Rearview (4 page)

7

The alarm sounded the same time it did every morning, pulling Dan Blakely from London's nineteenth century. The steady beeping gradually grew louder until he reached over and, groping about like a man in pitch-blackness looking for his lost flashlight, found the Off button.

7 a.m.

Slowly, as if to do it too quickly would land him back on the mountainside pinned beneath a hulk of mangled metal, Dan opened his eyes and oriented himself. The ceiling fan above the bed turned slowly, not making even a whisper of sound. He was in his room, safely tucked into his bed, and it was seven in the morning. The blinds were turned down but still some murky light slipped through the slats. Beside him, the bed was empty, the indentation of Sue's head still on her pillow. The house was quiet. One by one he moved his limbs—arms first, working from the fingers to the wrists, then elbows and shoulders; then he moved to his hips, knees, ankles. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the warm air of the bedroom. No pain. Everything seemed to be working properly.

Thinking, hoping he had dreamed the whole thing, from Erin's accusation and the meeting with Gary to the trip up Bender's Mountain and the odd interaction with Thomas Constant, Dan smiled. Constant must have been merely a figment of his imagination, a dream character pieced together by a montage of memories and images tucked away in the recesses of Dan's mind. He rubbed his face, wiped the sleep from his eyes. It had to have been a dream. Constant's crazy proposition went against everything true and real, as irrational as a slick illusionist claiming the ability to walk on water. No one could turn back the clock.

Dan pushed away the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. The dream had been so real, though—the panic, the pain, the encounter with Constant. He'd never had a dream so vivid and detailed before. He remembered everything, down to the intense thirst and the snowflakes landing on his lips, the texture of the ground beneath him, the striations of varying shades of blue in Constant's eyes. It was incredible, unbelievable. If it wasn't so absurd, he'd have to reconsider whether it was a dream at all.

And yet, despite his attempts to convince himself that what he'd seen and heard and felt (oh, man, what he'd felt—the pain and fear), Dan couldn't help but be overwhelmed by a notion of urgency. Like a sixth sense warning him of some impending danger, his pulse rate rose, muscles tensed. He could practically feel the steady surge of adrenaline infusing his blood. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and walked spidery legs down his spine.

But Dan shook the sudden involuntary reaction off as nothing more than the remnants of an overly detailed dream. His mind was still in some kind of nebulous state, unable to differentiate between reality and fantasy.

He stood, pulled the covers back up to the pillows, and padded into the bathroom, where he shaved and showered. The hot water failed to relax him. His state of heightened awareness persisted. He had the feeling something grave was going to happen, something of such magnitude that it would forever change the way he looked at the world.

Dan shut off the water and stood in the shower, naked and cold. The vent fan hummed quietly, sucking the moisture and warm air from the small room. The feeling of urgency that had gripped him while he sat on the bed, then stood under the stream of hot water, had only elevated. He had a powerful sense that he needed to
do
something and do it quickly. Resting his forehead against the tiled wall, he drew in a series of deep breaths, trying to calm himself, settle his blood pressure, relax his muscles. But it was a futile attempt and served only to increase his tension and restlessness.

When the steam had cleared from the bathroom mirror, Dan stepped out of the shower and stared at himself, studied his face. He had his father's sharp nose and smallish chin; his mother's heavy eyelids and broad forehead. His was not the face of someone afflicted with insanity, but one never knew, did they? If he was aware of his own insanity, then he couldn't really be insane. Crazy people didn't know they were crazy. They saw themselves as perfectly balanced, having all their marbles in the right place.

Maybe the stress of his job and the encounter with Erin had triggered some psychosis, some deep-seated paranoia that had long ago planted itself in his psyche when his father had been taken from them, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Dan never had the chance to say good-bye, to tell his dad he was loved, appreciated. That had been a lot for a twelve-year-old to absorb and deal with and he wasn't sure the process had ever completed itself. Maybe now it was rearing its head as this irrational fear.

With the towel wrapped around his waist, Dan walked back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out a solid gray button-down shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. He didn't know how long he'd stood in the bathroom, gazing at his face in the mirror, how long he'd studied the lines, the creases, the blemishes, trying to find some assurance that he was indeed still holding a full deck of cards. Turning, he glanced at the clock.

