Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [58]
That was enough. He left the car where it was, got out, and locked it. He staggered the three blocks and checked himself into the motel.
IN the morning, he had breakfast in town, picked up an Inquirer, and drove back to the cabin. It was just after ten when he arrived. He spent the rest of the morning with the paper. The Eagles were playing the Giants, and that would give him something to do during the afternoon.
It would have been nice to have Katie with him. Or Erin.
The first time he’d brought Erin to the cabin had been a Saturday evening in March three years before. He remembered everything about that evening. How they’d stood on the veranda looking out at the stars, how they’d stayed out there and danced to Jerome Kern’s music, how they’d broken open a bottle of champagne to celebrate a promotion Erin had just gotten. (She designed AI systems.)
Until that night, there’d been an unspoken agreement between them, limiting what was proper. Part of the understanding grew out of the fact that she did not travel to the mountain cabin. Whenever he’d suggested it, she had found a reason not to go. Somebody wasn’t feeling well. It was a long ride.
Something.
But on this occasion, she had suggested it. They’d been having dinner at Michaelson’s and, completely out of left field, she’d asked whether the cabin was still in the family. That had been the exact phrasing.
And he’d said, “Sure. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” she’d said. “It’s a beautiful night. Perfect for a view of the lake.”
So he’d known from that moment.
Her name now was Erin Olshefska. He ran a search across Pennsylvania for her phone number. Found two women with that name, but neither was the right age.
He ached to see her again.
And he had the converter.
He got it out of the side table and looked at it. Checked the universal calendar on the computer. It had been late in the month, either the twenty-second or the twenty-ninth. They’d arrived at the cabin an hour or so before midnight.
He shouldn’t do this. But resistance, as they’d said in one of the old SF classics, was futile. He set the time and date for the earlier night, grabbed his sweater, and against a ton of better judgment, made his jump.
THE cabin was dark again. He remembered a strange detail from that night: As they’d come up the mountain road, he’d seen a light on in the living room. His first thought had been that his parents had come up, unexpectedly, and would be waiting inside when he walked in with Erin. Hi, Mom and Dad.
Erin had noticed it, too. And she’d asked about the possibilities. “No,” he’d assured her. “They don’t come here until summer, or on a holiday weekend. And they always let me know when they’re coming.” That had been telling her more than he should have. She’d laughed, but it had left him feeling like an idiot.
They’d pulled into the driveway while he’d formulated what to do if his parents were there. Just stopped by for a drink. And to take in the view.
He didn’t remember which light had been on, only that it had been in the living room. But it probably didn’t matter. He leaned over and switched on one of the table lamps.
The cabin was cold. But he’d have to leave that for the happy couple. He draped his sweater over the back of the sofa and sat down in an armchair that afforded a view of the road. You could see headlights coming for the better part of a mile, so he’d have plenty of warning. Then there was nothing left to do. Except feel his heart begin to race as it had years before whenever Erin had settled into his arms.
When they hadn’t arrived by eleven thirty, he decided he had the wrong Saturday and was about to try the later date. At that moment, the headlights showed up. They were swinging round one of the turns, still several minutes from the house. As he watched, they disappeared. He buttoned his