Infinite(66)

In.

Out.

And then nothing.

“Karly.”

Nothing. She was gone. I’d found her again and lost her again.

“Karly.”

All I could do was say her name and hold her limp body.

Inches away, people danced. The electronica pounded into my heart, louder and louder. We were invisible on the floor. For the longest time, the partiers in the club were oblivious to us, the beautiful woman dead in the corner, and the man who’d let her die twice.





CHAPTER 26

Finally, someone saw me. Saw her. Saw the blood. A piercing scream cut through the noise, and several more followed like a chain reaction, triggering bedlam. The music shut down, and a moment of shocking silence gave way to panic. People called for help and ran to get away. Half the crowd pulled out their phones, some dialing 911, some filming me as I laid Karly gently on her back. I couldn’t stay, not with the police on their way. I got up and headed for the club stairs. I needed to get out of here.

The people parted for me like some kind of sordid celebrity. Look, there goes OJ. One man tried to be a hero by stopping me, but I planted my foot and delivered a hook across his jaw that sent him reeling. Don’t get into a bar fight with Dylan Moran; he’s been there before. Other men closed in on me, but as they did, I bolted for the steps and escaped into the cool night. Not far away, police sirens blared, heading for the club from multiple directions.

I ran. So did other club hoppers dispersing from the alley. I sprinted below the L tracks, which loomed over my head like a metal centipede. For four blocks, I ran full out, and then I stopped, slumping against a wall to catch my breath. My head snapped up as I spotted the lights of a squad car speeding toward me, and I quickly spun around the corner into an empty alley. When the police car passed, I went back to the street. I knew I needed to get out of the neighborhood before the cops cordoned off the area, and my car was parked several blocks away. But I found it hard to move. I squatted down, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands as I endured a new wave of grief.

When I finally looked up, I saw him.

Diagonally across the street, near the stairs that led to the Brown Line L station, Dylan Moran stared back at me. He was in his leather jacket, a cigarette dripping from his mouth. He leaned against one of the yellow concrete impact poles off the curb. His grin was gone; he was emotionless again. Her blood was on him, the way it was on me. Seeing him, I felt a rage like nothing in my life. I erupted from where I was and charged toward him. He watched me come, not even moving at first. Then he flicked his cigarette to the street and walked unhurriedly up the stairs to the train station.

It took me no time to cross the street. Like an animal, I bolted up the stairs after him, but when I got to the top, the station was already empty. No one was there. I used my fare card to spin through the turnstile, and when I got to the platform, I ran along the tracks in both directions. There were no hiding places, no way for him to escape.

Even so, Dylan was gone. I could almost hear the echo in my head.

Infinite.

He was done with this world, and he’d left me behind to take the fall. It was another perfect crime.



After I made it back to my car, I drove aimlessly through the downtown streets until I was nowhere near the club. Then I pulled to the curb. There was only one thing I could think to do. I called Roscoe. In every world, when I needed him, he was there to rescue me.

We agreed to meet near the sandy shoreline of North Avenue Beach. It didn’t take me long to get there, and I sat in the car with dried tears on my face and my clothes soaked in blood. The midnight beach in front of me was empty. A stiff cold breeze blew into the car and sent spray over the windshield. I lowered the window, listening to the rhythmic roar of the surf, which went in and out like my wife’s last breaths.

This was my catastrophic reward for trying to be a hero.

The Dylan who owned this life was dead. So was Tai. So was a woman named Betsy Kern.

So was Karly.

I’d destroyed all of them, and the man I’d chased here had already moved on to kill again.

As I sat there, the waves lulled me with a kind of hypnosis. I wasn’t even aware of time passing, but when I looked up, I saw the glow of headlights in my mirror. A car parked beside me, and Roscoe got out. He wore a light-blue windbreaker and casual clothes rather than his priest’s collar. Standing next to the car, he shivered a little and watched the lake, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was probably thinking about all the times we’d biked here as kids and hung out on summer afternoons by the water.

Roscoe climbed into the passenger seat next to me. With a single glance, he took note of my condition.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“So I take it that isn’t your blood.”

“It’s Karly’s.”

He adjusted his black glasses and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

“Thanks.”

“I brought the fresh clothes you wanted,” he added.

I just nodded.

“I heard on the radio about a murder at the Spybar. They said a suspect was on the loose. Was that you?”

“Yes, it was me, but it wasn’t me. Not that it matters. The killer had my face, so what will anyone believe? But I didn’t do this, Roscoe. I know it’s hard for you to accept anything I’ve told you, but I hope you’ll have faith in me. I did not do this.”