His pants slipped from his hand and dropped to the floor. It read 6:37. He was sure he'd set the alarm for seven. It was the same every morning and he never changed it, not even on weekends. Dan was not only low maintenance, but he was a creature of habit. Sue might have changed it to six, but that meant he'd just spent thirty-seven minutes in the bathroom. He doubted that.

He stood there dumbly watching the clock as if expecting it to suddenly speak and explain itself and its unexpected reading. The minute digit changed but did not advance to thirty-eight. Rather, the clock now read 6:36.

It was counting backward.

A chill blew up Dan's back, over his shoulders, and down his arms. He crossed the room to the bedside table and picked up his watch. It too showed the unexplainable time.

Dan sat on the bed and watched the clock, hoping beyond hope that what he'd seen had a simple explanation, maybe a brain blink, his mind tricking his eyes. He waited, his palms going wet with sweat and his breath shallow and quick. A minute passed and the clock changed again. 6:35.

Thomas Constant's voice was in Dan's head then:
“Very well . . . but you'll only have seven hours. Remember that. Time is a respecter of no one. Seven hours.”

The clock was ticking away his seven hours. Yesterday, or today, or whenever it was had been no dream at all. It was real. Constant was real, and so was his silver, ornate pocket watch with the number 7 engraved on the back.

Constant said Dan would be given only seven hours and then Death would come calling. His time would be up. Now he only had six and half left.

Six and half hours until he died.

8

Dan Blakely sat on the edge of his bed in his empty bedroom, head in his hands, feeling like he'd just run a mile at top speed. Only this had been no run for pure enjoyment and not even for victory and bragging rights; it had been a run of urgency, a run not to any place special but
from
someone or something. Cold sweat dotted his forehead, his mouth was dry, and his pulse tapped a staccato rhythm in his ears. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible, ridiculous, totally preposterous . . . and yet, there it was—the clock didn't lie. The remaining minutes and hours of his life were ticking away, fading into eternity past like ebb tide water sifting through sand, receding into the vast ocean.

He'd briefly entertained the idea that all this might be one complex, hilarious joke but dismissed it as unfeasible. While there might be a way to make a digital clock count backward, he expected neither Jack nor Murphy was aware of it, nor Sue. And no one he knew—not family, no colleague, not the pastor—possessed the power to plant dreams in someone's head. Sue could be persuasive when she was determined to win an argument or steer Dan to see things her way but not that persuasive. She did not possess the power of mind manipulation and control.

Just to be sure he was still planted in reality and hadn't engaged in a brief layover in the land of Loco, Dan picked up the phone and dialed the number for his school voice mail account. It rang once before a woman's automated voice asked for his ID. Though he hadn't the faintest idea whose voice was used for the voice mail options, he'd named her Gretchen.

“Good morning, Gretchen,” he said before punching in the numbers. She did not reciprocate his well-wishing but instead asked for his password. His thumb shook.

“I'm sorry,” Gretchen said, “the number you entered is invalid. Please enter your password again.”

“Oh, Gretchen, c'mon. We do this every morning.” He tried again.

Two rings signaled he'd entered the correct numbers. Gretchen notified him of one waiting message.

Gary's voice came on: “Dan, I need to see you in my office first thing in the morning. It's urgent.” The pause was there again, the same pause Dan had heard before. It was the same message. “As soon as you get in, okay?”

Without wasting another moment, another minute of his life, another backward tick of the clock, Dan quickly dressed and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, the sticky note from Sue was there.
I love you, babe. You're the best (husband, dad—you know!) Love, Sue.
Like before, he folded it in half and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, but this time he skipped the bagel and coffee. Grabbing the car keys off the hook above the counter, he headed for the garage. When he pushed through the door from kitchen to garage, he half expected to find a twisted ball of mashed metal, broken plastic, and shattered glass, but the Volvo was in one piece, shiny from the washing he'd given it the other day, sitting quietly as if it had never known the violence inflicted upon it from the roll down the mountainside. Of course, it
had
never known that violence. As far as reality was concerned—this reality—it had never happened.

