the institute.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I had no idea until I’m manhandled into the basement of Upjohn Hall that the institute has actual prison cells. Mine is a small stone room barely large enough for the mattress on the floor and the toilet in the corner. The door is constructed of thin plastic that can be turned either opaque or transparent by the flip of a switch on the other side.
I know this because after shoving me in, the guard watches me through the closed door until I pull myself to my feet. When I do, he touches the outside wall and the door becomes a solid wall of black.