Three Days to Never (21 page)

The tires screeched as Bennett gunned the engine and steered away from the curb. The back door swung shut.

Though her ribs were aching, Daphne was craning her neck to look out the back window. The woman held up a hand, either waving or signaling the men in the van not to shoot. Daphne didn't wave back.

“Did
you
make a deal with those people?” Bennett yelled as he pulled his door closed. He turned right onto the wider street at the end of Batsford. “Sell them something Grammar had?”

“No,” said Marrity, helping Daphne straighten up on the seat. “Belt, Daph!” he said. Acceleration pressed them both back against the vinyl upholstery. Daphne fumbled for her seat belt, noticing a burnt smell in the air. Maybe it was the tires.

“They paid me,” panted Bennett, “they want you and Daph real bad. I think—I saw he had a gun—I think they want to
kill
you! Shit.
Shit.
Now they'll want
me
real bad! Maybe I can just give 'em back the money.” Daphne saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, glaring. “What did you
do
?”

“I don't know,” Daphne's father said, tucking his briefcase down in front of his knees and groping to find his own seat belt, “but there's a guy I've got to call. Are you heading for the police station? Take a left on Colorado.”

“Yes. No.” Bennett was breathing hard. “Do you want to go to the police? Your father's back there.”

“He knows them,” said Marrity. “And he didn't want to come with us.” He bit his lip, and Daphne got a quick vision of the old man pushing the sunglasses lady from behind, in the hospital lobby. “He didn't want to come,” he said again. “Actually I should call this guy, before we go to the cops.”

There was a familiar shoe box by Daphne's foot, and she kicked the lid off it—and squeaked in surprise. Bennett swerved in the traffic lane, then angrily said, “What now?”

“Rumbold!” she said. “Daddy, they've got Rumbold here!”

Her father peered over her at the open box on the floor, and his face went blank with surprise. “What the hell?”

“You mean the teddy bear?” Bennett's voice was loud. “Burned up?”

“Yes,” said Daphne's father, “her teddy bear. We buried it. Why do
they
have it?”

“They probably saw you bury something.” Bennett sped up as they passed a Holiday Inn. “They want
something
from you.”

It took Daphne a moment to realize that her father was picturing the videocassette she'd taken from Grammar's VCR, because she was picturing it too. And her father was also picturing a sheaf of creased yellowed papers. The Einstein letters, she was sure.

“I've got to stop and call Moira,” said Bennett as he made a rocking left turn onto Colorado. “Tell her to leave work right now and meet us at the Mayfair Market on Franklin, in
Hollywood. We'll be there before she is, we can wait for her. We're all in some real trouble, I hope you know that.”

Daphne wondered how he could imagine that they might not know that.

“And then what?” asked Marrity.

“I know a place where we can all hide, and decide what to do. Hollywood Hills, panoramic view with Hollywood sign and easy access.” He sighed. “I've still got the keys to the place.”

Bennett had turned right, onto a street called Garfield, but now he sped right past the police station and the high red dome of City Hall, and made a left turn onto a broader street.

Daphne stared out the left-side rear window at the white headstones of a cemetery wheeling past. For a moment she thought of asking Bennett to stop so that she could bury Rumbold there, but she just sighed and kept silent.

C
harlotte could joggingly see herself standing on the sidewalk, and Rascasse lying facedown on it, as Golze hurried up, staring.

“Backup car says sixty seconds,” Golze panted. “Bradley
shot
him?”

“No,” said Charlotte, “he hit him with the butt of the gun, and the gun went off. The bullet went into the tree, I think.” Through Golze's downward-staring eyes she noted the red blood trickling down through Rascasse's spiky white hair to puddle on the sidewalk pavement under his chin. She was mildly surprised to find that she didn't feel anything at all about him.

“Have the boys be ready to lift him,” Charlotte said.

“I may do that,” Golze snapped, “or I may leave him right here. I think he's dead.”