The vehicle started without hesitation as the garage door lifted. Dan sat behind the wheel, gripping it with both hands, and settled his breathing. He had to think. Sue was in New York with the boys. New York was almost two hours away. He hit the wheel and cursed, two activities he rarely engaged in. If he had believed the deal Constant offered was for real, he could have replayed the confrontation with Erin, handled it totally differently, then gone home and immediately told Sue what had happened, somehow provided an alibi for himself. Or at the very least, he could have chosen to go back to last night so he could see Sue and the boys and spend the whole evening with them. He could have played Uno and Skip-Bo with the boys, could have stayed up late with Sue, until his final second ticked away. But pinned beneath the car, he had been under such stress, his body had gone through so much trauma, so much pain, and Constant's proposition had seemed so absurd . . . it
was
so absurd. Dan had no idea his strange visitor could really control time. Now here he was, wanting to see his family one last time, and he would have to waste two hours of his final moments sitting in a car.

Unless . . . He fished for his cell phone. Sue could meet him halfway, cut the driving time in half, and he'd have an extra hour to spend with his family. He quickly dialed her number and waited. It went right to voice mail. She was forever forgetting to recharge the battery. He didn't leave a message; she wouldn't get it until he was long gone anyway. He'd just have to drive there. With rush hour nearly passed, the roads would be mostly clear and he could make good time. The Volvo had an engine full of horses and would get him to New York quickly.

First there was something he had to do, business he had to take care of. He hated to because of the time it would take, but for Sue and the boys' sake, for their ongoing peace of mind, for their future without him, he had to. If he was going to leave this earth, he didn't want them having to deal with the fallout of the whole Erin thing. It was too late to prevent her accusations, but there still might be a way to make it right.

Dan pressed the accelerator, and the tires chirped on the concrete as the vehicle left the garage. The campus was only a couple short minutes away by car, but weaving through the curvy roads, slowing for students in crosswalks, and stopping at intersections all ate up precious time. Finally Dan stopped in front of Rebecca Residence, a large two-story dormitory named after Daniel Boone's wife. The residence was fairly new, having been built just a few years before Dan joined the faculty. It had been carefully designed to blend in with the rest of the centuries-old architecture of the college. The builder had done a good job, too. To the untrained eye, it appeared to have been sitting in its same location for over two hundred years.

He glanced at his watch—6:03. 7:57 a.m. Erin should be up and getting ready for her first class, and if she wasn't, he'd do the job. He needed to talk some sense into her, convince her to recant the ridiculous accusations she'd leveled against him. She had to understand the damage they would do, the damage they'd already done.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Dan drew in a deep breath. The air felt the same as it had before—cold and moist. Thousands of feet above, snow pushed on the clouds, weighed them down, and threatened to break loose.

Feeling a lot like Lucy Pevensie about to enter that magical wardrobe for the first time, he crossed the sidewalk and climbed the steps to the dormitory, not knowing what to expect but hoping Erin would listen to reason. He wouldn't leave until she heard what he had to say.

But he had to make it quick.

Time was not on his side.

9

A picture of Lady Gaga, torn from a magazine, was taped to the door of room 216. Beside it hung a wooden Santa Claus with a string attached to a small brass bell. When the string was pulled, Santa danced a festive jig and rang his bell. Written on the jolly elf's stomach were the words “Ring for Service.”

Dan made a fist and knocked on the door.

A girl's voice came from inside the room. “Door's open.”

Dan Blakely was not confrontational by nature. Rather, he preferred to keep the peace whenever possible. Only when poked and prodded, when pushed to the point of anger and then some, would he confront head-on. Normally he opted to sidestep opposition and find an alternative route.

This was not one of those times. With sweaty hands and his heart in his throat, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. From the doorway, Dan could see only half of the dimly lit room, one bed, and a cluttered desk. The walls were nearly covered with posters of music and movie stars and half-dressed men. Warm air wafted out, carrying a flowery aroma, but neither Erin nor her roommate, Rachel Fissel, were in view.

Dan stood at the threshold and forced himself to swallow. “Hello?”

