Splinter: A CHRONOS Files Story Read online

  H.H. Holmes was another enterprising capitalist who sought to make his fortune catering to the tourists. His World’s Fair Hotel catered mostly to women, and many of the women who entered his fine establishment never left. The police and newspapers were overworked with the influx of people into the city, and people went missing all the time. Chicago papers would name the hotel the “Murder Castle” during Holmes’s trial, but by then it was too much too late.

  I’ve shared many stories about the Expo with Jess, but I’ve never mentioned Holmes or his hotel. I also don’t talk about the fire that ripped through one of the buildings killing my father. Some memories are best left alone.

  “How much do you know about H. H. Holmes?” I ask.

  “The doctor who killed all those women?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jess shrugs. “I know what I read in the papers during his trial, mostly, although I did wonder how much of that was made up. Selling skeletons to medical schools seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “He did, but it was only a couple. I remember seeing him a few times at the Midway, when I was workin’ there as a boy--mostly helpin’ my mum at the dairy exhibit and runnin’ errands. Seemed like a nice enough guy until he smiled. Something always hit me wrong about his smile. He’d hand out these flyers for his World’s Fair Hotel to groups of ladies who were visiting. Had a couple of kids with him sometimes.”

  “Those the kids he killed?”

  “Yeah. Guess they became inconvenient. Anyway…” I stop for a moment and try to find a way to summarize, something that doesn’t go into so many details that Jess’s head will explode. “He’s connected to the Cyrists. The ones responsible for your Irene...not bein’ around anymore. And more people could die--two women who didn’t die the first time around--if I don’t go back and keep them out of Holmes’s path.”

  His eyes stray down to the outline of my CHRONOS medallion beneath my shirt. “Why don’t you just jump in with that key-thing of yours, kill the son of a bitch in his sleep, and be done with it?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Holmes murdered what--fifty women at least? Maybe more. Even if something happened and you got caught, there’d be plenty of evidence to support you if the cops--”

  “Maybe. But then there wouldn’t be the trial that you and a million or so others read about in the papers, would there? It would change too much history, and that’s what we’re tryin’ to stop the Cyrists from doin’. This has to be a surgical strike.”

  I unfold the paper my other self gave me and take a pencil from the cup by the cash register. It would be easier to just show Jess the layout of the place through the CHRONOS key, but since that’s not possible, I sketch the long narrow room on the back of one sheet.

  “The place isn’t even as wide as your storeroom, Jess, but the length is probably ten times that...maybe half as long as this block. It’s dark, so Holmes can’t see me. I can see him pretty well in the light of the CHRONOS key. The only door is one you have to crawl through--it opens into a linen closet. Holmes used the room to hide things from creditors--furniture he bought and claimed wasn’t delivered, and other stuff. He also used it to hide some bodies. Two of them are on cots along this wall here”--I mark two smaller rectangles with an X—“and at the far end here, is a window with a fire escape. Holmes gets off a couple of shots toward the window as one of the women and I--”

  “Wait. You’re already there?”

  “Yeah, but it’s eight-year-old me that’s going through the window. And there are...some other versions of me who’ve already tried to fix this and failed scattered around the room.”

  “I’m gonna ignore that bit on the grounds that I want to stay sane.” He motions for me to go on.

  “There’s another shot when we’re on the fire escape. Probably two. That was about the time that one of the windows on the second floor cracked due to the fire, so--.”

  “The fire?

  “Yeah. Holmes set the place on fire to cover the evidence. Or maybe for insurance. Or both. Anyway, like I said I can’t kill him. Apparently I can’t take his gun away either, because I’ve already tried that and…” I look at his expression and say, “I’m guessing you don’t want details about a duplicate me jumping in to give me this information. Let’s just say it didn’t end well and I’m not planning to repeat the experiment.”

