The Cutting Room: A Time Travel Thriller (12 page)

We have excitement, but it's different from what I felt in the book. It's muted. More closely tethered to reality. I envied the Brownville beyond the window for its boundless hope, but I pitied them more for the inevitable crash.

After a couple hours, I'd had enough. I clapped the book closed and began the laborious process of lacing up my boots. Vette grinned in sympathy and did the same. As we left the room, I offered my elbow. She snorted but took it.

Sunset painted the streets in orange light and long shadows. Prospectors and farmers trudged in from the outskirts, bowed by their packs, leading equally tired mules. Other men smoked tobacco on stoops, poised like owls who aren't yet hungry, as if waiting for the night to begin. Main Street was lined with shops and two churches and another few inns, saloons, and brothels. It smelled like dung and smoke and dust.

"Were there any women in the past?" Vette muttered.

"If not, it would explain why everyone looks so grumpy."

We weren't dressed fancy, but we drew looks anyway. More accurately, Vette drew them, and I got what attention was left over. Hadn't foreseen that. Was going to make things tougher.

A smatter of tents and shacks marked the end of the city. Grass and wind lay beyond. The ribbon of the river wound to the north, banked by trees and green thickets. Camps and claims pocked the plains and hills, woodsmoke climbing in isolated columns. However hard these people hoped for the future, they'd never believe how it would look just ten generations later.

We turned around. Servants lit torches outside the hotels and casinos. Back at our lodging, the same bartender I'd seen that afternoon gave me a nod. We trudged up the stairs.

Inside our room, Vette tossed her hat on the bed. "Well, that was pointless."

I shrugged. "This is how it always goes. The more squares we paint in, the clearer the picture gets."

I set up my blankets on the floor. She was right, though. This felt different. We had no crime, no victims or perpetrators. We didn't even know for sure that someone from Primetime was trespassing here. All we had was a word, and for all I knew, it was gibberish.

In the morning, I went downstairs for breakfast. A teen boy manned the bar and kitchen. I got eggs, cornmeal, biscuits, gravy, and coffee. After he brought it to the table, he drummed his fingers against his leg.

"You Mr. Lewis?"

I nodded; that was the name I'd left on the ledger. "That's me."

He smiled and produced a scrap of paper. "For you. Enjoy your meal."

I did, but not until I'd read the note. It was from Mabry, who could have used a few more years at school, but what he lacked in literacy he made up for in helpfulness. He had a friend in the hills who might be able to lend us a hand. Already sent a letter of introduction ahead. If we wanted to pay the old man a visit, Mabry had included directions.

His map was crude, but looked simple enough for me to follow. Vette joined me mid-meal and was served a plate identical to mine.

She stared at it. "I guess the menu is 'whatever's on the stove.'"

She stopped complaining once she tasted it; the food here was simple and rough, but despite the fact I would surely be horrified by the hygiene standards of the kitchen, not to mention the butcher, it tasted cleaner than anything I'd ever eaten.

I told Vette about Mabry's friend and she agreed we might as well check it out. I sent the boy to saddle up our horses. Just before we left, the whiskered bartender showed up and gave me a little wave.

Outside, an offshore breeze carried the smell of the sea, which was a nice change from the plumbery stank of the town. We followed the trail dead north. A few farms clung to the banks of the river. Now and then a rut branched from the trail and led to a distant homestead. The sky was blue and vast. Birds chirped from the shrubs. The cool morning warmed quickly. Mountains fenced the basin, high and brown.

It was a good fifteen miles until the land sloped into the foothills. There was no wind and behind us we could see all the way to the blue sea. A few pines found homes in the slopes alongside tall stalks and fat succulents. At a fork Mabry had marked as Three Boulders—impossible to miss; a triangle of shoulder-high stones marked it—we diverted to an even narrower trail. A modest pine forest sprouted from the soil. After a short ride, fresh-dug holes pocked the land. A cabin rested in the shade of the trees. As I made to holler, a white-bearded man emerged from out back and raised his hand.

"Are you Mr. Babsen?" I called.

"Call me Jude," he said. His voice was as thin and tough as scraped leather. He wore a corduroy jacket and patched-up denim pants. He moved a little stiffly across the pale green grass, but his back was straight enough. "You must be Lewis. Mabry said you'd be this way."

