Linked Through Time (18 page)

The concrete pillars beneath the bridge were sturdy and eerily familiar. Instead of going for the arch, I limped up the concrete slope, intending to reach the highway, but my ankle made the incline nearly impossible to scale. Falling to my knees, I crawled up the rough wall as bits of gravel mercilessly dug into my skin.

Close to the top, the overgrown weeds and cattails gave me the leverage I needed to pull myself up.

I did it! I made it!
The sight of the highway and its stretch of open road brought tears to my eyes. The air felt different up here; somehow, it was lighter and I could breathe again. A car –
a car
! – was turning into the gravel lot, its tires squealing in protest at the sharp turn and rapid speed. Whoever was driving seemed to spot me and slam on the brakes, the tires catching in the gravel and spewing bits of rocks in response. At the same moment, the door opened, revealing the driver to be Dad.

Dave emerged from the weeds and stumbled out into the road, like some sort of modern day Swamp Thing – wet, wild, and angry.

Dad started to run then, seeing the fear take shape in the silent “O” of my mouth. I held out my arms as Dave approached, backing up slowly until the waist-high wall was the only thing keeping me from going over the bridge and into the water below.

Dave never saw Dad; he only had eyes for me. Soulless, heartless, vacant… It was like stepping back in time and facing the monster again, but now, I was outmatched by about a hundred and fifty pounds.

Seeing Dad only sapped the energy I had left, the fight in me gone. I wanted him to make it all go away – to rescue me once again. But there might as well have been the Grand Canyon separating the two of us, because Dave was there, only a few feet away.

“You were supposed to be dead,” Dave mumbled, staggering forward, a crazed expression making his face unrecognizable. “You were supposed to be dead!” Wrapping his arms around me, Dave lifted me from the ground, my feet scrabbling against the loose gravel as if I was some Scooby Doo cartoon, running in mid-air.

Finally, I found my voice and let loose with a piercing scream that bounced and echoed from underneath the bridge and around the rocks with amazing clarity. Even though it was me who screamed, goose-bumps popped out on my skin. The echo made it sound like a cluster of screams, as though all the wounded ghosts and troubled souls screamed with me in their pain.

Struggling in his grasp, I brought my knee up in a sharp right angle, connecting with Dave’s groin.

He bent at the waist and expelled a blast of breath, but didn’t let go. I sat there, my feet dangling in the air, half bent over the bridge wall when another sound echoed through the air.

Click!

Twisting in Dave’s grasp, I craned my neck to see where the sound came from. Dave seemed to snap from his trance, too, and stiffened to a corpse-like posture.

“Put her down, Dave.” Dad’s voice, strong and sure, broke through the chaos without even a hint of a waiver. “Put her down or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

My eyes went to Dave’s face, waiting for him to show some sort of resignation or acknowledgement. His grip remained strong even though his body had stilled, but his eyes remained expressionless. The concrete wall dug into my back, scraping a patch of fresh skin away and leaving a raw, stinging sensation to add to the pain slowly taking over my body.

Dave looked down at me, his eyes traveling over my face, my hair, the rumpled blouse and skirt. Confusion and pain filled his eyes and the transformation I had only dreamed about, the one where Dave gives himself up willingly, unfolded before my eyes.

Releasing me into a heap on the ground, Dave collapsed like a house of cards, folding in on himself in a sudden onslaught of agony.

“Why did you leave me?” he whispered. He looked at me without seeing me, the haunted feeling I had felt any time someone mentioned Sarah, written all over his face.

Slowly, I inched away, scooting myself across the road in movements so small so as not to snap Dave from his wave of grief.

Dad approached warily, keeping the long barreled shotgun trained on Dave. “Kate? Are you OK?”

Wincing, I managed to stand and limp to him, my twisted ankle now doubled in size. “I’m OK, now,” I said, leaning onto his arm for support.

“Can you get to the car?” he asked, holding me close. When I nodded, he continued, “Take the car to the farm and call the police. Stay there with Gran until I come home.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “I mean it. Stay there.” His gaze bored into my skull, taking in my appearance without asking a single question.
How will I ever explain?

Hobbling to the car took me a full ten minutes. Covered in sweat, I winced at the numerous bloodstains dotting my shirt like a connect-the-dots puzzle. I knew I was a mess. The idea that Gran would see me this way upset me more than anything Dave had ever done. I didn’t want to cause her more grief. And I didn’t want to leave Dad alone with Dave, who was bigger and stronger – and a complete lunatic.

Somehow, I managed to drive away, watching Dad in the rearview mirror the entire time, his stance never moving, like a television program on pause. The only reason I continued driving was the sight of the shotgun secure in Dad’s hands.

It was the last time I ever saw Dave Slater alive.