“Yeah, come on—” Rachel stepped out from around the corner, looked at Dan, and said, “Oh.” She glanced toward the bathroom. “Erin, it's, uh, for you.”

Erin came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her head. She wore tight jeans and a thick wool sweater. “What . . . ?” When she saw Dan, her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. A faded, blue-green bruise darkened her right eye and another shadowed the corner of her mouth.

Composing herself as one might when pleading the Fifth Amendment at the advice of her attorney, she clamped her lips tight and set her jaw.

“We need to talk, Erin.”

“I don't have anything to say to you.” She tried to shut the door on him, but he held it open with his hand.

“No,” Dan said, panic now climbing into his chest. “You need to listen to me. Please, you can't do this.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” She tried again to shut the door, but this time he stepped forward and blocked it with his foot.

“Get out,” she hollered. Rachel backed up a few steps. In the hallway a couple students stopped to gawk, mumbled among themselves, then kept moving.

Dan shoved his way into the room. “Erin, listen—”

“Call the cops, Rachel.” She kept her eyes on Dan as she spoke.

To Rachel, Dan said, “No. Don't do it. I'm not here for trouble. Just to talk.”

He raised both hands, palms out, and said to Erin, “Listen to me. Think about what you're doing.” He spoke fast, running his words together. He didn't have much time and had to say what he'd come to say before this unwanted confrontation attracted too much attention. “Think about how it affects everyone. My wife, my two little boys, Jack and Murphy—you've met them.” Dan had brought the boys to class a couple times and Erin in particular had shown them special attention.

Erin crossed her arms and dropped her eyes to the floor.

Dan lowered his voice. “Please, Erin. You have to take it back. Come clean. Do the right thing here. You have no idea the damage you're causing.”

She lifted her head and glared at him. “The damage
I'm
causing? What about the damage you've caused already?”

He knew she was referring to his decision to give her a failing grade for the semester. It was school policy for anyone caught cheating, written in stone, had been for nearly two centuries. Daniel Boone was no cheater and it would not be tolerated in his namesake school. “You cheated, Erin. You know you did. And you know the policy. You sign off on it at the beginning of every year. This is bigger than just you. Take responsibility for your actions. Think of someone beside yourself.”

“I want you out of my room or I'll call the police myself.”

More students had gathered in the hallway. Their murmuring and whispering grew louder as if they anticipated a WWE event to spontaneously break out. Dan had to get out of there soon. He knew nothing of piledrivers and tomahawk chops.

He pointed at the bruises on Erin's face. “Who did this to you?”

She raised her voice. “Like you don't know.”

“You know I didn't do it. You know it, Erin.”

Dan looked around the room, found a framed photo of Erin with Justin Rodgers, a linebacker on the school's football team. Dan had never had him in any classes but had seen him around campus. Big guy, heavy on muscle, scarce on personality. A bulldozer with a brain. He motioned toward the picture. “Did he do it? Did Rodgers hit you?”

Dan had always been gifted in reading people, in noticing the slightest changes in their expressions, the shadows in their eyes, the tonal adjustments in their voice. He didn't miss the subtle shift of Erin's eyes.

“Get out of my room.” Her face reddened and tears built in her eyes. She reached for her cell phone on the dresser and held it up as if it were a hand grenade. “Get out!”

Dan was about to leave when he heard a commotion in the hallway. Someone said Justin's name. The small gathering of students shifted and parted as if allowing the world champion wrestler to make his way to the ring. Dan was in no mood for taunting and trash-talking.

Justin appeared in the doorway, his shoulders almost touching each jamb. He stood well over six feet tall and was as thick and muscled as a side of beef. Looking from Erin to Dan and back to Erin, he furrowed his brow, stuck out his chest, and said, “What's goin' on?”

Erin didn't run to him, nor did she cry out for help.

Despite his aversion to confrontation and against his better judgment, Dan pointed at Erin's face and said to Justin, “Did you do this to her? Did you hit her?”

Justin glanced at Erin, then stared double daggers at Dan. In his eyes were malice and a wild lust for violence. He was a bull eyeing the matador, snorting and chuffing and pawing at the ground. “What is this?” He took two steps forward and grabbed a handful of Dan's shirt, yanked him close.