  He shudders, as though to shake off the twists and tangles of time travel, and then he pushes the gun toward me. “Take it. My vote is for shooting the blackhearted son of a bitch outright, no matter what it changes. To hell with history. I’m perfectly okay with you spinning the wheel again. Maybe we’ll get the timeline that has my granddaughter in it and Amelia will stop thinking I’ve lost my damn mind.”

  ∞

  Wooded Island

  Chicago World’s Fair

  11271893_22:21:00

  I slide down against the outside of the cabin wall. It’s cold and drizzling out here, but I need to feel the night air on my face. I’ve spent most of the past two days alone in the cabin, with occasional field trips to a corpse-filled room. The only company I’ve had is H.H. Bloody Holmes and the other versions of myself in that room, none of whom I can talk to without splintering myself or at least triggering a double memory. Kate’s there, too. But all I’ve been doing is watching her die, so for once, I don’t count her company as a good thing.

  The Wooded Island is silent now. In fact, the entire fairground is silent. Empty, like a ghost town. Or a ghost metropolis, I guess. On any given day between May and the end of October, an average of 120,000 tourists roamed every inch of this island. The massive buildings I can still see in the distance, on the other side of the bridge that connects the Wooded Island to the mainland, were never meant to be anything other than temporary. Aside from two buildings and some of the statues, the White City will be reduced to ashes in a fire much like the one that killed my dad, less than a quarter-mile from this cabin.

  I take another swig from the flask in my pocket. The bourbon probably isn’t helping me sort things out, but it is definitely helping to keep panic at bay.

  Here’s the crux of the problem: four seconds isn’t much time. That’s doubly true when you have to make incremental steps and avoid bumping into the other versions of yourself. Most of them were just there scouting things out, but a few have already tried things and failed. I’ve been careful to ensure that no more than two of me are in the room together for longer than a second, but that’s become tougher to pull off as the day goes on.

  For one thing, I’m getting tired. My skills with the CHRONOS key have never been as good as Kate’s or Simon’s, probably because I inherited the gene from one grandparent and they got it from all four. It wears me out, and even though these are short time jumps, to a nearby location, I doubt I have more than a few jumps left before I’ll need to rest.

  My brain is also muddled from trying to balance two different versions of the past few days. Adding another set of memories to the mix would render me damn near worthless, so rule number one has been to avoid interacting with my other selves and most of all, to avoid doing anything that I might have to go back in time and talk myself out of.

  And now I’m going to have to break that rule.

  My latest plan was to make a noise to distract Holmes. I nudged one of the iron cots slightly, just enough that it clinked against the bottles Holmes had stashed by the wall. If I could make Holmes stop for a moment and look my way, I thought it might buy Kate an extra few seconds to pull up a stable point on her key and jump out.

  Only it was Kate who looked my way when the faint ping of glass against glass echoed in the silent dark. Kate who paused as she moved toward the exit. Kate who gasped, and thus guided Holmes’s gun to where she was standing.

  On the plus side, he didn’t have to bother with the acid. I also didn’t have to listen to his comment about how Kate’s kick wasn’t half bad for a girl, but still no match for a gun.

  On the very negative side, Kat
e was looking straight at me when Holmes’s bullet hit, right above her left eye.

  I shudder and take another swig. The whiskey burns on its way down, but the fire doesn’t begin to wipe that image from my mind.

  The only way to fix this is to go back and stop myself before I take that jump. To splinter myself and hand off the torch to Past-Me. And maybe it’s the whiskey, but I find that idea doesn’t bother me so much any more. I’m beyond caring whether it’s this me or some other version that goes forward as long as Kate does.

  I tuck the flask back in my jacket and pull out my CHRONOS key. It’s 20:24. I roll the display back to 20:05 and jump back to the stable point inside the cabin.