"I'm searching for somewhere," I said. "A place my brother-in-law mentioned in a letter before he went missing. It's called Ottoway."

Babsen squinted into the afternoon sun. "And you think it's 'round here?"

"Sure do."

"Well, I ain't heard of it, but to these weathered ears it sounds Rohinny."

"Rohinny?"

"As in, of the Rohin." The old man waved to the north. "Tribe from yonder hills. Looks bleak, but there's lakes up there. Its people don't venture down much. Makes a man think they know something we don't."

Vette edged her horse forward. "But you've never heard the word itself?"

"Can't recall it."

"Are the Rohin friendly?" I said.

Babsen chuckled, greatly pleased. "Among each other? Must be. You or me try to get near 'em, they'll likely be the last friends we ever try to make."

I nodded. "I thank you for your time. If you remember more, or you need a favor of your own, we'll be in town a couple weeks longer."

His shaggy white eyebrows climbed halfway to his scalp. "You rode all this way to ask about a bit of babble?"

I gave him a half-smile. "And I'll keep riding until I find it."

He shuffed with laughter and gave me a tip of his floppy cap. I turned my horse around and began the descent to the basin.

"What about the tribe?" Vette said once we were beyond earshot.

"They sound hostile."

"Since when did that stop you?"

I gazed across the sun-warmed grass. "Seems smarter to try to find someone who speaks Rohin in Brownville before we risk planting our graves in the mountains."

She jutted her lower lip and nodded. "Okay, that is a much better idea."

The return was entirely uneventful. Men ambled down the Brownville thoroughfare. We went back to the hotel to wash up before poking around to find someone who spoke Rohin. Behind the bar, fresh bruises reddened the skin beneath the barkeep's beard. I murmured to Vette, sending her upstairs.

I cocked my head at the bartender. "Well, if there was another fight, my wife's got an alibi this time."

He looked up, embarrassed, but chuckled through his beard. "Place like this, you know how it is. A man who sells liquor's as foolish as his clients."

I wasn't convinced; he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Is that all that happened?"

"Would it matter otherwise?"

"Can't yet say."

"You the law?"

"Not at all."

"Then what's your care?"

I gave him a wry look. "A man's got to look out for the one who keeps a roof over his head."

He laughed again, a burst of relief, then glanced around the common room. It was well into the afternoon but the day was quiet. He snagged a brown bottle from under the bar and poured a couple shots.

"Guess it's time I told the stories for once." He pushed one of the glasses my way. We drank. The whiskey tore against my throat. He didn't seem to notice its sting himself. He took another look around before going on. "Not much of a story, though. Man wants to buy and I don't want to sell."

I pointed at the ceiling. "This place is yours?"

"Sure enough."

"Explains why you never leave it."

He chuckled again. "And why I'm no no hurry to be rid of it. But when the man's money didn't convince me, he tried his roughnecks' fists instead."

"Why's he so hot to get hold of this place?" I held up one hand for peace. "Not that anyone wouldn't be, of course."

"Beats me. Man's been buying up land all across the basin."

"What's his name?"

He gave me a look sharp enough to split a bison's skull. "This is where curiosity and a cat become short-lived acquaintances."

I leaned closer and gave a careful glance down the bar. "I'm here to find my brother-in-law. He disappeared four weeks ago. May have been a dispute. Possibly over a piece of land."

"Wife's brother?"

"That's right."

"Hell." He sighed expressionlessly. "I'm about to make some noise. A wise man won't listen. But I know when it comes to blood, wise takes a nap."

I nodded. "Were it otherwise."

"Silas Hockery."

"He been in town long?"

"In Brownville, who has?" He poured us another drink. "Year or so. He's from down south, San Claredo or the like. Imagine he wants to buy out the ranchland before the sharks swim in from back East."

I tipped back my glass. "I appreciate it."

The bartender didn't look happy with himself. "And you ought to forget it. The man rides with his own law."

"If he did something to me and mine, he'll learn the law isn't all he has to answer to."

The man gave me a careful look. "You in the war?"