Chapter Fifteen

Closure

It was hard for me to believe that Dave Slater had killed himself. Confident, domineering, charming Dave Slater finally gave in to the dark side. I thought this would make everything easier, Dave ending the quest I had undertaken, but it only made it that much harder.

Small towns love gossip, and plenty of stories surfaced on what happened out at the Rapid River bridge. Most people refused to believe Dave was a murderer and that he’d been attempting to kill me as my Dad arrived at the scene. I was cast as the slutty city girl who seduced Dave into meeting me, and the obvious conclusion was that Dad killed Dave in a violent rage upon discovering our dirty little secret.

The only two people who really knew what happened – innocent people, I might add – were subjected to hours of questions by the local police. It wasn’t until a full investigation took place, that Dad was cleared and the town went back to whispering behind closed doors. A search warrant of Dave’s place out by Slater’s store turned up sufficient evidence that turned all eyes away from the Christenson family and eventually reopened a cold case from about forty years ago. Fortunately for me, I wouldn’t have to explain the way I had come up with my suspicions of Dave murdering Sarah; he’d kept a nice, tidy, obsessively detailed journal about his and Sarah’s relationship – way past the day she died. Creepy, but helpful.

I hid out at the farm and managed to steer clear of town. I was tired of the stares and pointing fingers. And though the police were temporarily satisfied, Gran and Dad were not. Each night, we stared at each other over the dinner table, daring one another to ask the first question; the only person who actually ate anything was Grandpa, who knew little of what went on the night Dave died. I knew they thought I had an unhealthy obsession with Sarah, and that reenacting the night she died was just some sick, twisted teenage thing to add more drama.

I’ll never forget Gran’s face when I walked in wearing the clothes I bought to look like Sarah. The vast emotions that crossed her face were heartbreaking. For a split second, I knew she thought I was Sarah’s ghost. Whether she was happy for the reunion or scared beyond her wits was beyond me; I had rushed to the phone and dialed the police before any words were spoken between us.

After that, her face was simply full of disappointment – and hurt. From across the kitchen, the way her eyes accused me of betrayal struck a chord deep within. I knew then, she might never understand. And why should she? Would there ever be an excuse worthy of explaining why I’d dressed up as her dead daughter, prancing around trying to solve mysteries like some Nancy Drew wannabe?

             
I was trying to come to grips with the fact that no one might ever know what really happened; the irony of living with secrets, just as Sarah did, was killing me.

And then one night, as I lay amidst the folds of the worn quilt on my bed, running my finger over the crooked letters on the dresser, the distinct feeling of being watched came over me. I rolled over, and there Dad stood, leaning against the doorjamb.

             
“You can tell me anything, you know,” he started as he moved into the room and perched lightly on the edge of the bed, so lightly it looked as though he was scared I might up and run away. “I love you, and I wouldn’t judge you. There’s something eating away at you. I can see it pulling you, testing you – whether or not you should tell. It would help if you could talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me.”

             
I leaned back, looking mildly offended. “Look, I’m not going to talk to a shrink, OK? I did what I did for a reason. I don’t expect you all to understand. I’m not obsessed with Sarah, or death; I’m not into ruining lives just for kicks. Despite what everyone thinks, I tried to do the right thing. I wanted to help Sarah, and you all are assuming my actions were for selfish reasons. I knew she was murdered, Dad. And I knew Dave did it. Simple as that.” Except it wasn’t that simple.

             
He sighed and ran his hands over the rumpled quilt, pulling at a few loose threads.

I tried to picture the eight-year-old Dean in his place. I had felt so much closer to my dad as a child than I ever had as a teenager. Would he ever get me? Or was he too far gone, lost in the throes of being a parent instead of waiting to form an opinion based on actually
listening
to me.

Still, after all, those weeks together in the past showed me what I knew deep down all along. I didn’t want to let him down. I needed him, and I didn’t want to keep living the broken, angry relationship we’d been in for the last few years. I had to let myself trust him and believe he would be there for me when everything was all said and done.

Scenes flashed through my mind, Dad helping me in the barn, saving me from the bull, sharing a Shasta soda, driving home from the fair. Remembering the guilt he carried, knowing about Dave’s violent behavior, maybe I needed to tell the story to relieve him from the pain as well. Maybe then, he could let it all go, and know there was nothing he could have done to stop Dave. He needed healing as much as Sarah needed justice.

I didn’t know where to begin. But when the first words came, the rest flowed as easily as a storybook. Dad never said a word, never interrupted, but his face took on a look of amazement as I related my time spent in the past. The details I recalled could not be made up, as I told him the most impossible things about his childhood. Several times, I saw him open his mouth, ready to interject something, but then he shut it again in astonishment.