  It’s just a single room, with a small fire crackling in the fireplace. Between the light of the fire and the two lanterns there’s just enough light to read, and my earlier self is huddled over my notes. On the ground next to him is the bag of medicines I swiped from a pharmacy in the late 2030s--some pain medication and a hydrogel that’s supposed to reduce burn scars, along with gauze, medical tape, and other items that I wouldn’t have much luck finding in the local apothecary in 1893. In a perfect world, I’d get Kate out unharmed. But it’s a far from perfect world and I know I need to be prepared.

  “You botched it,” Past-Me says, when he sees me standing in the middle of the room. There’s not even a hint of a question in his voice. The fact that I’m standing here pretty much confirms his accusation as fact. “And here comes my double memory. Thanks.”

  I give him a sympathetic look, because I’ve been in his shoes. The good thing about being the one who creates the splinter is that the double memory isn’t quite as strong, but I still don’t like looking at him. It’s like my brain is stuck on one of those hamster wheels...running in circles, but not really going anywhere.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry about that. That distraction you’re planning right now causes Holmes to veer toward the center of the room. Must’ve thought it was a rat or somethin’. He’s lookin’ when Kate steps into the light from the window. Shoots her square in the head.”

  He rolls the time back on his CHRONOS key and watches the display. A few seconds later, he curses, and shoves the stack of notes to the floor.

  “Got any other ideas?” he asks. “Because that was my last one, and now I’ve probably only got another nine minutes or so before I’m history.”

  His voice is bitter on this last part, and I realize I’ve become much more philosophical on the whole splintering thing in the past half hour. Or maybe I’m just tired. Him, me. Doesn’t much matter which one vanishes as long as one of us is still here to help Kate.

  “I jumped back twenty minutes. So I’m probably the splinter. And no, I don’t have another idea yet, but at least we’ve got two brains to...ap...ply...”

  “What?” he asks, waiting for me to go on.

  “I don’t know, just...maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong? Been tryin’ so hard to avoid the double memories, to avoid becomin’ a splinter, that we’ve missed the best chance to get Kate out of that hell hole. I don’t know if you’re the splinter or if I am, but one thing’s for sure. For the next few minutes, there are two of us.”

  “So? The place is already crowded from all the times we blinked in and out of there earlier. I’m not sure how both of us going in at once is going to help matters. The other one...the one with the four on his head. Didn’t he say that interacting like this was a bad idea?”

  “He did. But like you said, we’re running short on ideas. Bad ones seem to be all we have left. I’ll jump into the stable point close to the cots. You jump into the hallway. You can monitor through the key and jump in as backup if I fail. Or if I...disappear. And if, by some miracle, Kate makes it into the hallway, you help her jump out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tackle the son of a bitch. Slow him down.”

  Past-Me drags one finger through the soot at the base of the fire and then walks toward me. He stretches out his hand when he reaches me and draws something on my forehead.

  It’s not a four.

  “It’s a five. That way if I have to come in, I can sort you out from any other Kiernans in the room.”

  I don’t wipe it away. Instead, I swipe my finger through the ashes and draw a six just above his nose. He doesn’t appear to like the new label anymore than I do.

  The clock is ticking for one of us, so I pull up the stable point near the cots on my key. I set it to 20:25:30, a few seconds earlier than before so that I can, hopefully, get my bearings before the action starts.

  Unfortunately, the display shows nothing but the dim white fabric of my shirt. One of my earlier selves is loitering inside the stable point and I can’t jump in until he moves. So I wait. He has to know this stable point might need to be used again. Idiot.

  After about three seconds, Earlier-Me finally moves to the other side of the room. I give it another second, then blink in.

  ∞

  World’s Fair Hotel

  10281893_20:25:30

  I hold the air in my lungs as long as possible, and then pull in shallow, hesitant breaths, steeling myself against the pervasive smell of smoke and rot that fills the room. As I move away from the wall, something crooked and gnarled that looks a bit like a tree branch, catches against the side of my jeans. I hold the CHRONOS key down to investigate and realize that one bony finger has snagged the edge of the denim.