I paused a moment. This place's civil war—specifically, the one that wracked the nation known most often as America, Amerigo, or Columbia—wasn't due for another thirty-odd years. He might be referring to the southern border war, but he might also be talking about a conflict that was unique to this particular timestream.

"I've been around," I said.

"Well, I hope you stay that way." He winked. "And if not, forgive me when I ask your wife for a walk."

I snorted. "Like as not, my wife's fool brother is off chasing a would-be bride of his own. But if Hockery's people come around, you let me know."

We shook on it. I confessed I'd forgotten his name; he told me it was Darrow. As long as I was there, I asked if he knew anyone who spoke Rohin. He allowed that Mrs. Littlewind might—she'd married one of the "savages"—and while he believed she was out of town for another couple days, he offered to write me a letter of introduction, which I accepted and carried back to the room.

Vette sat by the window's waning light flipping through her book. "How's the booze today?"

"Informative." I gave her the rundown on Silas Hockery. "Could be buying up cheap land in the past to leverage in the future. Makes sense."

"No it doesn't. Why would someone from Primetime care about being rich in
Brownville
? That's like trying to get out of the rain by jumping in a lake."

"I don't know."

"You don't know? How can you track a crime if you don't have a motive?"

"I find it's best to leave motives till later," I said. "Look at
what's
happening, not
why
. Following the why can mislead you. Much safer to assess a thing has happened than to try to guess why someone might have made it happen."

She stared at me. "But you're following his motive right now. You think Hockery's involved in a centuries-long land speculation deal. Otherwise you wouldn't care about him at all."

I scowled. "We're not exactly drowning in leads. I'm just following the best ones we've got. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a letter to write."

I ensconced myself at the desk. The drawer held pen, paper, ink, a proper Bible, and two dead silverfish. It took me a minute to figure out how to get the antique pen to start spitting ink, and I had to write slowly to match my handwriting to this world's—Primetime's lower case a's are rounder, and we use a tiny little hook on our lower case l's to differentiate them from the number 1—but within a few minutes, I composed a missive to Mrs. Littlewind. I took Darrow's letter of introduction, stopped downstairs for directions to her house and the courthouse, and entered the grubby streets, which were starting to come alive with prospectors returning from the fields to blow their gold dust on liquor, games, and sex.

Mrs. Littlewind lived across town on a prim hill elevated above the smoke and the smell. Her fence was raw pinewood, but the house walls were whitewashed. I knocked, just in case Darrow was mistaken about her temporary absence, then slid both letters through the brass slot in her door.

Back toward the middle of town, the courthouse was just a couple blocks away from Darrow's joint. It too was wood, cut so fresh I could still smell the sap. It was closed. No hours posted. I headed back to the hotel.

We dressed for evening and returned to the bar to buy the locals drinks and ply them for information. I dropped a few hints that I was interested in Brownville real estate, both to sell and to buy; most of these fishing expeditions led nowhere, but one patch-bearded young man smirked and noted I wasn't the only one looking to buy up lots. Hockery had come by his claim just last week. According to the kid, Hockery had made offers on a third of the holdings in the hills. Clearly the businessman from San Claredo expected a strike, but the kid was too smart to sell his future short.

That was the best I did on the night. Vette's intel matched mine: one of the men she'd spoken to—a man whose pinstriped suit was all at odds with his brambly beard, and who'd bought
her
drinks instead—had sold to Hockery the month before. She'd even gotten a rough location. Back in our room, we marked it on Mabry's map of the hills.

I woke late. Even my Primetime-enhanced liver wasn't capable of wrestling with Old West whiskey without suffering a few punches. I was stiff from sleeping on the floor. Vette looked a little puffy around the eyes, too. I went downstairs for coffee and to jaw with Darrow for a minute, then returned upstairs to dress proper, tying off drawstrings and laces. These people were going to rejoice once they invented elastic. Would probably drop dead if they saw conformus.

Ready at last to meet the day, we exited into a not-quite-warm spring morning. A buffeting breeze stirred Vette's curls, which were notably less splendid than when we'd arrived. We had a week and a half until the Pods yanked us back to Primetime. It felt like plenty of time, but before engine-powered travel and electronic communication, days can get chewed up in a hurry.