Golze's vision shifted to the right, and focused on the old man who had refused to get into Rascasse's hijacked car with the Marrity family.

“Who are
you
?” Golze asked.

“He's the guy who was driving the Rambler,” said Charlotte. “Frank Marrity's father.” And he gave me an awful shove, she thought, this morning at the hospital.

The old man smiled, though his face went blank again when Golze said, “Bullshit, we killed Marrity's father in '55, in New Jersey. Who are you?”

The old man licked his lips. “Do you have Frank Marrity's fingerprints?”

“Yes,” said Golze.

The old man visibly took a deep breath. “Good, you'll want to check this. I'm Frank Marrity, the same guy who just drove away in that car, but I'm from the year 2006. I want to make a deal with you people.”

For several long seconds Golze's gaze was fixed on the old man, and Charlotte stared right along with him. Her face tingled, but she couldn't tell if it was hot or cold.

I
knew
it was possible, she thought breathlessly, I knew Rascasse and Golze were on the track of something that could be attained. I can save my young self, save her vision, save her soul from all my sins…if this guy isn't lying.

The old man who claimed to be Frank Marrity licked his lips again. “
Killed
my father?—in 1955! Why?”

Charlotte's view of him was blacked out for a moment: Golze had blinked heavily. “Ask the dead guy on the sidewalk there,” Golze said. His gaze swung back toward the van, and one of the men who had been inside it was growing in apparent size as he strode up to them.

The man waved back over his shoulder. “Car's here.”

“Frisk this guy,” said Golze, nodding toward the old man, “then get Rascasse into the car. Charlotte and Hinch and the old guy come with us in the car, you and Cooper stay with the van. Tell the cops one of those guys was shooting at the other, missed and hit the van's tire. You don't know who they were. Give a bad description of them, and of the car. Say
we
were just strangers who stopped to help, and drove off with this injured guy to find a hospital. You don't know who anybody was. You're bewildered and angry, right? Toss your guns in the car trunk right now.”

Golze turned to the street, where a white four-door Honda was slanting in ahead of the van, so Charlotte switched her attention to the man Golze had been talking to, who now proceeded to pat down the old man.

She was still dizzy. As she watched the hands slap and slide over the potbellied torso and the new-looking clothes, Charlotte wondered if this could really be Frank Marrity from…nineteen years in the future. If he was, the years had not been kind. How was
your
light spent, Frank? she thought. In what dark world and wide? You're a nice-looking guy in '87—what happened?

A hand grabbed her elbow from behind, and she reflexively switched attention—Golze was looking at her, pulling her toward the car.

“You in back on the left,” Golze said to her, “Marrity in the middle, Rascasse on the right. Hurry.”

Rascasse wasn't dead—when he had been hoisted up and was being folded into the Honda, he raised his blood-smeared face and muttered something in French.

“Oh la la,” said Golze, shoving the old man's head down to get him into the car, then wiping his hand on the shoulder of Rascasse's suit.

As she hurried around to get in on the other side, Charlotte was thinking about the little girl she had waved to in the fleeing car. Charlotte had seen her through Golze's eyes and then jumped to the girl's viewpoint—and it had
been
the girl's viewpoint, because Charlotte had seen herself behind the car, on the fast-receding sidewalk—but suddenly she had glimpsed a quick image of the little girl herself, up close, in profile.

It only seems to happen with Frank Marrity and his daughter, thought Charlotte as she slid into the seat next to the old Frank Marrity and pulled the door closed, this falling into one viewpoint from the other. What does that mean?

And why did I wave at her?

S
hit,” said Bennett shrilly, “a cop.”

In the backseat next to Daphne, Marrity didn't look around. “Has he got his lights on?” They were driving north on Fair Oaks Avenue, over the bridge that spanned the 210 freeway.

The stolen car rocked as Bennett hit the brakes.

“No, but he's right behind us! How fast was I going just now? What if he pulls us over? I haven't called Moira yet! And I've got fifty thousand dollars in my pocket! My God, what have you people
done
to me? You fucking Marritys—”

“Lay off the brake and just drive straight,” Marrity said sharply.