  The sight causes me to startle. My two other selves turn and look directly at me, even though we’re doing our damnedest to avoid contact and the duplicate memories that follow. I feel two new memories worming into my head, a memory of looking over and thinking what an idiot, and another, from a slightly more recent self, of thinking, oh, it’s the idiot again. These memories almost, but not completely, overwrite the earlier one, when no idiot stood on this side of the cot.

  I inch toward the center of the narrow room, away from the skeletal hand and its long-dead owner. Then I crouch down, doing my best to keep my breaths small and silent, and tuck my CHRONOS medallion into the leather pouch around my neck. Holmes may not be able to see the light from the key, but Kate can, and my last attempt proved exactly how much damage I could cause by distracting her.

  A few yards in front of me, two shadows--one adult and one child, both dimly lit in green by their CHRONOS keys--shuffle toward the window and the ladder. Even though I’ve watched this over and over during the past few days, it’s still strange to see my eight-year-old self creeping along that wall next to Katherine. It’s not like a double memory, but more like when Simon drags me along to watch some movie he likes for a second time. A third shadow, which belongs to Kate, works its way carefully toward the linen closet that leads back into the hotel.

  Somewhere between Kate and and the linen closet is Holmes. That part of the room is too dark to see clearly. I can hear him, though. He moves cautiously, but with a speed that shows how much more familiar he is with the layout of this abominable room than the rest of us.

  Two shots ring out, in fairly rapid succession, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Like the stench, these noises have become routine, things that I hear and smell each time I’m here.

  A third shot sounds as Katherine shoves the window open. Even though I can’t hear or see it from this distance, I know that Katherine and my younger self are currently having a brief, nearly silent squabble over who goes through the window first. I’d promised Kate that I’d get her grandmother back to safety, and I took that promise seriously. On the other hand, I was used to getting my bottom whacked if I argued with my elders. And since Katherine’s expression suggested she might just toss me out the window if I didn’t go willingly, I didn’t hesitate long before following her orders.

  The next few seconds would be the best time, strategically-speaking, for me to attack Holmes. But I know that Katherine is still there, crouched below the window. It was several seconds before she followed me onto the ladder, and I remember hesitating, wonder
ing if I should go back up and help her.

  Watching the scenes over and over in the past few days, I know now that she could probably see Holmes at this point, faintly lit by the glow of Kate’s CHRONOS key. He’s staring at the window, pistol raised, ready to take another shot. And she’s waiting for something to distract him before making her move.

  Kate provides that distraction, kicking out and upward as Holmes passes in front of her. Another shot echoes in the room as he stumbles.

  I’m still in a crouch, and for a moment, I think I’ve bumped into one of the bits of furniture in the room. Something pushes me backward, and it’s only when my ass lands on the floor that I realize the last bullet hit me.

  Not in the shoulder like the one that hit Number Four. This bullet hit at least a foot lower, on the left side of my abdomen.

  Kiernan Number Six should be at his station in the hallway by now, monitoring this room. But he’ll be watching Kate and Holmes, so I doubt he even realizes I’ve been shot.

  Holmes manages to grab Kate’s foot, and she falls backward, banging her head hard enough that I feel the vibration through the floor.

  I wait until Holmes starts talking and then try to get to my feet. Wetness seeps through my fingers and I have to pause to steady myself as the pain ratchets up.

  “You have an impressive kick for such a little lady,” Holmes says, as he digs for the spare bullet in his jacket pocket. “But it’s no match for a gun.”

  As he begins chambering the round, Katherine drops out the window, disappearing onto the fire escape.

  My second attempt at standing fares no better than the first and I decide that staying close to the ground might be a wiser bet. I begin crawling toward Holmes, one arm pressed against the wound in my side.

  Kate is still recovering from the fall and she looks around, disoriented, as Holmes steps backward, trying to figure out exactly where she landed. The back of his leg bumps against one of the cots, causing the collection of bottles to clang against each other.