Recursion(99)

“What is it regarding?”

“Just open the door, please.”

Five seconds elapse.

Barry thinking, He’s not going to let me in.

He puts his badge away, and as he takes a step back to kick the door in, the chain on the other side slides out, and a dead bolt turns.

Marcus Slade stands in the threshold.

“How can I help you?” Slade asks.

Barry walks past him, into a small, messy loft with large windows overlooking a shipyard, the bay, and the lights of Oakland beyond.

“Nice place,” Barry says as Slade closes the door.

Barry moves toward the kitchen table and picks up a sports almanac of the 1990s and then a huge volume entitled The SRC Green Book of 35-Year Historical Stock Charts.

“Little light reading?” he asks.

Slade looks nervous and annoyed. He has his hands thrust into the pockets of his green cardigan, and his eyes keep shifting back and forth, blinking at irregular intervals.

“What do you do, Mr. Slade?”

“I work for Ion Industries.”

“In what capacity?”

“Research and development. I’m an assistant to one of their lead scientists.”

“And what kind of stuff do you guys make?” Barry asks, perusing a stack of pages that were recently printed off from a website—historical winning lottery numbers by state.

Slade walks over and snatches the pages out of Barry’s hand.

“The nature of our work is protected under an NDA. Why are you here, Detective Sutton?”

“I’m investigating a murder.”

Slade straightens. “Who was killed?”

“Well, this is a weird one.” Barry looks into Slade’s eyes. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m not following.”

“I’m here about a murder that’s going to happen later tonight.”

Slade swallows, blinks. “What does this have to do with me?”

“It’ll happen at your place of work, and the victim’s name is Helena Smith. That’s your boss, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s also the woman I love.”

Slade is standing across from Barry, the kitchen table between them, his eyes gone wide. Barry points at the books. “So you have all this stuff memorized? Obviously, you can’t take them with you.”

Slade opens his mouth and closes it again. Then says, “I want you to leave.”

“It works, by the way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Your plan. It works like gangbusters. You become rich and famous. Unfortunately, what you do tonight causes the suffering of billions and the end of reality and time as we know it.”

“Who are you?”

“Just a cop from New York City.” He stares Slade down for ten long seconds.

“Get out.”

Barry doesn’t move. The only noise in the loft is the ragged sound of Slade’s accelerated breathing. Slade’s phone buzzes on the table. Barry glances down, sees a new text from “Helena Smith” appear on the home screen.

Sure. I can meet you in two hours. What’s the problem?



Barry finally starts for the door.

Three steps from it, he hears a click. And another. And another.

He turns around slowly and looks across the loft at Slade, who’s staring dumbfounded at the .357 revolver he would’ve killed Helena with in several hours. He looks up at Barry, who should be lying on the floor right now, bleeding out. Slade levels the gun on Barry and pulls the trigger, but it only dry-fires again.

“I broke in earlier today while you were at work,” Barry says. “Loaded the chambers with empty shell casings. I needed to see for myself what you were capable of.”

Slade looks in the direction of his bedroom.

“There are no live rounds in the house, Marcus. Well, that’s not exactly true.” Barry pulls his Glock from his shoulder holster. “My gun is full of them.”



* * *





The bar is in the Mission, a cozy, wood-paneled tavern called Monk’s Kettle, its windows steamed up on the inside against the cold and foggy night. Helena has told him about this place in at least three of their lifetimes.

Barry steps in out of the mist and runs his fingers through his hair, which has been flattened by the dampness.

It’s a Monday night, and late, so the place is nearly empty.

He spots her sitting at the far end of the bar, alone, hunched over a laptop. As he approaches, the nerves hit—far worse than he anticipated.

His mouth runs dry; his hands sweat.

She looks quite different from the dynamo he spent six lifetimes with. She’s wearing a gray sweater that a cat or dog has pulled a hundred little nits out of, smudged glasses, and even her hair is different—longer and pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail.

Watching her, it’s apparent that her obsession with the memory chair has fully consumed her, and it breaks his heart.

She doesn’t acknowledge him in any way as he climbs onto the seat beside hers.

He smells the beer on her breath, and beneath it, the subtler, elemental scent of his wife that he would know anywhere, out of a million people. He’s trying not to look at her, but the emotion of sitting beside her is almost too much. Last time he saw her face, he was nailing the lid onto her pine-box casket. And so he sits quietly beside her as she writes an email, thinking of all the lifetimes they shared.