Robert Wilson - The Chronoliths

But I was faster.

The recoil threw back my hand.

Did I kill Hitch Paley?

I’m not an objective witness. I’m testifying in my own defense. But I am, finally, here at the end of my life, honest. I have no more secrets to keep.

The gun recoiled. The bullet was in the air, at least, and then—

And then everything was in the air.

Brick, mortar, wood, tin, the dust of ages. My own body, a projectile. Hitch, and the corpse of Ray Mosely. Ray, who had loved Sue far too much to allow her to do what she had to do; and Hitch, who did not love anyone at all.

Did I see (people have asked me) the destruction of the Chronolith? Was I a witness to the fiery collapse of the Kuin of Wyoming? Did I see the bright light and did I feel the heat?

No. But when I opened my eyes again pieces of the Chronolith were falling from the sky, falling all around me. Pieces the size of pebbles, rendered now as conventional matter and fused by the heat of their extinction into glassy blue teardrops.

In the great release of energy as the Chronolith collapsed, a shockwave swept outward from its perimeter — more wind than heat, but a great deal of heat; more heat than light, but it had been bright enough to blind.

The cinderblock shelter lost its roof and its northern and western walls. I was blown free of it and woke a few yards from the standing fragments.

For some period of time I was not quite coherent or fully conscious. My first thought was for Sue, but Sue was nowhere visible. Gone as well was Adam Mills, and so were his men and their motorcycles, though I did find (later) one overturned Daimler motorbike abandoned in the scrub, its fuel tank cracked, and a single helmet, and a tattered copy of The Fifth Horseman .

Do I believe Sue gave herself up to the Kuinists in the aftermath of the explosion? Yes, I do. The shockwave would likely not have been deadly to anyone in the open. It was the collapse of the stone shed that had caused my concussion and dislocated my shoulder, not the shockwave itself. Sue had been in the doorway, which was still standing.

I found Hitch and Ray partially buried in the nibble, plainly dead.

I spent a few hours trying to dig them out, working with my good hand, until it became obvious that the effort was futile as well as exhausting. Then I rescued some dried rations from the overturned van and ate a little, choking over the food but keeping at least some of it down.

When I tried my phone there was only a clatter of noise, a distorted “no signal” message drifting across the screen as if through an obscuring tide.

The sun went down. The sky turned indigo and then dark. On the western horizon, where the Chronolith had been, brushfires burned brightly.

I turned and walked the other way.

Lately I have visited two significant places: the Wyoming Crater and the Shipworks at Boca Raton. One a lake polluted with memory, the other a gateway to a greater sea.

And I thought—

But no, I’ll get to that.

Ashlee had been released from the hospital by the time I made it back to Minneapolis.

I had been in the hospital myself, or at least a little overnight emergency-care clinic in Pine Ridge. Three days wandering with a head injury in the Wyoming backlands had left me sunburned, hungry, and too weak to climb stairs at any speed. My left arm was in a sling.

Ashlee was less fortunate.

She had warned me, of course, but I wasn’t prepared for what I found when I let myself into the apartment and she called my name from the bedroom.

The hurt to her body — the burns, the contusions — were invisible under the snowy white linen of the bed. But I winced at the sight of her face.

I won’t catalog the damage. I reminded myself that it would heal, that the blood pooled in these bruises would fade away, that the broken skin would mend around the sutures and that one day soon she would be able to open her eyes all the way.

She looked at me through purple slits. “That bad?” she said.

Some of her teeth were missing.

“Ashlee,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

She kissed me, wounded as she was, and I held her gently, despite my damaged arm.

She began to apologize in return. She had been worried that I wouldn’t forgive her for having finally broken and told Adam Mills where to find me. God knows I wanted to apologize for having left her to this.

But I put my finger, delicately, delicately, against her swollen lips. Why dignify the horror with recrimination? We had survived. We were together. That was enough.

What I had not known — what I learned after I finally contacted Ashlee — was that Morris Torrance hadn’t abandoned his post outside the apartment.

Adam Mills had identified Morris as a guard and had taken his men into the building through a rear entrance to avoid alerting him. Morris called Ash shortly before Adam arrived, placing her in the apartment, and he had seen no suspicious activity since then. He logged off after midnight and drove back to the Marriott for a few hours of sleep. He wore a tag alert in case Ashlee needed him in the interim. He received no such alarm. In the morning he called Ash again but couldn’t get past her screen routine. He promptly drove to the apartment, not long after Kaitlin had arrived there, and unsuccessfully attempted another call. Deeply concerned now, Morris buzzed Ashlee from the lobby.

She answered the buzzer belatedly and her voice was slurred. Morris told Ashlee he was from a package delivery service and he needed her to sign his slate.

Ash, who must have recognized his voice, told him she couldn’t come to the door right now and asked whether it would be all right if he came back another time.

He told her could come back but that the package was labeled “perishable.”

Didn’t matter, Ashlee said.

Morris then stepped out of camera range, phoned the local police and reported an assault in progress, and let himself into the lobby with the key I had given him. He identified himself (incorrectly and illegally) as a federal agent to the superintendent of the building and obtained a master key to the apartment.

He knew how long it might take for a police response and he elected not to wait. He rode the elevator to our floor, placed another call to the apartment so that the ringing of the phone would mask the sound of the key in the lock, and entered the apartment with his gun drawn. He was, as he had so often told me, a retired agent without field experience. But he had been trained and he had not forgotten his training.

Kaitlin, at this point, was locked in a bedroom closet and Ashlee was sprawled on the sofa where she had been left after a beating.

Without hesitation Morris shot the man who was standing over Ash, then turned his gun on the second Kuinist who had just stepped out of the kitchen.

The second man dropped a bottle of beer at the sound of the shot and drew his own gun. He took Morris off his feet with one shot but Morris was able to return fire after he had fallen. The dining-room table gave him a little cover. He placed two bullets in the assailant’s head and neck.

Wounded in the leg — the bullet had carved a divot in his thigh, just like the bullet Sue Chopra took in Jerusalem — Morris was nevertheless able to comfort Ashlee and to release Kaitlin from the locked closet before he fainted.

Kait — who was mobile but had been beaten and raped — put a pressure bandage on the wound before the police arrived. Ashlee rose from the sofa and loped to the bathroom.

She soaked a cloth in water and daubed the blood from Morris’s face, and then Kaitlin’s, and then her own.

“It was foolhardy,” Morris said when I went to the hospital to thank him.