Dan had never been in a fight before, had never even come close to that kind of physical confrontation. He was as nonviolent as a nonpacifist could be. But when Justin snatched at his shirt and Dan saw the flames of cruelty in the brute's eyes, something broke loose. Adrenaline flooded into his bloodstream.

Before Justin could act on the clear threat he'd issued, Dan decided to get in a punch of his own, a blow that hit Justin square in the abdomen. The big guy exhaled loudly, a gust of wind that wafted over Dan's face, and loosened his grip. Dan pulled away and yielded to the primal urges that put his previous inhibitions on hold. He charged Justin headfirst and shoved him out into the hallway. Bodies scattered; a girl screamed. Someone shouted, “That's Dr. Blakely!”

Justin slammed into the wall and grunted. Dan tried to pull away, but the beast had ahold of his shirt and yanked him forward, driving a knee into his chest. Air was forced from Dan's lungs like a bellows. Stumbling back, he tried to steady his footing, but the floor seemed to undulate under him, churning and rolling like an angry sea.

Justin was quick for his size, and before Dan was able to orient himself, he came under an explosion of fists, pummeling his head, back, ribs. He was shoved against the wall and pinned there. Another blow landed in his abdomen, robbing him of breath and doubling him over. He dropped to his knees. Students hollered, screamed; some laughed. Watching a professor get the stuffing knocked out of him was unexpected entertainment before their first classes of the day.

With one quick motion, Dan found strength buried deep within the sinews of his aching muscles and took a powerful, compact swing at Justin's groin. His fist landed squarely and hit its mark. Justin moaned and stumbled back, taking short, choppy steps. He bent at the waist and grabbed at his crotch with both hands.

Dizzy from the barrage of punches he'd suffered, Dan climbed to his feet and charged the wounded monster. With both legs, he launched himself at Justin. One hand landed on the big man's chest, the other on his face. Following Justin's backward momentum, Dan drove him into the far wall, bringing his head up and back and slamming it into the cinder block. The back of Justin's skull impacted the wall with a sickening thud. His eyes rolled back and his thick legs buckled like broken sticks. He went to his knees and shook his head, grimacing.

Dan cocked his arm and landed a punch to the side of Justin's face. The tough guy went down hard, crumpling to the floor like he was made of paper.

The hallway fell quiet. Dan, heaving, pulling air into his lungs in rapid bursts, stood erect and looked around. At least twenty students were there, ogling him, mouths agape, eyes wide. Some of them were his students. He lifted his hand and wiped it across his eyebrow. It came away red. He was bleeding. He glanced at his watch—5:37. He'd wasted too much time in there.

Justin lay on his side on the floor, motionless, a small pool of blood soaking into the carpet behind his head. Erin stood in the doorway of her room, both hands to her mouth, tears wetting her cheeks. She looked at Dan, then at Justin, then back at Dan. There was fear in her eyes but also relief.

Nausea bit into Dan's stomach and twisted it like a dishrag.

He pointed at Justin on the floor. “You don't have to be afraid anymore, Erin. Please, do what's right. For me and my family. For you.”

Craving space and fresh air, Dan pushed through the crowd. Behind him, he thought he heard a familiar voice say, “Time's ticking.” But when he turned, he found no black-suited visitor dangling a silver pocket watch, only a gaggle of students looking dumbly at him with wide eyes and open mouths.

Outside, the sky promised snow. Pain joined the nausea in his ribs, his back, his head. He had to get out of there before the police came. He'd done nothing wrong; it was self-defense. There were plenty of witnesses to confirm that. But he didn't have time for questions and reports. He didn't have time for anything.

He ran for the car and got in, started the engine, and gripped the wheel with clammy palms. The knuckles of his right hand were red and swollen. He shifted into drive and stepped on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward.

Tears came then, flooding Dan's eyes and blurring the campus roads. The confrontation, first with Erin, then with Justin, had been too much for him. He needed to settle himself, regroup, clean up. But he couldn't go home. That would be the first place anyone looking for him would go. He had to head for New York and would stop at a gas station along the way, well out of town and somewhere off the highway.