When I finished, we sat silent, taking in and weighing every moment. I didn’t notice I had started crying until the tears dropped freely from my cheeks and onto the bare skin of my legs. I wiped them away hastily and sniffled as Dad pulled me in for a hug.

“I can’t explain it. I can’t explain it,” he murmured into my hair, “but you know everything. I believe you, Kate. God help me, I believe you.” And then he laughed, a sort of half sob-half laugh that shook his body. “And I thought
you
needed therapy.”

We laughed at that, using our sleeves to wipe our noses and the tears from our eyes. The telltale squeak of boards giving under someone’s weight broke us apart with a jolt.

Gran appeared in the doorway, her eyes red rimmed and puffy. “I’m sorry,” she choked out with difficulty. “I didn’t mean to pry. Kate… I’m sorry. Sorry that I doubted you. I was just overwhelmed with all of this coming back up after so long. You really went back? You were Sarah?” She moved into the room carefully as though she were afraid of intruding too far into the story and ruining the ending.

“Gran, it was weird. You had dark hair and everything. You made me wash in an old metal tub.” I paused at their laughter. “I saw the day Bobby went to the hospital. I had to cook on the wood stove!”

At this last remark, a stitch of pain crossing her face as she plainly recalled the dreadful day the family almost lost Bobby.

“Yes, Kate. Times were hard back then.” She nodded, patting my shoulder. Her face brightened. “You are so very lucky you didn’t have to stay there through the winter months – when the upstairs got so cold, the girls’ hair froze to the wall!”

“I could see puffs of breath right in my own bed!” Dad added, confirming Gran’s outrageous statement.

“I don’t know how it happened, but let’s just say, I’m glad to be back. My friends at home will never believe me when I tell them I actually
enjoyed
my stay.” I paused. “I enjoyed
most
of my stay.” I sent an apologetic look in Gran’s direction. “You know something,” I said, linking my arm through Dad’s, my eyes traveling to the scrawled letters on the dresser, “I may have helped Sarah get some sort of closure after all these years, but she helped me, too. I learned a lot – some of it about hard work and blisters, but what I really needed to learn was how important it is not to lose sight of your family.”

I laid my head on Dad’s shoulder and he kissed the top of my forehead, something that a few weeks ago, I would have shied away from. “Family is the only real thing you’ve got,” I said. “And every single time I’ve needed you,” I tugged on his arm and thought about the many times he’d saved me in the past few weeks, “you were there for me. I love you, Dad.”

Dad reached out for Gran’s hand, pulling us into an awkward group hug. “Can you repeat that?” He laughed as he ruffled my hair. “I want that on record.”

A loud bang from the kitchen, followed by a hearty squeal from Corey, drew Dad away from the casual embrace. “Be back in a minute,” he said, ruffling my hair for a second time.

Flopping to the bed, I pretended exaggerated exhaustion, throwing my arm across my forehead in the damsel-in-distress fancy.

Gran sat beside me, her face taking on a serious, more subdued look, and she glanced furtively out into the hallway, as if to make sure Dad had descended the stairs.

“Kate,” she said, her soft tone edged with sobering reality. “There’s something we need to talk about. There’s something I need to tell you.” She gripped my hand, urging me to pay attention.

Curious, I sat up, smoothing the worn quilt nervously between my hands. “What is it, Gran? Is everything OK?”

The stillness in the room sent tight knots of anxiety to my stomach. What could she possibly need to say?

Clearing her throat, Gran squeezed my hand and said, “I wasn’t sure you had it. I mean, it made sense and everything. But I didn’t want to scare you, and I was sure you would never believe me.”

             
My eyebrows arched in confusion. What was she talking about?

             
“The link, Kate. You have the link.”

“What are you talking about, Gran? What link?”

“The time travel link.” She stopped as though this were enough. When I didn’t respond, she stood and faced me. “The birthmark above your eye. It sort of resembles – an – ”

“A butterfly?” I interrupted.

“No,” she said, “an hourglass. I had one long ago, but it’s long since faded.” She pointed to the corner of her right eye and, sure enough, I could make out the faint outline of an hourglass against the pale, translucent skin.

“It happened to me, too, Kate. Long ago. I went back in time almost one hundred years! I never told a soul. There were times I just thought I dreamed the whole thing. They would have thought I was crazy and locked me away in some nut house if I ever said anything. But as soon as I saw you dressed like Sarah, I
knew
. You had gone back in time, just as I did when I was a girl.” Gran rubbed her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “You were lucky, Kate, to find your way back. This time.”

I felt the moment my heart stopped; her words sinking into my soul as heavy as an anchor in the ocean. Slowly… slowly… Stuttering and stammering past the icy fingers that laced my throat, I leaned forward in morbid curiosity. “What do you mean,
this time
?”

The End?