“This car is stolen! I've got a gun in my pocket! And it was fired only a few minutes ago! Oh Jesus—” His hands were visibly shaking on the steering wheel.

Beside Marrity, Daphne turned around and knelt on the seat to look out the back window.

A moment later Marrity heard a muffled
boom,
and with
a sudden cold chill in his stomach he guessed what had happened. He twisted around to look, and sure enough there was a car receding behind them, its hood up and billows of steam whipping around it in white veils.

“Make the first—” Marrity began.

“The police car blew up!” interrupted Bennett.

“I know. Make the first right turn you can, and pull over. I'll drive.” Marrity smelled burning plastic.

“Jesus, now the car's on fire!”

“It's just your ashtray,” said Marrity, feeling ready to vomit. His own hands were shaking now. “It'll—”

“It's the stereo,” said Daphne. “There isn't an ashtray.”

“Get off this street and park, dammit!” said Marrity loudly.

“Dad, I'm sorry,” said Daphne, “I thought I had to!”

“Maybe you did, Daph.” They swayed on the seat as Bennett wrenched the car into a right turn. Marrity wasn't sure his anger and dismay were justified, and he tried to keep them out of his mind, where Daphne could sense them. “Are the cops all right?”

Daphne was crying now. “Y-yes, I just grabbed the radiator!”

Bennett had turned right on Villa, and now steered the car to an abrupt stop against the curb. Black smoke was pouring up from the dashboard and curling under the windshield.

“I think we just abandon this car,” said Marrity, levering open the right-side door and grabbing his briefcase. “Come on, Daph.”

“I've got to bring Rumbold!”

“Sure, bring Rumbold.”

Bennett climbed out of the car, and Marrity took Daphne's free hand and began striding away up the sunlit Villa Street sidewalk.

“Did Daphne blow up the cop car?” Bennett demanded breathlessly, catching up with them.

“Bennett, that's crazy,” snapped Marrity. “Don't go crazy now.” He peered ahead, not wanting to look back at the car.
“I see some stores. Is that fifty thousand dollars of yours in cash?”

“Of course not,” said Bennett. “But you asked her if the cops were all right, and she said—”

“Then I'll give you a quarter to call Moira with. She still works at the dentist's office in Long Beach, right? I'll give you a couple of quarters. We can stop for a drink after you call and still have plenty of time to get a cab and meet her in Hollywood.”

“Or an ice cream,” said Daphne humbly, trotting along beside him.

“Or an ice cream,” Marrity agreed, squeezing her hand. “There used to be an ice-cream place up here when I was a kid.” He cleared his throat. “Bennett,” he added awkwardly, “I think you saved our lives back there. At Grammar's house.”

“And probably got myself killed doing it,” said Bennett. “I'm not joking.” He slapped his pockets. “I left my sunglasses in the car.”

“You can afford another pair. The guy I'm going to call is with the National Security Agency. He'll believe what we tell him, and I think he'll arrest your—Sturm und Drang, and the woman who tried to kill Daphne and me this morning.” And I hope they'll rescue my father, he thought, who also saved my life today. Marrity looked at Bennett, for once not focusing on the scowl and the bristly mustache. “I'm—grateful to you for saving me, and for saving my daughter,” he said.

“Fuck you and your daughter,” said Bennett, hurrying along. “And the NSA can't arrest people, they'd have to get the FBI to do it.”

“Do you really have fifty thousand dollars in your pocket?” asked Daphne.

“I think it's two dollars less than fifty thousand,” said Bennett gruffly. “I—shouldn't have said ‘Fuck you.'”

“That's okay. Anybody who saves my dad's life can say anything he wants.”

