"Sorry," she said. She was, too, but she could see how that might not do her much good—or Justin, either. "I am sorry," she repeated. "That was dumb of me."
"Uh-huh." He didn't try to tell her she was wrong. Instead, he pointed to a shell crater down the street. "They mean it here."
"I said I was sorry." Beckie started to get mad, too. But she knew she'd goofed, so she added, "I'll try not to do anything like that again."
"Okay." Justin nodded. "Fair enough."
"If you weren't acting like a mystery man . . ." Beckie said.
"I've got to get out of here," Justin muttered. She wondered what he meant. Away from her? That would be great, she thought, and really did get angry. Or did he mean away from Elizabeth? The way it sounded, he meant out of this world. But if he meant that, where did he aim to go?
She let out a little of her frustration—not much, but a little—by saying, "There's stuff you're not telling me, isn't there?"
"No," he said quickly: too quickly, in a way that couldn't mean anything but yes.
As if he did say yes, she went on, "It's okay. Who am I gonna tell it to? Gran?" Her own laugh came close to hysteria. Even she thought that was funny. "Sheriff Cochrane?" That wasn't funny—it was scary. "The soldiers?" That wasn't just scary—it was ridiculous.
"You've got it wrong," he said. She didn't believe him, even if he sounded a lot more convincing now than he did in his moment of surprise and dismay. He went on, "This is as silly as your idea about the United States holding together."
"I didn't say that was true. I just said it would've been neat." Beckie looked at him. "You're lying to me. I don't know why—maybe you've got reasons, even if I can't imagine what they are. But if you are, since you are, we're not going anywhere much, are we?"
"I guess not," he said sadly. "I'm sorry, Beckie." He didn't even bother pretending he wasn't lying any more. "You don't know what you're asking for, and I can't tell you. I wish I could, and I never thought I'd do that in a million years."
"You can," she said. "All you have to do is open your mouth and tell the truth."
"It's not that simple." He set his can of fizz on the grass not far from the trench. Then he started to walk away.
"Where are you going?" Beckie called after him.
"Back to the motel," he answered over his shoulder. "You called it—this isn't going anywhere. It's too bad, but it's not. Take care. I'll see you." By which he had to mean, / won't see you. He kept walking.
She couldn't even tell him he was wrong, because she knew he was right. Knowing that and liking it were two different critters. Beckie stared after him till ambush tears scalded her cheeks.
Justin sat on the edge of his bed in the motel room, his face buried in his hands. "It's not the end of the world," Mr. Brooks said. "You did the right thing, if it makes you feel any better."
"It doesn't," Justin said. "Chances are we weren't going anywhere anyway. That doesn't make me feel any better. Beckie was—is—about the only nice thing here, and now that's ruined. What am I supposed to do, dance a jig?"
"This room isn't big enough," Mr. Brooks said. Justin looked up long enough to give him a dirty look, then submerged again. The older man went on, "I'm sorry—sort of. But one of the things you're not supposed to do is give away the Crosstime Traffic secret. California probably has the technology and the computer power to build transposition chambers if they get the idea that they can. And wouldn't that be fun?"
"Well, this California would be better than some of the other countries in different high-tech alternates," Justin said.
"Sure. But better isn't good, and you can't pretend it is." Mr. Brooks sighed. "Chances are we're fighting a losing battle. Sooner or later, somebody else will figure out how to go crosstime, and we'll have to deal with it. But later is better than sooner. We need to be in a stronger position ourselves. Look at the slavery scandal we just went through. How are we supposed to tell other people to play nice if we can't do it ourselves?"
"Beats me." Justin looked up again, a little longer this time. "Not easy for me to care right now."
"I know," Mr. Brooks said. "Breaking up always feels like the end of the world."
Justin started to ask him what he knew about it. He started to, but he didn't. Something in the coin and stamp dealer's expression told him it wouldn't be a good idea. Randolph Brooks didn't talk about himself a whole lot. That didn't mean he hadn't done things—more things than Justin had, plainly.
"It does get better eventually," Mr. Brooks went on. "You know what they say—time wounds all heels." Did they say that? If they did, did Beckie's grandmother know about it? Thinking about Beckie, or even her annoying grandmother, still hurt like anything. But Mr. Brooks still hadn't finished: "It's bad while it's going on, though. There's not much you can do about it. I'm sorry. I'm extra sorry 'cause she's a nice kid."
She's no kid! But that was one more thing Justin didn't say. Mr. Brooks was old enough to be his father, so Beckie probably did look like a kid to him. (Thinking about his real father, who had a new lady friend, also hurt.)
"What am I going to do?" Justin did ask. "I can't just stay cooped up in here 24/7."
"She doesn't hate you—or it doesn't sound like she does, anyway," Mr. Brooks said. "You can just be friends friends, if you know what I mean. Maybe that's better than nothing."
"Maybe." Justin didn't sound as if he believed it. The reason was simple: he didn't. "Seeing her is liable to hurt too much to stand."
"Chance you take," Mr. Brooks said with a shrug. "If it does, you don't do it anymore." He could afford to sound callous. He wasn't the one who'd just had things fall apart. Justin remembered reading something somewhere. Nobody dies of a broken heart. You only wish you could. Whoever said that hit it right on the button. Justin sure wished he could.
Before he could answer, the Virginia soldiers who'd taken over the rest of the motel started yelling and cussing a mile a minute, maybe faster. Some of them sounded furious. Others sounded scared. They were all shouting about somebody named Adrian. Whether that was a first name or a last, Justin had no idea.
Then someone said something he couldn't misunderstand: "He's got it!"
He and Mr. Brooks looked at each other. They both mouthed the same one-syllable word. It wasn't a big surprise that Adrian—or one of the soldiers, anyway—had come down with the disease. It was loose in Elizabeth. Everybody knew that. But knowing it didn't make this welcome news.
"Which one is Adrian?" Justin couldn't keep track of all the soldiers quartered here.
"I think he's the big guy, the one about your size," Mr. Brooks answered. When he said he thought something like that was so, it was, to about four decimal places. He wasn't a coin and stamp dealer for nothing. He remembered what things were worth, and all the technical details of why they were worth what they were worth, too. So why wouldn't he keep track of soldiers?
Men running in army boots outside the motel room sounded a lot like stampeding elephants. Elephants didn't shout and use foul language, though. Or if they did, people couldn't understand them, which amounted to the same thing.
"I think Millard's got it, too!" somebody yelled. That produced more cussing. Most people in this alternate swore less than they did in the home timeline, but the soldiers were an exception.
"Here comes the doc!" another soldier hollered. They were all carrying on at something above the tops of their lungs.
"What can you do for 'em, Doc?" Three or four people shouted the same question at once.
"If it is the plague, I can't do anything much," the military doctor answered. That was the meaning of what he said, anyhow. It came out a lot warmer. He also had unkind things to say about everyone who'd been born in Ohio for the past three hundred years. "And their dogs, too," he added.