“Anybody who saves your dad's life should get a checkup from the neck up.” He squinted at Marrity. “What does the National Security Agency have to do with all this? And
Daphne said she grabbed the radiator—after you asked her if the cops were—”

“Grammar's father was Albert Einstein,” interrupted Marrity. He was sweating, and his mouth still felt too full of saliva. “Grammar had something she got from Einstein, some kind of machine, I gather. The NSA wants it, and I imagine this crowd who tried to kidnap us just now wants it too.” How much should he tell Bennett about all this? The man deserved to know something about what he had got tangled up in. “Grammar probably used it on Sunday, and that got everybody's attention, got all these people on to…us, her descendants. They all think we have it, or know where it is.”

“Bullshit her father was Einstein.”

Marrity blinked at him. “Does that really strike you as the most…today, the most implausible thing you've…” He waved and let the sentence go unfinished.

“Did Daphne use this machine to blow up the police car?”

“No. I don't know.” Marrity spat into a hedge, and for a moment thought he would have to crouch behind the hedge to be sick. “In a way, maybe,” he added hoarsely, taking a deep breath and stepping forward into the breeze.

His briefcase was getting heavy, and he could sense the ache in Daphne's arm from carrying Rumbold in the shoe box. She was about to explain, and he decided not to stop her.

“I watched that movie that I stole from Grammar's shed,” she said, looking down at the sidewalk as she skipped to keep up with her father. “
Pee-wee's Big Adventure,
except it was actually another movie, an old silent movie.” She blinked up at Bennett, squinting against the sun. “The movie scared me so bad that I burned up the VCR and my bed. Rumbold was on my bed.”

“Poltergeist,” said Bennett.

Oh that's all we needed, thought Marrity.

“Poltergeist?” asked Daphne in dismay. “Like the ghosts that came out of the TV, in that movie?”

“No, Daph,” Marrity said, trying to project reassurance, “real poltergeist stuff isn't like the stuff in that movie at all.
Poltergeist is when a teenage girl sets things on fire, at a distance, when she's upset. Nothing to do with ghosts or TV sets.”

“Well,” said Bennett, “it's supposed to be children around puberty, both boys and girls, though admittedly most recorded cases involve girls; and it's not just starting fires, by any—”

“Bennett,” said Marrity. “It's a girl this time. And it's fires, this time.”

“I was only—”

“There's a phone booth,” interrupted Marrity, nodding ahead. “And there's a drive-in burger stand that probably sells ice cream.”

It wasn't the place he remembered from his childhood—he and Moira had ridden their bicycles to an A&W root-beer stand that used to be here, in the early '60s. But this was the place that time had left them, and it looked as if it would do.

I
'm only going to eat the ice cream,” said Daphne, “not the cone.”

Bennett, and then Marrity, had talked to Moira on the pay phone, and had managed to convince her to leave work at once and drive to the Mayfair Market on Franklin, in Hollywood. Marrity had then phoned for a taxi, and had been told that one would pick them up in half an hour. Now they were at a picnic table in the roofed patio behind the hamburger stand, not visible from the street.

“Why not the cone?” asked Marrity. “Did he touch it?”

“Yes! He's supposed to take it from the bottom of the package, with the little paper holder, but he took it out of the top, with his fingers.”

“His hands are probably clean.”

“He handles money.”

“Oh, yeah—good point.”

Bennett had ordered a cup of coffee, but pushed it aside on the picnic table after one sip. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his white shirt, since all the paper napkins Daphne
had pulled out of the dispenser had blown away when her father moved Rumbold's box, which had been holding them down.

“Those Sturm and Drang guys,” said Bennett, “told me they were in negotiation with you to buy something Grammar had—this machine, apparently. They said you were going to keep the money, even though Moira should get half.”

“That was a lie,” said Marrity, sipping a cup of coffee of his own. “I've never spoken to Sturm und Drang, and I only met the sunglasses girl yesterday afternoon. We just talked about Milton, but then this morning she tried to shoot me, and a few minutes after that she tried to shoot me and Daphne both.”

“Are you serious?
Shoot
you? Did she have a gun?”

“Yes, Bennett,” said Marrity patiently, “and she fired it too. Several times. At me.”

Bennett frowned and shook his head. Then he asked, “Who's Milton?”

“A poet,” said Daphne. “Dead for a long time.”

Bennett waved impatiently. He was squinting fiercely at the cars in the shopping-center parking lot. “Why would your father have stayed with that crowd?” he asked Marrity.

“He knows them, I gather,” said Marrity. “I don't know anything about him—we only met
him
yesterday.”

“Moira hates him.”

“So do I, probably. Though he saved my life this morning, at the hospital.”

“You didn't tell us Daphne was in the hospital,” said Bennett. “I had to find out from Sturm and Drang, this morning.”

“It was very sudden,” said Marrity.

“My dad did a tracheotomy on me, on the floor of Alfredo's restaurant,” said Daphne proudly, “on Base Line. With a knife.”

“They gave you fifty thousand dollars?” asked Marrity.

“I guess so. You did a tracheotomy yourself? An emergency tracheotomy? Wow.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve again. “Originally the fifty thousand was for whatever it was that your grandmother had, this machine, I guess. But then it was just for handing over you and Daphne.”

Marrity shuddered. “I'm glad you didn't hand us over to them.” He didn't ask Bennett whether he had intended to split the money with him.

Daphne had by now eaten all the ice cream off the cone. “Don't you think the germs would be dead by now?”

“What germs?”

“From the ice-cream man's hands. Wouldn't the open air kill them?”

“I suppose it might.”

She held the cone up and blew on it, turning it to catch all sides. “They'd blow off, wouldn't they? Germs?”

“Yeah, I bet they would. Be sure to chew it, thoroughly.”

“You're supposed to say, ‘Absolutely.'”

“Absolutely.”

“Well don't say it if you don't mean it.”

“Daph, I have no idea whether they'd blow off or not.”

“Well, he didn't touch the tip,” she said judiciously, and bit the point off the end, and melted ice cream spilled down her chin and onto her blouse.

She dropped the cone onto the table. “I need clean clothes,” she said. “So do you, Dad. We've been wearing these since yesterday. And toothbrushes.”

“There's our taxi,” said Marrity, getting to his feet.

“I think there's a washing machine at this house we're going to hide out in,” said Bennett.

C
harlotte was looking out through the eyes of the old fellow who claimed to be Frank Marrity from the future.

In the rearview mirror she could see the blue eyes of young Hinch, who she recalled had been a theology student at a Bay Area seminary before his progressive, urbanely skeptical instructors had driven him to look elsewhere for a true supernatural power. The Vespers had picked him up with the promise, as she privately thought of it, that “ye shall not surely die: for God doth know that in the day ye eat the fruit thereof, then your eyes shall be opened and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.”

Denis Rascasse, slumped unconscious now on the far side of the Marrity guy, would probably have said something like
efficiency
rather than
evil.
And
cowardice
rather than
good.

Over the headrest of the passenger seat she could see a few curls of Golze's disordered dark hair.

The radio on the dashboard clicked and hissed, and then a voice said, “Tierce.”

Golze picked up the microphone. “Seconde.”

“We found Prime's car, guns of Navarone.” Golze impatiently switched frequencies, and the voice went on, “On Yucca. Nobody relevant visible in the neighborhood. The stereo was burned up, car full of smoke.”

“Does it run?”

“Yes, runs fine.”

“Meet us at Santa Monica and Moby Dick.”
Click.
“And Van Ness. We'll switch cars, you take this one.”

“Gotcha,” said the voice, and Golze hung the microphone on its hook.

“Take us to Santa Monica and Van Ness,” he said to Hinch.

Charlotte wondered why the stereo of Rascasse's car should have caught fire.

Abruptly she found herself seeing her own right-side profile; she was alarmed by the stress lines around her mouth and eyes. She turned to look toward the Marrity man, and was glad to see that in the full-face view, the sunglasses hid the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes.